#fireya on ao3

[fireya-x]

AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist

John Price x Reader

Your husband, Captain John Price, insists on teaching you how to shoot at the range. But you soon realize that his instructions involve a lot more than just handling a gun.

[4k+ words]

cw: piv sex, spanking, light dom/sub

“Remember what I just told you,” John said, and your grip around the cool material of the gun you held grew tighter. It was a foreign object in your hands, and even though you’d just received detailed instructions on how to hold and handle it, it didn’t feel right. You’d hesitantly taken it from his hands, and felt something unexpected, as if accepting a dangerous secret from him. It felt intimate, like a shared moment of vulnerability. He entrusted you with this part of himself, this dangerous expertise, never doubting for a second that you would accept it.

Then there you were, in the middle of a shooting range, and John was moving through the facility as comfortable as he was moving through your own living room. You’d been to the base a few times, of course, meeting teammates and other partners, but never with the intention to hold a weapon.

You’d told him, more than once, that you wanted no part in this side of his life. That ignorance was your safe haven, your way of pretending that the man you loved could leave the battlefield behind. But deep down, you knew it was a lie. John Price, for all his tenderness, for all the quiet moments of domesticity you’d built a life around, was a soldier to his very core. He breathed and lived it as long as his heart pumped blood through his veins.

It was in the way he moved, precise and controlled, and it was in the way he touched you – possessive, protective, as if you were the most precious weapon in his arsenal.

He insisted it was for your own safety. “You need to be able to protect yourself, love,” he’d said. But you saw right through it. This wasn't about you. It was about him. About the nightmares that lingered in his eyes, the enemies he'd made in a life you couldn't begin to comprehend. This was his way of ensuring that no matter what happened, no matter how far apart duty tore you, he could rest easy knowing you had a fighting chance. It bordered on paranoid, the lengths he’d go to protect you – the home security systems, the calls to his former teammates, the subtle checks whenever you were out alone. But beneath all that, you saw the love, and you wouldn’t deny him this. You’d never shied away from his darkness, the stories he’d told that both terrified and fascinated you.

It was all part of the complex man that was John Price: both a trained, lethal weapon and a caring, loving husband.

Gentle but ruthless. Controlled, but capable of destruction. Dangerous in ways you probably never could even begin to understand, but you felt safer with him than you ever had alone.

He was a walking oxymoron.

“I’ve never even held a gun before, John.” You admitted, your words echoing through the vastness of the range, uncertain how to explain the weird mix of emotions you were feeling.

“I know,” he said, his lips curving into that half-smile. “And I can see you hesitating, and that’s the correct first step, love. Respect is most important.”

He’d guided you to a secluded booth, the table stocked with more ammunition than you’d ever expected to see outside a warzone. He’d shown you how to hold the pistol, how to check the chamber, reload the magazine and how to disable security. He’d shown you the stance, the subtle shift of weight so that the recoil wouldn’t punch you in the gut, and told you that it’s best to use both hands to aim, to steady yourself.

“Finger off the trigger, sweetheart,” he suddenly instructed, his tone serious. You hadn’t even realized you’d moved it, your finger was hovering over the trigger with reckless curiosity, and you couldn't quite explain why. "Only put it on there if you really mean to take a shot.”

He put his hands above yours on the grip of the pistol, then chuckled lightly. “Loosen up a little. Don’t make that a habit.” He then grabbed your elbow and lifted it up a little, so gentle, it was a weird contradiction to how controlled he moved around the shooting range like he was never meant to be anywhere else.

He stepped back, giving you just enough space to breathe, to remember you weren’t his soldier to command. But he could tell you still weren’t sure about your stance.

“Want me to show you?” He gestured to the target at the end of the range – a silhouette that seemed eerily human-shaped in the dim light.

You nodded, surrendering the weapon and retreating to a safe distance as John stepped forward, his movements fluid, almost graceful, belying the lethality he embodied.

He pushed the safety lever off with a sharp click. You could almost feel the energy in the air shift. You saw his hand gripping the weapon as it became more serious and alive, like not just a tool, but an extension of him.

John raised the gun. You were captivated, your gaze tracing the line of his arm, the flex of his bicep beneath the fabric of his shirt. It shouldn’t have been so mesmerizing, watching him handle a weapon clearly meant to kill, and yet, you couldn't tear your eyes away.

His stance was relaxed, almost casual. He didn't even flinch as he pulled the trigger.

The gunshot echoed in the silence, sharp and startling. You flinched involuntarily at the sound. It wasn’t that you weren’t expecting it – but there was something different, something almost intimate, about watching him handle a weapon with such lethal grace, such unflinching control.

There was no time to feel anything but awe as John lowered the weapon, his eyes fixed on you. The air was thick, and you couldn’t tear your eyes away from him.

“Now you,” he said as he clicked the safety back on and stepped aside. He didn’t need to say anything more. You were ready, he had made sure of that, and he was waiting to see if you would rise to the challenge.

“Downrange, safety off,” you muttered to yourself, remembering his words. Your finger found the safety, disengaging it with a soft click that felt overly loud in the quiet space. You tried to replicate the stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, a slight bend in your knees that made your thighs ache. Taking a deep breath, you raised the pistol, lined the sights up on the target at the far end of the range, ignoring the tremor in your arms, and squeezed the trigger.

The shot caught you completely off guard. The recoil was sharper, more violent than you'd expected. It jolted your entire body, throwing you off balance. You stumbled back, a startled yelp escaping your throat before you could help yourself, the heavy weight of the gun almost slipping from your grasp.

You missed the target entirely.

“Easy, love, easy,” John's voice, calm and steady, was right beside your ear. You hadn’t even registered his approach, your senses still reeling from the gunshot, the adrenaline that spiked through you sharp and bitter on your tongue.

You hadn't realized you'd stopped breathing until his hand settled on your waist, his touch firm yet reassuring through the fabric of your shirt, steadying you. Your body leaned into his warmth, seeking comfort, and found it in the solid presence that had always been your haven in the storm.

“Don't fight it,” he murmured. “It’s not about forcing the shot. You need to work with it. Let it flow.”

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered, but you didn’t try to pull away. His closeness was more reassuring than you wanted to admit, the solid weight of him a stark contrast to the unexpected power of the gun. You’d felt this way before, countless times: small beside his strength, intimidated but inexplicably drawn to the same danger that made you feel so vulnerable.

“Again,” he commanded softly, ignoring your remark, as his hand tightened momentarily on your hip. You couldn’t disobey, even if you’d wanted to. His other hand covered yours on the gun.

You tried to recall the stance he’d demonstrated, to feel more confident, but it felt awkward. Your body was tense, and you cursed the way your heart hammered against your ribs.

“You have to relax, darling,” John murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, his breath sending a shiver down your spine.

He leaned closer, his chest a wall of heat at your back as his hand moved from your hip to settle on the small of your back. “Don't let that little gun take all the control,” he whispered, his fingers splaying against your spine as he adjusted your posture, holding you steady. “It's not about brute strength. Lean into it, find the balance.”

His heat seeped into you, chasing away the chill of the shooting range and replacing it with a heat that centred between your legs, a yearning you hadn't anticipated. His touch was doing things to your senses, sending a jolt of something hot and reckless straight through you.

You could feel his fingers, calloused and rough, brushing against yours as he made you hold the gun right.

“See, like that – now, the grip –” You could hear the amusement in his voice, the way he seemed to savour your discomfort. He wasn’t going to make this easy for you, and something in you – something wild and hungry – revelled in the challenge. His fingers traced a searing path down your arm, his touch lingering for a heartbeat on your wrist as he guided your hand.

“Use your wrist – just like that –” You shivered as his breath ghosted across your ear. “That’s it. That’s how you hold it. It's all about control.” He pressed closer, your bodies moulding together.

His hand covered yours on the gun again, overlapping it as you held the weapon together. This different kind of intimacy touch sent a spark down your spine, scorching away every last thought, as you tried to focus on the instructions. “Now pull the trigger.”

You did. And this time, you hit the target. The bullet tore through the paper silhouette, a testament to his guidance, his control.

It was impossible to ignore how close he was. His fingers grazed your back, sending a shiver through you, and then – oh, God – you felt it, the insistent pressure of his knee between your thighs, adjusting your stance, bracing you.

“Feet apart, love,” he murmured, his voice husky as his knee nudged you wider, his hand a steady pressure on the small of your back. You felt like a toy in his hands.

You fired again. This time, it was a little closer to the target, but still far away from the bullseye.

“That’s better,” he murmured, but there was an edge to his amusement now, something heated. You tried to ignore the pressure of him against you.

“Look at that target, focus on the sights, love.” He shifted, his lips finding the delicate skin beneath your ear, and you sucked in a breath. He was doing this deliberately now, pushing your buttons, testing your limits, and the worst part was that he knew you were powerless to resist. 

You fired again. Same corner.

“That’s not good enough.” His lips hovered over your pulse. “Hit the target and you’ll be rewarded. Hmm? How’s that sound?”

A familiar heat built in your belly. The knee that was still holding your stance steady felt way too prominent. This position did nothing to hide his arousal, either.

You focused on the sights, tried lining it up with the middle of the target. The shockwave was not completely absorbed by John’s strength as he held you, and you were shoved back against his chest. You hit the target's neck.

“Good girl,” he said. “You’re a fast learner.”

Every time he’d utter that phrase, every time he brushed his fingers against your hand as he guided you, it was like a surge of heat coursing through your veins. You were flustered, struggling to keeop your focus.

“Stop it,” you pleaded. “You’re distracting me.”

You aimed again, after he’d adjusted your stance, his breath ghosting over your neck as he leaned close to make a correction. “Yes, just like that.”

