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stuffeddrawer · 10 days ago

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To Shoulder A City

Rating: Mature TW: Character Death Fandom: TES: Oblivion (this was originally written well before the remaster. the original date was like April 2023 i believe) Word Count: 6290 AN: this is written with an OC, my Hero of Kvatch, in mind. Rune, my HoK, has they/them pronouns.

MDNI - AGE IN BIO - DO NOT FEED MY WORK INTO AI.

post divider by @cafekitsune

Rune never asked to shoulder a city – never asked to protect it, and certainly never asked to save the damn country. They wanted to live a peaceful life away from the chaos of fighting and nobility and the like.

Waking up in a cell and meeting the Emperor was not on their list. They didn’t remember what they did, didn’t remember whose money they pocketed, who they killed, who they worked for. They didn’t recall committing any criminal activities recently, and Rune was understandably confused.

Rune never asked to be handed the damned Amulet of King’s after the Emperor was killed in front of them, never asked to go to Weynon Priory. They were always told. They picked up their blade again, nearly dull as a butter knife now with not being used for years.

They remembered the pure panic in their heart when they watched the Emperor fall in front of them. They remember the look of recognition in his eyes when he saw them sitting in a cell, those words falling from his mouth. “You… You are the one from my dreams – how fortunate that we get the chance to meet once more. I know you’ve put up your blade, but I ask that you follow me once more.”

They remembered the looks of pure confusion in the Blades’ faces. They understood that feeling well. “Sire, this… person is a prisoner.”

“No.” Uriel mentioned, putting a halt to the Blades’ drivel. “No, they were a member of the Royal Guard. One of the generals, and not only a high ranking one, but one who sacrificed their own body.” Uriel looked upon them with a sort of awe a child would wear as if witnessing a god for the first time. “General Rune Ziegler, I need your help.”

Rune looked upon the Imperial City, after escaping the sewers, almost able to ignore the screams and shouts of the fallen in their final battle so many years ago. The city held many bad memories for them, and losing the use of their voice was harsh. They needed to be able to command their troops, left unable to do so after a rogue mage left burns on their throat. They got the help they needed, but it wasn’t enough. Rune couldn’t hold the Empire responsible, not when their chief mages tried to restore their throat. Rune blamed the act of one mage.

Their first mission, however yearning they were to kill this mage once and for all, would have to wait even longer.

Jauffre awaited them at Weynon Priory.

It was a quaint little place, a place of no interest, barely a blip on anyone’s radar. Rune knew of this place, but never thought to journey here.

The wintry air bit at their skin, pulling their mask up above their nose to keep the worst of it away. It helped little.

“Excuse me…” They whispered, catching a prior before he ran off on them. “Do you know where I can find Jauffre…?”

“He’s right in the house to the right; he should be at his desk.” The prior told him.

Nodding a thanks, they made their way to meet the Grandmaster of the Blades.

They didn’t expect him to be so damn old. They remembered looking at him, expecting some hidden talent, some mystic power, but the grandmaster of the famed Blades was just an old man who seemed to see too many battles.

“I have heard of you, or tales of you.” Jauffre started. “The Emperor always spoke highly of you.”

“That’s why I’m here, sir…” They whispered, hands gripping the Amulet of Kings in their pack. “The Emperor… He died at the hands of the Mythic Dawn… He… He gave me the amulet.”

They remembered the look of both cold fury and hot sorrow washing over the man’s face. The loss of a trusted friend and an Emperor wasn’t an easy thing to bear. “You… You did well to bring this to me, Rune. But what hope have we now that the Septim line is done?”

“Not yet… there is a son, an heir, hidden. Emperor Uriel told me you knew who I’m supposed to look for.” Rune urged.

“Yes…” Jauffre sighed, rubbing his tired eyes. The man looked like he aged another ten years in the span of ten seconds. Rune felt horrible for dumping this information on such an old man. “His name is Martin. He is a priest of Akatosh at the temple in Kvatch.” He informed. “Go. Get Martin, if there is any hope for the Empire, it is him. Bring him here.”

The road to Kvatch was short, painfully short. Rune wanted to run away, the urge to disappear in the middle of the Niben Bay was overwhelming. They were done with the fighting; this was their time to relax. The Emperor dismissed them, with honours, and all they wanted to do with their remaining time was to tend to chickens and relax.

Kvatch was a nightmare. A large portal to Oblivion standing in front of the city. It terrified them, they hated looking at it, but none of these soldiers defending Kvatch had any training to go in there and close the Gate.

Rune certainly didn’t either, but no one else had the fighting experience they had.

Oblivion was hot, unbearably so, but they needed to close the Gate to save what was left of Kvatch. They needed to save Kvatch to save Martin.

The Sigil Stone keeping the portal open was hot, but cooled the moment Rune put their hands on it. In an instant, Oblivion crashed around them, fire erupting on the chains holding the Sigil Stone, the tower housing it collapsing on them.

Looking up, Rune saw their death, a piece of the tower, a long claw-like spire aimed down at them, threatening to kill them. They closed their eyes, the hot rain of Oblivion falling against their skin, basking in everything around them. What a shitty way to die – in a realm, forgotten, and closed off to everyone else.

It was quiet, there were no screams. Rune thought, for sure, they died - they had to have. Oblivion was too quiet. Their body no longer ached, being weighed down with the pressure of unfamiliar magic.

“You did it!” They heard someone shout, his voice filled with obvious glee.

Rune opened their eyes, greeting the normal skies of Tamriel, the cool wintry rain, the slight chill to the air. Rune was still alive.

“Come on! Kvatch is still waiting for us!”

Rune remembered the smells of death and carrion from their General days. They wanted nothing to do with it anymore. They were done with that life.

When they saw Martin, all they felt was that same sense of duty thrust upon them by the Emperor, a job they didn’t initially want.

Kvatch had been saved, yet the life of Tamriel still hung by a thread.

“Why are you so quiet?” Martin asked them, one night, on their way to the Priory. Rune hadn’t forgotten their mission.

Rune pointed to their throat, a silent reminder that they could barely talk anymore.

“Ah… I… I know some magic that might ease the pain? It won’t heal you, as I’m sure other court mages have tried, but… Have they tended to the pain?”

Rune stared at the fire, lost in their own mind. No one was this considerate anymore. No one looked out for them, but suddenly, they had to look out for Martin. A small flicker of… something… stirred in their chest as they tore their teal gaze away from the fire.

A small shake of their head was all it took for Martin to sit next to them, his movements gentle, hovering above their throat, Rune tensing as Martin worked his magic to ease their pain.

“There.” Martin said, bringing them out of their thoughts. “How’s that?”

Rune remembered the growing trust between the two, the nights where they would just stare up at the sky, watching the moons climb. They remembered the nights where they were startled awake by nightmares that continued to dog them, even after all this time, and the first kind face they saw was Martin, asking if they wanted to talk.

Rune remembered how devastated Jauffre was when the Mythic Dawn found the Amulet of Kings.

“All is lost…”

“It’s not, but our chances would have been better had you not kept the Amulet hidden in your godsdamned sock drawer!!” Rune shouted, livid, that the Grandmaster would do something so foolish. Their throat ached and stung – they weren’t used to shouting. They couldn’t. “What were you thinking?!”

Rune and Jauffre were never on speaking terms after that, after Jauffre slapped them to shut them up. “Let’s go to Cloud Ruler Temple…” Jauffre snarled, angry. “Only there will Martin be safe…”

Cloud Ruler Temple looked like it was out of a history book, traces of Akaviri arts still remained.

The cheers the Blades held when Martin was discovered felt like they should have echoed. For the moment, hope had been restored.

