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feyascorner · 9 months

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2 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. While seeing him leaving tore you apart from the inside and out, he chose not to see you. He decided what the end of your relationship would be without ever stopping to ask you. You should hate him, truly.

But as soon as you swing open the door, you only have one dying wish.

You want to see him.

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, reader is a bard

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. and he finally makes an appearance;,; ik the first two chapters are a bit slow but i think i can start picking up the pace now woohoo!! Reader/Tav’s feelings are supposed to be confusing on purpose but I may have overdone it a tad,,

He hadn’t had time to gather any of his belongings when he left. And while your other companions graciously rid of everything they could into a single box packed away in the corner of the basement, even they could not bring themselves to throw the handheld mirror away–whether because of the intricate designs framing its reflection that surely held value or because of your apprehension for throwing it out, you’re not sure. You haven’t used it yourself, too afraid of even touching its handle out of fear it may crumble away.

One of the orphan children that Cora’s harboring places a cup in front of you. You raise a brow at her, silently asking how Cora’s doing, and she only shakes her head solemnly before scurrying away.

“Where were you at the time of the murder?”

“They’ve already said numerous times where they were,” Lae’zel spits in the Flaming Fist’s direction. “Are all Fists this incompetent, or are you just a special case?”

You run a hand down your face while Gale attempts to calm Lae’zel. Shadowheart’s had her eyes trained on the cups perched around the table for quite some time now, occasionally glancing up to listen to the Fist’s interrogation. Unfortunately, the cups lack their usual alcohol, but you don’t complain about the water with how dry your throat is. You pat her shoulder, and she finally meets your eyes, nodding before resuming her focus on whatever the Fist is saying. You’re not sure yourself at this point.

“As Flaming Fists, we must put the guilty in their rightful place, regardless of whether they’re the hero of Baldur’s Gate or not,” he straightens his back, then narrows his brows at you. “And right now, all witnesses point here. You were seen leaving the tavern with a man reported as missing this morning. Care to explain that?”

You can hear Gale’s chair scrape against the floor. “You can’t be serious. They saved the entire city, for Mystra’s sake! If they wanted bloody murder, they would've been positively drenched in blood by now.”

However, all you feel is the searing stares of your other companions, who remain blissfully unaware of the encounters of your previous night. But you can tell they’re not accusing you, unlike the Fist—they never would—but rather demanding an explanation. You sigh deeply. “I didn’t go home with him. We spoke for almost two minutes before I left.”

“And what proof do you have of that?”

“Considering I woke up in the Blushing Mermaid, I’m sure you can do a little questioning there to find some witnesses,” you stand, the chairs of your leg scratching against the tiled floors. “Are we done here? I need to go speak with Cora, because her husband just died."

“Sit,” he hisses, his fingers reaching for his weapon. “I won’t repeat myself.”

The air becomes tense in mere seconds. It'd been uncomfortable moments ago, but not as much as this—not enough to make Lae’zel reach for her sword as she’s doing now. Your eyes narrow warningly into slits at the Fist, but his subordinates only step forward to stand on either side of him as if daring you to take another step. From the corner of your peripheral, you can see Shadowheart’s palm spark with light. The others occupying the Highberry household, even from outside on the patio, are talking in hushed whispers, all gazes trained on your very breath. And after a suffocating silence, you hear a chuckle from the door.

“Now, Yevir, we shouldn’t be treating our city’s most esteemed citizens with such hostility.”

Grand Duke Ravengard–Wyll’s father–steps into the home, shaking his head. The Fists, who were willing to go head to head with you mere seconds ago, are now turned and saluting the Duke, which makes Lae’zel scoff at your side. “You lot are dismissed under my name. Though I do have a word to exchange with the bard.”

Former bard, you want to correct him.

Your companions exchange an apprehensive glance at one another before you step forward. “And what do I owe the pleasure of speaking with the Duke?”

“You jest. We are all allies here,” he smiles. “Come, we must speak privately.”

You grin wickedly at Yevir as Ravengard steps past you toward the office in one of the other rooms. Yevir only shoots knives with his eyes, and you return the sentiments by sticking out your tongue mockingly, which earns a snort from Shadowheart. Then you quickly follow after Ravengard, shutting the door behind you.

“Have you had any news from my son?” he asks, facing the window with two arms locked behind him.

“Karlach’s been sending a few letters. They’re limited, as you might expect, but they do come,” you say. “She says Wyll is doing alright. They both are.”

He lets out a breath that can’t be mistaken for anything but what it is: relief. “Good. Now, as for what went down between you and Yevir in the other room, I apologize on his behalf. He’s always been too passionate for his own good. Righteousness is admirable, but not when it blinds your judgment.”

“A lot of things can blind judgment. I don’t blame him.”

He turns to you, and despite the questioning gaze in his eyes, he ignores it. “I’m sure you’re well aware of what’s been occurring in the city—you recently received a first-hand experience.”

“So has half the people on the block, apparently.”

“I’m not talking about Cora’s husband.”

He reaches behind his back, pulling out a slim file and holding it to you. “The number of victims is increasing every day now.”

Flipping through the pages in the file, each one is etched with the murder scene of each victim. There’s one with a man haphazardly buried half in the ground, another with a woman collapsed next to the alleyway in Wyrm’s crossing, another of a man bleeding out in the fields of Rivington. You flip the pages again and again until you arrive at one you would’ve preferred to forget.

“Colin Hedgins,” Ravengard says. “Though most of the Fist, including Yuvir, is unaware, his body was found this morning.”

His silvery hair is stained with what you can only assume is blood. His face, which is stretched in horror, makes you wonder if maybe slitting his throat yourself would have given him a more peaceful leave to the afterlife. Not that he really deserved it. You swallow hard, shutting the file away. “So you think I killed him too?”

“No. In fact, I’m sure you didn’t.”

“Then why show me this? This is classified information, no?”

“Each one of these victims has one similarity aside from their brutal deaths,” he frowns. “The puncture wounds on their neck, and the fact that their bodies seem to be drained of blood.”

Your breath hitches. While you’d had your suspicions, surely not all of them could have been of vampires? With Orin and the Bhaal worshippers now defeated or retreated into the shadows, the city had gotten eons safer—this just felt like a slap to your face. One group of murderers after another, it seemed. Instead of replying, you stare at Ravengard with pursed lips, urging him to get to his point.

“Wyll has told me of your relations with the vampires,” he says, and it makes your teeth clench. “He was gone by the time I’d joined your camp, but Wyll tells me you had a vampire for a companion for most of your journey. Could he be involved in-”

“No.” The answer is fast. Almost instant. And while a part of you feels disgusted for defending him, even now, another part refuses to let you live while the city thinks of him as nothing but a bloodsucking monster. Even if everyone thought of him as one now. “He wouldn’t have.”

The worst part is that he fully could have, even if you don't want to believe it. Your mind flashes back to the way his hands had felt around your throat, and for a moment, you can’t breathe.

Ravengard’s expression softens, and you see it again. Pity. Gods, you’d do anything to never see that kind of face again. “I’m also aware that you two had an—-arrangement. One that involved more than just mere friendship. But you must know if we cannot catch the vampire spawns that are running rampant in our city, dozens if not hundreds of more people will die.”

You want to tell him that he should not search for sympathy in you. Because you were once a person willing to get rid of 7000 spawns for the sake of one lover, who only ended up trying to kill you. “He won’t talk to me anyway. I’m sure you also know he didn’t leave on good terms, seeing as you seem to know everything about my love life. I can’t help you.”

The words come out snappier than expected, but Ravengard doesn’t react like he expected this.

“I see,” he says. “Then perhaps you’ll at least be able to keep an eye out. And please, report to me.”

You don’t budge.

He takes it as a sign to leave and moves toward the door. “If you do change your mind, let me know.”

You want to tell him your future is not a matter of what you want. It’s what he wants, and he’s already chosen your fate.

“And is anyone else aware that an entire horde of vampire spawn is living under the city?” Shadowheart says in exasperation. “No wonder they think Astarion’s the one who did it. They think there aren’t any more vampires here anyway! With that many vampires, imagine what destruction they could bring if they miss a few meals!”

“Surely we can convince our sharp-toothed friends to lay low in the Underdark with the others for a while? We convinced half of them. I don’t see why we can’t convince the other,” Gale suggests.

“A warrior who seeks blood shall have blood,” Lae’zel hisses. “I see no reason for them to leave. If I’d been a spawn, I would stay behind a city full of cattle than return to a place of eternal darkness.”

Your head hurts. From continuously sleeping anywhere but the comforts of your bed or from what’s going on, you don’t know, and you don’t care. You just want a nice long bath to wash the dirt on your face and a hot meal to go along with it. Your companions continue arguing, and it’s times like these when you wish Wyll and Karlach were still traveling beside you—they were usually the diffusers of the group.

To an extent, you had been too. Not anymore, though. That was the least of your worries.

“Why must we fix Astarion’s mess in the first place?” Lae’zel adjusts the sword she’d been cleaning on her lap. “We are not dogs to do his bidding. And from what I recall, we have no longer relations with him.”

This finally urges you to speak, almost instinctively. “We have to help. That’s final.”

It's not often that you reinforce your power as the appointed "leader" of the group, preferring to incorporate their opinions rather than choosing all on your own. They all turn to you with a mixture of suspicion and mostly cringe from Lae’zel. Your face flares in response. “I’m just saying we can’t just let a bunch of innocent people die!”

“Of course,” Gale coughs.

You can feel yourself losing your composure, your palms feeling clammy. Still, you straighten your back. “Astarion has nothing to do with me either. I’m doing this for the city.”

“Right.”

You opt to just clear your throat. “I’ll talk to Petras. We’ll figure out a way for all of us to be happy.”

Lae’zel rolls her eyes, but Shadowheart only raises a brow. “And how exactly are you going to find Petras? It’s not like he has a mailbox or an address.”

“I’ll figure it out. Always do,” you smile, and her face softens. “In the meanwhile, I’ll have to rely on you guys to pick up my work for rebuilding the city so I can focus on tracking him down. I don’t think it’ll take too long—maybe a week or so.”

Gale’s face knits together in concern. “And you’re quite sure you won’t need any of us to accompany you?”

“They’re fully capable of taking care of themselves, wizard,” Lae’zel snaps. “Very well, then. We’ll await good news.”

Looking back on it, perhaps you did need the help.

Days upon days of searching, yet nothing. You’re sure you covered almost half the sewers at this point, and you’re not sure if you’re just insanely unlucky or the vampires just left while you’d been searching elsewhere.

But the number of deaths says otherwise.

So you’d turned to a new approach. If you couldn’t find them, you’d let them find you.

The days stretch longer, with the city being in its summer season. And while you’re grateful, since it means vampires will have less time to hunt, you always despise the way this cloak is sticking to your skin and the hairs that seem glued to your cheeks with the hood stifling any hope of breathing freely. Still determined, you force your legs forward into the darkest alleyways you can find.

Though you’ve had a few fruitless days, pacing aimlessly throughout the city during the dead of night into early morning, a part of yourself keens at the moonlight draping over you tonight.

It had been on a night like this, one where the clouds make way for the moonglow to illuminate what lurks in the city during the night. Though at the time, instead of the comfortable bed in the house you and your companions managed to buy after scraping enough gold together, you were sleeping on a bedroll that did little to shield you from the rocks, doing nothing to even the ground below.

Back then, your companions were nothing but that—companions on a journey you hoped to end as quickly as possible to return to the taverns and bars of Baldur’s gate, where you would spend your nights singing the familiar tunes that your patrons enjoyed most. So after the camp celebration with the Tieflings, when Astarion led you to the forest clearing where you first felt skin other than your own, you realized this adventure of yours was more than just that. It was a new stepping stone in your life.

He’d held you close to him, offering you whispers of affection while his hands ran through your hair. He’d kissed you, his hands caressing either side of your cheek. He’d let you marvel at the scars on his back, his hands resting on your waist.

The same hands that wrapped around your throat months later. You can still feel them sometimes.

Despite your speech to Gale before Cora’s husband showed up dead, you weren’t sure how you would react if you ever saw your former lover again. On nights that weren’t plagued with nightmares, you stayed up, wondering if you’d cry. If you’d reach out for him, embracing him in a hug you never wanted to let go from. If you’d let him brush his knuckles on your cheeks, if you’d let him press a kiss to your forehead, if you’d let him love you again.

You weren’t sure. And a part of you—the part shoved deep inside the corners of your heart—wonders if never seeing him again was a blessing. That regardless of the ache in your heart now, never seeing him would save you from something worse.

So deeply lost in your thoughts, you barely notice the murky figure swinging a pipe at your head.

Nearly scathing the surface of a concussion, you dodge, but he’s too fast. Before you’ve even begun reaching for your knife, the figure swings you toward the wall, and you swear you can hear it crack as your back collides with it. Your vision only manages to straighten itself once the figure has you shoved onto the ground, either of their knees on the sides of your hip.

Instinctively, your hand flies up to stab at their arm, but you’re no match. They twist your wrist, forcing you to drop the blade, and pins either of your arms to the ground. You can’t see anything but the glint of their fangs against the light.

You’d fought vampires before, and you had never seen one so fast. So aggressive. So primal. Astarion had entertained you with friendly spars, but you’d also fought Cazador to the death. Even he hadn’t been this fast.

“I just want to talk to Petras! I’m not going to hurt you, I–” Your pleas go deaf on their ears.

When you squint, you can finally see the blood staining their fangs, and you realize that they’ve already fed.

They’re fed, and they’re still hungry.

A fed vampire, is a strong one, you remember. And if you add their hunger on top of that...

Even as you try to yank yourself away, they only squeeze their grip harder, enough to cut off blood circulation. The color drains from your face, your expression almost fearful. No, it does scare you. It scares you that this is only a spawn, but they can still attack someone so ferociously. It scares you that Astarion could have done the exact same thing to you.

The spawn yanks your head to the side with a claw on your hair, allowing them access to your throat. You thrash and kick, but to no avail, forced to watch as they’re about to sink their teeth into you. You hate your mind because even at death’s door, all you can think about is him.

Is this what he would’ve done to you had your companions not been there to save you?

Is this what he wanted to do the day he first approached you, asking for your blood?

Anger burns in your chest, and with the last bit of your strength, you lift your head and bite them first. Your teeth sink into their throat, feeling the break of skin just before they rip you away, wailing in pain as you’re carelessly tossed to the ground. As they grasp at the wound on their neck, you take the opportunity to lunge for your knife.

You feel genuine rage for the first time in what feels like forever. No self-pity, no dejection, no sorrow for losing the man you’d given everything to, but rage for the state you were reduced to just because of him. And that while his leaving tore you apart from the inside and out, he chose not to see you. He decided what the end of your relationship would be without ever stopping to ask you.

You thrust the blade into their chest, and they stop. It’s no stake, but it’ll do for now. And as their throat gurgles with blood, all you can hear is the desperate panting of your own breath when their body falls to the ground, face first.

You pray they’re dead.

Then, your vision in one eye blurs with red. When you lift your hand to your forehead, you feel the warm blood trailing down, probably from when you collided with the wall. The little strength left in your legs vanishes as you reel forward, your knees crashing onto the mud beside the spawn.

Though you thankfully manage to collapse on your back rather than your poor counterpart who’s probably choking on the dirt and grim of the city grounds even in death, you can feel your head going light, even as your hands tighten around the knife laying on your chest. You greet the moon again, this time with a breathy laugh.

Seluné must be smiling back at you, surely.

You’re not sure who’s standing above you when you open your eyes again, being only seconds away from entirely blacking out. But you think it must be an angel, with his snow-white curls and how he revels under the veil of the moon. You want to reach out to him, but your shaky arm says otherwise.

He’s beautiful, you think, even if you can’t make out his face.

You hope the angel doesn’t pity you.

Apparently, heaven is at Elfsong Tavern. You’d imagined being greeted with the smell of roses and a fresh stream rather than the overwhelming stench of booze, but you suppose it’s fitting considering how you’d died in a puddle of what you assume to be a concoction of cat piss and your own blood.

No, that can’t be right.

Looking around frantically, you lurch forward, the sweat and mud sticking your hair to your skin. Multiple pairs of eyes bore into you. You’re slumped in the tavern's kitchen, several Fist soldiers peering at you curiously. And finally, you manage to make out Shadowheart, whose hands are hovering over you with a gentle glow.

“Lay back down, I’m almost done,” she frowns.

You ignore her request. “The spawn! I’m not sure if they’re dead–”

“Never mind that,” she snaps. “They found you blacked out on the ground next to a dead body and a broken wall. What in bloody hell happened last night? Do you know how much it scared us when the damn Fists were banging at our door at 4:30 in the morning?”