That was your undoing, each word he said was laced with a playful, knowing intent. His hands guided you, but it wasn’t about the gun, or the lessons, it was all about the feel of him close to you.

You fumbled, almost dropping the gun.

“What’s wrong?” He laughed.

Your cheeks burned. “I –I can’t concentrate.”

You were so lost in showing him that you could do this, you didn’t realize what he started to do. Lips on your neck, and his hand suddenly slowly snaked below the waistband of your gym shorts.

You froze. “John! Isn’t this place covered in cameras?”

“Made sure they’re out of order tonight.” He leans in a little closer as if to whisper it in your ear, his breath warmer than the summer air. “It would take so much paperwork to have you here otherwise. Besides, my wife deserves a private lesson from her husband.”

You shuddered at the words, at the implied claim in them. You aimed again, but missed.

A sharp sting on your backside made you gasp, a sound that morphed into a startled moan as you registered what had just happened. He'd spanked you. It shouldn't have been arousing, not here, not now, yet a thrill shot through you as much at the audacity of it as the sensation itself.

“Do I have to punish you for missing shots?” He sounded so deceptively soft, sending a shiver down to the place where his knee still pressed insistent between your thighs. He was fully aroused, you realized, a thrill shooting through you at the knowledge, the feeling of it a branding iron against your overheated skin. 

“Wasting ammo like that?” He punctuated the question with another swat, harder this time, his hand lingering on your ass, his fingers flexing as though torn between wanting to punish you further and pulling you impossibly closer.

It was impossible to think straight, let alone concentrate on lining up the damn shot.

“J-John,” you stammered, hating the way your voice sounded – breathless, needy – even as you pressed back against him, seeking out the heat that radiated off him in waves, making your head spin. You were caught in a delicious, dangerous game, and the only way to win was to surrender completely.

But you weren’t quite there yet. You needed to hit this damn shot. Pride warred with something hotter, wilder, as you struggled to ignore the insistent pressure of his erection against your backside.

Just as you thought you could regain some semblance of focus, his other hand, the one that had rested so innocently below the waistband of your shorts, began to descend further. It was a slow, deliberate movement, and then you felt it – a finger, rough-tipped and insistent, slipping between your folds.

Pleasure shot through you like a bullet, so unexpected and potent that your entire body went rigid. You bit back a moan, the sound dying in your throat as you clenched around his intruding digit, the ache that bloomed low in your belly a thousand times more distracting than any recoil. 

“Again,” he commanded, his voice low and hot against your ear, as if nothing out of the ordinary were happening, as if his fingers weren’t actively attacking your most sensitive flesh, driving you to the edge of madness. He held all the cards in this game he'd initiated. And you were a willing participant, your body already betraying you, arching unconsciously against his touch, seeking out the friction he so expertly offered even as you tried to focus on the task at hand.

You lined up the sights again, his scent filling your senses, so distracting and so dangerously addictive that it had you clinging to him, desperate for something you couldn't quite name. The barrel wavered as a tremor ran through you, and you swore you heard his breath hitch as your hips moved against him.

“Close,” John breathed, and you felt as his fingers snaked further along your folds. You gasped as a finger slowly pushed into you. “Good girl.” His other hand had a tight grip on your hip, his fingers digging into the flesh as though he’d hold you there forever, trapped between pleasure and denial. “But not there yet, love. Again.”

The shot, when it came, was pathetic. The recoil almost knocked the gun from your grasp. The bullet ricocheted off somewhere, you weren't even sure where it landed. It hardly mattered. 

Another sharp swat of John’s hand against your ass. It should’ve stung, but all you felt was the heat of him, the pressure of his body against yours. His other hand, the one driving you wild with each deliberate stroke, didn't stop even as you whimpered, your hips rocking back instinctively against his touch, seeking relief, release.

“Concentrate, love,” he growled.

But how could you? How could you possibly focus on anything but the insistent ache that throbbed between your legs? 

“John, please,” you breathed, arching against his touch, shamelessly seeking more. “Just – just let me –” The words dissolved into a whimper as his fingers found that sensitive bud of flesh and squeezed, not cruelly, not yet, but with enough force to make you gasp, your inner thighs clenching involuntarily.

“Then hit the bloody mark, love,” he commanded, his voice rough with an emotion you couldn’t quite place, a tremor running through his words as though he were fighting for control just as hard as you were.

You squeezed your eyes shut against the wave of frustration – no, need – that pulsed low in your belly. The pressure of his erection against your backside was a constant torment, a promise of a release he seemed determined to deny you.

“Again,” John barked, his control finally snapping as his hips twitched against you. His touch, the way he moved against you, fuelled a fire in your veins hotter than anything you'd ever experienced. It was intoxicating, terrifying, and utterly addictive. 

You were a moth drawn to his flame, even knowing you were destined to be burned.

You squeezed your eyes shut as his touch sent another jolt through you. “Please, just –”

“Hit. The. Mark.” He growled, teeth clenched, while moving his hips against you, seeking friction for his own arousal. 

You wanted to scream, to sob, to demand he touch you properly, to take what you were aching for. But some primal instinct – some deep-seated need to please him – had you straightening, lifting the pistol with shaking hands.

You tried to concentrate, blocking out the burning heat of his hands, the feel of his erection hard and demanding against your backside, the way his every ragged breath whispered against your ear, fuelling the fire he'd ignited within you. Your mind was a fog of need, your senses overloaded, but the promise of release, that sweet reward only he held the power to give - it was a drug more potent than anything you'd ever imagined.

Lining up the pistol again, you forced your vision to clear, found the target through the haze of arousal, and squeezed the trigger. 

The sound of the gunshot, the feel of the recoil, your own ragged gasp of surprise - it all blended into one overwhelming sensation as time slowed, distorted. And then strong hands were on you, urging you forward with a force that stole your breath, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when the need to be touched, to feel him everywhere, was an inferno consuming every other thought.

You hadn’t even registered what had happened until you caught a glimpse of the target -

Headshot.

You'd hit the mark.

You barely had time to process your victory before the gun was taken from your hands and safely put away - then you were tumbling forward, the world tilting, the cool surface of the table a shock against your heated skin as John's weight pressed you down, his chest a solid wall at your back.

The clatter of the spare ammo as it scattered across the floor was the only warning you got before he moved. You gasped, the sound muffled against the cold metal, your senses reeling as he yanked your shorts and panties down in one swift, brutal motion, baring you to the cool air, to his gaze, which you could feel burning into you.

He didn't waste his breath on anything but a low growl as he shifted, the sudden sound of a belt buckle ringing in your ears. His weight was pressing you deeper into the table, his erection, hard and insistent, nudging at your entrance. And then, in one swift, possessive thrust, he filled you, the force of it stealing what was left of your sanity, chasing away everything but the all-consuming need to feel him move, to feel him claim you as his.

The world shrunk to the feel of him: him anchoring you to the table, the possessive grip of his hand on your hip, holding you still as he moved within you. His thrusts were deep, powerful, each one a delicious torment that had you arching into him, crying out his name against the cold metal of the table.

“That's it, love,” he growled, his voice thick and primal, something that went far beyond the controlled man you thought you knew. 

You suddenly felt his entire weight hovering above your back, slowing pressing your full body into the table. The angle changed, and his movements became more intense. You felt his teeth graze your earlobe, and then he murmured against your skin. “You’re mine. All mine. Say it .”

“Yours,” you gasped, the word a broken plea. The hand on your hip felt like a hot brand against your skin, as if it was marking you, claiming you in a way that went far beyond reason. “Please, John –”

“Please what, darling?” He chuckled, a low, rough sound against your ear, but his hips never stuttered, never slowed their relentless rhythm. “Tell me. What do you need?”

“You ,” you sobbed, the need, raw and desperate, clawing its way out of you with every thrust.

As if he sensed you nearing the precipice, the edge of control he’d deliberately pushed you towards, John shifted. The pressure of his chest eased, but before you could mourn the loss of his warmth, his free hand shot out, fingers closing around the back of your neck, not cruelly, but with an unquestionable force that demanded obedience.

He lifted you from the table, and then his mouth was on yours. It wasn’t a gentle kiss, not with your bodies angled as they were, but it was possessive, desperate. The scrape of his beard against your cheek was a delicious torment, and you couldn't help but press closer, seeking more, needing to be closer still.

“I’m yours, my love,” he rasped, his breath hot and uneven against your cheek. “You have me.”

You met his gaze, those ice-blue eyes were smoldering with a need that mirrored your own, and something reckless, almost feral, took hold of you. 

“Then fuck me like you own me,” you breathed.

The effect was instantaneous. He didn't just snap, he shattered. The control that was as much a part of him as his own skin, gone. Vaporized. The growl that ripped from his throat had no semblance of human restraint left in it, the sound raw, feral, echoing dangerously in the silence of the range. You might have been his wife, but at that moment, you were something far more elemental: his to claim, his to conquer, his to brand so deeply with pleasure and pain that you'd never forget who you belonged to.

And he moved like it too: a rough shove pressed you back against the table, his hands grabbed yours, pulling them back, restraining you.

Your whole body trembled as his cock thrust so deep, so utterly possessing, that you cried out.

“John!” – a plea, a prayer, you weren’t sure.

“Fuck, you feel so good.” The words were a gasped groan, torn from him as his hips moved against yours, stroking a spot deep inside you that throbbed with desperate need. You whimpered, and your hands clenched into fists against your back as pleasure shot through you.

You instinctively began to meet his thrusts, your hips rocking back against him, seeking out the friction that sent sparks of need through your overloaded senses. It earned you a growl of approval.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he chanted, the words a litany against your ear. He sounded like a man possessed.