“They expect me to act like an Emperor…” Martin confessed in his new rooms later. Rune joined him, wanting to keep him safe. Rune might not have become a Blades member, but they didn’t care. They just wanted Martin to be safe for all he’d done for them. “I’ve never even met my father, so I…”

Rune put a reassuring hand on Martin’s, trying to help him calm down. “You will find your own way…” Rune whispered.

“You don’t have to talk for me, Rune. I know how much it hurts.”

Rune shook their head. “For you, I don’t mind.”

Martin’s lips were soft against theirs, a gentleness neither were expecting, a soft yearning, from two people who have seen the worst the world had to offer. Rune had never been happier that they took on this mission to get Martin to Cloud Ruler Temple. Whatever brought them to that cell, they didn’t expect to be this happy that it lead them to Martin.

Rune remembered the next few weeks passing by in what felt like a blur. Martin had barely slept and Rune could tell it was starting to affect him, the silent guardian urging the future Emperor to bed like a mother would her kid. Martin knew when Rune’s throat was bothering them, and Rune remembered how truly inseparable they had become. The future Emperor was never seen without his staunch silent guardian.

“I need you to get the Mysterium Xarxes.” Martin said, rubbing his eye. Not sleeping again… This is what happens when I’m not here…

“I need you to sleep…” Rune chuckled. “Come on…”

The battle for the Xarxes was difficult – not only did they have to pretend to be a member of the Mythic Dawn, they had to kill an innocent civilian, an Argonian who had the shit luck of just being around the cult Mankar Camoran escaped to his magical realm with the Amulet of Kings before Rune was able to get to him. Rune had to play the role of a mad cultist, lest they all die. They remembered the plunge of the blade into the man’s belly, and once the man was killed, Rune turned, throwing their blade at Runa Camoran and watching the chaos erupt around them. Rune felt disgusted with themself, wanting nothing more than to disappear into a realm Oblivion for eternity.

In the span of a second, the Xarxes was in their possession, a heavy book in their hand. For the moment, it was silent, the members of the cult trying to organise themselves in order to take Rune down.

The words on the pages of the Xarxes almost made Rune’s eyes explode, the words in another language completely and hurt them. The mere power of the book was enough to send Rune to their knees – what Martin wanted to do with this book, they didn’t know. He better have a way to protect himself…

One by one, the members of the Mythic Dawn, or this sect, disappeared. Runa and Raven Camoran were dead, and likely by their father’s side in Paradise – Mankar’s own escape to Oblivion. Rune didn’t care – they just needed to get this damned book to Martin.

“You’re back!” Baurus, the only surviving member of the Blades who was with Emperor Uriel at the time of his death, congratulated them. “Martin hasn’t slept since you’ve left – he’s been worried sick about you. He won’t listen to the rest of us when we tell him to relax – what kind of power do you have over the guy?” Baurus playfully elbowed Rune, grinning as he led them to Martin.

Rune remembered the look of pure adoration in Martin’s eyes, they saw just how much they finally meant to someone else, the look of pure relief when Martin saw that Rune was still here, that they’d made it back. An intense feeling fluttered in their chest, a feeling they wouldn’t dare ignore. For Martin, Rune would keep living.

“The next item we need is a daedric artifact.” Martin continued, and Rune would never forget the redness to Martin’s face when they produced the Sanguine Rose. “Once upon a time, I used to wield the Rose…” He mumbled. A look of strange longing crossed Martin’s face as he looked at the Rose, a look Rune wasn’t sure they understood. Eventually, Rune could see the flutter of the man’s eyelashes, the blueness of his eyes peering at them, trying to convey some secret meaning.

Rune merely smiled, something soft and gentle and reserved only for Martin as he led them to his chambers. Martin said Once upon a time but the man clearly remembered how to move. He knew what touch would make Rune gasp, where to kiss and where to hold.

Rune never asked to help save the damn country but they were certainly glad they went along with it.

“I… I hate to do this, my love, but… the last artifact we need to get to Mankar Camoran’s Paradise is a Great Sigil Stone…” Martin started, unsure how to begin the conversation.

“Great, let’s see what they think of this plan…” Jauffre huffed which only served to fuel Rune’s frustration.

“What is it…? What’s wrong…?” They asked, handing Martin the Great Varla stone of Miscarcand. The Aylied ruin of Miscarcand was massive and frightening. The long thought dead king of Miscarcand reanimated himself when Rune touched the Varla stone – the last remaining one in Tamriel. Apparently, the Stone wasn’t enough to get the Amulet of Kings back.

“We need to let them open up a great gate in Bruma, let the Mythic Dawn think they’ve won, but when the Great Gate opens, I need you to run in and get the Sigil Stone.” Martin explained.

“I’m… sorry, I heard you wrong. You want to allow the Mythic Dawn the chance to win…?” Rune asked, trying to clarify.

“It’s the only way, and you have the most experience with closing these gates.”

Rune sighed, frustrated and angry that Martin would think of such an idea. “Where will you be?”

“In the fighting.”

“Absolutely not.” Rune shook their head, strands of pale hair falling in their eyes. “No, I care not that you’re wearing the Armour of Tiber Septim, but—"

“Please, Rune, it’s time I act like an Emperor instead of saying I am one.” Martin urged, grabbing Rune’s hands.

“As… As you command, your majesty…” Rune bit their lip, certain something would go wrong.

“My love, I am asking for your judgement not your obedience.” Martin continued, blue eyes boring into Rune’s own.

Rune would never be able to hold a candle to this man. One look and they were undone. They looked to Jauffre. “Keep him safe while I’m in there, then.”

“I am afraid that the Countess of Bruma will take a bit more convincing, my love.” Martin admitted.

Rune remembered the long arduous conversation they had with the Countess and the feeling of relief they held when she agreed to stand with the Blades and allow the Mythic Dawn to open their gate.

Rune never wanted to go inside another Oblivion gate. They saw the siege engine the Mythic Dawn had crafted and they were terrified. Was this what destroyed Kvatch? Just how many more are there?

Rune didn’t have time to think as they made their way to the Sigil Stone. Grabbing the stone was unlike the others – it remained hot in their hands, unrelenting and they were certain they’d have burns on their hands because of it. At least Martin knows things for the pain…

Rune remembered the oppressive feeling of pure joy when they left the Gate, the siege engine crushed in half behind them. The cheers of the soldiers erupted around them. “All hail the Hero of Kvatch! All hail the Emperor’s Guardian!!”

Rune wasn’t sure how to take the praise, instead marching towards Martin and presenting the smouldering Sigil stone.

“Be safe… I’ll meet you back up there shortly…” Rune whispered, kissing Martin a quick farewell. “You look amazing in that armour, by the way….”

Martin chuckled, a delightful flush creeping across his dark cheeks. “You don’t look too bad yourself in your armour…”

“I suppose I’m always attractive…” They couldn’t help themself, grinning. Martin made them forget the world around them – he had that effect on them.

Rune waited until the others had left, watching the soldiers from other cities march home, watching Martin go back to the temple. They turned, noticing a body on the ground, unmoving. A member of the Blades. Rune ran over and pulled off the member’s helmet, blood freezing when Baurus was revealed.

“Damn it…” Rune whispered, kneeling next to their fallen comrade.

Rune was silent on their way back to the Temple, Baurus held in their arms, lifeless. Other members of the Blades rushed to them, taking Baurus off their hands as they demanded that Baurus got a warrior’s rites.