Your head spins, and you clutch at your head. “Got ambushed. I tried to talk to them, but apparently, they just wanted a midnight snack.”

“Heavens above,” she breathes. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

“No, I was so close, Shadowheart,” you shake your head frantically, smearing at the mud still plastered on your face. “I’ll be more prepared next time. If I manage to just capture one of the spawn alive, I could ask them where Petras is-”

There’s a loud yell from the hatch leading to the basement. Your head whips in its direction, then to Shadowheart, staring at her inquisitively.

She sighs, finally lowering her hands to her side. “Look, I need you to listen to me very closely. As your friend, I can’t have you losing your composure in front of the Duke downstairs. They’re in the hideout, but they’re also with–”

You hear Gale’s voice holler. “You’re the only one who knows them well enough, Astarion!”

Suddenly, your blood runs cold. While Shadowheart tries to keep you still, nothing can stop you as you yank the hatch open, sprinting downstairs. You run through the secret entrance to the hideout, your mind racing rapidly with words you can’t even decipher because they’re going by so fast. You want to hide away and barge into the room simultaneously, and the pounding of your head does nothing to help.

You're different now, you assure yourself. A part of you hates him for what he did, and you're willing to act on this hatred. You won't be passing out on the street, drunk on the pit of isolation he left behind, praying he'd appear from thin air and assure you things are fine. You're better now, and you did it all without his help.

But as soon as you swing open the door, you only have one dying wish.

You want to see him.

The room is cold–empty, except for three figures alongside two more guards standing at the door. Ravengard, standing at one end of the circular table, has his arms crossed, brows knitted together comprehensively. Gale, who had been pacing back and forth around the room, freezes instantly when he sees you. So does everyone else.

“Ah, and here comes the star of the show.” You haven’t heard his voice in so long. It almost feels foreign.

Standing between the other men on either side of the table, Astarion’s eyes bore into you, lips curled in a grin barely showing off his fanged teeth. When you lock eyes, yours grows wider as you take him in.

He looks almost the same. The same curly white hair, the same blood-red eyes, and the same smile that once brought you joy yet now only fueled the endless longing of your nightmares. While you expect yourself to feel anger, relief, or shock, all you feel is the rapid beating of your heart, your mind void of everything besides how uncomfortable the dried mud feels on your face. Your breath hitches as he lifts a finger to the side of his head. Only then do you also feel the warm liquid sliding down your cheek.

“You’re bleeding, darling.”

With the inevitable urge to barf up nothing from your empty stomach, you're back to being the same person as you were four months ago.

Tags: @ayselluna @littleenglishfangirl @bg3obsessedsideblog @iwillpissyourpants @cyberpr1m3 @ukeia-uchiha @snowlotr @road-riot @spacekidnova

#astarion ancunin #baldur's gate 3 #baldur's gate astarion #bg3 astarion #astarion x tav #astarion #astarion x reader #bg3 x reader #fluff #angst with a happy ending #bg3 #bg3 spoilers #bg3 fluff

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unusualtfs · 9 days

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The Roommate Compatibility Program

this is my first time posting something like this to tumblr, hope it's an enjoyable read !

Arthur and Jimmy may have had the same last name, but that was the only thing they had in common.

Arthur Lee was, by all accounts, a nerd. When the Asian math major wasn’t dutifully taking notes on complex equations at his lectures or studying in silence at the library, he could usually be found holed up in his dorm, gaming until the wee hours of the morning. His only extracurricular activity to speak of was his weekly participation in the Chinese Student Union, if by “participation” one meant “sitting in the back of the room and not speaking to anyone.” His naturally pale skin was made even more so by a lack of sunlight, and his messy black hair resisted any attempt at styling. Short, shrimpy, and gay, he had clearly never seen the inside of a gym. In short, he was the exact opposite of his roommate.

Jimmy Lee was everything Arthur was not. Tall where Arthur was short, buff where Arthur was skinny, popular where Arthur was friendless. The straight white jock spent his days living out the all-American college fantasy — playing sports, pumping iron, and partying all night long. Of course, that hardly left any time for Jimmy to work toward his comms degree — but that hardly mattered, because everyone knew he was as dumb as a bag of rocks. His brutish Neanderthal features, extensive body hair, and blond buzz cut only added to that impression.

Maybe it would have been unrealistic to expect Arthur and Jimmy to be friends, but certainly no one could have anticipated the sheer antipathy that defined their roommate relationship. Arthur’s reasons for hating Jimmy were predictable — he was dumb, loud, and obnoxious; he left dirty clothes and sweaty exercise gear everywhere; and he stank up the dorm with his alpha musk. Jimmy equally couldn’t stand his prissy, prudish roommate. Arthur nagged him constantly, and he shot down all his invitations to work out or go out. Not to mention, he forbade Jimmy from getting laid while he was in the room, which was all the time. Nothing said unsexy like the presence of a judgmental Asian nerd hunched over his gaming PC at two in the morning.

Needless to say, it was not an ideal situation for anyone. So when a flier for the Roommate Compatibility Program was slipped under their door one evening, their interest was piqued.

Having issues with your roommate(s)? The Roommate Compatibility Program is here to help! Our trained experts use scientifically proven methods to ensure you and your roommate have a lifelong bond. 100% success rate, guaranteed!

In a rare moment of agreement for them, they decided they had nothing to lose.

That was how they found themselves entertaining a stranger in their dorm the next day. The man, who had introduced himself as “Mr. Thompson-Filipowski, from the RCP — but you can call me Mr. T.F. for short” had shown up out of the blue, giving them no time to prepare. So now they sat in their respective beds, answering Mr. T.F.’s questions as he appraised their living space thoughtfully. He wore a loud blue suit and had in hand a clipboard that he occasionally used to jot down notes, but otherwise he had no distinguishing features to speak of. Everything else about him, from his build to his skin tone to his hairstyle, was somehow impossible to pin down. He must have just had one of those faces.

“Thank you, boys,” he said after he was done interrogating them about their (lack of a) relationship. “I just have one more question for each of you before we can officially get started.” He turned to Jimmy first. “Jimmy, what would your ideal roommate be like?”

Jimmy had to think for quite a bit at that question. Finally, he responded in his vapid baritone: “Uh, I dunno… I guess he would just, like, be my bro.”

Mr. T.F. nodded, scribbling something on his clipboard. “Okay, excellent.” He turned to the Asian nerd next. “And Arthur, what about you?”

“My ideal roommate would be someone who’s, well, similar to me,” Arthur said, wincing at how his voice still cracked at every word. “Someone who shares my interests, and who I can spend time with, and… yeah.”

Mr. T.F. returned to his clipboard. “Right,” he said. “So, to summarize — Jimmy, you want your roommate to be your bro. And Arthur, you want your roommate to be similar to you. Is that correct?” There was a strange weight to his words, exuding the sense that something significant was carried within them, but Jimmy didn’t register this and Arthur thought it irrational, so both roommates ignored it. They nodded.

“Excellent!” Mr. T.F. said, the ominous presence now gone from his voice. “Okay, so often what we’ve found at the RCP is that roommate incompatibility is often a case of misapplied expectations. Often, our roommates do meet our expectations, you just need to keep an open mind about it. I’d wager you boys have much more in common than you think.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and Jimmy audibly scoffed at that, but they both kept listening anyway.

“For instance, looking around your dorm room, I can tell that both of you have a pretty similar fashion sense, wouldn’t you say?”

Arthur wanted to protest that all of the clothes strewn about belonged to Jimmy, not him, but the more he looked, the more he realized that wasn’t entirely true. That jersey on the floor definitely belonged to him, as did the baseball cap hanging from his bed and the sweaty white socks next to his desk. In fact, now that he thought about it, roughly half of the clothing he could see actually was his. Huh, he supposed he did dress similarly to Jimmy, then…

“I guess so,” Jimmy said as Arthur was distracted. “It’s hard to remember whose is whose sometimes because we dress the same and wear the same size, huhuh.”

As Jimmy spoke, his words became reality. He didn’t notice, but he shrunk down a few inches from his previously monstrous height until he was just under six feet — still respectable, but no longer anything more. Meanwhile, Arthur rose dramatically to meet him, until they stood at the exact same height. Since the two were equally small and shared the same taste in schlubby, sporty clothes, they essentially owned one wardrobe between them, borrowing and swapping constantly — although what looked tight and well-fitted on the muscular Ajimmy was loose and baggy on the lanky Jarthur. Curiously, the shirt Jarthur currently wore was the one item of clothing he wore that didn’t update itself to match his new reality; as such, it was now uncomfortably small on him.

Mr. T.F. continued, “And judging by the sports gear and gaming equipment in here, it looks like you also have similar interests, isn’t that right? Have you ever tried bonding over that?”

Again, it seemed Mr. T.F. was mistaken. Yes, their room indicated their respective interests in fitness and video games, but those interests were far from shared. Jarthur wanted to correct him, but then he had to reconsider. While he wasn’t into sports like Ajimmy, he certainly knew his way around them. He got as hyped as any other guy watching the Super Bowl, and he had fun whenever he was invited to play a quick game of basketball or soccer.

Meanwhile, Ajimmy was trying not to laugh at the implication that he liked video games. What did Mr. T.F. take him for, some nerd like Jarthur? But now that he thought about it… he did have fond memories of owning his bros with his mad gaming skills. He didn’t really want to call himself a gamer — he wasn’t into any of that anime or Nintendo kiddie shit. But Madden, CoD? Yeah, he fucked with those.

Imperceptibly, the dorm room shifted to match the roommates’ changing interests. Posters of popular players duplicated themselves from Ajimmy’s side of the room and pinned themselves into the wall above Jarthur’s bed. At the same time, the gaming computer vanished from Jarthur’s desk, swiftly replaced by a small TV between their beds. Well-used controllers popped into existence, one for each of them. The roommates themselves weren’t spared from the wave of changes, either. The tan leached out of Asjimm’s skin until he was quite pale, although not unhealthily so. Meanwhile, muscles made themselves known for the first time all across Joethur’s body. He was still lanky, but there was a definite sculptedness to his body that had never been there before, demonstrating his newfound appreciation of physical activity and straining his shirt even further.

“Yeah, all the time,” Joethur responded to Mr. T.F.’s questions. “I can destroy Asjimm at basketball in real life and in 2K,” he bragged.

“As if!” Asjimm retorted good-naturedly. “Next time, I’m kicking your ass, nerd!”

Joethur laughed. He may have had some problems with his roommate, but their shared competitiveness was not one of them.

“Ah, that’s lovely to hear,” Mr. T.F. said, checking a box on his clipboard. “The best way to become closer is to spend time together, after all. But that should be easy for you two — I’d imagine your class schedules are quite similar, since you’re in the same major.”

What was Mr. T.F. talking about? Joethur had never taken a comms class in his life, and Asjimm would certainly never be caught dead in a math classroom. But then Joethur went over his class schedule in his head again, and he realized that he did share most of his classes with his roommate. There was Accounting 101 on Mondays and Wednesdays, and Entrepreneurship every Thursday morning… In fact, aside from Joethur’s one math class and Asjimm’s lone comms class, their schedules were identical! But how could that be the case…?

“Well, I mean, yeah, I guess we do,” Asjimm said. His face twisted into a cocky smirk. “But just between you and me, it’s not like we bother to show up to class most of the time, right Joethyr?”

Everything suddenly snapped into place for Joethyr. Ausjim was right, of course — being a business major required confidence, charisma, and leadership skills more than anything else, and both Joethyr and Ausjim had that in spades. It certainly didn’t require studying or smarts, which was fortunate for Joethyr, as his brain was rapidly shrinking to match his meatheaded roommate’s. In fact, it was even smaller than Ausjim’s — he had scored highly enough in high school math that he was able to take an elective comms class for an easy A this semester, while Joethyr was being forced to struggle through calculus for a second time.

Records across campus rapidly rewrote themselves to reflect this new reality. Ausjim’s grades rose slightly, even as Joethyr’s GPA dropped from a 4.0 to a 2.0 — but whatever, C’s got degrees. In turn, the two roommates underwent their own changes. Joethyr’s unkempt hair retreated into his skull, leaving behind a slick fade. Moreover, the spark of intelligence retreated from his eyes, leaving them dark and hard. Ausjim’s hair experienced the opposite change, growing out into an impeccably groomed quiff that perfectly framed his face, neutralizing his unattractive Neanderthal features. His body hair also faded into nothingness, leaving him totally clean-shaven. The business classes he was taking had taught him the importance of presentation, after all.

“Yeah, bruh,” Joethyr agreed, now speaking in the same vacant timbre as Ausjim.

“Well, how do you boys spend your time then?” Mr. T.F. prompted. He was nearly at the bottom of his checklist — this far into the process, he didn’t even need to guide the roommates’ transformation. Their new personalities had largely subsumed who they used to be, and would be happy to fill the remaining gaps by themselves.

“Isn’t it obvious, bruh?” Ausjim said. “The gym — duh! Gotta get those gains!”

At his roommate’s proclamation, Joethy underwent a startling change. At last, his muscles ballooned all across his body until they were identical in size to Ausjim’s. No longer did he have to settle for merely toned — he was well and truly ripped. So dramatic was the change that his shirt was instantly torn apart, revealing his glorious pecs and washboard abs for the world to see. The Asian hunk subconsciously flexed as he thought about his answer to Mr. T.F.’s question, realizing something funny in the process.

“Hell, we probably even spend more time at the Chinese Student Union than class, right bruh?” Joethy nudged his equally jockish roommate.

The word “Chinese” resonated in Ausjin’s mind as he experienced sudden changes of his own. His lush hair was quickly thickening and inexorably staining itself midnight black. And as for the rest of his body, his lack of hair down there became much easier to maintain, as he naturally had less of it. Meanwhile, his facial features were shifting all at once — brow softening, nose broadening, eyes narrowing, lips plumpening. Eventually, they settled on what the rest of his body had already become — a carbon copy of his roommate.

“Yeah, bro, totally…”

At the word “bro,” the roommates’ final changes began. The physical refinements were over, but there was still work to do mentally. Ausjin’s brain was purged of the faces of his former family, their white features morphing into far more familiar Asian ones. Fond memories shifted as his mother’s famous meatloaf became her authentic dumpling recipe, and the destination of his childhood summer vacations was corrected from Europe to China. Through it all, he remained the dumb, popular jock he had always been. That was also true of Joethy, who could no longer remember being a lame, skinny nerd. Nights spent studying were replaced with nights spent partying, and members of an extensive social circle easily entered the parts of his brain that had never experienced true friendship. His memories of his family remained the same, however — with one key addition. The newcomer’s face was blurry, but the more that he focused on it, the more familiar it seemed. Almost like… his own face…? Or was it Ausjin’s face? That seemed closer, but…

By Joethy’s side, Ausjin found his memories haunted by an identical face. The two jocks sat there in dumbfounded silence, both trying to recall who it was that featured so prominently in their memories. What was his name? Not Joethy or Ausjin, but rather… rather…

“Joey! Austin!”

Joey and Austin Lee snapped back to attention, refocusing on their strange guest.

Mr. T.F. chuckled, putting his clipboard away. “You boys zoned out there for a sec! It’s okay, I’ll get out of your hair soon. I just have one last question for you — are you getting along as roommates?”

“Well, of course we’re getting along, bruh!” Austin exclaimed.

“We’re basically the same person already!” Joey finished his twin’s sentence with a pure, dull guffaw.

Because it was true. Joey and Austin Lee were clearly cut from the same cloth: The identical twin Asian jocks were both brainless, buff, bisexual business-major bros. The only appreciable difference between the twins was their hairstyles. Austin fancied himself a pretty boy, spending hours by the mirror meticulously maintaining his gelled hair. Joey, meanwhile, rocked a utilitarian crew cut, confident enough to put his angelic face on full display. But other than that, they were totally inseparable — everything they did, from working out to gaming to partying, they did together. (Rumor had it that they even fucked together, only bringing a lucky girl or guy home when he or she was willing to share.)

“Great to hear that! Thanks for participating in our Roommate Compatibility Survey, you two — although I don’t know what results we were expecting from twins like you… Anyway, have a great one!” As Mr. T.F. exited the room, he allowed himself one last glance back at the Lee twins as they mindlessly bantered. Both of them had certainly gotten their wishes. Joey was exactly like Austin, and Austin was exactly like Joey, and they were certainly each other’s bros — in both senses of the word. Another success for the Roommate Compatibility Program.

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Mr. T.F., the Lee twins promptly forgot he had ever existed, returning to their existences as paragons of young Asian American masculinity.

“So, what’s the plan for today, bro?” Austin said. “Hit the gym, then hit the streets?”