“Please, John,” you whimpered, grinding your hips against him, desperate for that friction, that release. But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. You needed more, needed his hands, needed him. “Touch me, I –”

You didn’t need to finish the plea. He heard it. He felt it, the tremor in your voice, the way your slick heat tightened around him, urging him closer to the edge.

His fingers were tracing the curve of your waist, reaching around below your belly and slowly started to pry apart your folds. His fingers were on your clit again, and a sound that was both a cry and a sigh left your lips. You were drowning in sensation, and it was glorious.

“Mmm, that’s it, love,” he rasped, the words a broken groan as his fingers stroked, circled, teased. “Come on my cock. For me.”

You felt it then, with the help of his touch – that sweet, white-hot bliss that washed over you, causing your legs to tremble and your cunt to contract around his cock. He groaned, so deep and primal it shook you to your core. Your orgasm shattered every last bit of control in him, the feeling of you losing yourself pushed him over the edge, too. You felt that familiar throb in your pussy, the way he painted your walls with his come, hot and thick. His fingers dug so deep into your skin you were sure they'd leave marks.

And you wouldn’t mind. You were his, after all.

He finally released you, his hands leaving yours. “Nice shot, love. You just needed the right motivation.” He chuckled, and you felt as he pulled up your panties and put your pants back into their place. His hand ghost over your pussy through the fabric. “Keep me in there,” he whispered. “Consider it your reward.”

You slowly straightened your back as you stood, your gaze meeting his, and you shook your head in disbelief, a smirk playing on your lips. “Is that an order from a captain? Or a request from my husband?”

“Both.” He grunted, as he finished buckling his belt.

You tilted your head slightly, stepping closer to him. “Well, then. If this is shooting training, we need to do that more often.”

He froze, his eyes shooting to meet yours. “Don't make me have to explain why so much footage from the security feed is missing.” His expression sobered, that playful glint fading as he added, voice low and serious, “But seriously, love, you did good. We'll keep practising, alright?”

You nodded, and then he closed the distance between you. His hand cupped your cheek, his thumb gently brushing away some smudged lipstick at the corner of your mouth. “I'm proud of you, you know,” he whispered, and before you could reply, he leaned down, his lips capturing yours in a kiss that was surprisingly tender. There was no demanding heat this time, no desperate urgency - just the taste of him, and the lingering warmth where his come pooled between your thighs, a silent, undeniable reminder of exactly who you belonged to.

[the-californicationist]

Guile & Guilt changed meeee. It was so cute. I absolutely loved it. Do you have any ao3 recs/authors?

Thank you so much for reading it! <3 I'm glad it made an impression. It changed me, too. 😅

So, I posted a fic rec list a while back. But, I have to add on a few new favorites as well.

Ever since reading @fireya-x and her keep me breathing Price saga, I've gobbled up everything she's been putting on the table for us. That one and @gemmahale and the amazing Johnny fix-it fic Righteous Fury just give me the best AU COD vibes. Lots of action. The warfare is there, but so are the feels.

If you want more Johnny, I'm going to have to plug Trainspotting by @bitterrfruit. She's a word wizard, and everything she makes turns to pure gold. Seriously, all bangers. And, if you are lucky enough to speak some Spanish, Fearless by @pricesugarwife is absolutely stunning. Like, it'll change your life.

But, if you are looking for some Ghoap instead, that Cedar Beam, Pine Rafter fic by @/joesoef was a real heart-stabber. Very well-developed and well-written.

Obsessed with this Gaz fic by @pricegouge. I think about it once a day, it feels like. lol maybe not, but i am beyond obsessed with it.

Me, lately? I've been into the bear shifter vibes because of my current WIP, Ursa Major. @/LotharWinchester's Just in My Nature and Bare Necessities are scrumptious. Like how many times can I reread them? Idek. Amazing. Also Warm by @/3sa is a total banger. It's shifter o'clock around these parts, truly.

For wolf-shifter vibes, though, it's gotta be The Day is My Enemy by the fabulous @deadbranch. Masterpiece. Iconic. No notes. It's seriously such a rewarding read.

There's so many more. I wish I could plug them all, but I hope this keeps you busy, anon! Please be sure to check out my AO3 bookmarks if you are feeling brave enough.

[the-californicationist]

thank you so much for the rec!! im seriously so honored. your work is pure artistry, and TK changed my LIFE. <3 ahhhh i just adore you omg.

this list is fantastic. all bangers. and im going to enthusiastically plug some of my go-tos to add to the fun:

i wonder how many days i'll bleed by thethingsthatimake licking wounds and houndtooth by bitterfruit righteous fury by @gemmahale the day is my enemy and the killing moon by @deadbranch keep me breathing by @fireya-x the perfect soldier by @eternallyelvish all that's said in the low light by headlocket pub crawl by thegoddessofmischief

sorry i dont know if everyone has a tumblr or not. i have a bunch more in my bookmarks on AO3 as well, these are just on my mind atm.

but im also going to shamelessly try and peddle my OG Price fic, gunslinger, just in case it tickles your fancy.

hi!! i just wanted to stop by and say that while i don't really read fanfics, like EVER, TK absolutely blew me away. i love your writing style but moreover, the plot and pacing and characterizing is insane and I've been glued to the fic for almost the entire weekend 🥹

i wanted to ask that, while we wait (and obviously no rush for the release schedule that works for you!) do you have any recs for fics youd recommend in the meantime? smut is alright but I'm talking about dat plot - maybe nothing will keep me as absolutely OBSESSED as TK, but maybe something similar in terms of interesting enough plot to fill the void... :o

also - GOOD LUCK WITH YOUR INTERVIEW! you got this queen!!!

Thank you!!! ☺️ ahhh I’m so thrilled you’re enjoying it so much! I haven’t been able to read as much lately (not enough time for life plus reading everything I want plus writing? 😭) and I’m still catching up on everything I missed being sick and out of the fandom loop most of 2023….

There are so many amazing writers for CoD and this is not inclusive of all my faves by far, but here are some of the most recent long-ish fics with excellent plot and/or characterization I’ve read and enjoyed on AO3.

A mix of ships and AUs here also! Some of these are finished, some are one shots, some are still ongoing. they mostly do have smut just because I generally like it in fics I read but they are much more than that

DOG, The Bull and the Maiden, Christian Woman by @kneelingshadowsalome

landscape with honey, saltwater, the terrible nature of ghosts by @ceilidho

Simple Math, An Ichor Veil (of Flower Kings) by @peachesofteal

Ursa Major by @the-californicationist

Cabin Fever by @moondirti

Lavender Skies, Sea, Swallow Me by @yeyinde

Snowblind series by @sprout-fics

Liminality by @xoxunhinged

If anyone else wants to add any recs (self rec included) please feel free 💕

[fireya-x]

they say don't open old wounds

AO3 Link (full tag list) || masterlist

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

The mask hides more than just a face; it hides a shared past, a love lost, a ghost you thought long buried.

[3,7k words]

cw: angst, smut, piv sex

they say don't open old wounds

but this is still brand new

and I've got nothing left to lose besides you

and I've already lost you once

what more could you do?

they say don't open old wounds

but I want to

PVRIS - old wounds

It had been months since you joined the 141, months of missions that pushed you to the edge, missions that forged an unexpected bond with your team. A sense of mutual respect and care for each other, a blend of professionalism and camaraderie that softened the harsh realities of the work you did. Soap was always ready with a joke, Gaz offered tactical insights and support, Price kept a watchful eye on your well-being — but Ghost… Ghost remained an enigma. Shrouded in mystery. He rarely spoke more than a grunt or a clipped command, the complete opposite to the warmth of the others.

He was the same hidden figure, strict and cold, like he had been a few years ago when you had the honour of being trained by him and Captain Price. He was a puzzle you couldn’t solve, a cipher you hadn't even intended to attempt to crack, yet the easy familiarity with which the others interacted with him, offering their vulnerabilities to someone who resembled Death himself without a second thought, left you constantly bewildered. You needed to know more. How could they trust someone implicitly who was hidden behind a mask, someone whose past remained a blank slate?

He could be anyone, a traitor in their midst, and no one would know. You shook your head, catching yourself staring yet again, your gaze tracing the lines of the thick skull sewn to his balaclava, desperately trying to find a flicker of the man beneath.

Missions blurred into weeks, then months, and the uneasy feeling just didn’t let go. You had an eye of him always, your gut telling you to, but you found something different than you were hoping for.

It began with small, almost imperceptible observations that chipped away at the carefully constructed wall of Ghost’s persona. Subtle movements, like the precise, almost ritualistic way he adjusted his gloves like he had always done; a subtle tilt of his head as he listened, mirroring his thoughtful pose from years ago. The way he favoured the knife in the strap on his left, like he had always shown off his favourite weapon to you, shown you how to use it to defend yourself if you ever had to grab it from him. The subtle shift in his breathing when under stress, something he tried to conceal but you recognized it with an unnerving familiarity.

You’d catch yourself staring, again and again, searching for something, anything, beneath that mask to prove your mind wrong — or right.

You scoffed at yourself, pushing the thoughts away. Wishful thinking. Ridiculous. Simon was gone. He is and always will be.

It was your mind playing tricks on you, you reasoned, grasping for closure. You were back in the field, surrounded by danger, by ghosts of your past. Of course, you’d see him in every shadow, hear his voice in every whisper of the wind. Your heart, starved for the his presence, filled the void with illusions.

But you couldn’t help it. The mask. A blank canvas that taunted you, allowed your mind to paint his face onto it a million times over, feeding your impossible, unrealistic hopes with the absurdity of ever seeing him again.