Martin reminded them that once the portal to Mankar Camoran’s Paradise opened, Rune would have to find another way back. Neither of them liked this idea, leaving Rune in the seat of their enemy’s power. While in Paradise, Mankar’s voice ran through their head, trying to twist them, defeat them with words alone. They knew this would never work – Martin would light the Dragonfires, save Cyrodiil, and they’d live out their days in the palace. Rune wouldn’t leave Martin’s side, not after all he’d done for them.

Paradise was more like a nightmare, the people trapped inside wanted out, even if it meant their deaths. They had already died, and Camoran allowed them to his paradise, only to be tortured for the rest of eternity, or however long Rune allowed this to stand. Camoran’s idea of a True Tamriel, or Tamriel Reborn, was like Oblivion made real – the demons and daedra running amok and enslaving the rest of Tamriel.

Rune would never allow that. Martin would never allow that.

Paradise began to crumble before their eyes after they’d killed Mankar, nabbing whatever was on his body and bringing it back to the living world.

I’m not going to die here, Martin’s waiting for me. I will not--

Rune never felt the piece of ceiling fall, all but crushing them a second before Paradise fell.

“My love…?” A soft voice drew them from what felt like death. “Rune, you’re safe now…” Martin’s voice – they recognised his voice anywhere – drew them from deep slumber.

Rune tried to move, to do anything, yet their entire body ached and burned. “What…”

“Shh… You saved us… You got the Amulet of Kings back… Once you’ve healed, we’ll head to the Imperial City…” Martin whispered.

Slowly, Rune opened their eyes, warm colours and odd knickknacks dotted the room – Martin’s room. A room with which they were so achingly familiar. Martin’s face was a welcome sight, a sight more beautiful than Paradise.

“You’re okay…?”

“Yes…” Martin sat on the bed next to them, his words quiet. “You frightened us, not by your choice, but we thought you had died when you came back from Paradise. You… You were unconscious, but you held the Amulet in your hands…”

Rune looked down to Martin’s chest, where the Amulet of Kings hung around his neck. It was just as gaudy now as it was when Uriel wore it. “It suits you…”

“You by my side suits me more…” Martin looked away, the tension in the room so thick one could cut it with a butter knife. “Rune, when you came back to Tamriel, I… I was so scared…”

Rune was silent, and while it wasn’t unlike them to be silent, the room was insanely tense. “I didn’t—”

Rune’s words, or whatever excuse they were trying to say, were silenced by Martin’s lips on theirs. His lips trembled, fearing that if he let go, Rune would slip away again.

Rune moved to let Martin on the bed more, to allow him to get more comfortable, yet they weren’t able to hide the wince that came with it. “Sorry…”

“No…” Martin sighed, brushing back his hair, and pressing another kiss to Rune’s lips. “Please… Send for me once you are healed… I do not wish to make this journey without you.”

Rune, by the time they made it to the Imperial Palace, wasn’t fully healed, but knew it was a bad idea to rest any longer. The less they moved on the way to the city, the better. Jauffre didn’t like the idea of them moving while still wounded. There was little they could do however, Cyrodiil needed to be saved.

“Chancellor Ocato,” Rune began, hiding their wince under their mask. Martin’s hands balled into fists. They knew he was upset that Rune was still wounded, but they needed to get a move on. “This is Martin Septim, heir to the throne, and Emperor of Tamriel.”

Just as the Chancellor was about to speak, a soldier ran in, yelling and demanding attention. Rune could never forget the look of pure, unadulterated fear residing in this soldier’s eyes when he told the three of them that Oblivion gates had opened and that daedra were pouring out of them – one last ditch effort to take over Cyrodiil.

“Stand strong, soldier,” Rune started, their inner commander coming out. “We will get Martin to the Temple of the One and light the Dragonfires. Help me get him there.”

The soldier didn’t believe them, but with the only one who had enough experience fighting these things, the solider had little room to argue with Rune.

They ran outside, Martin in tow, who held onto them like a lifeline. Rune felt their stomach ache, their chest pull – it hurt. More than words could hope to explain. Rune could see just how frightened Martin was, but he knew that Rune would do anything to keep Martin safe.

“No!” Martin cried as they rounded the corner. A daedra, more powerful than the other smaller ones Rune had killed earlier, stood in front of the Temple of the One, its four arms slamming into nearby buildings, before turning its gaze towards Martin and Rune. “We’re too late! Dagon is here, and even if we light the Dragonfires, it’ll be too late!”

“What about the Amulet?” Rune asked, wishing now they’d kept their mouth shut. Of course, the Amulet has magical properties; it has the blood of Akatosh in it!

“I… The Amulet wasn’t meant to be used this way – I…” He mumbled, looking up from Rune to look at Dagon. A flash of fear darted across the Emperor’s face, fear that made even Rune afraid. It wasn’t like them – being afraid. They were supposed to make others afraid; it wasn’t supposed to be the other way around. “Get me to the Temple – I have a plan. You’re just going to have to trust me.”

Rune frowned, unsure, the pain in their chest tightening and almost restricting their breath. They tried to shrug it off, though it clung to them like a wet blanket, dogging them like bad nightmares.

Rune wasn’t expecting Mehrunes Dagon to be as big as he was, wasn’t expecting his foot to be the size of three grown men. Rune remembered that overwhelming fear take place in their system; they couldn’t hope to move even if they wanted to. The size of Dagon struck them to the spot.

“Rune, we need to move…!” Martin called for them.

Rune shook, unable to tear their gaze from the beast in front of them. They did a lot, fought their entire life, but never once have they fought something of this size. Drawing their bow, they notched an arrow at the beast, releasing the arrow and expecting it to stagger or at least garner attention from Dagon. Hopelessly, they watched as their arrow bounced, bounced off Dagon.

“Rune!” Martin ran to them, putting his hands on their cheeks and forced them to look at him. “I know you’re scared my love, but we need to move to the temple! We’re almost there.” He pressed his head to theirs. “Stay with me.”

Slowly, and haltingly, Rune nodded, leading the charge to the temple.

Rune was never one for religion, was never one for worship, and was never one to pray. That just wasn’t Rune, but they would worship all of Martin, every inch of him, all he was, all he said. The ground he walked on they loved.

Martin led Rune to the other end of the temple, away from the entrance and held them, shaking, pressing nervous kisses to their head. "I do what I must do. I cannot stay to rebuild Tamriel. That task falls to others.” He pressed another kiss to Rune’s hands, soft hands, so warm and full of life; hands that made Rune want to live again. “Farewell.” Fucking – what? Rune could feel the prickle of tears form in their eyes. This wasn’t goodbye, this isn’t goodbye!

“You've been a good friend, a warm hug, a candle in such intense darkness, my most treasured thing in this world, in the short time that I've known you. But now I must go.” Martin closed his eyes for a moment, basking in all Rune was before pressing another kiss, fervent and heated and passionate with such longing that it nearly brought Rune to their knees.

“Martin, no…” Rune choked, barely able to talk, tears now falling freely. “You-You can’t…”

“The dragon waits.”

“Martin!!” Rune cried, falling, feeling the marble floor smash against their knees, raising up a hand as if it would stop the fighting. They watched as Martin used the Amulet of Kings to turn into the Avatar of Akatosh, a large fiery dragon, standing toe to toe with Mehrunes Dagon. “No, stop!!! Don’t do this!!!” Rune tried to be heard above the destruction of the temple.

In the span of a few seconds, Martin defeated Dagon, the beast being absorbed into the Avatar of Akatosh. It huffed for breath, and for a dangerous moment, the dragon looked at Rune, his eyes full of sorrow and love, so overwhelming that Rune could barely breathe, tears falling freely from their eyes at the sight of their love suffering so much from Dagon.