Joey smirked, admiring himself and his twin in the mirror. “You know me so well, bro!”

#male transformation #male tf #racial change #race change #personality change #mental transformation #jock tf #twinning tf #broification #jockification #dumber tf #gay to bi #straight to bi

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azriels-shadowsinger · 7 months

Note

you should totally do number 12 with az or rhys 🥺

“When have you ever cared?” “I’ve always cared.”

Azriel x Reader

wc: 2k

a/n: i always love a good rivals to lovers story. warning: descriptions of blood and injuries.

prompt list

You hate Azriel. Absolutely hated him. You hate his cocky attitude, you hate the way he never wants you on missions, you hate the way girls seem to fawn over him at Rita’s, and most of all, you hate the way that you can’t stop being attracted to him. Which made the current situation worse, because you were having trouble focusing on training when Azriel was shirtless and sweaty sparring with Cassian across the ring.

After the fifth time of you getting knocked onto the floor by your sparring partner after getting distracted, Emerie eventually gave up on you.

“How are you supposed to be ready for your mission tomorrow if you are so unfocused?” she laughed.

“I’ll be fine. I do-“ You stop speaking when you feel a shadowy presence lurk over you.

“Can I help you Azriel?” You ask sarcastically, turning to face him.

“You’re not going.” Azriel replied gruffly.

“Excuse me?” You scoff.

“I said you’re not going on the mission.” You roll your eyes. Of course he would try to keep you off of yet another mission. You had prepared for that and got Rhysand to personally ensure that you could go this time.

“Take that up with Rhys. He said I’m going.” You say with a victorious smirk.

“We’ll see about that.” He grumbles, storming off towards Rhysand’s office. You wait patiently with a smug smile on your face, pretending to be preoccupied with sharpening your daggers, as he returns.

“You will not do anything without my say so. You will not stray from the mission at all, under any circumstances. If I give an order, you follow it. Do you understand?” He spits angrily, obviously upset over Rhysand’s decision.

“Whatever you say, spymaster. I’ll see you at 6 AM to head out.” You say smugly and turn to leave.

———

You meet Azriel the next morning, and he is already visibly agitated. After an overly detailed discussion of the mission plan, he winnows the two of you to the mission spot.

Azriel made sure to reiterate the plan again once you arrived, earning an annoyed eyeroll at the implied lack of faith in your skills. The plan was that he would infiltrate the safe house, capture the enemy, and extract him from the building to bring him back for interrogation. You were only there to help carry the unconscious body, apparently. You reluctantly agree to the plan, realizing that arguing would get you nowhere. At least you were allowed to join this time.

“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Be ready to winnow.” He whispers before disappearing into the shadows.

Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. Then thirty. After forty minutes, you were fully convinced something had gone horribly wrong.

Fuck it. You didn’t care if he got pissed, you’re going in to check that everything is okay.

You move closer to the building and peek into the window. No movement. You sneak closer to the door, slipping inside inconspicuously. Upon entering, you begin to scan the area for any signs of Azriel. You walk further inside turning the corner, and that’s when you see it: blood on the floor, and Truthteller lying discarded next to it. That cannot be a good sign, you think while trying to shove your panic down deep. You quickly pick up the abandoned blade and examine the area closer, following the trail of blood and the sound of voices through the halls. When you finally reach a large room, you see exactly what you were afraid of. Azriel is bound against the wall unconscious and bloody. The target is watching him while conversing with someone, twirling a knife in his hand.

“Just kill him already.” The other fae complains.

“No. Do you not realize who this is, you imbecile? This is the spymaster of the High Lord. Once Rhysand realizes he is missing, he will come try to rescue him, and then we can finally take that undeserving half-breed out. Hopefully, he brings the general, and we can kill the bastard too. Only then will I kill the shadowsinger, but not until we get to have our fun with him. I’m sure there are some juicy secrets of the court we can carve out of him.” You feel nauseated at the sickening grin on the male’s face.

Your duty is to this court, and cannot allow Rhysand and Cassian to be put in danger over this. Nor can you sit by and watch Azriel be tortured by this cruel, idiotic male. Idiotic because he didn’t use magical bindings to lock Azriel up, allowing his shadows to roam free. They circle their master, obviously frantic that he cannot hear them.

A small shadow darts towards you, and soon the rest follow. The shadows swirl around you, expectantly, going completely unnoticed by the two males.

“Um, I’m not entirely sure if you can understand me, but I have a plan. If you all could make it very dark in here, that would be great.” You ask awkwardly, hoping the shadows understand. They apparently do, because soon the entire room goes dark, except for the path between you and Azriel.

“What the- hey!” You hear the other male yell and footsteps run towards you. Unable to see through the shadows, you throw a dagger towards the noise. Without checking to see if you hit your target, you hurry to free Azriel from his chains. Once his hands are free, you grab onto him and attempt to winnow.

Winnowing long distances was always a challenge for you, you’re not sure why. What takes others a single jump takes you five. You hold tightly to Azriel and try to winnow. The world around you begins to fade, turning into blackness. Before the sight can completely fade, however, you see a knife come hurdling towards you, landing directly in your thigh.

The sudden burning pain causes you to lose focus, and the world abruptly reappears around you, causing both you and Azriel to land face first in the dirt of a random forest.

“Fuck!” You yell in pain. Either the fall or the sound of your yelling seems to have roused Azriel because you hear faint grumbling beside you before he falls unconscious again. As you attempt to stand, searing pain shoots down your leg from the wound in your thigh. You bite your lip, trying to ignore the stabbing ache. Now is not the time to focus on your pain. You need to get the two of you to safety, you remind yourself. You pull the blade out from your leg with a cry. Once you compose yourself again, you wrap a piece of cloth torn from your shirt around your leg to stop the bleeding. You grab ahold of Azriel again and attempt to winnow, but for some reason, you can’t. That’s when you notice the faint green tinge on the discarded blade.

“Gods damned faebane.” You curse lowly. You won’t be winnowing anywhere for a while. It’s likely in Azriel too, meaning you two are stuck. Great.

———

It took over an hour to drag the giant Illyrian through the forest, finally finding an abandoned cabin. By the time you reach it, you feel lightheaded from the blood loss and from hauling Azriel. There is absolutely no way you could lift him, so once he is safely inside on the floor, you search the cabin for first aid materials. You find a roll of gauze and a bottle of liquor. That will have to do, you think.

You manage to bite your tongue through the pain of cleaning and dressing your wound and begin to work on Azriel’s. As soon as the alcohol-soaked cloth touches his cut, the male jolts up in a panic. One quick look around at the unfamiliar cabin and you tending to his injuries, and Azriel freaks.

“What the hell happened? Where are we? Are you bleeding?” He fires on a string of questions, one after another.

“Breathe. We’re okay. You got captured, not entirely sure how honestly, and I had to save your ass. We are waiting here until the faebane leaves our systems.” You try to sound calm, but that doesn’t stop your racing heart. Azriel thinks for a moment, looking around the cabin. His eyes land on the bloody bandaged wound on your thigh again, and he immediately becomes angry.

“You came in after me?” He barks.

“Uh, yeah?” You ask, confused at his anger.

“You disobeyed a direct order!” Azriel growls.

“You were in trouble!” Why the hell are you having to defend yourself for saving him?

“I don’t care. You should’ve followed orders. I would’ve gotten myself free eventually.” He snaps. You huff in annoyance.

“You stupid arrogant male, they were going to torture you! And then use you to lure Rhys and Cass and kill them too! How the hell was I supposed to sit by and let that happen?” You scream angrily. He attempts to stand, wincing at the pain. You want to tell him that he should stay sitting, but it’s unlikely that he will listen.

“You should’ve stayed outside.” He growls, stalking closer.

“You would be dead if I did that!” You stare him down in defiance.

“Yeah, but you wouldn’t have gotten hurt!” That makes you pause. Is that why he’s angry, you wonder.

“Despite what you may think about my skills, I’m perfectly capable of withstanding a minor injury from a mission!” You argue.

“You shouldn’t have to.” He spits coldly.

“Since when do you care what happens to me?” You scoff.

“I’ve always cared.” His voice drops to being barely audible and he turns away. You freeze.

“What?”

“Nevermind. I’m gonna start a fire while we wait.” He grumbles. You walk around him to face him, blocking the fireplace.

“No, what did you mean you’ve always cared? You hate me. Everyone knows it.” You ask hesitantly. This must be some new attempt to embarrass you or something, you rationalize.

“I’ve never hated you.” He whispers, avoiding eye contact by staring at the floor.

“I don't understand. Then why do you always keep me out of missions? Why do you ignore me any time I try to be nice?” You ask angrily.

“I… fuck.” He runs his hand through his hair before looking you in the eyes. “I couldn’t stand the thought of you getting hurt. Either from missions or by me.” The last words come out quieter than the rest. “I thought that ignoring you and keeping you off missions would keep you kept you at a safe distance. I didn’t want to risk you being targeted just because of how I feel about you.” Your eyes soften at the admission.

“That wasn’t your decision to make. I get to decide what is worth the risk for me.” You say in a gentler tone. Azriel looks at the floor again, shaking his head.

“You don’t get it. Today is a perfect example. The people in my life that I care about are constantly at risk.”

“Did I not handle myself?” You ask, causing him to sigh.

“That isn’t the point. You don’t-“ You cut him off, pressing a kiss to his lips. Azriel stands frozen for a second, before quickly wrapping his hands into your hair and holding you closer. “Fuck it.” He mumbles while kissing you, backing you into the wall.

It’s safe to say that you and Azriel found very good use of your time while you waited for the faebane to wear off.

———

Rhysand was less than thrilled to hear about the unsuccessful mission when you returned. After you two showed him what happened, obviously leaving out what happened at the cabin, the three of you made a plan to go back and capture the two males. Azriel tried to argue about you going, but one stern look from you and he quickly shut up.

“Well, it seems like you two sorted out your issues.” Rhys laughs, not noticing Azriel’s smirk.

prompt list

tag list: @fxckmiup

#acotar #a court of thorns and roses #acotar fic #acotar fanfic #azriel #azriel acotar #my writing #azriel x reader #acotar x reader

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lucid-loves · 4 months

Text

First Light ~ Simon "Ghost" Riley Part 6

Pairing: bodyguard!Ghost x princess!reader (fem!reader)

Word Count: 3.2k

CW: angst, violence, blood, strong language, scars, verbal abuse by parents, physical abuse by parents, psychological abuse by parents, opposites attract, forbidden love, slow burn, fluff, attraction and sexual tension, reader POV and ghost POV, minors DNI, smut, virgin reader, praising, kisses, porn

Let me know if I missed any CWs.

Story Synopsis: After receiving death threats from a mysterious terrorist organization, your royal parents make a decision to reach out to the United States for help. Specifically, they want the US to send a bodyguard to protect their precious princess. When the 141 is called upon to investigate, Ghost is the one assigned to protect you. With your lack of experiences outside of your royal life and his experience with nothing but deadly, worldly affairs, opposites attract.

Chapter Synopsis: Ever since the kiss you shared with your bodyguard, your imagination has been running wild with naughty fantasies and curiosities. You decide to learn more on your own, but Ghost is willing to teach you himself. (SMUT ALERT)

Part 1 ~ Part 2 ~ Part 3 ~ Part 4 ~ Part 5 ~ Part 6

Ghost stared intensely at the report that was just sent his way from his team. Gaz had managed to catch the tagger from the farmer’s market. Interrogation led to their real identity, some associates, and a map marking the other spots that intended to be staked out by the group. And all of this was really thanks to you for noticing the tagger fleeing the scene. If you weren’t so observant, they wouldn’t have made as much progress with this investigation as they have.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t take long for more terrorists to be caught. If progress continued this smoothly, then it wouldn’t take long for the 141 to be done with this job. Then again, the sooner that this job ended, the sooner he would have to say goodbye to you.

The torn lieutenant looked up from his seat at the dining kitchen towards the living room. He was looking at the back of your head, hair up in that hair clip you seem to adore, wrapped up in a good book that you found around the safehouse. Luckily, the safehouse was decently stocked with things for you to do. It was never difficult finding a way to entertain yourself while Ghost worked.

Neither you nor Ghost have brought up the kiss. You thought it would be hard meeting his gaze after that kiss followed by what you so naughtily did privately in your bedroom. And it was. Every time you thought about him, your heart threatened to leap from your chest. Butterflies went haywire in your stomach. It was only your training as a princess that you were able to keep up with appearances.

Not that you weren’t thinking about so much more in that curious head of yours in your moments of refinement. Every now and then your mind would wander towards more naughty thoughts. If that was how a kiss felt, how good would it feel to go further? To have his kisses pepper your neck down to your breasts. To feel his large, warm hands against your bare, electrified skin. To have his fingers trace down your spine and make you shiver.

Little did you know that Ghost was having the same thoughts as you.

He was also struggling with completely getting the kiss out of his mind. How perfect it felt to have your body press against his. How sweet you tasted on his tongue. How quick he seemed to get aroused just from kissing you alone. He wanted to take it further not just physically, but emotionally as well. He’s grown rather attached to you since the day he realized that you were more than just a princess and a mission.

Ghost wanted you to be his completely. But he knew that that would be a huge mistake.

The both of you were like polar opposites. Ghost came from a world of gunfire while you came from the world of champagne glasses. He could offer you safety, but never security. Not with his job. While he did his best to stay alive, he never knew if one day could be his last. You didn’t deserve to live with that on your shoulders.

A quiet sigh was suppressed as Ghost got up from his seat. Slowly, he strolled over to you and put a hand on your shoulder, gently pulling your attention away from your book. You knew that he was approaching, though. It was like you developed super senses when it came to his presence now.

When you finally heard the sound of the front door clicking shut, you closed your book and grabbed the remote to the television. Today was the day you were going to watch something incredibly new today. Something you have been curious about before and have grown even more curious about since your feelings for Ghost grew.

“Gonna go check the perimeter. You okay staying here?”

You enthusiastically hummed in response, not wanting him to worry too much about leaving you alone for a moment. Your bodyguard has been frequently going outside the safehouse to check the perimeter. It was part of his job, however, you were quick to understand that it was to also get some fresh air.

You were going to look at porn for the first time.

With a time limit of about twenty minutes, you planned to make every second count. Nothing too crazy. Just the basics. Just enough time to see what all the fuss is about and hopefully learn something new. Smut within books every now and then have been enjoyable to read. Though watching videos of the real thing was sure to feel different than reading words on a page to imagine in your head.

Quickly, you connected to the protected internet on the television and pulled up what was trending on a major porn channel that was listed first in your search. Without hesitation, the channel offered videos upon videos of explicit content. Your eyes widened and your heart quickened at the crude thumbnails depicting all sorts of actions. A harsh heat reddened your cheeks, embarrassed by what you saw. Yet, you couldn’t look away.

It was fascinating to you how many options there actually were. This was just the first channel you came across too. There seemed to be porn for just about anything. Scrolling through, you felt your blood continue to heat up. A subtle, sweet tingle between your legs began as you examined the thumbnails closer. Most of the videos being offered depicted actors that seemed to be enjoying themselves, job or not.

Did sex really feel that good?

Ensuring that the television was on mute, you opened a video up at random and observed. There was kissing. Deep kissing like the ones you shared with your bodyguard just a few days ago. Things became more hot and heavy once the actors began to strip.

You gasped at all the touching and groping the stars did to each other. How excited the beautiful woman looked as her partner kissed down her body. Squeezing your thighs tightly together, you tried not to get too swept up in becoming aroused yourself just from watching.

There was no doubt about it, though. You were getting wet. Your brain was replacing the actors with you and Ghost too. Lightheadedness came over you as your body burned with lust. No wonder why everyone was so obsessed with porn.

You took a quick glance at the clock and turned the television off, deciding that it was best for you to move to your private bedroom. There was still time before Ghost would come back from his perimeter check, so that meant you had time to calm yourself down before he noticed anything amiss.

After entering your bedroom and closing the door, you hesitantly slipped your hand down your pants to check yourself.

And of course, you were soaked.

You knew you shouldn’t be embarrassed since this kind of thing was natural. Taking a deep breath, you moved to the bed to try to relieve yourself before your bodyguard returned. The last thing you wanted was for him to walk in on a sight you wouldn’t be able to explain away.

Ghost took a big whiff of fresh air, letting the clean air refresh his brain. His perimeter checks have been mostly for keeping his thoughts straight. It was hard to keep them organized when he was within your sweet presence. However, he still thought about you. Always. Even when he was ensuring your safety like this.

He glanced at the watch on his wrist, noting the time to add to the report he’s been working on to prove that he wasn’t just lazing around. In fact, he’s been trying to find some work to do whenever he could to ensure he kept a safe distance from you. Keep it professional despite growing closer. Besides that, he didn’t want you to feel awkward about the kiss you shared.