Then, a mission had gone sideways. A sudden ambush, a chaotic scramble for cover. Shots were exchanged, but the target was hit, the job done. But in the chaos, you’d gotten separated from the team, wandering some endless fields, unsuccessfully trying to contact anyone through the deafening static of your radio.

Suddenly, you saw him — Ghost, slumped against the rough-hewn timbers of an abandoned barn, a gash bleeding freely on his forearm beneath the torn fabric of his jacket.

Adrenaline surging, you raced towards him, your medic instincts taking over. 

Inside the barn, the air was thick with the scent of dust and hay. Ghost leaned against the bales and exhaled loudly, avoiding looking at you.

You carefully set down your rifle in the hay. “We have to wait here and hope we can contact the others. Comms are down.”

No response.

“Let me look at the wound, Lieutenant.” Not a question, but a command, softened by the implicit understanding that he couldn’t afford to ignore the wound, not now, not while still being out in the field.

You knelt beside him, your hands already moving to assess the damage. “Fuck,” he swore, the word muffled by the mask. You assumed it was the pain, but later you would understand the true reason behind the swearing.

“I'm sorry,” you murmured, your focus narrowing to the task at hand. “I’ll be as gentle as I can.” You pressed an alcohol-soaked cotton against the wound, retrieved form your medkit, your touch surprisingly steady despite the frantic beating of your heart. Even through the layers of his tactical gear, you could feel the heat radiating from his skin. Something about the feel of him, the solid weight of his body against yours as you leaned in to examine the wound, sparked a disconcerting sense of déjà vu. Stop it, you berated yourself. This is not the time.

All those times he'd been around you, he’d kept his distance, interactions brief, clipped, professional. But now, trapped with you in the suffocating silence of the barn, with nowhere to run, no excuses to offer, no escape from your touch, his carefully constructed walls seemed to crumble, inch by agonizing inch. With your hands on him, gentle and caring as they had been countless times before —

You heard the thud of his helmet hitting the ground, followed by the soft rustle of fabric as he shifted, loosening your hold on his arm. “You need to hold still, sir.”

And then you heard it. Your name. Not your call sign, not the impersonal formality of military protocol, but your name. Whispered with the same cadence like it had been in your dreams, and you were sure fatigue had finally driven you beyond sanity. 

Your blood ran cold. No. It couldn't be. He’s gone. It was impossible. You squeezed your eyes shut, willing yourself to wake up from this nightmare. He is not here.

But when you turned, you froze. You looked at a ghost. Not the Ghost, but that ghost from your past that had haunted your every single waking moment, your dreams, your nightmares. It had been stalking you, mocking you, reminding you of a love lost and irrevocably buried. The ghost with its dirty blond hair and scarred face and hazel brown eyes.

Simon.

The man who had stolen your heart, then shattered it with his sudden, unexplained disappearance. 

A strangled sob tore through you, the sound raw with disbelief, with years of suppressed grief.

A torrent of emotions washed over you – shock, denial, a resurgence of a love you thought long buried, a burning anger at his deception, at the years of silence, of unanswered questions. “Why?” you choked out, the word laced with accusation. “Why, Simon? All this time… we were here. Together. You knew.”

He winced, his gaze dropping to his injured arm, unable to meet the intensity of your gaze.  “I… I couldn't risk it,” he murmured, the words a strained whisper. “Risk you.” 

A wave of nausea washed over you. He knew. All those stolen glances, the way you always gravitated towards him—he'd known. The realization struck you, and fury warred with the irrational surge of joy. Alive. But he chose this. Chose to hide, to let you grieve.

“The things I've done…” His voice cracked, the weight of his secrets heavy in the air. “…The things I had to do…” He met your gaze, bracing himself for the storm of your anger. “I couldn't risk you getting hurt.” A weak excuse, a pathetic justification, but the only truth he could offer. 

Shame burned in his gaze, and for a terrifying moment, he thought he’d lost you, before you even had the chance to find each other again. The anger, the hurt, the unanswered questions — he saw it all swirling within you.

“Hurt?” The word was hollow, edged with bitterness. “You left me to rot in hell for seven years, wondering if you were even alive, and you talk about hurt? You were here, Simon. You even trained me!” He flinched at the pain in your voice, a pain he inflicted. Something he deserved, not you.

You felt a flash of anger towards Price, who had kept this from you, knowing how much Simon’s disappearance wrecked you. But you also knew that Price, above all else, was loyal to his men. 

“I know what you're thinking,” he whispered. “I asked them to keep it from you. I asked them not to say my name around you… I thought… it would be easier.” He knew now how wrong he'd been. How could he not know? How selfish and misguided this attempt at keeping you safe had been. He was supposed to protect you, not hurt you. “If you’re angry, be angry at me.” He was the only one to blame. It was never up to his comrades to take this weight off his shoulders. 

Then suddenly, he closed the distance between you, and his hand, trembling, cupped your cheek. A jolt, a spark, in the desolate wasteland of his guilt. Your skin, soft and warm beneath his fingertips. A reminder of everything he’d lost. Everything he risked losing again by revealing himself.

No. Your mind screamed in protest, wanting to pull away from the unwelcome tenderness. Don't you dare forgive him. But the words remained unspoken. His thumb gently stroked your skin, a familiar caress, and a sob escaped your lips. This is wrong. He hurt you. But the voice of reason was a faint whisper against the roaring tide of longing. Your hands trembled, wanting to push him away, to distance yourself, anything but this aching tenderness. But at the same time, you wanted nothing more to feel him.

“I don’t want to be angry,” your hand found its place above his on your cheek. “Just… tell me why, Simon? Why?”

He didn't answer. He couldn't. Instead, his lips found yours, a kiss that was both a question and an answer, a desperate, hungry reconnection of two souls separated by time and circumstance. 

He knew you’d push him away, he expected it, he deserved it. But he needed this, this moment of contact, the fleeting taste of a past he had thought was lost forever. He had been dreaming of this moment for too long, torturing himself with imagined reunions, each encounter an agonizing exercise in self-control. Every time you were near, he’d shackled himself mentally, fighting the overwhelming urge to reach for you, to touch you, to scream at you that he is alive and yours, and to beg for your forgiveness.

Your lips on his were like watering a withered flower that his heart had turned into, dry and shrivelled, unable to let love close if it wasn’t yours. He’d sworn never to love again when he left, believing it was that easy, believing it was the only way to protect you.

He had hoped that each mission and kill helped to bury his heart and his emotions until there was nothing left but death. Bury the part of himself that yearned for you, that ached for your touch, and leave only the Ghost behind.

But then you were there. On his team. You stood before him, more beautiful than he remembered, your long hair braided back, your uniform hugging your curves, a vision that made his breath catch in his throat. He could have died then and there, content to simply exist in the same space as you, to breathe the same air.

And with your return, so was he, whether he wanted to or not. He was powerless against you. Simon Riley, the man who loved you, resurfaced from beneath the mask, shattering the carefully constructed illusion he'd built around himself. 

The moment he dreaded haunted his work now, and he considered running, again. Leave the team, like a dog with its tail between its legs, give up and run from his past.

But Price had promised him that he wouldn’t tell you, if he stayed. He had almost begged him not to run again, knowing his past and his pain, and somewhere, he knew Price was right. He needed them. And he realized he needed you.

From then, he cherished every moment with you together, and it pained him to be so harsh to you. But he had to be, afraid the mask would slip, literally. Conversations cut short, orders barked, the subtle flinch in your eyes when his voice cut through the air — each interaction was a battle, a constant war against the overwhelming urge to reach out, to soothe the hurt he knew he was inflicting, to pull you close and beg you to forgive him.

And now, with your hands on him, so gentle and caring, the dam had finally broken. He couldn’t bear it any longer, this agonizing distance from you.

And your lips, so sweet and so soft, like no time had passed at all, they were his salvation, his damnation, his only hope of redemption.

A sigh left your body, distorted from the sobs, and he pressed your face closer to him. He never wanted to let go anymore. Never again.

He still expected you to push him away, to be angry, to unleash your wrath upon him for abandoning you — but you didn’t. Your hands touched every single inch of skin that was exposed, and he didn’t stop you.

He was ashamed of the relief that flooded through him, ashamed of the way his body responded to your touch, ashamed that he dared to enjoy this moment, a moment that should never have existed, a moment born of his lies and his carefully constructed deceptions. Then your hands cupped his length through his jeans, and an unexpected groan escaped his lips. 

He should stop you. You should be furious. You shouldn’t be rewarding him for the years of silence, for the agonizing absence that had left a gaping wound in your life. But the moment your hand touched him through the fabric, every carefully constructed defense crumbled to dust. He was lost.

“Show me you’re real, Si,” you whispered against his jaw, your lips leaving a hot, wet trail along his stubble, your hips pressing against his thighs, the friction igniting a fire in his blood. “Show me… I need… I need to know this is real.”

How could he deny you? How could he deny himself this one moment of reckless abandon, this one chance to reclaim a piece of the past he had so carelessly thrown away?

“Are you sure?” 

He felt the zip of his jeans slide down, heard the quiet clink of his discarded weapons against the hay. He felt you nudging his thighs open, a sense of anticipation coursing through his blood like pure, electric adrenaline.

“I don’t know.” You whispered, looking up at him. Your sight was blurry from the tears, but you saw real concern in his eyes. Mixed with confusion. He had expected you to react differently, you were sure of that. 

If this was just a fever dream, a hallucination conjured by a mind desperate for solace, then so be it. You would savor every moment, every touch, every stolen kiss, before the inevitable awakening, before the cruel return to reality.