“Martin…” Rune sobbed, hands hanging numbly by their side, watching as their love turned to a massive stone dragon in front of their eyes in a brilliant white flash.

In the span of a few seconds, Rune’s world crashed before their very eyes. Colourful paintings were grey, and flowers looked dull. Silently, Rune sobbed, mourning for their lost love, allowing themself this one moment of vulnerability.

The echoes of footsteps were barely enough to draw them out of their mind, the constant thought that their world just ended, the only bright light left in it was now a grey statue in the avatar of Akatosh. The Divines have a sick sense of humour…

"What happened?” Ocato asked them, pulling Rune to their feet. They wobbled on the spot and Ocato held them steady. “Where's Martin? I must congratulate him!” Each mention of Martin and his name felt like a dagger to the heart. “Mehrunes Dagon is defeated! Cast back into Oblivion! We've won!"

“Martin… He is gone…” Rune whispered, their voice rough and throat aching. Every bone in their body wanted to crumble now that Martin was gone. They knew his sacrifice was heroic, but they couldn’t help but feel bitter that their love was gone – the one source of their light was dead in front of them.

"What do you mean, gone? We saw the Temple dome explode, the avatar of Akatosh appear... that was Martin?" Ocato continued, confused, a hint of a tremble in his voice. He didn’t know Martin, not the way Rune knew him, and before this whole thing started, Ocato didn’t even know Martin existed.

“Martin… He shattered,” Rune sniffled, trying to calm themself, but it proved a difficult task. “He shattered the Amulet to seal the gates of Oblivion shut forever, and with it, Dagon. It had some sort of magical power, the power of Akatosh, and since… And since Martin is… was, of Septim blood, it…” Rune shook, unable to finish.

A calming hand held Rune in place. Despite the power and position Ocato held, the intense authority he commanded, Ocato was a calm soul, a gentle one, a soft guiding hand in a world nearly plunged into darkness. "The joined blood of kings and gods. The Amulet of Kings. The divine power of Akatosh." He shook his head, saddened by the death of Martin. "Then Martin is gone...” He mumbled.

“He… He saved us… The gates will never open again – Dagon is… gone.” Rune mumbled, barely coherent. “M-My love is…”

“Yes.” Ocato agreed, lacing his hands in front of him, trying to hide the slight shake of sorrow. “Sealed forever. Mehrunes Dagon and his ilk can never threaten Tamriel again. Martin is dead. But he died an emperor, and a hero to rival Tiber Septim.”

Rune looked down, vision blurred by another wave of tears. They lost the love of their life, the one person who made this dark damnable world so bright just by smiling. “What…” They tried to talk between sobs. “What about the Empire…? What does this mean…?”

"This victory is not without cost.” Ocato’s voice was quiet, barely louder than the wind flowing through the temple. “We've lost Martin Septim. What an emperor he might have made. His sacrifice was necessary, but it leaves the Empire without an emperor. I don't know what happens now. There are troubled times ahead for the Empire. But now is not the time to worry about the future. Let's just give thanks that we're alive."

Rune tore their gaze from the cracked marble flooring of the temple, staring up at the stone dragon in front of them. Their eyes felt crusty from crying, deep, deep sorrow pressing down on them like a thousand weights.

They ran around Cyrodiil, ranging from becoming a Knight of the Nine, the Champion of Cyrodiil after Martin’s death, joining the Arena and becoming the next Grand Champion, being the leader of both the Mages and the Fighter’s guilds, to becoming the next Listener of the Dark Brotherhood, to becoming the Grey Fox. The rumours surrounding this magical door in the Niben piqued their interest and had every intention of going to investigate; if not to calm the guards, than for their own curiosity. Rune felt a tug, even after all this time, pulling them to that door, but they ignored the feeling.

Years had passed between the death of Martin, and what felt like Rune’s spirit. Years had passed since they last stepped foot in the Imperial City, in the Temple District. They stood in front of Martin, looking up at him, body numb and mind empty. Their sword, the sword they used at the final battle, the one Martin himself enchanted for them, hung at their side, unused since that fateful day. That tug to the Niben had only gotten stronger, and while it was unable to influence their mind, their curiosity only grew.

“Rune!” Ocato, aged now, and back hunched from shouldering the burden of leading the country in Martin’s absence. “Oh, my child, it’s so good to see you again.” He laid a gentle hand on their arm, his way of greeting. “I do apologise about the rest of the Blades, my friend, their deaths were not in vain.”

Rune was silent, still staring up at Martin, begging for forgiveness. Maybe I’ll head to that door in the Niben after all.

“I… I know I have no right to say this, but I am glad you’re all right. The years haven’t been kind to either one of us it seems.” He held a hand out to Rune, guiding them to the Palace. Rune didn’t move. “If you wish, we can talk more at the Palace, the city isn’t much safe any longer. I will wait for you there, Rune.”

Rune waited until Ocato had left the building.

“I’m sorry I took so long, my love…” Their voice, raspy with misuse, echoed in the chamber. Images of what happened that fateful day flashed through their mind. “I’ve… been busy… Fixing things… The world isn’t the same without you, my love… The world is so dark and dismal, so lifeless without you… Oh, I wish to join you at your side, Martin…” They felt that prickle of tears again, tears they thought were long since dried. “Nothing’s the same without you. Every day is like another day in darkness…” They rubbed their eyes, drawing the sword Martin enchanted for them. No one was allowed near the statue, save for Rune, and they were thankful no one was here. They leaned their sword against the dragon’s leg, grabbing a few pieces of stone to keep the sword from falling, and even if it did, they didn’t care.

“I love you, Martin. My soul and heart are yours…” They turned away from the dragon, looking up at it from over their shoulder. “Hopefully soon, I’ll be by your side once more…”

The door to the Niben bay pulled at them like a dog on a leash. They were unable to resist that pull.

They entered another daedric realm – the Shivering Isles, the Mad-God Sheogorath told them.

Rune didn’t know how much time had passed in the real world and the time in the Shivering Isles, but during this time, they assumed the mantle of the Mad-God, giving their consciousness to him, every bit of their body to him, if it meant an escape from Tamriel, away from a life stolen from them.

Rumours surrounded the Hero of Kvatch, the Champion of Cyrodiil, saying that they died on the field of battle, that they drowned in the Niben, that they died with the rest of the Blades in Cloud Ruler Temple, that they killed themself out of grief. Some say they lost themself to the Dark Brotherhood, died from rotting in a cell. Few know the truth about the Hero, and fewer still know that they left Tamriel to its own devices after Martin’s death. Those few people know that Rune left Tamriel to become Sheogorath.

Ages passed since becoming the Mad-God, and Rune was tired. So tired. Haskill, Sheogorath’s butler and second-in-command, informed them of what the humans did in the Champion’s honour – that they had erected a statue of their likeness in the Temple of the One, next to the Avatar of Akatosh, their sword still leaning against the dragon’s knee. People had tried to remove it, but through enchantments or respect for the lost Hero, the sword never moved.

Rune smiled at the news Haskill brought them. “And what of the old Mad-God, hm?” They asked. After years of being the Mad-God, they’d adopted his mannerisms, the pure chaotic energy. “Did he succumb to all that fancy cheese?”

“Ask me yourself, hero.” Sheogorath, in all his chaotic glory, placed a hand on Rune’s shoulder. “It’s nice to see you again, friend.”

Rune smiled, feeling their soul feel lighter, lighter for the first time in two hundred years. “Is it time?”

“Yes.”

“I kept your seat warm. Got some new cheeses.” They cocked an eyebrow at Sheogorath. “Some fancy wines. Rats on wheels.”