Thankfully, you seemed to be doing just fine as far as he’s noticed.

After taking one last look around the countryside, trying to spot anything suspicious, Ghost headed back inside. When he saw that you were absent from the couch, a brief moment of panic set in. It was the sight of the book you were reading, carefully closed and bookmarked on the coffee table, that allowed him to relax. You were probably taking a nap in your room, he figured.

Taking advantage of the moment, he fixed himself a cup of tea in the kitchen. Once his brew was ready, he brought his cup over to the couch. He settled himself down and reached for the remote to watch some news. Life didn’t slow down just because he was out in the middle of nowhere. As soon as the television turned on though, he choked on his drink.

Someone forgot to exit the channel before turning off the television.

Ghost was suddenly met with thumbnails upon thumbnails of porn. Nothing telling of your tastes since it was just the trending page, yet it was still a shock to the eyes. He couldn’t help but laugh a little in his surprise. It didn’t take long for him to piece together that you probably weren’t in your room just taking a nap.

Before Ghost switched the channel, though, he looked through the options of explicit videos. He understood that you probably have never seen porn before, so this was another one of your “research” sessions. That’s not what started to bother him.

What started to bother him was the fact that you shouldn’t be getting your sex education from porn. If you wanted to know what it was really like, you could’ve just asked him. He may not have had many partners in his life, but he still knew the real experience. You deserved to know what real, healthy sex was like. Not filmed, directed sex.

That, and a princess like you should set her standards high when it came to sex. Something Ghost was willing to set for you.

Even if this was wrong, he didn’t care. If the mission was going to end soon and he would have to say goodbye, he wanted to ensure that you would still accept nothing but the best in and outside the bedroom. He wanted to ensure that you would end up with someone that would treat you right.

Someone like him.

Turning off the television, Ghost abandoned his tea and headed toward your bedroom. He softly knocked on your door and waited, hoping that he didn’t catch you too off guard.

As soon as you heard the knock, you jumped in fright, leaving you right on the edge of an orgasm that you finally managed to approach. Ghost was back early. You should’ve cared to listen closer to the sound of him coming back in the house.

You fixed your clothes hastily, cheeks still flushed pink from your solo sexual adventure. Shyly, you opened the door to greet your patient bodyguard. Clearing your throat, you spoke in that usual, refined manner that you trained yourself to use to cover up evidence of inelegance. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“We have something to talk about. May I come in, Princess?” Ghost treaded carefully, not wanting to startle you, but also not wanting to offer an opportunity of complete rejection just yet. You opened the door wider to let him in, your heart and mind racing on what Ghost could possibly need to talk about.

He sat on the edge of your bed and patted the spot next to him. Timidly, you took a seat beside him. The naturally sweet scent of yours almost made Ghost pull you into his lap. It was like he was obsessed with you. It almost unsettled how deeply he fell for you.

Once you seemed comfortable, he began without that careful language he had learned to speak when he was with you. It was better to be himself about this, especially if he wanted to get what he wanted. Straight-forward. “You forgot to reset the TV. I saw what you were looking at when I came back from my perimeter check.”

Your body suddenly heated up as if a wave of fire washed over you. Cheeks turned scarlet and you nearly couldn’t breath. The way he was speaking so bluntly with you caught you off guard as well. Words were trapped in your throat. What does someone say in this situation?!

That gaze of yours that Ghost wanted on him was averted in embarrassment. He couldn’t blame you, but he wasn’t going to let you escape either. He had a standard he had to set for you.

He took your chin to guide your eyes back on him. By now it felt like your heart was going to give out with how hard it was beating.

“You really wanna know what sex is like?”

You could have sworn his voice lowered to seduce you. It felt huskier as it echoed in your ears. It was working too. Your mind immediately screamed to say yes, to take what was being offered to you. Though, you stopped yourself from taking the opportunity. This didn’t even feel real. You swallowed down the lump in your throat before speaking. “Lieutenant G-”

“Simon Riley. It’s okay to call me by my real name, Princess. It’s also a simple yes or no. Do you want to know what it’s like? How you should be treated?”

Biting your lip, you thought deeply about this proposal. If you were to say yes, you and Ghost would be crossing so many boundaries that you might not recover from. The kiss was something the both of you were able to seemingly recover from. But that was small compared to sex.

Especially since you were still a virgin.

God, did you want him though. You really, really wanted him. You probably wanted him more than anything in your life.

Finally, you justified that you could keep a secret. Ghost certainly could too. You trusted him. Meekly, you gave him the answer he was hoping for. “Y-Yes. Please, be gentle. . .”

Within a blink of an eye, he pulled you into his lap and held you close. Removing the mask revealed a more clear, confident sea within his eyes. “Of course. I’ll teach you everything you want to know.”

His lips pressed firmly against yours, not being able to be apart from you a moment longer. Damn, he’s missed those soft lips of yours. He missed the heat of your body against his. It felt like it’s been ages since the last time you kissed. He felt determined to get his fill before it was too late.

Your own senses were ignited like fireworks, tingles making its way down all the way to the tips of your fingers that held onto your bodyguard for dear life. Having been left on the edge of orgasm from before made you feel more sensitive than usual too. You felt every inch of his lips, every movement of his hands tracing your curves. It was difficult to suppress all the pleasurable shivers he gave you.

When he slipped his tongue into your mouth, you moaned, a sharp pleasure traveling down your spine. That only encouraged Simon to take it a step further. Your shirt was raised slightly, giving him enough room to touch your bare skinned hips with his hands. Your skin was soft beyond belief that it drove him wild.

By now you were struggling to catch your breath, his kisses becoming more intense as he was able to touch you without the barrier of your shirt. He kissed you with such need, passion, and desire that it made your head spin. He ate up every moan that escaped you like it would be the last time he would be able to.

You were gripping his shoulders so tight that your nails dug into his skin. But he wouldn’t have it any other way. It only made him want more. He broke the kiss and went straight to your ear, making sure that your breasts were tightly pressed against his chest. There was no escape for you as he teased your ears with sweet words in that deep baritone voice you grew to love. All while his hands worked to massage your bare waist.

“You should be kissed passionately like you are the most beautiful woman on this planet. Your partner should take their time to find all your sweet spots too.” Simon advised, his lips grazing your ears as he spoke.

Your breath got caught in your throat as he told you how much you should be treasured. How soft your skin was underneath his fingertips. How decadent your kisses tasted to the point that he needed more. How your future partner should treat you just like this.

Finally, he could kiss that neck that he’s been dying to kiss every time you put your hair up. His lips landed on your neck, causing you to tremble as he licked, nipped, and suckled. It was heavenly. Underneath you, you could feel his growing erection pressing into you. Even underneath his jeans, you could tell that he was big. It filled you with a newfound sense of pride that you could arouse someone as serious as your bodyguard. He was attracted to you as much as you were attracted to him.

Slowly, Simon began to tip you back within his lap, forcing you to hang on to him if you didn’t want to fall. He took advantage of the position, trailing his kisses down to your collarbone and nearing your breasts. His hand supported the curve of your back, gravity allowing him to really feel every shiver that passed through you.

“They should make you tremble in pleasure just like this. They should want to press their lips against every inch of your skin. They should get excited by giving you pleasure first.” He continued to confess as he nipped at the tops of your breasts. He was driving you crazy with each touch, your cunt dripping wet like he’s been teasing you for hours.

Suddenly, he swung you around and laid you down onto the bed. Simon hovered over you with a sexy smirk on his face.

“If you want more, then strip for me, Princess.”

#ghost x f!reader #ghost x female reader #ghost x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley fanfic #ghost x y/n #cod fanfic #ghost x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon riley #simon riley x you #simon riley smut #simon riley fanfic #ghost call of duty #ghost cod #ghost mw2

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etherealily · 5 months

Text

𝕓𝕦𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕗𝕝𝕚𝕖𝕤 // 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗻𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝗼𝗱𝗮𝗶𝗿.

Finnick Odair + fem!reader, brother's best friend (ahhh!), you don't get it, i love this man

Warning: Cuss words .

You do NOT have permission to repost and/or translate any of my fics.

Desc. : Finnick makes quite an impression.

══════════════════ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ══════════════════

"Hey, what's up, man, if you could just pack up- oh."

You don't even have to turn to know just who in the hell was standing in front of the window of your family's bakery. And this is the one day you decide not to care about how frosting-splattered your apron is, how flour-smeared your hands are. So your brother wasn't lying. He really was all buddy-buddy with Finnick fucking Odair. And this was the one Thursday you decide to actually fill in for him.

"Uh, be right out, sir."

Sir? Sir? Did you really just call him Sir? Well, I mean, yeah, he's a customer, but still... sir? That's too fake. He's going to wig out, he's going to-

"Of course. Take your time. I'm in no rush."

-Be uncharacteristically patient. Hm. Weird. Odd.

Quickly patting off the flour on your hands and watching the flakes fall onto the counter, you wipe your palms roughly on your apron, turning around.

His eyes are fucking ethereal. It's everything you can do to not immediately think of how you would go about replicating the sea-green of them into a frosting colour, or something. However, you decide, it'd be very hard, seeing as there were a kaleidoscope of other hues in there, a tinge of gold, here and there, like flecks of stardust, for one.

The muscles at the front of his arms - across his chest, as he stands - clench, as though he's tightening them. And then you realise : he's waiting.

"So sorry for the wait. How can I help you?"

"Who are you?"

What ?

"Excuse me?"

"Not interrogating you.", he informs you, raising a hand to cut you short. The fucking audacity . "Never seen you before."

"Well, you're seeing me now."

"How do I know you're not just someone stealing from the store?", he inquires, in mock concern. His eyebrows raise just slightly, playfully, even, as he trains his eyes on yours.

Does he also think about how he can replicate the colours in other people's eyes, or is he normal?

"Uh, I've got a key , for one.", you retort, jiggling the keys that you've shoved deep into your apron's pocket.

He shrugs, interlocking his fingers tightly as he cracks his knuckles, tilting his head. "Could be stolen."

"I'm the owner's daughter, Y/N ?"

"Insufficient proof of that.", he shoots back, teeth grazing ever so slightly on his bottom lip as he battles a smirk. "C'mon, do better than that. I'm this close to calling the Peacekeepers, y'know?"

"I can bake a cake?", you suggest, unsure why you're even going along with this.

Oh right, because he's Finnick Odair.

"So can I.", he replies, now resting his elbow down on the windowsill of that godforsaken window your family sold their goods from. You'd always thought it was cute, but now, with the lack of a counter between the two of you, like the normal bakeries, you were resenting the idea. "You're not really selling your identity, you know?"

"I'm literally baking a cake right now.", you exclaim, pointing at your clothes and the oven in which a hopefully delicious cake was rising. "What kind of pathetic thief would help the store they're stealing from?"

"You could be trying to blend in."

"Okay, look, I don't care what you think, Sir. I'm the owner of this place, so you either get your goods or go."

"Good.", he chuckles, softly, although his tone turns slightly, seamlessly more serious. "That's good. That's the response you give, you got that?"

Your eyebrows furrow in confusion. "What?"

"If someone ever makes you doubt who you are, if someone ever...", he swallows, licking his lips for a moment, looking away before continuing, "... ever forces an identity on you. I don't care what you think, I know who I am . That's what you say."

"You came all the way here, did all that, just to... teach me a life lesson?"

"You don't like it? Come on, that was a cool segue, you gotta admit.", he asks, clearly shoving whatever else he was feeling into the back burner as he snickers.

"Threatening to call the Peacekeepers on me? Oh, yeah, that's very cool ."

"Hey, I managed to get your name, didn't I? Doubt you'd have let me get that far any other way."

Not true. You'd have given him your name. Hell, you'd have given up your last name for him, had he asked normally.

"And what do you need my name for?"

"I don't know.", he shrugs, palpably pushing any dirty responses he might've had away. "Maybe I just want to know?"

"You must have a reason."

"You know what, yeah, usually, I have a reason for everything.", he replies, giving you the charming smile you've seen on television almost a thousand times. "But this time, I don't."

That was so infuriatingly expected. Of course Finnick Odair couldn't have just fucking asked for your name like a normal person.

"Do you at least have a reason as to why you're at my store?"

"Your family's store, sweetie, and yeah, I do.", he says, pointing at a tray of half-a-dozen shimmery blue cupcakes with the number '4' frosted boastfully onto them. "Pack those up for me, will you? My order."

"Insufficient proof of that.", you reply, crossing your arms and mirroring his position from when he'd said those words. "Unless you've got a receipt, which we don't give to urgent orders so there's no chance you could have one , I don't see how you're walking away from here with them."

He laughs, heartily, nodding as though impressed. "Funny. Look, let's not make this more complicated than it should be, yeah? You're a pissed off, whiny little girl who can't take a joke, and I'm Finnick Odair. Just give me the cupcakes."

You scoff, audibly scoff at that. The nerve of him. "I'm not a little girl."

"Your brother tells me you cry when you see butterflies? Like... full-on bawl?"

You'd fucking murder your brother the next time you saw him, that was for sure.

"They're ethereal, and very rare."

"They're insects.", he reasons, shaking his head as he rests his head on his palm, tilting his head and gazing at you condescendingly, like you really were a child.

"Shut up."

He snorts, softly. "Give me the damn cupcakes, sweetie."

"Or what, you'll seduce me into giving them to you?"

His face falls, for a moment, his grin faltering. Then, with a sigh that was an infuriating mix of amused, disappointed and enigmatic, he nods. "That's what I'm known for, right? I could do it, you know? Really effectively, too."

"That wouldn't work on me."

"Give me the damn cupcakes, Y/N."

"How do I know you've paid for them?"

"You'll have to take my word for it. It's called trust, ever heard of it?"

"It's called not being a pompous asshole, ever heard of it?"

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you turn your back to him, bringing the tray over to the window sill. "Brought your own bag?"

He nods, a slightly triumphant smile - that you choose to ignore, thank you very much - on his face as he hands it to you, then nodding to the bag. "It's all the rage in the Capitol, you know?"

"Oh, I know. I see the Capitol freaks with it all the time on TV.", you mutter, gently bringing out each cupcake and placing them in each indent in the box you'd brought out. "Any embellishments you want before I put them in the bag?"

"Like a bow or something?"

"Yeah, like a bow, a card, some extra sprinkles taped to the box.", you shrug, feigning nonchalance. The urge to draw him was getting way too strong, and it was the most peculiar feeling ever - one you'd never felt before. Capturing him, in a way the cameras he was always swarmed by never could, that would be perfect.

"Yeah, card would be nice."

"What would you like on it?", you ask, sliding a card over from the cardboard box overflowing with them, as you click open a pen.

He raises a brow. "Do you have good handwriting?"

You tsk, shoving the pen in his face. "Here, you do it, then."

He giggles, mischief swirling in his eyes as he takes the pen from you. "Probably best." He clears his throat, dramatically, giving you a matter-of-fact look before he begins writing. "Dear President Snow, wishing you a Happy Reaping Day, with a delicacy from District Four- uh, what do you call these, sweetie?"

"Cupcakes?"

"Something cooler." He narrows his eyes at you, tapping the pen on the counter.

"Cupcakes from the Bakery Around The Corner? Seriously, this is District Four, we're not the Capitol - we don't have fancy icing and a quirky little name for each of our orders."

"Yeah, but he does this thing where each year, you have to bring a new delicacy from your District.", he mutters, a slight scoff present in his voice. "Reaping Day special. So I need a cool name."

Interesting. That almost sounded like resentment, from the Golden Boy to the President.

"I'm flattered you consider my cupcakes delicacies."

"Okay, look, your cupcakes are good, delicious, even, but they're not delicacies.", he reminds, keeping the stream of insults you were throwing at each other going. "I just need to give him something other than seafood this year, apparently."

"Well, that's stupid. We're the fishing district."

"Like he gives a flying fuck. What Coriolanus Snow wants, Coriolanus Snow gets."

You snort, covering your mouth. "That's his name?"

"What, did you think it was President ?", he asks, still not looking up from the card as he spins the pen around between his fingers - both calloused and delicate, preserved and wild.

"No, I thought it'd be something more normal."

He tsks. "Seriously, come up with a name for these things."

"They're for you , so call them Odairs, or something, I don't know. Should stroke your ego, too, so it's a win-win."

"These are supposed to be delicacies. Like, a form of pride among our people. I can't name them after me, no matter how awesome that would be.", he adds, with a slight grin.

"Whores from District Four.", you chuckle, shaking your head. "Call them that."

"Why, 'cause I'm the 'Whore from Four' ?", he asks, smirking. "That's a no-no word, you know?"