You kissed him again, your hand now firmly stroking him, the familiar texture of his skin, the throb of his arousal beneath your palm, sending a wave of heat through you. His hands found their way beneath your uniform, slowly pushing your pants down as far as your position allowed, and the catch in your breath when his touch found your centre was his undoing. The small, shuddering breath that passed through your body, an unconscious reaction to his finger as it played against your sweet spot. And he felt the blood rush to his cock, hardening it, causing it to ache with a need he hadn't felt in years.

You crawled closer onto his thighs and slowly eased yourself onto his waiting length, and that puzzle that was Ghost, the unsolvable mystery, finally clicked into place, a puzzle piece finding its perfect fit, making you both whole.

The world around you ceased to exist. It was just you and him and nothing else. The wound and blood were long forgotten. If there were enemies outside, you didn’t care. You could die right then and there, if it meant you were in your lovers arms for all eternity and beyond.

The stretch of his cock inside your sensetive walls was pure bliss, and you sighed into his neck. “There hasn’t been anyone else. Just you. Always you.” You whispered in confession, and you earned a groan in return.

“I swore to never love again,” he murmured against your hair, as he began to move inside you, slowly at first, then with increasing urgency. “And then,” a hard thrust, a gasp escaping your lips, “you were right there again. Fuck.”

Your hands gripped his shoulders, fingers digging into the worn fabric of his uniform as he moved within you. The rhythm was both familiar and achingly new, years of longing poured into every thrust. The feel of him, solid and real, chased away the ghosts of the past, the years of wondering, of imagining, of hoping. This was real. He was here.

You sobbed, a mixture of relief and the lingering sting of betrayal, and he responded with a guttural groan, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath, hot and ragged against your skin, mingled with incoherent apologies whispered against your ear.

“Si…” you breathed, his name a prayer, a plea, a reaffirmation of a love that had endured despite the years of silence and pain.

His hands tightened on your hips, guiding your rhythm to match his, the friction building and building. It wasn't just the physical pleasure, though it was like a white-hot fire spreading through you; it was the reconnection, the desperate need to erase the years of separation, to meld back into the person you were before he disappeared. 

“I missed you,” he groaned. “So fucking much.”

“Me too,” you whispered back, the tears you thought you'd cried out returning.

The world narrowed, shrinking down to the feel of his clothed body against yours, the heat of his breath, the relentless rhythm that was driving you both toward the edge. 

There was no pretense, no holding back. Just the raw need to be close, to reconnect, to find solace in each other's arms after so long apart, even with the limitations imposed by the circumstances.

You arched into him, the friction of clothing against skin a delicious torment, and a wave of pleasure ripped through you. His grip tightened, and his name tore from your throat as wave after wave of sensation crashed over you, shattered you, dragging you under.

He followed close behind, his release a shuddering groan against your ear, his length pulsing inside you. For a long moment, you just held each other, hearts pounding, breaths ragged, the silence broken only by the occasional shuddering sigh. It wasn’t pretty, it wasn’t poetic. It was messy, desperate, and utterly perfect.

Even as the aftershocks subsided, you kept your eyes closed, clinging to the warmth of his embrace, afraid to break the spell, terrified that opening them would erase him again, that this precious moment would dissolve into the cruel, cold reality of his absence. You felt a kiss on your forehead, a tender gesture that sent a pang of fear through you. Was he going to leave again? 

But he didn't move.

“I’m so sorry, love” he whispered, his voice ragged, breath warm against your skin. “Please… look at me.”

You opened your eyes, your gaze locking with his. Scarred skin, hazel eyes filled with remorse, but also with an unmistakable love.

He was still there.

He hadn’t disappeared.

He didn’t walk away.

“I promise,” he murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face, “I won't ever leave you again.”

You clung to his words, your heart swelling with a cautious hope. “Will you tell me what happened?”

He hesitated, his jaw tightening, but his eyes held yours. Watching you these past months, your strength, your resilience in the face of unimaginable danger, revealed a simple truth that would strip him of any excuses not to tell you. You were stronger than he’d given you credit for, stronger than even he had believed. You deserved the truth, no matter how dark, no matter how painful. And he would give it to you. He swore it to himself.

 “I will.”

“Bravo Six… in the blind… you… copy?” The radio crackled, a jarring intrusion into the fragile intimacy of the moment. He reached for it immediately. 

“Bravo Six, this is Ghost. We're in the blind. What's your status?” 

His voice, when he responded to Price, was still tinged with the softness you’d heard only moments before, a subtle reassurance that despite the return of the impersonal detachment, despite the mask he wore for the world, for his team, he was still there, somewhere beneath the surface.

“When we go back,” you whispered, your voice barely audible above the static of the radio, laced with a vulnerability you hadn’t intended to reveal, “…when Ghost comes back,” you corrected yourself, the words catching in your throat, “will I still have… Simon?” 

He paused, his hand hovering over the radio, his gaze locking with yours. “You, always,” he said, without any hesitation. “And I promise,” he added, his voice softening, the warmth of him breaking through, “I'll help you understand… Ghost.”

He would reveal the darkness, the secrets, the pain that had driven him to become the masked soldier. He would trust you with the broken pieces of himself, the fragments he’d kept hidden for so long. He owed you that much, if not more. 

He’d give you every little piece of him he could offer.

[fireya-x]

Captain Price & Miel for @the-californicationist 🤎🐎

[fireya-x]

luna sanguinis

— CHAPTER MASTERLIST —

AO3 Link || masterlist

John Price x Reader

When John Price is dragged to a fancy Halloween party, he finds himself captivated by the stunning and mysterious hostess, Victoria Di Corvo. But beneath the opulent facade and intoxicating charm lies a dangerous secret – a world of ancient curses, primal hunger, and a blood-soaked game that will force John to choose between his humanity and a destiny more powerful, and seductive, than he could ever imagine.

[4/8 chapters, 19k words]

cw: violence, blood, blood drinking, biting, piv sex, creampie, emotional sex, reward kink, praise kink, past abuse/trauma, light bondage, cunnilingus, orgasm denial, edging, come shot, come marking (so far)

CHAPTER I - nox fatalis John isn't the party type. But a Halloween invitation to a secluded manor and an encounter with the alluring Victoria prove to be a temptation he can’t resist.

CHAPTER II - nexus - blood play

An immortal bond is forged between John and you.

CHAPTER III - praemium - reward/praise kink

After a successful hunt, John is rewarded a glimpse into your past.

CHAPTER IV - cruciatum - begging/orgasm denial/dom sub

John wants to return to his team, but you are hesitant and afraid, forcing him to prove his control.

CHAPTER V - praesidium

??? (begging/creampie)

CHAPTER VI - delicium

??? (praise kink)

CHAPTER VII - pietas

??? (blowjobs/throne sex)

CHAPTER VIII - in aeternum

??? (worship)

[fireya-x]

luna sanguinis // CHAPTER I: nox fatalis

[PREVIOUS] || CHAPTER MASTERLIST || [NEXT]

AO3 Link

John isn't the party type. But a Halloween invitation to a secluded manor and an encounter with the alluring Victoria prove to be a temptation he can’t resist.

[4k words]

cw: blood, violence

nox fatalis

“Oi, cowboy!” A way too enthusiastic voice boomed from his right, and John Price looked up to see Soap approaching. He blinked, almost rubbing his eyes to fully take in the costume his comrade was wearing.

“Soap, are you wearing a bloody skirt ?” another voice beat John to it. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose before reaching into his jacket pocket to retrieve a cigar. Why did he agree to go to a Halloween party, of all places?

“It’s a kilt, you fuckin’ uncultured dog,” Soap shot back, his Scottish accent thick, turning to face Gaz. “What are you supposed to be? The saddest vampire in town?”

“Dracula,” Gaz flashed his fake plastic dentures with a smirk. “Isn’t that obvious?”

“Sorry, the runny eyeliner threw me off. It makes you look miserable, not threatening.” Johnny laughed, then turned to John, giving him a once-over. “Nice costume, cowboy.”

“Gunslinger,” Price corrected, his voice flat.

“What?” Gaz asked, looking confused.

“Not a cowboy,” John repeated.

“Practically the same thing,” a low, raspy voice joined them, and John rolled his eyes.

He turned to see Ghost approaching, clad all in black, his skull balaclava and skeleton gloves the only concession to the holiday. “The dress code was Halloween costume, Simon, in case you missed the cue.”

Ghost gestured to his face. “This has to do. I scared enough kids on the way.”

Price sighed audibly. “I need a fucking drink if I am supposed to survive this. Y’all owe me for dragging me here.”

“Oh come on, it will be fun. Snacks, drinks and maybe some lovely women - what’s not to love?” Gaz clapped a hand on Price’s shoulder, always the optimist.

“Is that a skirt, Johnny?” Ghost’s voice rasped through the chatter of nearby partygoers, catching their attention.

“Fuck all of you,” Soap replied, holding his finger up to point at each of them in turn. Then, turning to Ghost, he added, "At least I put some effort into this."

Ghost just huffed and grabbed an envelope that Gaz held out. “How’d you get invitations anyway?”

Gaz flashed his fake teeth in a dramatic grin. “I know some people who know some people. This is the most prestigious party in the country, you should be grateful.”

“I am so grateful,” Price muttered sarcastically, taking a long drag of his cigar before discarding the butt and grinding it out with his boot. “Let’s go before I change my mind.”

They turned toward the imposing front gate of the mansion. It was an old, stately building, quintessentially English, with a rose garden stretching out to either side. Price had expected over-the-top Halloween decorations, but the decor was surprisingly tasteful. Candles flickered in ornate lanterns, eerily realistic skulls were perched on stone pillars, and real ravens perched on the wrought iron fence, their caws echoing through the driveway that circled a towering willow tree. 