Sheogorath laughed. “And we appreciate it, dear friend.” A smile, an unfamiliar and completely welcoming smile formed on the Mad-God’s lips, something warm and gentle. “Your soul doesn’t belong to me, and honestly, I don’t think I want to encroach on a divine’s love.”

Rune frowned.

Sheogorath gestured behind Rune, and the hero turned around, finding that same welcoming face, warm blue eyes and worn hands. Martin’s smile was as warm as the day he’d left them and Rune felt their world crumble a second time, tears falling freely from their face.

“Go – you deserve it, friend.” Sheogorath urged them, taking the staff from Rune’s hands as they ran towards their love.

They stopped, and turned, facing Sheogorath who had already begun to fade from their vision. “Thank you, Sheogorath. For everything.”

That friendly smile never left the Mad-God’s lips. “Enjoy the cheese, Rune.”

Without a single regret, Rune turned, facing Martin once more, embracing him in the afterlife. He smelled just as he did back then, earthly and warm and slightly smoky. “I missed you…” Martin whispered; his voice hadn’t changed either.

“I missed you more, my love…” They smiled at him, tears in their vision, tears of joy and relief spilling out of their eyes. “I’m home.”

Rune never asked to shoulder a city. They never asked to fall in love with the tragic hero, either.

#tes oblivion #oblivion #martin septim #hok x martin septim #martin septim x hero of kvatch #martin septim x hok #hero of kvatch #tes:iv #things stuffed in the drawer #tes fanfic #oblivion fanfiction #martinhok #sheo's ooc in this but thats okay

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stuffeddrawer · 10 days ago

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Someone asked me for unmasked version of Simon so here it is 🙏✨

Our lovely Ghostie without his iconic skull mask 💀 How do you like it? 👀

Free 4k on P@treon~

#simon riley #ghost mw2 #simon ghost riley #cod modern warfare #cod mw2 #i am looking so disrespectfully #holy FUCK i love his waist

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stuffeddrawer · 14 days ago

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Pondering my orbs.

#i'll get there eventually

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stuffeddrawer · 14 days ago

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im alive barely but im alive. i wanna write more, but writers block and this new job is kicking my ass

#things decorating the drawer

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stuffeddrawer · 14 days ago

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i'd get in trouble if i posted the full image so. i'll leave you with this

#heellooo sailor #simon riley #simon ghost riley

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stuffeddrawer · 25 days ago

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Holding my trans friends in the UK close to my heart right now. I’m sorry to our trans sisters especially. This Supreme Court ruling is disgusting and devastating.

Trans women are women and always will be ❤️🏳️‍⚧️

#fuck TERFs #trans rights are human rights

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stuffeddrawer · 27 days ago

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(elys anon) gonna try my hand at something. Ignore if too cringe!!!!!

----------------------------------------------------

She hears of you before she sees of you.

Rumors travel fast you see, with halls like these; the walls have ears, and the windows are simply another pair of eyes for the court. They call you prey, in the same sweet mocking way all fae do. You have many names she thinks with silent apathy and an even more silent curiosity—Pretender, Little Queen, The Court's plaything—her people whisper of you, mock of you.

"What a joke." They'd giggle in the same sickening way all fae do. "Isn't that right your majesty?"

She hums, non committal, ever neutral. Ice and steel her cosmetics and apathy draping over her words like a shawl. "I suppose." But her true feelings are far from that.

They say you're weak. That you're pathetic. She however, sees something else.

You are strong. She thinks, unlike everyone else. Even your own husbands who look at her with adoration perhaps. Yes, the walls hear of gossips and more, and the windows brings light to even the most greatest secrets—such is the way of the fae, but you see, she is a firm believer of actions being more louder than words. It is how she's kept her own kingdom alive and running for this long, and so—she sees you for what you are.

The hardest worker there was in those castle walls—the smartest person in your own kingdom perhaps.

She's seen the results of your endless labor you see, how much that kingdom has flourished because of your effort, of how beautiful your kingdom has become.

Yes, your kingdom. Not that man (who she refuses to call by name too appalled at how he and his men treated you), or even the queen.

Yours, a mere human. The softest thing there was in the court, the weakest there was in a room full of the inhuman.

But still, still, it is rightfully yours and even the Forest creatures know. The wretched omen of death, the mischievous whisps, and perhaps even more—all of whom were Mother Nature's most cherished children whom seemed to all but adore you, and how correct they are to be she thinks. Mother nature may be fickle and cruel but she is not a fool, and neither are her children it seems.

She is of the same opinion.

That is why when the day arrives she is to grace your kingdom and finally sweeps past her greetings with the Queen and the men, she passes by them to greet you—who's head is hung low (what a travesty they have reduced you in, you were the one who deserved to hold her head high. Not them), and curtsies before you ignoring the scandalous gasps around her.

The sounds draw your attention, as you lift your head and look at her and—She smiles as softly as she can (because humans are soft, and you are human regardless of how you dress yourself. That is fine she thinks, she likes honest and good things. You are one of them, and therefore the deceit they have forced you to hide in is something she wants you to throw away when she is around.), and gingerly holds your hand up for her to kiss—much like those human stories the court whispers you so dearly adore.

"It is most pleasant to meet you at last, your majesty []"

THIS IS SOO GOODDD ELYS ANON I CANT THANK YOU ENOUGH 😩 an absolute masterpiece istg you gotta make a writing blog now pls 😩 <333 i hope you don’t mind me adding this and basically having it escape me 🙂‍↕️😭

Your name is soft on her tongue. The only name she bothers to speak. Not theirs.

You blink, startled, your lips parted slightly in confusion, and in the space between that breath- she sees it. The glimmer of what once was: the queen who stood alone in a foreign court, wrapped in fae glamours and political silk, holding up a kingdom with hands cracked from too much ink, too many late nights, too many broken promises. A queen no one ever crowned aloud but who ruled all the same.

They tried to grind you down to nothing, she thinks. Chipped at you until even you forgot how tall you stood.

And still, you remain; a little softer, perhaps. A little more quiet. But still, you remain, a solitary tree withstanding hail and storm/

Your hands are still stained with the ink that built this court. Your eyes still carry the weight of every lie you’ve had to wear. And your spine- gods, your spine, decorated in bones and gold and snakes- is still straight enough to shame kings, and she hopes your joined husbands are the most ashamed.

You have been robbed of everything except your dignity. So she will not rob you of that, too.

Thus, it continues quietly, like all dangerous things do; with glances and silence and gifts too carefully chosen to be mere coincidence.

“Is this… for me?” you ask one morning, holding the delicate glass vial up to the light. The honey inside shimmers like starlight- amber and strange, scented with something that doesn’t belong to this land.

Her voice is calm as ever. “It reminded me of you.”

You blink at her, confused. “Sticky?” you try to joke, your smile dry, unsure why she cares for you so- why she seeks out your company above everyone else’s. “Hard to clean up if spilled?”

Her lips curl, small and secret, a moment just between and for the two of you. “Rare. Sweet. Difficult to forget.”

It’s in the spiral-carved bookmark that appears in your book next- your favorite book, though you never told anyone it was.

You lift it from the pages with a furrowed brow. “…This wasn’t here before.”

“I thought it might suit you,” she murmurs from where she stands at your window, pretending not to watch the way your lips part in surprise. “You always lose your place when you fall asleep reading.”

It’s you, who still sits at the same desk, fingers stained with ink, lips pursed in thought as you organize a council that will never truly thank you for it.

It’s you, who walks through the gardens cloaked in styles you no longer believe in, trailing behind the court with that same tired smile, always five steps behind your husbands- no longer quite queen, not quite dismissed.