"Yeah, well, my patience is thinning with you, Odair."

He snickers, softly, chewing the inside of his cheek, still staring at the card. "You know what, fuck it. Whores it is."

"Really? Just go with no card."

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No, a card is expected.", he sighs, spinning the pen around. "I should just call them whores. But, you know, spelt with an 'h'. What's he gonna do, ask around the District 4 marketplace for 'hores'?"

You laugh. "Hey, if that works...", you salute him, nodding. He writes with soft, almost enchanting strokes, and then signs his name.

"Thanks, Y/N.", he adds, after you finish taping the note precisely to the centre of the box's lid, before gently lowering it into his Capitol bag. "If this works, I'm paying you extra."

"If President Snow comes around asking for my District-famous 'hores', I'll pay you extra."

══════════════════ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ══════════════════

The muffled rush of the waterfall, and the feathery tufts of grass you were laying on almost help you enjoy life , for once, and help you forget that Reaping Day is tomorrow. Almost.

"You know you're not supposed to be out here, right, sugar?"

And then suddenly, the 4 o'clock sun isn't the thing that's blinding your senses.

It's him, instead.

Towering over you, almost gleaming hair threatening to spill over and disrupt the calm in the pool of his eyes, he tilts his head mockingly.

"I know."

He gapes in mock scandal. "Aren't you the little rebel?", he muses, raising a brow in amusement before offering you his hand.

You grab it, and he hauls you up with admirable ease. "Your cupcakes were a hit, sweetie. Absolute hit.", he informs, with the twinkly grin that comes with being Finnick Odair.

His mildly calloused hand still grips yours tightly.

"I see. You're welcome."

He shrugs, nodding. "Yeah, I suppose you deserve the thanks."

The silence sweeps past you, the only sounds embossed in both of your hushed breaths, in the gentle songs of birds, the faint roar of the waterfall, and suddenly, his voice, smooth as a wave embracing the shore.

"Come on."

"Where?"

"Trust me."

When Finnick Odair asks you to trust him, you do. Rule number one of the rule book of... well, life.

"If you take me to some Capitol party-"

"Don't worry, sweetheart, I promise, the last place I'm ever taking you is the Capitol. In fact, it can be said I'm doing the exact opposite."

You raise a brow. "What, you're taking me in the opposite direction? As far away from the Capitol as possible?"

His eyes dart around, above, behind and beside you, before they finally land on yours, and he nods, slowly, hesitantly. "Yeah, exactly.", he muses, his words drawn out as if he was unsure of them, too.

Bad sign.

"You're taking me out the borders?", you hiss, lowering your voice and glaring sharply at him. "That's illegal, Golden Boy."

"Don't call me that. Not here, in District 4."

You scoff. The audacity running through his veins was insufferable. "I'll call you whatever I damn want to. You trying to get me killed or turned into an Avox?"

"I'm trying to show you something!", he snaps, using his tense grasp on your hand to draw you closer, so that your foreheads were borderline touching. See, this was bad, this was bad, this was-

"Just let me!", he continues, his voice almost pleading. "You think I don't know it's Reaping Day tomorrow? That you could get picked to go die in the Games?"

"No, you're just the one helping us go die."

"You shut up.", he hisses, a finger in your face. "Don't say things you know nothing about. I'm a mentor."

"Did you even try with the tributes from last year? Or the year before that? Because I heard that-"

"What you heard is fucking-", he cuts himself short, taking a deep breath. "Please. Just follow me. For the love of God.", he orders, gently tugging you along.

Not like you even wanted to pull away - this was Finnick Odair.

"What is it you love most about District 4?"

"What?"

"District 4. What is it you love most about it?"

"It's home.", you shrug. "What else is there?"

"Yeah, but I mean, with time, any place is home. Have you never wanted to leave, to explore?"

It's times like these you realize your parents' bakery isn't that important- you'd sell the whole thing to figure out what was going on in that angelic head of his. His words lilting through your senses like sea-breeze.

"I'm exploring as much as I can right now."

He pauses for a moment, turning around. Dimples. "I'm glad I can be your guide, then."

Shut the fuck up, freak of nature. Stop with your beautiful words.

You almost say that. You don't, though.

"Okay, can you jump for me?"

"Jump?", you ask, looking over his shoulder at the huge gap between the part of the rock you were on, and the one you were supposed to go to. "No way."

"Come on, you can do it.", he says, leaping over the humongous gap as if he were playing hopscotch. "I'll catch you."

That's not the part you're worried about. The part you're worried about is you chickening out in front of the Finnick Odair. The interviews he would go through.

'Oh, yes, Hunger Games or not, tragic deaths have always been part of my everyday. Just the other week, a girl I knew slipped near a waterfall and plummeted to her death. Tragic. But I got over it because I'm Finnick Odair. I'm hot. And rich. And did I mention, hot?'

The entire nation wouldn't mourn you. It'd mourn the fact that poor Darling Finnick Odair had to watch you die.

"I don't know about this, Odair."

"Trust me."

That's the second time this man had asked you to trust him tonight. Rule of life.

"I swear, it'll be worth it. Take a leap of faith. Literally."

You grimace, pursing your lips. Your eyes move-

"Don't!", he yells, suddenly, waving his hand from across the abyss so your eyes land on it. "DON'T look down. Just look at me. Leap to me."

Reach for his eyes. Those pools of moss green and cerulean blue that make you want to embrace and destroy the planet for being able to create something so perfect.

It takes a couple of seconds for you to convince yourself he'll catch you. It's an excuse to look at his muscles, yeah, but still, he's strong enough. He'll catch you.

I won't die in front of Finnick Odair.

And you leap.

Instantly, your feet slip on the wet rock on the other side, and you grip onto Finnick's shoulders as he wraps his arms around you.

"Toldja."

"Shut up. I almost died."

"So dramatic.", he chuckles, gently letting go of you as he leads you further behind the waterfall, the tufts of grass on which you lay now faintly visible through the gushing water between you and them.

"There's a tiny cave kind of thing here. Look."

You squint, kneeling down in front of the entrance.

"Don't be shy. Come in."

You crouch down, taking his hand as he leads you further into the cave, walking gingerly until you see a tiny pool, illuminated by a golden ray of sunlight spilling through from a crack in the stone above.

Good god.

And around it, as though crafted for you, placed for your perusal, were hordes of glass-blue butterflies, fragile, delicate, and oh-so-ethereal, twirling around each other, bathed in all directions by the beam of light, which flowed through their transparent wings.

Finnick Odair, marry me.

"So?", he asks, breath gently brushing your ear. "What do you think?" The eagerness in his eyes was obvious, as though he were a child showing you the scribbles he'd just made.

"I..."

"I thought, y'know, I mean, I get excited about the ocean, so there's no reason for you not to get excited about butterflies."

"How did you find this place?", you ask, breathless.

"That's a secret."

Your eyes are transfixed onto the flapping of wings, the distribution of gold, the surreality of it all. It's almost godly. It's so breathtaking, you genuinely need to sit down. He sits with you.

"Are you scared for tomorrow?"

"That's a secret."

He smiles, softly, though the sadness in his expression is palpable and inevitable. It irks you. The way he is supposed to be, according to you, is spinning around the shoreline, laughing as he dances with the waves, sand on his hands and knees, a tan kissing his skin. That's how he must remain, and that is how you will draw him, if you ever get to.

After a tiny while, though, he leans back, against the rock behind him, eyes still trained on your awe as you watch the butterflies glide around blissfully, before looking out, at the curtain of water flowing and concealing the entrance of this little slice of paradise he'd found for you.

"You know, you could just stay here till tomorrow. You don't even have to go to Reaping Day."

"Oh, yeah, because that's smart. I'll be arrested."

"Then just don't go back."

"Leave my family to get punished?"

"Please tell me you didn't need tesserae."

"Well, before you, barely anyone from our District won, and if they did, they most definitely didn't share."

He groans, running his hands over his face. "So it's not even a fair chance."

You shake your head. "It's fine, though." Has been for five years.

He scoffs, borderline laughing at you, derisively. "Please elaborate."

"If you managed to find the one tiny place on earth where butterflies still thrive, and it happened to be here, by the waterfall I spent my whole life admiring, then, there's a chance I won't be reaped."

"You're extraordinary. Genuinely. Phenomenal. Splendid. Fabulous. Amazing." Was that awe in his voice? Awe at... you? What you just said?

"Are you buttering me up because I might be picked to die tomorrow?"

"I'm buttering you up because you're incredible."

Drawing him isn't enough.

Sonnets, prose, stories, love songs, ballads.

Those would be enough.

"If I get reaped, you better mentor me good."

"If you get reaped, you'll win. I'll get you sponsors, I'll train you so that you'll be an absolute force to reckon with."

The promises are beautiful and fragile and absolutely ludicrous. But that would be the name of his biography.

"If I survive, we're coming here every day."

It's like you've already resigned yourself to the fact that you were going to get chosen.

"You're a Career. You'll be fine."

"Who are you trying to convince?"

Silence suddenly enters the cave.

"We should go."

Both of you say it, both of you agree, and both of you get up.

"Thank you, Finnick."

His name tastes oddly sweet coming out of your mouth. However, the next moment shows that his lips taste even sweeter.

His fucking dimples.

"C'mon. I think this time, leaping will be easier."

What he means by that, you don't know.

Not like you want to, not immediately. Spending your whole life trying to figure him out seemed like a solid career plan.

You leap again.

152 notes · View notes

hothothotch · 1 year

Note

Heeey ! I have a Hotch request 😄

Context: she’s one of his first case, some young girl who hacked the Pentagone to make a point to a teacher that you don’t have to be good in class to be a genius in something. They try to arrest her but she didn’t did anything just enter their server and disconnect. But all the way into interrogation she flirts with him. They let her go and he sees her a couple years later?

I don’t know how to end this, but yeah just a thing I got in my head for a while 🥹

hey! i loved writing this one and, again, i want a part two of it, so maybe you should expect one haha. i hope you like it, anon <3

Requests are open!

1991

"I'll plead the fifth in this one..." you smirked up at Agent Hotchner, batting your eyes seductively — or as seductively as you believed you could be — as you observed him through your eyelashes, "And I'm very good at pleading, just so you know".

Aaron didn't react visibly, even though the urge to roll his eyes was definitely there. After a few minutes of interrogation (probably ten, but he wasn't sure, since you were a delight to hear — ironically speaking), Aaron had lost count of how many flirtatious comments you had thrown at him, the situation way more annoying considering that his boss, SSA Gideon, was sitting by his side, observing everything with as neutral as an expression he could have, clearly as unamused as Aaron.

"Oh, come on!" you groaned, clearly unpleased with Aaron's lack of response to your flirt, "You can laugh, right? There's nowhere on your contract saying 'FBI Agents have to be stiff and serious, even the hot ones'!".

"I don't usually laugh when interrogating someone" Aaron replied, opening up the file he had in front of him to read your name out loud, "Much less when they invade the Pentagon's system".

You tried to bit back the proud smile that showed up on your face at the acknowledgment of what you've done — you highly doubted one of those Agents would clap their hands at your achievement, and still you'd rather face them than your parents, that were probably fuming on their way to the Bureau.

If SSA Hotchner and Gideon's faces were the last things you'd see for the rest of your life (that probably wouldn't be as long as you once thought it would), you might as well fall in style.

"That was impressive, wasn't it?" you asked, your voice clearly smug as you leaned against your chair, "I'm really good at that!".

"Not that much" SSA Gideon intervened, "I can name a few hackers that can do the same".

You raised one brow in defiance, trying to mask the way his words had evidently hurt your ego, "I didn't say I'm unique, I said I'm impressive. There's a difference" you pointed in a matter-of-factly way, before turning back at Agent Hotchner, "From now on, I'm only answering your questions, pretty boy".

"It's Agent Hotchner".

You chuckled, "Okay" you nodded curtly, "Pretty Agent Hotchner boy".

That time you saw the way he reacted, his body language denouncing you was starting to frustrate him. If you didn't know it was overstepping — more than you've already overstepped — you probably would make a joke about how you could help him with his frustration, but you weren't really into going to jail over harassment.

Trying to exhaust his patience was one thing. Crossing the line between amusement and crime was something you didn't want to do.

Oh, yeah. You had hacked into the Pentagon.

"Okay, look..." you started, straightening your pose on your chair, grimacing when the metal of the cuffs (an unnecessary accessory, if you will) skimmed on your skin, a clear indicative that you'd soon have a new bruise at that spot, "I've hacked into the Pentagon, true" she directed a pointed look at Gideon, rolling her eyes, "Yes, I'm aware there are a lot of other hackers that can pull that out, but I had a point to make!".

"Which was?" Aaron questioned, his eyes still trained on you. With a quick look to his hand, you noticed he was wearing a wedding band — golden, brilliant; he was probably freshly married. You questioned if he looked at his wife in that intimidating way, or if it was reserved to people like you, or that he judged to be like you.

You took a deep breath, leaning against your chair, "I'm graduating on MIT" you started explaining, even if you knew they could find that information on your file, and that they probably already knew that, considering you'd been smart enough to hack into the Pentagon from your college's computer, but not enough to hide your tracks, "And I was unlucky enough not to get good grades at this specific subject, and my teacher made a point to humiliate me in front of everyone. So I made a point in showing her that while she's theoretically smart, I'm technically smart".

The single raise of Agent Hotchner's brow was enough to reveal what he was thinking about you after your explanation — that you were a spoiled child, that you couldn't have things any other way except for yours, that he could have you arrested solely by how bad your reasoning had been.

"Yeah, pretty Agent Hotchner boy..." you crossed your arms in front of your body, "Not everyone is born with everything on a silver plate, y'know? My attention is not as good as it was supposed to be".

Aaron switched a quick glance with Gideon, his demeanor betraying nothing as they kept their eyes locked for a few minutes, expectation suddenly building on your body along with the urge to pick at your nails, an anxious behavior you had.

"Let her go" Agent Gideon finally said, standing up from his chair, turning his back on you both to walk out of the interrogation room.

"What?" you squealed in confusion, placing the palms of your hands on top of the metallic desk you had between Agent Hotchner and you, "That's all?".

Aaron hummed in agreement, standing up to grab the cuff keys' in his pockets, his hands brushing with yours for a second, and you could swear there was a sudden electricity on that touch, causing you to push your hand away.

He looked up at you with one brow raised again, his voice a bit more humored now, "What? You want to be arrested?".

"You arrested me, pretty Agent Hotchner boy" you reminded, shaking your cuffed hands, "And while I think being cuffed is sexy, I can't wait to remove those. They're hurting my pulse".

"You should've told us, we'd lose it a bit" he shrugged, opening the lock expertly, before sitting on the desk, "You only logged into the system and turned it off. We can't arrest you for turning the computers off, so you're free to go".

You faced him for a while more, trying to find something to say, maybe a snarky remark — a joke? But nothing came to mind. So you only nodded, standing up from the chair with a smile.

"So off I go" you told him, massaging your pulses, "Guess we won't see each other again, pretty Agent Hotchner boy".

Aaron shook his head, crossing his arms, "I hope not".

"Ouch" you put your hand over your chest dramatically, "You wound me, honey. Hope you don't miss me too much".

Aaron finally allowed himself to roll his eyes, standing up from the desk to walk toward the door, "It won't be a problem".

...

2011

You were honestly — and positively — surprised when the message arrived in your inbox, the (a rather last minute) white invitation warming your heart in a way you didn't think it would.

JJ and Will were getting married.

It was a surprise not because you thought you wouldn't be invited, but because you didn't think it would happen at all; the last time you and JJ talked (only a year prior to that date), the woman had been pretty straightforward about not being ready to get married, even if Will clearly was. You were surprised to know that he supported her and it wasn't an issue, even though JJ sometimes complained about how they ended up fighting over the topic.

You were happy they finally got to an agreement. And even happier that their agreement gave her an excuse to leave her house, even for only a few hours.

"You look beautiful!" you stated once you spotted JJ on the dancefloor, bringing her for a hug when she finally recognized you.

"I can't believe you're here!" JJ held you against her body happily, and you could feel her smile on your shoulder as she rocked you from side to side, "I thought you were in Paris!".

You nodded when she pulled back, allowing you to move and embrace Will, that had a similar smile on his face, "I was. But the Pentagon called me back and I was forced to come back. Which is a loss, because I was starting to get used with the accent. And the paycheck".

Will shook his head, laughing at your last comment, "I'm sure Interpol will be missing a great Agent".

"That they will" you nodded eagerly, playfully throwing your hair over your shoulder, "I was their jewel, and now they have nothing. But I'm happy to be back home. Will be even happier when I find a good house for me, since I've sold my old house".