He had to admit, there was a certain prestige, a sense of history, that hung about the place. Why he’d agreed to come, he still didn’t know. He would have much preferred mission reports, a good whiskey, and a cigar in the quiet of his office. He was lucky he’d even found this old outfit buried in the back of his closet - leather jacket, fake revolvers, cowboy hat, and boots that were more for show than practicality these days.

The mansion seemed to loom over them, its dark windows like watchful eyes. Soap was openly gawking, while Gaz wore a knowing smirk that suggested he’d been here before. They climbed the short flight of steps leading to the massive oak double doors, flanked by two imposing figures in black suits who were checking invitations.

“Maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll get to chat with the hostess,” Gaz murmured, handing his envelope to one of the men who barely glanced at it before nodding curtly, granting him entrance. “She’s a bloody smoke show,” he added in a low voice, earning a dramatic eye roll from Price.

John handed his own invitation over, meeting the guard's gaze with his usual intensity. The man’s eyes flicked to the revolvers in Price's holsters. “They’re fake,” Price said, already reaching for them and offering them to the guard for inspection.

To his surprise, the man just grunted and nodded, gesturing for Price to enter. Holstering his weapons, Price stepped inside, following Gaz into the grand foyer. He paused, taking in the opulent surroundings. It was a strange mix of old-world elegance and modern sophistication. Centuries-old tapestries hung alongside abstract art, and antique furniture was arranged with an eye for minimalist design. It felt surprisingly welcoming, despite the sheer size of the place.

After everyone was admitted inside, they all headed straight for the bar, dying to have drinks for the night. Price needed something stronger than the lukewarm champagne being offered on silver trays by circulating waiters.

“Whiskey, neat.” He barked the order to the bartender, a pale, skinny man with nervous eyes, who hurried to pour him a generous measure.

“Never been to one of these fancy dos before, eh?” Gaz asked, leaning against the bar.

“Can’t say I make a habit of it.” Price replied, downing half his whiskey in one long swallow, letting the familiar burn settle in his chest.

“You’d be surprised,” Gaz said with a wink. “There’s more to these high-society types than meets the eye.”

Soap had been quiet, his eyes wide as he took in the entirety of the place. “Aye, and some right mental costumes.” He jerked his head towards a group of guests dressed as mythical creatures, their outfits more resembling something out of a fever dream than a Halloween party.

Ghost, as always the silent observer, was leaning against a pillar, his skull balaclava a stark contrast to the brightly coloured masks and outlandish outfits surrounding him. He watched the crowd with a predator's intensity, his gaze missing nothing.

While his comrades continued chatting about all the costumes, his eyes followed the impressive staircase that separated the main foyer from the second level, until they landed on her . 

She was standing at the top of the grand staircase, her figure framed by the golden glow of the crystal chandelier. Her gown, a deep red that seemed to absorb the light, clung to her curves, accentuating the slimness of her waist and the fullness of her hips. Her dark hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall of ink, and her skin – so pale it seemed to glow in the dim light – was flawless, spared by the passing of time. She wasn’t wearing a costume, not really, she didn’t need to. She didn’t need the theatrics; she was the spectacle.

Price felt his breath catch in his throat. Time seemed to stop. The noise of the party, the chatter of the guests, the music, all faded away, leaving only the steady thump of his own heart.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, unable to tear his eyes away.

“Told you she was a smokeshow,” Gaz leaned in, a smug grin on his face.

Price ignored him, his gaze fixated on the woman on the stairs. It was more than just her beauty, though, that alone was enough to stop a man in his tracks. There was something else about her, something that drew him to her like a moth to a flame. A power, an intensity, that he’d never encountered before. It was more than just physical attraction; it was a pull, a magnetic force that went straight to his bones.

He cleared his throat. “Who is she?”

“Victoria Di Corvo. The hostess. She owns the place.”

The conversation, though spoken in hushed tones, drifted towards you above the noise of the party. You followed the direction of it, and turned your head to find the source. And that’s when his scent hit you, too – it was like it suddenly called out to you. Primal, spicy, wild, full of strength. Raw and untamed like the deepest, darkest corners of your soul.

You felt a jolt of excitement, a thrill that sent a shiver down your spine. It had been centuries since you'd felt such a powerful pull, such an undeniable connection.

He stood by the bar, tall and broad-shouldered, his black pants and gray leather jacket doing little to conceal the power of his frame. His cowboy hat shadowed his eyes, giving him an air of quiet danger that made your heart skip a beat.

“Never seen her before.” The man’s voice was rough with an undertone of curiosity.

“She’s not the most social one, it is said.” His friend said, with an easy charm, which seemed like a gift that gave him the ability to slip into conversations easily, blending into the crowd.

You raised a hand, a small, elegant gesture that summoned your closest companion and most loyal servant, Beth, to your side. She moved with a grace born of centuries of service, her eyes never leaving yours.

“Yes, my lady?” she asked, her voice a soft murmur.

“Spare his friends, tonight,” you instructed, your gaze never leaving Price.

“Do you think –” Beth began, her voice hushed.

“I don’t know,” you cut her off, your voice laced with a hint of weariness. “And I don’t want to get my hopes up.”

“I’m sorry, my lady. I didn’t mean to assume,” Beth murmured apologetically.

You sighed. “Just make sure his friends are safe. They may live, if he lives. They seem important to him.”

“Of course, your majesty,” Beth bowed her head.

Your gaze returned to Price. He was watching you, his eyes locked on yours. It was as if you could taste him with a single glance, the intensity of his presence overwhelming. His scent was more potent, more exquisite than any of the other humans in the room. Their scents, while intoxicating in their own way, were sweet and naive. His was something else entirely.

Hope, a dangerous, forbidden thing, flickered within you. Was it wrong to have hope? Probably.

But you couldn’t afford to be wrong anymore. The curse that bound you, the curse that made you queen of all creatures, living and dead, was a double-edged sword. It gave you power, immortality, but it came at a terrible price. Your life was tied to the Blood Moon, and each year, it demanded a sacrifice to maintain its power. A sacrifice of blood.

For centuries, you’d endured this burden, keeping the balance between the human and vampire worlds. A balance that prevented chaos, that kept the darkness at bay. But with each passing Blood Moon, the curse grew stronger, the hunger more intense.

The lavish party, the carefully crafted disguise for the brutal ritual to come – it was all a desperate attempt to cling to life, to maintain an equilibrium. One that only you could uphold. You were its core, the nexus point between light and darkness. 

Watching every guest dance, celebrate, feast, and drink, oblivious to their fate, filled you with a melancholy that had become as familiar as your own heartbeat. They didn’t know that, either way, their lives were in your hands. 

If you fell, the world would fall with you.

But if you could find your king, your mate, to rule at your side – your strength would be bound, the need for sacrifice eliminated. But every time you'd sensed a possibility, a flicker of hope in the blood of a human male, he'd failed the test. Each failure, each death, had chipped away at your hope, leaving you weary and vulnerable.

Your gaze remained locked on Price. He was still watching you, his eyes holding yours with a steady intensity that both intrigued and excited you. He smirked and raised his glass to you before taking a sip of his drink. The simple act, the way his throat moved as he swallowed, was strangely sensual. Your fangs ached, calling to the predator within you.

Leaning further over the railing, you smiled back at him, a slow, deliberate curve of your lips. You knew you held a certain power over human men. It was one of the many gifts that came with your lineage.

Without breaking eye contact, you turned and walked towards the gardens.

He followed. Of course, he did. You didn’t even have to try. You heard his footsteps, the faint, steady beat of his heart behind you, as you stepped out onto the terrace and leaned against the railing, overlooking the moonlit expanse of the garden.

“Enjoying the party, cowboy?” you asked, your voice low and smooth as velvet.

“Gunslinger, actually, ma’am,” he corrected, his voice a deep rumble.

“Oh?” you tilted your head, intrigued. “And what makes a gunslinger different from a cowboy?” You knew the answer, obviously, being alive during the wild times you spent at countless saloons, but you wanted to hear it from him, anyway.

“A gunslinger is more precise. More deadly. Very skilled with firearms,” he explained. “I like to keep people informed.” His accent intrigued you. And the way he corrected you, it wasn’t meant to be demeaning. Simply informative. It was refreshing.

“Is that just part of the costume, or are you actually skilled with guns?” 

“I’m a Captain in the military. SAS, to be precise. John Price,” he said, stepping closer.

He couldn’t know why he told you the truth. He simply felt compelled to. It was so easy to sway a human’s mind, to make them reveal their secrets. But with him, it felt different. You didn’t even have to try. As if he wanted to tell you, wanted to offer himself to you.

“You’ve never been here before,” you stated. It wasn’t a question, it was a fact. You could sense it in the way he moved, the way he looked at everything with a mix of curiosity and caution.

“I’m not the party type,” he admitted.

“Yet you seem to be enjoying yourself a lot.”

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “If you can call sipping a drink and watching ridiculous costumes enjoyment, sure.” You noticed the wrinkles that formed at his eyes when he smiled.

He joined you at the railing, his presence beside you so incredibly livid. You could hear the steady beat of his heart, a rhythm that seemed to echo in your own chest. The scent of him was so intoxicating – cedarwood and tobacco, but beneath that, a primal musk that spoke of strength and untamed desire. It was a scent that resonated deep within you, awakening something ancient and powerful.

Something you hadn’t felt in centuries.

“Are you not enjoying your own party?”

You turned to face him, and the world tilted on its axis.

His eyes, as blue as a winter sky, locked onto yours, and a shock of recognition, as sharp and undeniable as a lightning strike, went through you. This was him. Yours. Your mate.

It was written in the depths of his eyes, in the way his scent wrapped around you like a promise, in the very essence of his being. The one you’d waited centuries for, the one who would complete you, who would make you whole.