And yet…

She is always near.

She watches you the way others watch constellations: in awe, in silence, with a kind of reverence that borders on worship. She’s not obvious about it- not as obvious as the others might be, not as obvious as the first day she came to this court and only held disgust for your husbands. Her admiration is laced in frost, dignified and distant. But it’s there.

Gods, it’s there.

She never speaks cruelly to you. Never jokes about your soft hands or your mortal sleepiness. Never calls you “Little Queen” the way the others do, sharp with mockery and disrespect.

“Do you ever tire of it?” she asks you once, her voice like glacial water, after you had to watch another meeting go by without a lick of care being given to your opinion. “Being here. With them.”

You hesitate, glancing down at the scrolls in your lap. “I tire of not knowing where I stand,” you say softly. “But I’ve been tired longer than I’ve been anything else.”

She doesn’t smile. Not then. Just watches you for a long, quiet moment. “They don’t see you,” she says finally. “Not properly. They don’t server you.”

You laugh, and for one it’s not the sound of sweet, tinkling bells heralding joy- but a broken sound, early morning blue skies and rain pattering on a window. “Do you?”

“Yes,” she says. Simply. Without pause, without even needing to think about it.

You think she means it in that polite way that nobles do- acknowledgement, nothing more, even though your heart beats so fast the remainder of the day everyone keeps sneaking you confused, nervous glances.

But you don’t see the way her fingers curl into her silks every time you laugh too brightly. You don’t see the way her throat bobs when your knuckles brush hers reaching for the same document. You don’t see how rigid her shoulders go when you flinch after someone calls you the human consort again, like your existence is a footnote.

You don’t know that she’s dreaming of you, either.

That she lies awake and wonders what your voice would sound like in bed, sleepy and real. That she thinks of your mouth on a teacup and wishes it were her instead. That she remembers, too clearly, the way you sighed once, just once, when her hand lingered too long at your back.

You don’t know that her guards are worried. That her advisors whisper of distraction. That a visiting noble once dared to touch your arm and she, without blinking, laced frost through the veins of his wrist.

You are just… confused.

You notice her kindness, and you thank her with a smile- but you don’t ask why she always stands between you and the cold; you don’t ask why her eyes find you first in every room; you don’t ask why she always smells like the sea wind, like distance and salt and something wild coming closer- you just thank her with too-human softness and bow lower than you should.

“Your Majesty.” You say whenever you pass her. Too formal and grateful for basic kindness..

“Please,” she sighs, and the ocean stills and watches the moon- hushed and yearning. “You can call me by my name.”

You blink. “Are we… that close?”

She looks at you then, and there is a sea-storm in her gaze, though you don’t feel afraid at all.

“I would burn the distance between us to ash if it meant you would see what I see.”

You say nothing. You think it’s fae poetry. A courtesy. You do not yet know her like she knows you, surely she doesn’t mean those words when no one here likes you-

And still- still-

She watches, and she wants, and oh, she thinks:

If she ever lets me love her, I will never let her forget what she is.

Not prey, and certainly not burrowed. Beloved.

And your husbands- oh, your poor, foolish husbands- they laugh at first.

“She’s playing the game.” Simon says, arms crossed, voice clipped.

“She’s being diplomatic- even if’s not needed.” Johnny agrees, too loud.

“She’s curious,” Kyle adds, with that forced little shrug, and John nods.

“Humans are a novelty.”

But their confidence begins to crack when she begins to show you off; at festivals, she walks with your arm in hers instead of their; in court, she praises your rulings before the council, cutting off nobles who try to talk over you.

At feasts, she pours your wine before her own.

“I never knew you liked rosewater.” You murmur, blinking at the glass, a happy little smile curling your lips.

“I didn’t,” she says, eyes steady and hands steady. “But you do.”

In the end, it shouldn’t be surprising when the maids sent to wake you doesn’t find you in bed. She searches and searches, and they are growing alarmed and have informed the guards who have gone to inform your husbands-

And then her maids finds you asleep in her bed, in her arms, and your flimsy nightgown’s ridden up enough they can all see the bite marks littering your inner thighs and your neck.

#elys anon you have my heart #noona you are beautiful AUGH #fae 141 #fae!dukedom au

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stuffeddrawer · 28 days ago

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size difference kink but in the “i grew up being made fun of for being chubby so now the idea of a giant of a man being able to toss me around and tower over me without making my weight a problem makes me really horny” way, you get what im saying?

#god i fucking wish

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stuffeddrawer · 28 days ago

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part 2 to this

cw: sex pollen, insanity, smut, omegaverse reader is a sub alpha, tf141 are dom omegas bc i say so word count: 3885 MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DO NOT INTERACT.

(divider by @cafekitsune)

If it hadn’t been for Simon, Johnny would have gladly offered his throat to you first.

“They’ll kill you right now…” Simon murmured, his voice laced with his own anger with what had been done to you. He knew you shouldn’t have gone in alone, knew you should have had back-up. He tried to get Price to let at least one of the team go with you, but with your talents, how fantastic you were with stealth, it was hard to argue – anyone else going would have just gotten in the way. It made sense, but it didn’t sit right in Simon’s stomach, not when he still felt responsible.

It took all they had to give you a wide berth, your potent alpha scent driving all four of them insane with need and want. They all wanted to devour you, wanted you to devour them, wanted you to mark them up, wanted to make sure no other omega got anywhere near you. It drove them insane.

You were hungry, starving, feral, but they couldn’t risk getting near you, even if they were able to restrain you. You were volatile, no sense of You left.

John had been in a meeting with Laswell nearly the entire time, trying to figure out what to do with you. The last resort had been to… remove you, but even Laswell was against that idea. It wasn’t scrapped, but they had no incentive to kill their alpha, even if you were feral. You were theirs and they were yours. There had to be a way to fix you, to break you out of that feral state. Sex, the smell of a beta, another alpha, tea, coffee, something sour, anything.

They were told, at least the ones close to their heat, to stay away, that perhaps the smell of an omega after being gassed with the scent of one would only trigger a regression – as if there was anything to regress to.

“There’s something we can do, right?” Kyle asked, desperately ignoring that ache in his bones to just comfort you, to keep you close and soothe that angry alpha, how he wanted to kiss every square inch of you. Kyle had been told to stay away specifically, him and Simon both, their heats so close and would likely cause a problem. They both had a difficult time following that order, the heated glances Kyle would shoot towards Simon were nothing short of lewd. The intense stares, the plain longing looks Simon would send towards Kyle were thinly veiled.

Johnny watched as John sat down next to him with a huff, habitually throwing a leg over the Scotsman’s own leg.

“Dunno.” Price mumbled, chewing on his lip in thought. His eyes seemed unfocused, distracted by Kyle’s and Simon’s sweet scents, a candle that burned and reminded them of you – black cherry merlot, Simon insisted, something rich and intense – and what happened with you. He’d been pouring over the information that led you into that situation over and over again until those tiny little words all blended together into one big blob. He couldn’t figure out where he went wrong. He didn’t want to admit that he was angry, that he was upset – a captain wasn’t supposed to get like this, but you were theirs, and it hurt more. Their hearts belonged to you, and yours to them – having you hurt like this, forced into something that smelled so unnatural made every synapse in his brain spark and ache.

“Don’t even know if we can get our Bird’s mind back to what it was – God knows ours ain’t much better.” He huffed again, angry, frustrated, so utterly distracted by your forced cycle and it wasn’t even your fault. He was so angry on your behalf.