"Oh, that's your lucky day!" JJ commented, immediately taking your hand in hers, already guiding you through the dancefloor to a table where a few people were gathered, laughing at something one of them had said, "My friends' neighbor just passed away, and their old apartment is vacant. Maybe you can rent it".

You smiled, ready to give JJ an answer when you looked at the table again, your eyes widening at the sight of one man in the middle of the group. You froze in your place when you recognized him, your jaw slightly dropped when your eyes met, recognition clearly passing through his eyes as well.

You heard JJ saying your name, and you were fairly aware that she was introducing you to the group, though the only name you managed to hear was, "This is Aaron Hotchner, my boss, and friend".

Boss. It was curious — last time you've seen Agent Hotchner (or pretty Agent Hotchner boy, as you once called him), he was an Agent working under Jason Gideon's supervision.

Ten years had gone by, though. A lot had changed. You, to begin with.

"Oh, huh... hi!" you waved at the group, trying to pretend you had gathered any of their names, "JJ was telling me that one of you had a neighbor who had passed and may have an apartment free for me?".

Aaron — who seemed to be on a trance just as you'd been in the past few seconds — cleared his throat at your question, trying to brush away the embarrassment of how you kept looking at each other. If someone in his group noticed, though, none of them made a comment about it.

"That would be me" he stated, and you held the urge to mutter an 'of course that is', "Maybe we can talk—".

"On the dancefloor" the old man beside him suggested, nudging Aaron slightly with a mischievous smirk on his lips as he took a sip of his drink (whiskey, you deduced), "Do you like to dance?".

"Very much" you nodded, directing your response at the man who asked the question, but your eyes were focused on Aaron, "That's one of my technical skills".

If there was any doubt to Aaron that you remembered him, this doubt fade away at that exact moment — and you noticed it by the way his body language immediately changed, going from an almost nervous one to a more relaxed one.

"I guess you can show me, then" Aaron offered his hand to you, a smile appearing on his face when you immediately accepted it, guiding you back to the dancefloor, "Let's just try and not be arrested tonight, okay?".

You snorted, patting on his shoulder when the song turned into a slower one, and your eyes met one more time before you replied, "I won't make any promises".

Thank you for your request ✨

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x reader #criminal minds #hotch #hotch x reader #hotch x you #aaron hotchner fanfic #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner oneshot

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thebeast-dennis-etcetera · 7 months

Text

So Many Questions Part 3

Prompt: You’re pulled in for questioning by NCIS and are quickly surprised to see your ex-boyfriend as your interrogator.

Notes: Some characters are post season 11. Some smut ahead! @kittenlittle24

Part 2. Part 1.

“I’m here to see Agent Gibbs,” you told the security officer. Making a quick call, he nodded and let you through, now adorning a spiffy visitor pass on your chest.

You entered the big orange room with a small smile, grateful this time you weren’t here to be interrogated. You spotted Agent McGee and Bishop sitting at their desks but no sight of Jethro.

“Miss L/N. Everything alright?” McGee asked as you rounded the corner and chose a chair to sit in.

“Oh yeah, everything’s good. Except for the whole phsycho investor trying to kill me. I felt too vulnerable at my office so I came here to see if I could help in any way.”

Both agents gave you a look that you could only describe as part fear part awe.

“What’s the problem?” you asked, looking around to see if there was a big spider somewhere.

“Uh, you’re just sitting at Gibb’s desk. No one sits there except Gibbs,” Bishop answered, laughing nervously. Jeeze. Is Jethro really that intimidating that his agents are scared of a desk chair?

“Well I saw an empty seat and took it. He won’t mind I’m sure. He’s not even here.”

“Oh but I am,” you heard, turning to see Jethro walking over with a cup of coffee in hand. He stopped to stand in front of you and for a few seconds you both just stared at one another, a silent fight for dominance happening. If the chair was so important, you’d let him have it.

You stood up, now close enough to him to smell his aftershave and gave him a smirk. You always loved challenging him, but loved it more when he challenged you back, as it usually ending with him on top in the literal and figurative sense.

Stepping aside, he took a seat and you moved some of his papers so you could sit on the corner of his desk. His team looked thoroughly shocked but didn’t say anything as Jethro barked at them.

“What’d you got?”

“Well Torres and Quinn are interrogating Cheryll Reznik. She told them Ian Chandler had been talking with a man named Dominic. Bishop and I were able to connect an electronic payment he sent for 10k to a Dominic Waters. Turns out Dominic had just been released from prison about a week ago for armed robbery and aggravated assault. Perfect man for a small hit job in need of cash.”

“Then go bring him in McGee. Take Bishop with you.”

They both quickly scurried off, not wanting to be in the awkward space that you had made. Once the elevator doors closed behind them, you spun around, legs now hanging over Jethro’s side.

“Well you certainly have them trained well.”

“Yeah, they listen. Unlike you. I told you to go back to work, we’ve got this handled.”

You leaned in slightly, watching as his eyes briefly glanced down at your slightly opened blouse and then back at your eyes.

“You know how much I love pushing your buttons Jethro. Plus, I’ve been at work all day and haven’t been able to get anything done. I didn’t feel safe there without you there.”

You picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip, grimacing at the bitter taste. You forgot he liked his coffee plain.

“I’ve got an agent assigned to you when I’m not there,” he explained, taking the coffee out of your hands and taking a sip of his own.

“It’s not the same. Plus, I was thinking maybe we could get a bite to eat. Im starving and I’m assuming all you’ve had today is coffee.”

“No time. Got a killer to catch.”

“Yeah well you’ll be no good to anyone when you pass out from lack of food and an overdose on caffeine.”

He gave you the familiar look that let you know that he let you win the argument. He only ever gave it to you when he also secretly agreed with you.

Without a word, he got up and you hopped down to follow him with a triumphant smile.

————

“I don’t know why we couldn’t have gone to Duke’s. They’ve got the best beet salad,” you complained, sticking an overly cooked fry into your mouth. The little diner was cute but you were sure they weren’t known for their food.

“This place has good coffee.”

You watched him sip his probably 5th coffee of the day and rolled your eyes. Just then, your phone began ringing and you saw the caller ID as your next door neighbor.

“Hey Greg, what’s up?…What? Right now?….Can you see what he looks like?”

You listened to him give you a description and motioned to Jethro that it was important.

“Ok, no don’t confront them! We’re on our way!”

You hung up as Jethro had already gotten up and paid for the dinner.

“My neighbor just called saying someone was breaking into my place. His description was vague but it looked like they were looking for something.”

You both left the diner and sped off to your house. When you arrived, Greg was waiting out front and he gave you a hug, receiving a look from Jethro.

“They left just after I hung up with you. Took off in a blue sedan. I’m so glad you weren’t in there. I think I saw a gun.”

“Stay here,” Jethro ordered, pulling out his own gun and Greg’s eyes got wide.

“Don’t worry Greg. He’s a federal agent.”

The two of you waited as Jethro cleared the house and came back outside.

“What do you think he was looking for? Does this have anything to do with that crazy lady shooting you Y/N?” Greg asked as we all walked up the house steps.

“I’m not sure Greg, but I appreciate you calling.”

“Yeah no problem. I enjoy looking out for you,” he replied with a smile. Jethro gave him his classic hard stare and Greg cleared his throat awkwardly, smile fading.

“Alright. Well as long as you’re safe. Have a good-

The front door shut on him before he had a chance to finish his sentence and you looked at Jethro.

“He was just being nice Jet.”

“Mm-hm.”

You went around the semi trashed house, trying to figure out if anything was taken as Jethro picked up a little wooden boat from your shelf and inspected it.

“Your first gift to me. Made out of an old piece of driftwood I think you told me.”

He put it back and walked over to you as you finished putting back the couch cushions together.

“Well I don’t think anything was taken but honestly, I could be sure-

You were promptly interrupted by Jethro’s lips on yours and almost froze in shock.

When he didn’t make a move to pull away, you quickly matched his energy and wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling yourself closer.

You both took steps until you felt your back touch the hallway wall. His kisses moved from your lips to your neck as you pulled his jacket off.

“Bedroom. Now,” he spoke huskily, sparking a fire within you. Grabbing his hand, you led him down the hallway and into your bedroom that had also clearly been tossed. You could’ve cared less as the both of you got undressed, Jethro setting his gun and badge down on your bedside table and pulling you into bed.

He didn’t stay on top too long before grabbing you so that you sat atop of him, easily sinking down onto his more than ready length. You both moaned at the contact and you made quick work, rocking back and forth with Jethro’s big hands gripping your hips.

“Just like that baby,” he grunted, looking up at you as you let your head fall back in ecstasy. His hands traveled so that your breasts were being squeezed and pinched, quickly bringing you closer to your climax.

“I can’t last much longer Jet,” you panted, clenching around him, making his eyes close.

He sat up and pulled you in for another kiss, hands helping keep up your rythmic pace until you fell apart, orgasm hitting you like a freight train. He wasn’t far behind, groaning and holding you still as he filled you up, knowing you loved it when he came inside of you.

Breaths heavy as you both came down from your high, you stayed together, embracing each other. He tiredly peppered kisses on your shoulder and gently ran his fingers across your back, making you shiver.

He chuckled and pressed a kiss against your ear. “You were always so easily overstimulated.”

“Yeah well you make it so easy with your talented multi-tasking.”

Eventually, you two separated, you heading into the bathroom to clean up. When you came out, Jethro was on the phone but handed you your clothes.

“Yup. We’ll be right there.”

He hung up and finished tucking and buttoning up his dress shirt.

“That was McGee. They’ve got Dominic in interrogation. He wants to confess.”

“That’s great,” you said, getting dressed and walking over to him as he clipped his badge on and gun on. Fixing his dishelved hair, you smiled and pecked his lips.

“I hope you’ll still come by even after we nail this bastard.”

“Well someone’s gotta make sure Greg keeps his distance.”

You laughed and followed him out.

#gibbs x reader #leroy jethro gibbs #ncis #ncis fanfiction #agent gibbs #mark harmon #ncis request

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artificialstrawberry · 2 years

Text

Need some help with that?

* *ﾟQuaritch x Na'vi!Reader in Heat(AFAB) .｡*ﾟ

synopsis: It’s already difficult having to deal with your heat cycle alone. But getting tied up by the Quaritch and being incessantly interrogated for answers definitely doesn’t make it any easier. Luckily (or unluckily) for you, he’s feeling especially nice today.

◇─◇──◇─────◇──◇─◇

“We can make this real easy,” Quaritch drawled in a husky voice. He let out a soft grin at the sight of your frown. “Tell me where Toruk Makto is. Jake Sully. And I let you go, and you can run off to deal with…” He nodded his head towards your clenched legs. “You can deal with your little issue.”

warnings: NSFW, 18+

w.c: 3.9k~

tags: no use of Y/N, reader is in na'vi heat, quaritch has some fun, light BDSM, light choking, thigh riding, light dacryphilia, penetration, squirting, creampie

read on ao3

A/N: feel free to listen along to my daddy quaritch spotify playlist here. this was inspired by @cuethediscoandthedrinks's lovely hc!

Everything about him screamed power, control, and utter fucking dominance. You knew that Quaritch could grant mercy to the heat that emanated from between your legs. The demon could give you what you wanted— and with one glance at his large hands and veined arms corded with sheer muscle, you knew he could give you the sweet satisfaction that you craved. The man in question raised an arched eyebrow as you struggled against the cuffs that bound your arms over your head and attached to a bioluminescent tree branch. You prayed to Eywa that the sweet scent of your heat wasn’t as potent as you thought it was.

Quaritch took a step closer to you, his eyes briskly roaming up and down your vulnerable figure. You bared your teeth at him as you hissed, resisting yourself from falling victim to the delectable scent of musk that rolled off his body. Your eye caught on the bead of sweat that glided down his neck. So lick-able. Embarrassed at your train of thought, you squeezed your eyes shut and your legs closer together. But fuck these damned hormones— everything burned. Your skin. Muscles. The walls of your core that achingly clenched around nothing. Fuck this bastard for capturing you at your worst time of the year!

“We can make this real easy,” he drawled in a husky voice. You were fluent in the language of the Sky People, making his unique accent even more noticeable to your observant ears. There was a part of you that liked his deeper cadence, causing your ears to twitch in interest whenever the demon opened his mouth. Quaritch let out a soft grin at the sight of your frown. “Tell me where Toruk Makto is. Jake Sully. And I let you go, and you can run off to deal with…” He nodded his head towards your clenched legs. “You can deal with your little issue.”

You almost whimpered. I don’t want to deal with this myself, a voice in the back of your head whispered. His towering height flashed from behind your closed eyelids and you couldn’t help but shudder. Him. I want him. Please.

The corners of Quaritch’s mouth twitched upwards. “Otherwise, I’m gonna have to bring you to the lab coats. And trust me, I don’t think a little thing like you could handle what they’re capable of.”

“Go to hell, demon!” You snarled, fighting once again against your bonds. “I don’t know where the hell he is,” you confidently lied. “You want to kill me? Go ahead.” Your fists clenched above your head, the swirl of hormones racing through your blood leaving you frustrated and violent.

The recom frowned, displeased at your lack of submission. He took a threatening step towards you and you instinctively spat at his face, relishing at the sight of him jerking his head back in shock. Quaritch paused, using a hand to wipe your saliva off his face before flicking it towards the lush earth. You braced yourself as you anticipated his reaction to your defiance. Your breasts rose and fell with each breath that you released, the sensitive peaks hardening into pebbles with each step he took closer towards you. Aching. Begging to be touched. Your back subconsciously arched towards him, presenting themselves like a meal for a starved man.

This heat was unlike anything you’ve felt before. In the past, you’ve simply used your own slender fingers or the assistance of other young men from your tribe who were simply looking for a quick release. But the ache that you had for the recom in front of you was primal, like he was the holy salve that could ease all of your problems. Your body could feel sensation: the soft moss beneath your toes, the itchy fabric that bound your wrists and the cool night air caressing your body. Not to mention the glistening liquid that started to seep outside your sex.

Quaritch advanced forward with the speed of a warrior, his brutish fingers gripping onto your cheeks as he angled your face closer to his. Your face grew impossibly hotter at his close proximity. “Where. Is. He.” He growled. His hold on your face was firm but not painful— but the feeling of his skin on yours seemed to satisfy something primal within you, and you regrettably let out a meek whimper. You swore that you felt wetness run down your leg, your tail harshly flicking from side to side in desperate want.

A flash of realization seemed to hit the Colonel as he took note of your quivering frame. His eyes were half-lidded as he took a long look at your tongue swiping across your lips, his ears twitching at the sound of your quiet whimpers. He hadn’t fully tested out the capabilities of his Na’vi body, but with a deep inhale, he knew that the sweet musk that emanated from your being meant something. He felt his cock twitch in his pants. Not only were you in your heat, wanting some form of relief— but you wanted him. You wanted him to mate with you, to stuff your aching pussy with his Na’vi cock and spill himself deep inside your cunt.

“How ‘bout I make this easier for you?” Quaritch taunted.

His hand gently trailed from your cheeks to your neck, giving it a tight squeeze. He let out a breath as he watched your eyes flutter shut, his thumb gently caressing the warm skin of your bobbing throat. His eyes zeroed in on your soft lips, gently parted and seconds from drooling. He had to admit it to himself: you were one of the prettiest Na’vi women that he had ever seen. For a split second, Quaritch tried convincing himself that this was part of his mission. But shit. What a fun mission that hunting Jake Sully turned out to be.

He brought his other hand onto your hip, tightening his grip with just the right amount of pressure. He wanted nothing more than to run his hands over your tits, to push away the woven top that did little to hide your hardened peaks. But he was patient. He could wait this out.

“You could try,” you gritted from your teeth in your accented English. “But you will not be able to find what you are looking for.”

“Really?” Quaritch asked. The hand on your throat moved backwards to grasp the braided queue behind your head. A flash of fear shuddered through your body, but you were surprised with his gentle grip. With your hair in his grasp, moved his fist towards the ground, encouraging you to angle your neck upwards. With your neck outstretched, he bent his head down to slowly run his tongue from your clavicle to just beneath your ear, leaving a glistening trail on your blue skin. “Hngh— ah!” You softly cried out at the feeling of his hot, wet tongue, lapping up the pheromone-filled sweat on your neck. You felt your body deflate in the absence of his heat as he slowly pulled away from you. You stared at him with a look of disbelief, offended at the action of him stopping. You almost pouted. Curse your heating cycle for making you act like this. Feel like this towards a demon.

“Oh?” The recom tilted his head. A smile crinkled his eyes, as if he could hear your inner monologue and was absolutely toying with the fact that you were trying so desperately hard to resist your desperate want for him. “You want more, sweetheart?”