He was here.

Your breath caught in your throat. You couldn't tear your gaze away. It was as if you were seeing him for the first time, seeing through the layers of his human facade to the soul that mirrored your own. A soul that had been searching for you, just as you had been searching for it, across lifetimes and continents.

A wave of possessive joy surged through you, so fierce it made your heart ache.

You shook your head. Despite all the feelings and signs the universe seemed to give you, you couldn’t be too sure, he had to prove himself worthy first.

“It’s complicated,” you finally managed to say, your voice husky with emotion.

He frowned slightly, his gaze searching yours as if trying to unravel the mystery you presented. He was so close now, you could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the faint sweetness of his breath. His hand brushed yours as he shifted his weight, leaving a trail of elecrictiy on your skin.

His gaze flickered to your lips, and you saw a flash of desire in his eyes, a hunger that mirrored your own. He leaned in, and for a moment, you thought he was going to kiss you.

Then, just as quickly, he pulled back, his expression clouded with confusion.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, shaking his head as if trying to clear it. “I don’t know why I feel so…” He trailed off, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps. His hands were fisted at his sides, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

He was fighting it, you realized. Fighting the pull, the connection that he couldn't understand. 

You stepped back from him, breaking the spell that had held you both captive. “So, you’re a skilled fighter?”

“You could probably say that,” he replied, his gaze sharpening. “Why do you ask?”

You’d have to risk it. 678 years and no chance, what could be one more year added to the pile? It would be a shame if your assumptions were wrong yet again, but what did it matter? Humans would die that night either way, it would just be a shame that he would be among them. You’d like to get to know him a little better, his eyes told you more than he could have in a matter of a few seconds. He probably had stories to tell that could keep you entertained for a while. His scent was exciting, a strong mix that you longed to breathe in, to savour. And the way he’d looked at you, the hunger in his eyes – you'd imagine he’d be more than inclined to kiss you. It would indeed be a shame to lose it all, simply because you dared to believe for yet another chance.

But did you have a choice? Not really. It was the cruel irony of the curse – your survival demanded sacrifice. Was it selfish? Incredibly so. But the cost of your demise would be far greater. You had to be selfish, not just for yourself, but for everyone.

You couldn’t tell him the truth. With a subtle gesture, you raised a hand, signalling to your guards who were hidden in the shadows of the garden. They emerged silently, moving with an unnatural grace that hinted at something other than human.

Price, ever alert, noticed their approach immediately. “Did I say something to offend you?” he asked, his brow furrowing slightly.

You froze, stunned by his reaction. That was his first thought? Not that he was surrounded by creatures , but that he might have said something wrong? You met his gaze, and saw genuine concern in those blue eyes.

The pang of regret was almost unbearable. It had been so long since you’d encountered such genuine concern, such selfless care. 

It had been forever since you felt this honest care for you, this genuine concern for your feelings. It had always been just a quick encounter for their pleasure, for their needs. Nobody had asked about yours, absolutely genuinely so, in decades.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered, before taking a step back from the railing, and turned away. It was barely audible in the music filled air, but Price heard it — a hint of regret in that tone sent a chill down his spine, as he tried to rationalize the sudden shift in your demeanour. It didn’t match the heat that had been building between you just moments ago.

If he really was the one, he’d have to survive.

If he really was a fighter, he would.

Or at least that was what you told yourself.

You stepped even further away, putting more distance between you and him. He watched, confused, as he was circled by shadowy figures. They moved with unnatural grace, and their eyes were glowing with a hunger that made him be fully alert in a split second.

“What the hell —?” he muttered, his glass slipping from his grasp and shattering against the stone patio. He didn’t have time to process the situation before they were upon him.

As the guards attacked, a surge of power, raw and untamed, pulsed through your veins. It was his power, his life force, echoing through the bond that was already forming between you. It was unlike anything you’d ever felt before.

You looked up at the moon as it began to shift, a slow bleed of crimson spreading across its silver face.

As soon as you had given the silent command with the raise of your hand, the true night had begun.

Inside the mansion, Beth glided through the throngs of guests, a phantom in a sea of revellers. She found Price’s friends – Soap, still boisterous in his kilt, Gaz, charming his way through a group of costumed women, and Ghost, a silent observer at the edge of the crowd – and, with a few carefully chosen words, lured them away. An exclusive after-party, she’d hinted, just for them and their cowboy friend. They followed willingly, oblivious to the darkness gathering outside.

But you had no interest in them as the other creatures began to feast.

Your gaze was fixated on the man in front of you. He had faced many impossible odds, and he noticed quickly that the men surrounding him weren’t ordinary men. 

Moving with the precision of a soldier, his body was a weapon honed by years of training. He didn’t need guns, he fought with his hands that spoke of deadly efficiency, every blow calculated to maximize damage. He was fighting for his life, as was the purpose of this test.

He wasn’t even panicking, just confused, as you saw in his eyes as he took in the situation. It was as if you could read his mind as it went through quick calculations and assessments to analyse threats and exploiting weaknesses.

One of your guards lunged, fangs glinting in the red shimmering moonlight, and John met the attack head-on. He didn’t even flinch from the creature's superhuman strength but used his own weight to his advantage, pivoting on his heel and sending the attacker crashing into the marble ground.

A smile of fascination played on your lips, the sound of the fight was music to your ears, especially the rush of blood in his human flesh. Surviving the attack of one vampire was already a promise more than anyone had withstood before him.

Two more came at him, and he met them equally with a ruthless grace that made your blood sing. He ducked under the blows, his fist connected with a crack against a jaw. He made quick work of the other one, too, using the guard's own momentum to send him over the railing.

With each passing moment, the connection between you intensified. You could feel his pain, his determination, the surge of adrenaline coursing through his veins. And the scent of his blood – oh, it was intoxicating. Like the finest wine and the most potent drug. The spice of it shot through your system like a wildfire, it felt almost too strong, too overwhelming — yet so incredibly intimate and familiar, even though you had never met this man before in your life.

But also, his blood reminded you that he was still just human, after all. Now that it was running free, as he used his last strength to fight against more of your guards, it was mingling with the scent of cigars and the whiskey that he drank, and turned it into an irresistable concoction. The more he fought, the more you realized he was everything you craved, everything you needed — strong, defiant — as if he was singing a siren song to your soul.

With every drop of his blood that spilled onto the moonlit marble, the ground of your home, the connection between you sparked, and you were absolutely, undeniably sure. 

Price staggered, his vision blurring. He’d taken down at least four of them now, but he was wounded, fatigued and dying. His clothes were torn, his cowboy hat long gone, and blood soaked his shirt. And as he felt a sharp sting of pain in his side, he knew he was losing too much blood. That was it. Whatever it was. He came here not really expecting a good time, but dying here, in some English garden of a lavish mansion, surely hadn’t been among the plan. 

Just as he braced himself for the final blow, as he felt hot breath on his neck, a strong commanding voice, your voice, cut through the night.

“Enough!” You shouted, at the attacking guard's side in a flash, your movements a blur, as your hand closed around the guards' throat in a grip that could crush stone. You’d stopped him from biting him at the last second, with a surge of possessive fury that you had never felt before.

“He’s mine.” You hissed, your eyes blazing, and fear shot through the poor young vampire's face. “Nobody has his blood but me .”

The guard whimpered, and you released him with a shove. He scrambled back, taking an exaggerated bow as he did.

“Leave us. Make sure you feed to survive the night.” You commanded the remaining of them, and with sharp bows of their heads, they joined the rest of your court inside the mansion.

Price collapsed to his knees, gasping for air, his body screaming in pain. His chest was slowly rising and falling in shallow breaths, but his pulse still beat. You were suddenly there, kneeling in front of him, your fingers lightly tracing the line of his jaw, running through the blood soaked beard.

He looked at you, and you expected fear in his eyes, but there was nothing of that sort. There was a soft gaze as his eyes found yours, he was staring at you almost admiringly, and you knew.

He really must have felt it too. The connection. The pull.

The strength he displayed against superhuman creatures wasn’t bestowed upon just anyone.

He was it.

He was both your greatest hope and only salvation.

He was your king.

[fireya-x]

sun, grass & river inspired by ursa major by @the-californicationist 💚🐻

it’s such a beautiful scene. it stuck with me for a while so i decided to paint it.

[fireya-x]

“his mind was quiet when he was hunting, when he was killing; he could not be the victim when he was the oppressor”

ursa major ch. 10 by @the-californicationist

[fireya-x]

luna sanguinis // CHAPTER II: nexus

[PREVIOUS] || CHAPTER MASTERLIST || [NEXT]

AO3 Link

An immortal bond is forged between John and you.

[2k words]

cw: blood drinking, biting, piv sex, creampie

Your eyes wandered to the moon above in the sky, and its deep blood-red had lightened to a brighter crimson. A crimson that mirrored the red stains across the torn shirt of the man kneeling before you.

That’s when you realized time hadn’t actually stopped when you looked at John. It was merely the feeling of time frozen, of the world that stopped turning, when you realized who he was.

But it didn’t stand still. Time was running out.

John was at your feet, gasping for air, his body heaving in pain. A palette of all different kinds of red and blue, bruises forming on his skin like frost flowers blooming on glass on winter’s delicate mornings. But these flowers were painted in blood, in the hues of mortality. Its fragility called to you, stirring a need to preserve, to possess .

You lifted his chin, forcing him to meet your gaze. His eyes, though glazed with pain, held a promise. A recognition and a pull towards you, something he still didn’t understand, even though it was as ancient and undeniable as the moon itself.

He was yours. And you were his. And you would save him, claim him, body and soul.