John didn’t want to think about how much it must hurt, not when all four of them were aching to take care of you, wanted you to growl their names as you came undone, limbs trembling and body shaking, mind empty in a blissful way and fully and completely spent.

Something in Johnny’s chest growled – he just wanted to see you, wanted to take care of his alpha, wanted to purr your name until you were crying out his. He stood, making John’s leg thump to the ground and catching Simon’s attention, the Scotsman pacing as his stomach bubbled with anxiety. Being told to stay away from you was like telling someone they weren’t allowed to breathe. You were – are – their fresh air, they were your heart and soul. You helped with John’s paperwork, made sure Johnny’s explosives were stocked full. You made sure Simon had company when training baby-faced recruits, and you were Kyle’s refuge from the world when it got too much, too loud, too chaotic. Your hands were sent from the heavens themselves, and they were told not to touch.

Even in your broken, delirious, feral mind, your body still craved their touch, refusing to let nurses and doctors anywhere near you. You didn’t trust them – they weren’t yours. You nipped at any one of them who got too close. You couldn’t make out what they were saying, the blood rushing in your ears too loud for you to make anything out. You didn’t care.

Your hands had been restrained to the bed, your ankles too. It would have been fun if your mind wasn’t mush and if this wasn’t humiliating. Your body still shook, limbs still ached, and you could still smell that sweet inviting scent of an omega. It still smelled so wrong, nothing like what you should be diving headfirst into, but you still craved it, still drove you mad, and it still sent shockwaves of arousal through your system.

The room you were forced into, were trapped in, was heavy and thick with potent yet altered alpha pheromones, and you wanted so desperately to dive into someone of yours, your pretty omegas. You whined, softly, before releasing a low, hungry growl, slick only growing between your legs and making a wet, sticky mess. You tried to grind your legs together, to try and ease some of the tension, to try and make it ache just a little less but with how your ankles were restrained, it was near impossible. The most you could do was wiggle your arse against the sheets beneath you and it wasn’t enough.

You were going mad, you wanted to devour and be devoured, so much so that you swore you were hallucinating when you thought someone, an omega – your omega? – was standing there.

He smelled divine, his scent making your mouth water, your body tingle. You knew him, didn’t you? Did you? You don’t know, you’re hungry, voracious.

“Birdie…?” His gravelly, yet sweet voice made you growl. “You in there, lovie…?”

You didn’t – couldn’t – tell who this man was, but the way the sun hit his mask made you even hungrier, made you drool. You thrashed in your bonds, skin at your wrists raw from your struggles. Even from where he stood at the door, you could smell the sweat soaking through his heavy clothes, could smell that sweetness on him that you craved so badly. Your brain was off, your body screaming for him, for that smell, to feel an omega, one of your omegas, take care of you, though you could just barely remember what had just happened, could still taste the rot on the tip of your tongue. You felt as though bile was beginning to rise to the back of your throat as the scent of omega got closer and closer. You felt sick, you were hungry, you felt like lashing out, you wanted to cry out in euphoria. You couldn’t make sense of this – how could you? You’re gone.

You snarled as he got closer. Your mushy, feral brain didn’t register safety and warmth from him, instead only seeing a threat from such a sweet and potent smell. A smell your broken brain registered as poison.

“Darling, it’s me – it’s Simon.” Simon pleaded, but you didn’t relent. Your entire body ached; whatever they gassed you with was still in your system, still making your body ache, your lungs burn, inner thighs so stupidly slick with arousal. You’re fairly certain the bed was soaked from how soaked you were.

You thrashed again, the straps starting to cut into your wrists, as Simon took another step closer. You wanted him, the omega, wanted to sink your teeth into him. You knew that sweet smell of omega would drive you insane, further insane, knew whatever vestiges of sanity you had left would slip through your hands like sand. If you had any left, that is.

God, you ached, wanted him to touch you, wanted to hear both of your cries, wanted to feel him split you open and tear you apart. You had no control, could barely talk, could barely think and only wanted one thing – or several things. Your body betrayed any sense of reservation the old You would have had – the old You would have held back until you physically couldn’t – this. This wasn’t you. But how would you know? You’re mad, insane, feral, dripping with need and desire and could only smell an omega nearing his heat.

Simon steeled his nerves, tried to make sense of the situation beyond his own raging pheromones, tried to think past the need and desire to make you cry out his name. He tried to think – think, think – tried to find a way that would bring you back to them, that would make You come back. Simon needed You back, not the feral alpha that had taken over. He wanted to feel his alpha, wanted to feel how you quivered when he kissed you just right, when your legs were wrapped around him, keeping him right where you wanted him to be.

Simon didn’t even notice that he’d crossed the room, stood at the foot of your bed, almost drooling at the prospect of being able to touch you, being able to kiss you, to fuck you. Simon bit back the whine that wanted to tear itself out of his throat, wanted you slotted on his mouth, wanted to take all you had, wanted to hear your mewls and whines for more, more, more.

He wanted things back to the way they were.

He wasn’t about to admit that he was scared, he was terrified, but it didn’t stop him from hovering a hand over your thigh, unflinching when you thrashed in your bonds again. Simon was brave, approaching a feral alpha, but you were their feral alpha, you had always been the 141’s alpha, feral or not, mindless or whole. Simon’s eyes caught how your leg seemed to retreat at the feeling of his touch, as if being touched by fire, but he could smell how your body betrayed you, could taste your arousal on his masked lips.

The whine you released when Simon’s hand sat between your thighs, against your arousal, was utterly delicious to him. He wanted more – more than a whine. He wanted to hear you cry out his name, wanted tears falling down your cheeks from how good you felt, wanted to feel you clench around him, wanted you so full of his come that you’d be leaking by the time he was done with you. There were so many things he wanted from you. His own mind felt like it was twisting about, being so close to you, even in your altered rut – now he knew why the medics warned the 141 away from you. He didn’t care – neither did you, it seemed. He couldn’t stop – didn’t want to stop – you smelled so good, and he could only imagine how fantastic you would taste. So driven by his baser needs, the desire to just have you, to take all you had until you were an incoherent mess was overpowering the rational part of his brain, was silencing the part of him that said this was wrong. He wanted you, God, he needed you. You couldn’t stop him – he couldn’t stop himself.

Your addled brain couldn’t quite make out what he was doing, what he was saying. All you could do was feel what he was doing, and it was nothing short of divine. Each movement of his hand made you buck into it, the restraints keeping you still and allowing Simon full control of a feral alpha.

Simon relished the way you immediately fell apart with his touch, your eyes rolling back, a low rumbly growl deep in your chest that sounded so much like your normal purr, pleased and wanting more. He wondered if you were coming back to him, but your eyes were pinpricks, pupils so skinny he didn’t think anything of You was still in there. Still, he couldn’t stop himself.

Simon hesitated, only slightly, leaning forward, closer, closer, closer, his face at your neck, close enough for you to bite, to lash out and attack, but you were so pliant in his hands, fingers toying with your entrance as your hole clenched uselessly around nothing. Your legs shook with all he did. He could see how you bit your lip to keep from making any noise, could see how you tried to close your legs – God, you were delicious to him.

Your breaths were low and heady, heavy, wanting and yearning, and so fucking desperate.

Simon hovered over you, one hand between your thighs, teasing you, toying with you, the other hand tangled in the locks of your hair, tugging your head back and exposing that delicious throat of yours to him. He knew he should stop, knew that this was wrong, but even Simon himself was having a difficult time controlling his baser desires.

Something about you smelled off, different, not like you, not like the intense warmth they were so used to. You smelled like something burning, yet still warm, smelled intense, yet angry. It wasn’t you, but at the same time, it was. You were. Whatever they’d gassed you with changed you, no form of recognition behind your eyes, hands trembling in both anger and need.