You were about to shake your head in resistance, preparing to feign ignorance at his questions regarding Jake Sully, but your mouth dropped open when Quaritch returned his mouth to your body. This time, his lips latched onto your breast, sucking on your nipples through the woven top that kept your chastity. You let out a loud gasp, your back arching even further as you pushed your chest into his face. Your skin felt the rumble of his throat, your hip feeling the cold absence of his other hand before it reached to grab onto your other breast. You were a pathetic little thing, arms tied above your head, whimpering and moaning into oblivion while the recom continued his assault on your tits.

The colonel slid his hand beneath your top, revelling at the breathy sounds that left your pretty little mouth with each pinch and roll of your nipple. His tongue longed to directly taste your pebbled flesh, and he quickly pulled away before fully rolling your top up. He groaned at the taste of your perky nipple against his tongue, swirling and flicking. In this state, your body was sensitive and at mercy to his every move. You let out a high pitched whine at the euphoric feeling of his soft, wet tongue lapping at your bare breasts, butterflies fluttering throughout your core.

“I-“ You let out a strangled noise when you felt his sharp teeth gently nibble on your nipple. “Won’t! Say- ah! Anything!”

“We can test that out,” Quaritch grunted. He brought his thigh between your knees, forcing you to slightly widen your stance. Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, wondering about the purpose of his positioning when— oh. Your body was flush against his, his hand gripping your hip and the other still wrapped around your braid. You felt the thick muscles of his thigh flex underneath your cunt, your body betraying you as you felt the moisture of your pussylips leak onto your loincloth and onto his thigh.

Quaritch groaned at the feeling of your wetness on his thigh. “Fuck,” he gritted. “Look at you, all soaking wet. All for me, ain’t that right sweetheart?” He drove his leg further up, adding more pressure to your sweltering cunt. Your knees buckled at the contact on your sex, your hips grinding back and forth as you satisfied yourself with the Quaritch’s muscular thigh. It fit perfectly between your legs, allowing you to brush your clit against his body at just the right angle, pushing you closer and closer to your release.

The colonel kept his eyes on your gyrating body, hypnotized by every languid roll of your flushed body. His erection strained against his pants, almost painfully, and he could feel small dots of pre-cum stain his underwear. Ever since he woke up in his Na’vi body, he never had the chance to rub at his own cock. It wasn’t until he met you that he found the urge to drive his member to satisfaction, to feel his new body release white-hot ropes of cum until he was spent.

You continued to press yourself against his thigh, grinding your swollen clit onto his strange pants. You hated to beg, but fuck, you needed to remove the layers that separated your cunt from the colonel. “P-Please,” you stammered, glancing down at your loincloth.

“What’s that?” Quaritch’s ear twitched. “You need some help, sweetheart?”

His thigh abandoned your core much to your avail, but he decided to be merciful. Quaritch curled his hand around the waist of your loincloth before pulling it down, finally revealing your swollen pussy to the air. He breathed deeply, inhaling the sweet scent of your cunt and letting out a low groan.

He took his palm, cupping the hard tent that protruded from his pants and firmly massaged his shaft through layers of cloth. The recom allowed himself this blissful moment of relief before he pulled his hand away from himself, bringing his thigh back to your naked wet pussy. The two of you groaned loudly at the contact, your slick cunt lips staining his pants with each stroke. You rolled your hips down on his thigh intensely, desperately chasing your high as soft whimpers and pants escaped your mouth. You were grateful for Quaritch’s rough hands on your hips, guiding your motions back and forth as he practically lifted you from the floor with his impressive strength.

“Look at you, all horny and wet just from riding my leg.” Quaritch grunted, nearly losing himself when he felt the side of your thigh brush against his cock. He bit his lip, the metallic taste of blood coating his tongue. He felt a surge of pride as he watched you increase your speed, his ears twitching at the quickening inhales of your breath; he knew you were on the precipice of cumming. He gave you a devilish grin. “And what if I—“

You let an animalistic whine as Quaritch stepped away from you, a sticky string of liquid trailing from your hole to his stained pants. Immediately, you clenched your legs together again, squeezing your own thighs together as you longed for friction. You looked at Quaritch from under your eyelashes, eyes wide in betrayal. He met your stare with a tsk of his tongue.

Your gaze was quickly drawn to the colonel’s evident bulge, your mouth watering at the site. You lost your composure as you became painfully aware of the emptiness of your sex, walls of your cunt spasming against nothing in pulsing bursts of need. Need for his cock to fill you up, the need o fill your senses with just him and to need to have him fuck you until you could no longer think about the frustrating pain.

“Please,” you whispered. You saw the colonel falter for a slight moment before he straightened himself, towering over you with the cold stare of a warrior. As if he could pretend that he didn’t feel the same lust that took control over your body. You saw right through him.

“Tell me where Jake Sully is, and I’ll give you what you want.”

You shook your head, refusing to say a word in fear of sinking into your desire to beg for him. Your breath hitched as Quaritch stepped closer towards you again, your hips angling up towards him as if he was the rightful owner. Despite the colonel’s hard resolve, you knew that he was entranced by you, your scent. That was the effect of the Na’vi heat— the scent of your pheromones, enough to drive a warrior crazy. And god, he was insane. Quaritch slowly took his hand, the bare skin of his digits finally making contact with your soft, slick pussy lips. His eyes drooped to your folds, his mouth dropping at the feel of your soaked cunt. Fuck, he had never felt anything so enticing in his life. He watched your facial expressions melt into bliss, your pretty eyes squeezed shut and your mouth shaped in an ‘o’ shape.

You felt the thick pads of his calloused fingers part your dripping lips, slowly trailing from the edge of your hole to your puffy clit. His digits gently toyed with your entrance while his thumb rubbed circles against your sensitive nub, and your head fell back in pleasure, exposing your neck once again. Growling, Quaritch’s mouth pounced onto your skin, gently biting down on the sensitive skin of your neck before darting his tongue against your pulse point. Your fingernails dug into your palms, drawing blood as you whimpered pathetically. “Quaritch,” you gasped softly. The recom’s ears perked up at the sound of you crying out his name, and fuck. He was a goner.

And he had to stop before he lost himself.

Quaritch stepped away from you once more, taking in the sight before him. He felt his tail flicker as he looked at your heaving chest, your body trembling from his handiwork. The sides of your thighs were slick from your want, your breasts swollen and heavy. His body stilled as you made eye contact with him, your pupils blown so wide that they were practically black. Your lips were puffy from you biting down on them, a small drizzle of drool running down your chin. He knew that it would be torture to leave you like this, begging for his touch, your orgasm unspent.

His heart raced at the sight of you, cock ready to burst despite not having touched it. He was going crazy.

“Jake. Sully. Tell me. Now. And I’ll do both of us a favour by unzipping my pants right now, taking out my dick, and pounding into that wet little pussy of yours until you cum all over my cock and milk me real, real nicely.” Quaritch growled in frustration. He waited with bated breath for your response, confident that you would finally give into his interrogation.

Instead, he was taken aback at your twinkling eyes, tears pooling in each corner. Your lower lip wobbled as you shuffled side to side, desperately rubbing your legs together. This was all too much for a Na’vi in heat. He couldn’t leave you like this, all strung up with nowhere to burst. Your entire being inwardly screamed at yourself, at him, to be wrapped up in his arms, to feel every inch of his skin on yours. You felt like you could burst into tears at the feeling of your throbbing, horny pussy.

And so, fuck your hormones, you blinked as your tears finally ran down your face.

Quaritch stared at you, stupefied at your sad expression. Your long lashes fluttered as you kept trying to blink away fat tears, your bound hands unable to wipe them away from your cheeks freckled with bioluminescence. He felt his stoney heart break for a split moment, and he swore under his breath.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” he said before finally breaking his resolve. Quaritch took one step before grasping your face with hands, his lips finally crashing onto yours in a frenzied rush of heat. Finally. Your lips slotted between each other perfectly, as if your bodies were made for each other. Gasping, Quaritch took advantage of your opened mouth to tease you with his tongue— one swipe, two— and you swirled your tongue around his, saliva pooling into each other’s mouths until you had no idea where you ended and where he began. Your kiss was messy, sloppy, and the perfect release for your pent-up tension.

With one hand, Quaritch quickly undid his belt and gasped his firm cock with his hand. His Na’vi member was an impressive size, veins running down the side like lightning strikes. He let out a low groan as he rubbed the sensitive head of his cock against your sticky entrance, his mouth salivating at the sight of your juices oozing out of your cunt like ripe fruit. He wrapped one of his hands underneath your knee, lifting your leg up with ease as he continued stroking your leaky slit with the swollen tip of his length. He watched as you squirmed incessantly, your back arching as he roughly tapped his tip against your puffy clit. Quaritch was enamoured by your pretty little moans, his pre-cum mixing with your wetness.

“P-Please,” you pleaded.

The colonel sucked in a sharp breath. “Just for you, sweetheart.” His cock finally slipped past your entrance, the two of you moaning loudly. Quaritch kissed the tears on your cheeks as his length disappeared into your body, savouring the feeling of his thick member stretching your pulsating walls. You released unintelligible whimpers as he slowly rutted in and out of you, the lewd noises of his flesh plunging into your wet cunt music to his ears. Quaritch grunted as he pulled you close, his muscles taut with every roll of his pelvis. Your head fell forward, lightly jostling against his sweat-soaked chest with each painstakingly slow thrust.

“More,” you whimpered, your body writing against its restraints. With a growl, Quaritch’s slow thrusts quickly transformed into a brutal pace as he roughly jackhammered into your cunt. He used the calloused fingers of his other hand to rub tantalizing circles on your bundle of nerves, his ears twitching in delight at every breathy moan that left your swollen mouth. The sensation of his cock and his fingers were almost too much for you. Your walls fluttered around his throbbing member with each pump, your building orgasm causing your cunt to spasm and clench around his cock tighter and tighter. “Fuck— your pussy feels so good sweetheart, you’re taking me so fucking good.” He groaned into your ear, the scent of his musk filling your senses. You whined as the familiar build-up of your orgasm met with an unfamiliar sensation that built in the pit of your core.

“I-“ you stammered as Quaritch’s cock kept pistoning inside of you. “I feel like I’m going to—“

“Come on sweetheart, it’s alright, I got you.” Quaritch’s gravelly voice guided you to your climax. He rolled the pads of his thumb into circles on your clit, relishing in the way that you were falling apart at his touch. He lifted your leg higher, hammering into you at a deeper angle that sent your eyes rolling back, and you let out a choked sob as you felt yourself convulse around his cock. Quaritch groaned as your pussy gripped his member, savouring your strangled noises as your weeping cunt came around his member, squeezing and milking.

“That’s it, I got, you I— oh, fuck.”

It was like a dam had burst. Squirming, you felt a clear liquid seep from your pussy, showering down his cock and leaking down your legs. Your eyes tore open, your mouth dropping as you stared at your dripping juices. Quaritch blinked down at your sex, his grip on your body turning to steel. “My cock that good that you just had to squirt all over it, huh? Fuck,” he swore as he picked up his thrusts once more, ravishing in the ways that your delectably wet cunt gripped him. His thrusts became sporadic as he reached his peak, the sweat from his exertion smearing onto your body.. “Oh fuck, your pussy takes my cock so well— hngh, fuck— you want my cum?”

You nodded your head desperately, your eyes watering and drool running down the sides of your mouth. “P-Please,” you begged. Quaritch pounded one last thrust before letting out a guttural groan. His hips stuttered as he released his hot seed into you, bursts of white semen coating your sensitive walls. You moaned at the feeling of his cum filling your cunt, trails of his seed leaking down the side of your legs. “Fuck,” he swore.

Quaritch’s arms quickly wrapped around your middle as you slumped forwards, your energy entirely spent. After the two of you caught your breaths, he released you from the branch, your hands massaging the red marks on your skin from the cuffs that restricted you. He wiped a lock of hair away from your face, surprising himself for a moment. The two of you paused, staring at each other as you held your wrists close to your chest. He blinked as he took a careful step towards you, your mind reeling as you fought against the realization of what you two had just done.

You looked up at him with wide eyes, unsure what to think of the emotion pinching his eyebrows together. The colonel took one step towards you, “don’t—“

After quickly grabbing your discarded clothing, you took off running.

“Shit.”

The colonel was utterly fucked.

⋯ ˁᱸᲲᱸˀ ⋯

#miles quaritch x reader #colonel quaritch smut #avatar 2 smut #na'vi smut #colonel quaritch #avatar miles quaritch #avatar #atwow x reader #avatar x reader #avatar 2 spoilers #recom quaritch x na'vi reader #my writing #avatar the way of water #quaritch fanfic #avatar 2009 #stephen lang #jake sully #quaritch x y/n

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simp-ly-writes · 8 months

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Lasting Pictures: Interrogation (pt.6)

Pairing: Poly!Task Force 141 x Photographer!Reader

Summary: Stress is weighing down every part of your life, your relationships are strained, your work is becoming sloppy and you are desperate for answers- yet where will those answers lead you to and at what cost?

Warnings: 4592 words, slowburn, swearing, depictions of PTSD, blood, and injury. Allusions to jealousy.

A/N: we are reaching the end? (not really ahhaha). Apologies for the lack of uploads- uni has been serving up hell recently :/

Masterlist | Taglist | edited.

Lasting Pictures Series Masterlist

↳ Three Weeks Until Mission “Spill”

Across the next few days you were splitting your time between weapons and strength training while packing your gear into a travel bag and cleaning your gun in the dining room as a break. The apartment was empty for the afternoon and you had left Spoons back at your apartment with care instructions to your elderly neighbour tapped to the fridge. Placing the shining metal against the blanket you had laid out. Looking down at the disassembled gun, a shiver runs down your spine as you see yourself reflected over and over again in the shimmers. You think about the scenario you are about to place yourself in. There was no need for an intelligence gatherer today, no- they had requested you to be a part of the infiltration team. You would be returning directly to your old position and be cleaning rooms with a barrel raised and ammunition strapped to your chest.

There was no option nor any choice, you had the full knowledge of every desired hostile target to be eliminated and all those connected who were valuable to be integrated after. You knew exactly how to grip the answers out of their skull, falling loose at the lips as you would push forward. Room after room, bodies hitting the floor leading up your most important mission yet. There were millions of lives at stake, a country of people who breathed, who loved and were loved, who deserved to see the light of day again.

You were determined to ensure their lives but at what cost. At what cost could you put yourself towards more… irreplaceable damage, as a therapist once told you. Shaking your head as you heard the door open, you placed a solid smile across your face before reassembling your gun. Hearing each piece slide effortlessly into place and finally with a click you were looking down your scope, fixing the last bells and whistles before loading up your vest.

Not paying attention to Köing who somehow managed to enter the locked apartment and sat at the table silently. He unloaded his own gun against the table, keeping you company as he followed your actions, reaching across to pick up the cloth as he polished some of the knives scattered across his uniform. Only when the Austrian hummed a familiar tune, one that your old squad listened and recited before every mission had you slipping beneath your mask- a true small smile lost to time as of recently.

You both became lost in the… somewhat domestic moment together. Humming in harmony before your phone dinged repeatedly from inside your duffle bag. Huffling while giving the tall man an apology, he simply placed another knife against the table before waving a hand in your face. Telling you to go take your call as he disassembled his gun and began humming once more.

Swiping without checking to see who it was, all you received on the other end was some hurried breathing and then static. Taking the device away from your ear, you look down to see the call has ended and no number has been tracked. Tapping your foot against the hardwood floors as you debate on asking Köing to take a look or not- you decide against it and send a text towards Gabby with a screenshot of the phone logs before returning to pack your bag.

“Everything alright, Maus?”

“It's been awhile since I heard you call me that,” you reply with a slight laugh in your voice.

“It has… but might as well start someplace? Is that not what you and your American friends say?”

Throwing your head back now in laughter, you grip the Austrains shoulder into a small side-hug before moving around the table and folding more of your shirts.

“You never answered my question.”

“Hm?” you reply without looking up.

“Who was on the phone, you began to do your pacing thing- someone say something?” Köing comments while tilting his head and reaching over the table to hold your forearm, halting your motions.

“Oh, nothing like that… just some miscommunication from within the team, that's all,” you reply before dropping your shirt into the bag and look towards the opening door- your squad appeared to be coming back from the gym.

“Okay then… see you again soon Maus,” Köing adds quietly with a wink before attaching his gear back into place, giving you a small hug and making his way out of the apartment. Your face falls once more, realising that none of the boys had greeted you since arriving as you place the last pair of pants into the bag before zipping it closed.