You scooped him into your arms, his large frame and solid muscles no match for your inhuman strength. You shivered lightly as his skin touched yours, a sliver of remaining heat against your own cold flesh. He was warm and solid, and even while dying, it felt like a solace, a comfort, like finding your way home.

As you stepped inside the mansion, the aftermath of the ritual was all but forgotten. The now muffled screams, the metallic scent of blood, your court fed and strong, the curse sated and satisfied - it was all somewhere in the far distance of your mind. Your focus was solely on the man whose heart beat beneath your touch, whose eyes locked onto yours without any hints of doubt in them. 

You knew he wasn’t a man who would yield to anyone that easily. He would die of his wounds, out of stubbornness, telling everyone he was fine before collapsing in his office chair. But with you, he couldn’t deny that he was meant to be held, meant to be healed, and meant to be claimed .

It was a destiny that was written in the stars and sealed in blood.

You carried him up a winding staircase, down a dark corridor, to your private chambers. Each step fuelled by an urgency that promised you to be closer to your salvation. The heavy oak door swung closed behind you, sealing you away from the world.

Laying him gently on the bed, you knelt beside him, your gaze tracing the lines of his face, as if memorizing every detail. You ran your hand along his jaw, down the centre of his chest, feeling the fading heat of him, his heartbeat fragile beneath the strength he displayed.

You slowly undid the buttons of the torn shirt he wore, revealing his chest, where crimson stains spread across his skin.

He groaned as your fingers brushed against a nasty, large wound on his side. A wave of pain contorted his features, and the thrum of his heart quickened against your touch.

You watched his face as you slowly leaned in. His eyes fluttered closed as your tongue darted out to trace the jagged outline of the wound, lapping up the blood that ran from it like a crimson river, like a dark, forbidden wine.

He tensed for a moment, then relaxed completely, a sigh escaping his lips as if your touch was the most potent healing salve.

You knew he was confused. Bewildered by the sensations coursing through him, by the shifting realities of this night, by the creature kneeling before him, tending to his wounds as if he were something precious, something sacred. But you were the only one who could guide him through this change, the only one who could answer the questions that were forming.

For now, though, he had to be healed. 

You continued to pay attention to the fatal wound, your tongue soothing the raw flesh, drawing the pain away with each stroke. The taste of him – the salt of his sweat, the coppery tang of his blood – was intoxicating. It filled your senses, making your head spin, your body ache with a need that went far beyond the hunger for blood. You licked the wound again, savoring the taste, feeling the connection between you intensify with every drop you consumed.

You could feel the heat returning to his body, the breaths he took quickened, his chest rising and falling steadily as his groans deepened.

The agony was transforming, twisting, melding with the power of the bond, into something else, almost primal. Arousal, thick and heavy, began to mix with the coppery tang of his blood.

He was healing. It was the magic of the bond, the ancient ritual taking hold, turning pain into pleasure, mortality into something more.

But you knew, he still had to choose you, too.

Without that, it would all mean nothing. 

He could still decide to walk out, leave it all behind.

“John,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, a whisper into the indecisive future. Because if he would walk away, you probably wouldn’t know how to live through all the years of endless hopelessness again. But by the way his hand had started to grip your hair, the way his hips shifted restlessly against the sheets, you knew he wasn’t going anywhere. 

His body relaxed fully as you planted a kiss above the now almost-healed wound. You trailed your fingers across a cut on his face, feeling through the texture of his beard.

He groaned, his hands moving to cup your face, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. His eyes were locking onto yours. He was searching for answers in them. 

You leaned in, your lips brushing his. “Tell me what you want.”

“You.” He answered in a rough whisper, laced with a need that stole your breath. “ You .”

This need, so raw, so sure, it sent a thrill right to your core. He was choosing this. He was choosing you .

Rising from the bed, you let your dress fall from your body, letting it form a pool around your feet like a puddle of blood. Your body, pale as the moonlight, was a canvas awaiting his touch and his claim.

His eyes widened as he took you in, his eyes hungry and excitingly possessive. 

You knelt before him again, your fingertips ghosting across his chest, along the faint tracery of scars, watching as his muscles twitched beneath your touch. You reached for the hem of his trousers, and he didn’t resist as you shed his clothes, revealing his hard cock, straining towards you.

“Victoria…” he breathed, your name a plea escaping his lips, and it was all it took for the dam to break.

You moved above him, straddling his hips, one knee to either side of him, your core aligned with his length. His hands moved to your hips, his thumbs brushing the bare skin. You could feel the heat radiating off him and the unmistakable pressure of his arousal, hard and wanting.

And then, without even saying anything else, he lifted your hips and pulled you down onto his waiting cock.

You gasped, a cry escaping your lips as he filled you completely. The sensation was electric, almost overwhelming, a clash of power and pleasure that sent a shockwave through your entire being.

He was inside you, hard and hot, and the world contracted around that single point of contact. He began to move with a rhythm that was fierce and demanding, like he was proving a point that this was his claiming, too. It quickly turned into a dance of power and possession, and you met every single thrusts with your own, drawing groans from him, that seemed to wrench from the depths of his being.

You clung to him, your nails raking above his belly, your mind completely empty except for the feeling of pleasure. “John,” you breathed again, as it built, spiralling upwards. Your fangs ached, your core throbbing with both the need to chase release and the final act to claim him fully. But you held back.

He thrust harder, deeper, his groans mingling with your moans, creating a symphony of need that drowned out everything around you. Pain and death were forgotten, all that mattered was your connection, your shared feeling of belonging.

“Fuck, I —” He groaned, his muscles tensed, his grip on your hips tightened, and a low growl announced the wave of ecstasy that was about to crash over him.

As you felt his length throb inside you, as his breathing hitched and his nails dug into your skin, you leaned forward to press a kiss to the side of his neck. It was more than a kiss, though, it was tender affection disguised as a far darker and intimate intention.

You slowly sank your fangs deep into his neck, tasting that sweet gush of his blood, the metallic tang exploding on your tongue. He arched against you, a surprised gasp escaping his lips as he felt the piercing sting, the sudden sharpness that was both pain and pleasure. His blood, hot and copper-tangy, flooded your mouth – a rush of pure essence, intoxicating and potent. You could taste his fear, his desire, his very being in that blood.

And then, your venom surged into him.

It was like liquid fire, a wildfire that spread through his veins, burning away the last vestiges of his mortality. He cried out, the sound ripping from his throat, his body convulsing around you. At the same time, his cock throbbed inside your walls, pouring his release into you. 

His blood and his seed filled you, claiming you, as you claimed him. Your essences merged, a fiery alchemy that bound you together in that single mind shattering moment.

His vision blurred, then sharpened, the world shifting around him, colours intensifying, sounds becoming sharper, more defined. He could smell everything – the musk of your arousal, the lingering scent of tobacco and cedarwood from his own skin, the metallic tang of blood, both yours and his. 

His senses heightened, the world exploded in a riot of colours and sounds. He could feel the pulse of the earth beneath him, hear the whisper of the wind outside the window, smell the faint, sweet scent of the roses in the garden below. And through it all, your scent, your blood, your essence, woven into the very fabric of his being.

You were one.

You felt your own release building, a fiery feeling of pleasure that matched his, a culmination of centuries of need, fulfilled at last.

The world exploded in a blinding flash of light and sensation, threatening to swallow you whole, as you cried out. A supernova, a galaxy colliding within you. Every nerve ending in your body ignited, every cell thrummed with a power so intense it was almost unbearable. You arched your back, a scream tearing from your throat.

A cataclysmic wave of bliss that swept through you, leaving you weak, trembling, and gloriously, utterly empty.

The world spun, then stilled. John collapsed back against the bed, his chest heaving. You could feel the change in him, the pulse of his new, immortal life throbbing against your skin. The pain was gone from his eyes, replaced by a dark, hungry glow, a reflection of the power you'd awakened within him.

Blood was running down your chin, dripping onto your breasts, a reminder of the bond you'd forged.

He lifted his head, his gaze meeting yours, and then you held your breath as he leaned forward, his tongue lapping at the trail of his own blood on your skin.

You gasped, the sensation of his tongue, warm and wet, against your sensitive flesh, sent a jolt through you, awakening a new wave of desire.

He could sense your reaction, and a slow, predatory smile curved his lips.  “My queen,” he whispered, his voice rougher, deeper than before, laced with a power that sent shivers down your spine.

You collapsed forward onto his chest, burying your face in the crook of his neck. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you close, his touch possessive, protective.

You could feel the steady beat of his heart against your ear, a strong, unyielding rhythm that promised a forever you hadn't dared to dream of. You smiled.

Your king had risen.

[the-californicationist]

Heyy, on on of ur posts on kinktober was about vampire taskforce 141 I was wondering if you knew any series / fanfics similar ;)

Surprisingly I haven’t seen very many vampire AUs out there but! My favorite one is…

Luna Sanguinis by @fireya-x (Tumblr & AO3)

It’s got the most amazing gothic horror romance vibes and the smut is feral. So good. Also!!…

Into the Void by @391780 (AO3, not sure if Tumblr)

This one is also spectacular. Excellent spooky vibes. Vampire sex. Etc.

If anyone else has vampire recs, please comment below so we can go check them out!! 🩷🧛🏻‍♂️

[the-californicationist]

OMGGGG @fireya-x ------- I AM LOSING MY MIND HERE. like... OMG!! I dont know how to act!!! this is everything. and this is so amazing to see Simon's polar in like a true image and not in my head!! im sobbing. thank you so much for such an amazing gift <3 <3 <3 you are so talented!!!

“his mind was quiet when he was hunting, when he was killing; he could not be the victim when he was the oppressor”

ursa major ch. 10 by @the-californicationist