Simon’s lips pressed against as much skin as he could, fervent, reverent, yearning, hungry, fucking starved, all but tearing the hospital gown off you and exposing yourself to him. He wanted to see you – he didn’t care what the nurses and doctors would think, what they would say – they couldn’t deny him this, deny him you. Not again, not now, never again. You were here, and he wasn’t about to let you slip through his hands again. He couldn’t – not after what happened.

The groan that fell from his lips when he finally had you slotted on him was sinful and delicious – he didn’t ignore how your legs shook around him, your soft thighs acting like earmuffs for him as he ate and devoured. He could feel how you bucked yourself against his face, aching for more than just his tongue, more than his fingers pumping in and out of you. As voracious as he was, he wasn’t about to hurt you before you were prepped for him.

No, he’d make you come on his tongue and fingers a few times, he’d undo the restraints keeping your arms and legs down. He’d feel your hands in his hair, feel how your legs shook as he brought you to the edge and drew back just before you tipped over.

So lost in the feeling of Simon’s mouth on you that you didn’t notice the rest of your pack had entered the room.

Kyle was on you in seconds, mouth tracing every square inch of you, licking at your sweat-soaked skin. Simon had riled you up and left you on the edge more times than you could count with his hands and mouth alone, your body and mind now begging for more, more, more.

“So pretty like this, Birdie…” John whispered in your ear, fingers pumping in and out of you, your arousal and Simon’s spit coating his fingers. While your feral mind fought against everything, wanting to lash out in defence rather than allow them to do this, your body, or theirs, wouldn’t listen.

They were just as hungry as you were, taking all you had to offer and more. Their sharp smiles only seemed to grow to a razor point when you cried out, your sudden orgasm leaving little white spots in your vision, limbs shaking as their movements did not let up. You tried to close your legs, tried to catch your breath and push yourself away, but whatever resistance you had was forgotten when your eyes rolled back.

You tried to shake your head, tried to move away, overstimulated to the near point of being fucked stupid, and none of them had even put their cocks in you.

Kyle had come on you twice; Johnny, three times. Simon and John both insisted on waiting until they were buried deep in you, wanted to wait until you were stuffed so deeply in them.

Simon’s hand gripped your jaw, forcing you to look at him while Kyle fucked Johnny within an inch of his life, the Scotsman’s moans making your hole twitch. “Look at me, Birdie.” Simon mumbled before moving his lips to your ear. “Come back to us, lovie…” He pleaded.

His voice was such a soft thing, despite the intense grip he had on your face. The intensity in his eyes matched your own insanity, the desperation to bring you back to them was almost overwhelming. You struggled to comprehend what was even happening.

You still didn’t know, were still hungry, still wanted to lash out, but the deep brownness to his eyes made you think. ‘Am I safe here?’

Before your thoughts could go any further, your head threatened to roll back as Simon finally thrust into you, the low groan and the squelching noise that followed was almost embarrassing, were it not for how full you finally fucking felt. Simon held your face, forcing you to keep eye contact with him, relishing in how your eyes rolled back, mouth wide open and drooling like the mindless mutt you were.

He gave you little to no time to adjust to his size before he pulled back and snapped his hips back into you a second later, setting a relentless and feverish pace. He pistoned out of you like something mad, like Simon was the feral one, like he had been gassed with whatever you had been gassed with. “Fuckin’ delicious, s-so fuckin’ good for me…” He slobbered against your throat, chasing his own pleasure rather than making you feel good, rather than bringing you back to them.

The moment your moans filled the room, Kyle’s mouth was on yours, his long fingers toying and teasing you, making you whine and writhe under Simon, elegant yet scarred digits making you twitch, pulling at your nipples. Kyle always liked to touch you, to hold you, to make you shiver under his expert caresses. You might have been their alpha, the one to protect them and make sure they were satisfied, but you were always a puddle at their feet when they worked their magic on you.

You moaned into each hot and heady kiss Kyle left you, the sounds you made swallowed by his mouth for a moment before Simon smashed his lips against Kyle’s, drawing his attention for a split second. The sergeant’s eyes rolled shut at the taste of you on Simon’s lips. God, you tasted so fucking good to them, even as altered and feral and fucked up as you were.

Your entire body tensed, gut feeling like a coil would snap at any given moment. You felt your legs shaking, cheeks wet with tears that you didn’t know were falling. The sight of your tears made Simon’s pace quicken, his groans loud as he stuffed his face against your neck, nose pressed against your scent gland and taking in every altered scent you uncovered.

“Fucking take it…” He huffed, his thrusts growing erratic, hips stuttering. “It’s all yours, just… fucking take it…” His groan was long and languid, finally chasing his release and painting your walls white.

So hungry were you, so starved for such a pretty omega, that you didn’t think, not that you could, before sinking your teeth into his scent gland. Your nose was immediately filled with omega in heat, sweet alluring, and so fucking overpowering and overwhelmingly Simon, so intense you almost tore his throat open.

You were still shaking, hole clenching around nothing as Simon pulled out, cheeks and chest flushed, freckled chest heaving and gently pink. Glowing as he smiled at you, neck red and raw from your bite.

“P…” You huffed, still craving more, as if you’d die if you didn’t have Kyle’s cock in you. “Please…” God you were starved, still so fucking hungry, so famished. All you could do was beg, eyes wide and aimed so prettily at Kyle.

He wasted no time, slotted between your thighs and thrusting himself into you, hissing as you clenched so tightly around him. “F-Fuck, lovie…” He mumbled. The piercings along the underside of his cock felt so fucking good, and you lost yourself, becoming even more so of a drooling mess, your mouth wide open.

John smiled as he walked over, the sight of his heavy cock making you shiver as you opened wide like the cock drunk alpha you were.

“So bloody needy…” He chuffed, sighing deeply when the warm wetness of your mouth wrapped around him. He timed his thrusts into your mouth with Kyle’s near relentless pace, leaving you gagging around him, eyes watering with the tip of his cock practically punching the back of your throat. But shit did you feel so good.

Your eyes shut tight as another orgasm ripped through your system, so sudden, so intense that John pulled away.

“Fuck, Kyle…!” You cried out his name, your voice so clear, so You that it made Kyle come so hard, so much that he near passed out on your chest. His body shook as Johnny licked his way up his legs, followed by your own.

You had no idea what had happened, were so blissfully unaware of the state of the room, failed to notice how John had painted your face white.

It took Johnny no time at all to practically shove Kyle out of the way to lap at your hole, a white sticky mess that made him only drink deeper. You whined, brows furrowed and far too overstimulated to respond. Your hands tangled in his hair, keeping him right where you wanted him to be. A wordless scream made your back arch, eyes rolling into the back of your head as Johnny worked you up to another orgasm, slowly working you down, taking all he could possibly get before lining himself up and pushing himself in. You clenched around him so tightly, so deliciously that he could barely manage a handful of thrusts before he filled you to the brim, cum leaking out of you and onto the sheets. He didn’t care – you certainly didn’t.

Your brain had effectively shut down, unable to process Kyle’s words as he kissed you with such fervor.

“Welcome back, Birdie…”

#things stuffed in the drawer #naughty things stuffed in the drawer #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #john price #cod mw2 #ghost x reader #price x reader #gaz x reader #soap x reader #cod modern warfare #call of duty #cod x reader #cod imagine #cod omegaverse #omegaverse #next day reblog

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stuffeddrawer · 29 days ago

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This is so niche.

#your honour i love him #sr #simon riley #ghost #things decorating the drawer

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