Slinging the bag over your shoulder you head out the apartment to place your gear for easy access the next morning in the locker room. As you pass by the living room Soap and Ghost sit on the couch cuddling one another- the infamous plaid blanket draped across their legs as a game plays across the television screen. Gaz comes out of the shower, towel wrapped around his legs and you receive no usual smirk from the man as Price enters the apartment, phone pressed into his ear as he side-steps you before moving into his room. Clutching the shoulder-strap you close the door gently behind yourself before watching the numbers tick down the elevator floors. The past meets the present once more, is the only message that passes through your mind when the doors open.

When suiting up in the locker rooms the next morning, a lack of caffeine has you tying your two boots together with a groan exiting between your lips. Your alarm had awakened you yet again and the lack of light touches to your hair from Gaz in the morning had your heart feeling heavier than your eyes from a lack of sleep. Soap didn’t chase you around the apartment in the afternoons nor did he whisper dad-jokes to you during dinnertime. You ate alone in your room, at your desk with your journals scattered across its surface.

You tugged on your vest, tightening the labels across your chest while shimmying on your gloves, testing the feeling of your fingers trapped beneath the material as you gave your helmet a good few knocks- ensuring it was secured tightly to your head. A member from a joining squad came to check your gear as they helped to tighten the back straps of your vest and to apply your jumping gear.

Giving you a quick pat on the shoulder, you moved to stand against the wall beside Ghost who turned to give you a close lookover- obviously not trusting the man from earlier that just checked you over. His bone-gloved hands move across every latch, zipper and button before he turns to stand in line once more- as if nothing had happened.

Your cheeks still hold a familiar pink hue to them as Laswell walks down the line and faces Price standing at the top. They hold one another's stares for a few moments, neither wanting to fold first yet a cough coming from a younger recruit snaps them out of their miniature competition as they both glare down the line to see who interrupted.

“Task force 141 you will be split into squads 0-1 through 0-9, you all will be placed on action items one through four, objective sites are lit when you arrive. NODs are to be equipped for the night execution of this mission when you will arrive by air. Jump distance to objective is cleared to be 10 clicks away, are there any questions?” Laswell demands to the group, a satisfied smile displaying across her face once being met with silence.

You all enter the plane, hooking yourself in as you watch various new and old faces do the same around you. The slight tug back in your seat comforts you in its familiary to the plane ascending, in four hours you would be placed back, combat focused after all those years away. You closed your eyes as the engines hummed, drawing out most worrying thoughts that usually accompanied you. You gripped your gun between your gloves as you prayed for the training sessions to prove worthy.

Once dropping into the site. You felt your heart beating through your head and helmet, the drum-like beat that kept you moving, kept your gun raised as you kicked open door after door. You were assigned as head of another squad, their eyes follow your every action, their weapons raised to your beck and call. Many of them young and bright in the eyes, not having seen the hells of warfare or pulling a trigger to sever a lifeforce. The pressure mounted on your shoulders as these thoughts consumed you, hardly feeling when you got slammed into a wall. One of your targets emerged in a dimly lit room, too bright for your night vision yet concealed enough to pull a knife against your side.

You felt as the blood dripped down your pant leg as you hooked your leg underneath his knee. Forcing him downwards as you wrestled on the ground. The knife dropped as you kicked it towards one of your squad members stationed at the door. A grunt erupts from the man as you slam your hand against his windpipe, he chokes for a moment- limbs going slack so that you can twist his arm, forcing pressure against his shoulder as you call out for restraints to be placed.

Brining the man to the car, you lock the door behind him before regrouping with your team and the results repeat. A door opened, a room scanned to either house a knife or gun barreling towards your face. You soon forget the gash on your leg as adrenaline takes over your form- a woman stands on the other side of the door, gun drawn as one of your men falls against the wall- clutching their shoulder with a shout.

You tackle the woman to the ground, reaching towards your secondary as she fumbles to load another shot. A bullet begins to be loaded in the barrel as you drive again to take the shot, a young Lance Corporal stands behind you, it was only his second mission. The ringing in your ears is ever more potent as a shot rings out in the room, wizzing right past your ear as the woman's corpse lies heavy against your chest.

So close to the edge- once more, your hands shake but you hold resolve to face the worried troops. “Are you okay, lieutenant?” A young man calls to you, caught between dressing a wound and eyeing up your own.

“I’m al’right, good shot Matthew.”

“It was either one of ours or theirs- easy choice,” they reply, eyes confident as their hands become caked in the blood of their brother.

“It will get harder as your time progresses, nevertheless we are to regroup with the other squads. This was the last room to be cleared,” you say as you throw the body off your own and stand, doing your best to wipe the blood off your chest as you radio to Laswell, “Watcher this is Dice, squad-04 has cleared region C. Exiting to regroup at the rally point.”

“Good job- Dice. Clean work?” you pause your radio to let out a groan, doing your best to walk out to the awaiting truck as the rest carry out the injured soldier behind you.

“Negative, one dead- four on route for interrogation. Based upon an ID found from Price’s team- they are some kind of scientist organization working with the aggressor group. Connections lead to Shepard intelligence- Farah I think?”

“Correct. The evidence matches these series of attacks. We just need to track down that oligarch and the rest of the cards should fall into place”

“Never knew you to be a cards gambler, Laswell.”

“You are one to speak with the company you kept.”

Silence carries through on the radio as you debate a reply and load up into the truck, tapping the roof twice before the wheels dig into the muddied ground. The transport shakes as a storm brews in the sky. The wind rumbling the wings of the plane, as the metal of your seat groans underneath the pressure as you tighten your holds. Matthew gives you a thumbs up with a tilt to his head as you nod once back in reply while doing your best to cross your legs- hiding the wound for the duration of the flight as your head falls light.

You do not remember walking off the plane, nor do you remember being placed inside Gabbys office once again as her appearance is a blurry image, caressing your cheeks as she whisper-shouts into your face.

“Bestie- please- this is not funny! I need your attention now, Dice!” She shakes your head as you groan, trying to shut your eyes once more due to the brightness of the room. Yet as you shift your body into a more comfortable position, you hiss out, the stitches placed against your thigh still red from their recent incision.

“Y/N, come on Y/N- don’t be a weak bastard now. I still need you to do all this paperwork- I’m drowning over here. Oh fuck, you probebly are shell-shocked- Don’t even know what I am saying-”

“Fucking hell Gabs, can you shut up one moment so I can get some shut-eye? I got stabbed, ‘Yippee’!” you produce jazz hands in Fish’s face before shoving her away slightly so you can sit upright with a groan. She rushes over with an extra pillow that had fallen to the floor as she grips your hand.

“Ouch! Lessen your grip, please. I swear I’m fine. Blood Loss and all that I assume,” you reply with a large side of sarcasm as you watch Gabby feverishly nod her head before dropping it in your lap with a sigh, you comb your fingers through her hair as cries out a little. Relief coating her system in a familiar hug to your hands.

“When I saw the reports flood in, a-and saw that those evil fucks managed to get some of our own guys- I could not help but imagine you lifeless on that plane home. Fuck, Dice-” Gabby says while shaking her head in your lap before you pick her head up, forcing her eyes towards your own.

“You are not getting rid of me that quickly, Fish. And you know if I ever did- you would be coming down with me.”

Throwing her head back in mixed tears and laughter, she hands you a glass of water before she dries her tears from the issue box. “I am keeping your word to that,” Gabby says while looking up towards the ceiling once more, blinking back any remaining tears as you rub her back.

“In the face of death- we shall never part then.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Hmm,” you let out thoughtfully before looking down at your watch, 3AM glowed brightly as your stomach grumbled, Gabbys echoing the same as she blushed a bright red.

“Dinner reservations at the caf?”

“Sounds like a date. Never knew you to be such a romantic, Fish.”

“I have my uses beside books and good looks,” she says before giving you a signature wink. Shaking your head you stumble to a stand before Gabby comes rushing over, using her as a semi-crutch you both heat up microwavable meals while going over new reports as morning birds begin to chirp out and you both are found sleeping on the bench.

But as you both were found hours later, rest was not available while the wicked still breathed. Finding yourself swamped in familiar paperwork, adding to Gabbys intelligence board within the office while also hearing General Shepard yell down your ears every other day on web calls was a treat in itself.

You both were so close to discovering the answers that you needed, one last red string to be laid as you listened into an interrogation happening from one of the men you intercepted from the last mission. Looking through the mirrored glass, you saw them stare down at you. You know they could not see you in reality, but the little stir down your spine did deter you to take a small step back while readjusting your headset.

They were telling stories in circles, so close to breaking, you were so close to having a breakthrough. All you needed was that last little push to redeem yourself in the eyes of superiors, to redeem yourself in your own reflection from not having the strength earlier.

“I do not know anything- I swear to you!”

“You swear- do you?” Gabby counters, her hands slamming against the metal desk as it rattle within the empty room. “Then please explain to me why biological weapon plans were found taped underneath your dresser, or better yet- how your wife was found at a charity Gala with criminal bosses or maybe how your precious sister died because she believed so heavily in the plan and not in you, yourself-hm?”

“I-I, she’s not dead. W-WHAT DID YOU MONSTERS DO TO HER!”

Sweat dripped down your back as you clutched the console, finger hovering over the communications button. But Gabby switches techniques quickly, dropping her head as she leans against the table now in a more relaxed position.

“She shot, we shot. That is all to be said- you can imagine the rest I believe with a character of your strengths. All I would need is a location…”

The man spits in her face as Gabby wipes the liquid away with the sleeve of her shirt in disgust before sighing and looking through the class, tapping a finger to her chin in contemplation.

“I serve the cause, we are to restore the beauty of the lands which have been taken.”

“Mhmm, and there is beauty to be found when the ground you rest your head upon is soaked in the blood of thousands of innocent people- children included. What would your own child think of you-hm? The one studying abroad currently… or was…” Gabby closes her eyes for a moment, as if praying for this line to sink in as she turns to face the man in the next instance. Walking over to lean down right beside his ear, “...temporarily moved… will she greet you with open arms screaming “Daddy!” with a big ol smile, kissing your cheek in that lonely yellow floral dress. Or maybe- actually probably- never mind that. She will look at you for the man you hide to be… a slaughterer of others daughters. That hateful look of disgust, a pity really it would be to sour such a good relationship…”

Gabby backs away, walking towards the door as the man begins to thrash in his chair- pulling at the cuffs on the metal table. “ALCOVE BLOCK. I-It’s a disabled mineral and forestry site. Farmland for miles surrounds it- you will find the accountant. Powerful member to the fight- t-they…” the man trails off fear beginning to overwhelm his stressed system.

“They. What?” Gabby presses, turning back to face the man as she slowly walks back over, a menacing tilt to her head as they lean away from her body and that is when you decide to enter the room. A small, pleasant appearing smile is plastered across your features as you kneel by the sitting scientist.

“Hey, hey. Deep breaths, I promise no harm to come to you while I am here,” is all you say before pushing Gabby out of the room. Turning to face away from the camera behind the man, you whisper out to the room only filled by light breathing and the tick of a distant clock. “I am on your side, I have seen you as you have me- is that not what our friends say?”

A few deep breaths in and out go-by before the man's shoulders slump forward in relief as he speaks out softly, The accountant is to be promoting us all. Direct return is very much necessary- I will speak good words of your efforts as I know you have much to report. They leave in a few days time, you get me out of here- and I promise that you will be served well by the leader.”

“A promotion you say?” you tease as you hear Gabbys small cheers coming through your earpiece. Looking over the man, you let off a tisk, tisk, tisk before exiting much to his confusion.

Leaning against the closed door, you rip your headset off before storming back into the room as the man yells out in frustration as the guards move him back into the holding cell. Once inside you find Laswell and Gabby already pulling you into a hug while voicing their thanks.

A ragged breath escapes between your lips, good enough is all that floats around your head. The last red line goes up moments later as another round of coffee is served in celebration before you are packing your bags once more, disregarding your injury for the new week upon you.

As the night falls upon you once more, the notes from the interrogation earlier in the day left to flock through the system. You lay wide awake in your bed, the ceiling fan spinning once again as the heater hums in the living room. You feel as Gabby stirs beside you, equally as restless to the sounds of Soaps snoring from the next room over. She looks over your features in the moonlight, concern overpowering her senses as she reaches out to hold your hand underneath the covers.

“You never told me how you know that expression…” Gabby whispers, the secrets you held eating her alive.

“...You promised to keep no secrets, but as of recently… I feel that I barely know you anymore. We have gotten so caught up in work…” her finger trails up your arm before she pulls you into a hug. “I feel that sometimes… I should have never asked you to return.“

Your breath hitches, “Gabriela-”

“Full name. Now I know we're truly serious,” Gabby says with a giggle, the seriousness returning to her tone the next moment, “Do you think you are going back after the mission? I am even thinking of leaving after all of this is over.”

You hum while giving her a squeeze. “Really? Knowing you- you will be itching to do something not even half-a-day after signing the papers.” You laugh out into a saddened sigh, “Sometime ago I said that I would stay… But with how things are going, I don’t quite know now… Wow I am such an asshole, stringing everyone with shit loaded promises-”

“No. You were being truthful to the moment, couldn’t ask for anything more.”

“Still- Gabby- I-”

“No, Dice. I asked you to come, you do not need me or anyone to hold you from staying after this mission.”

“But that's the thing Gabs. What about everyone once I leave?” you question, tears welling in your eyes as memories consume you- slight shakes forming at the hands has Gabby sitting upright to look down at you- giving your side a small tickle in distraction as you kick your feet out towards her in reaction before you hide your wince of pain. Your injury almost healed from a secret visit to the nurses office.

“You did not get to choose then, but you do now. That is what is different- what I am trying to tell you. I am not saying life will ever go back to normal, but whatever beginnings of normal you found within that apartment- I think you could find peace there.”

You contemplate Gabbys words, twirling a strand of her hair in your finger as you start to form a small braid, the sequences that your parent taught you. “I was hiding in that apartment, Gabs, behind my desk and in my journals. I-I don’t know where to go…”

Gabby lets out a hum as a delicate smile appears, “a gift- not knowing is; where to go, who to be, when to do what. It allows us to account for anything we ever wanted or find we want for nothing at all.”

You watch as she lays back down, turning her back to face you before speaking up once more, “take time as much as you spend it, Dice. Know that I will be here no matter what you decide.”

Letting out yet another ragged breath, you sniffle while trying to blink away tears of thankfulness, “Thank you, Fish. I would not know life without you- truthfully.”

“That makes two of us, now go the fuck to sleep. You look like a dying rat.”

You wheeze out into your bedroom as Gabby covers her face in the pillow, muffling her sleep-deprived cackles.

When you awake in the morning, Gabby's side of the small bed is empty, the sheets a mess and the shower running in tune to her horrid singing voice that has Gaz slamming on the door, voicing a complaint as he walks by your room. Ghost follows in tow with a hand against Kyle’s back- ushering him forwards.

Rubbing your eyes awake, you open your phone in the living room, seeing a few messages and selfies sent from Horangi and Köing as they pose in their gear- holding a thumbs up. Sending a text back, you were happy to see that they made a safe flight over the pond as you read off on emails the next minute.

You end up eating breakfast in Gabby’s office as you rattle off strategies with Laswell and Graves on video-call. You twirl in the chair once you close the tab- mind racing yet bags packed and waiting by the door. So much has happened in so little time, you think to yourself while adding more change to the fishbowl. You watch the coins fall and clank against the glass before loading up your belongings. While rolling up the charging cable, a knock is sounded from the door that has you bumping your head from underneath the desk.

Cursing and rubbing your hand- your eyes fall wide in shock seeing a dishevelled Laswell forcing herself into the office before quickly locking the door behind herself and motioning for you to sit back down. Kate walks around to the desk, sitting down to look at you from across the table while throwing her head against the desk with a groan escaping her.

“Everything alright-”

“Just peachy, Dice. I need you to leave sooner than expected.”

“Okay… like tomorrow or in 20 minutes?” you joke out, wincing at the bags underneath her eyes.

“1 hour- close but no cigar.”

“Dang, could use one of those right now…”

“Gods, you and Johnny with the jokes- really helping to do my head in.”

“Apologies, Laswell, I will get moving.”

With one hand on the door handle, Kate calls out your name as you turn back around to face her. “And do speak to John after this mission- please.”

You meet her words with silence before she speaks up again, “He’s become the offspring of a mother hen and grizzly bear recently. Whatever has been stirred- try to ensure it doesn't come into the field. I can look past many things from over the years- but I will not stand to hide piss-poor work, am I clear?”

“Crystal, Ma’am.”

“Safe travels, Dice.”

Lasting Pictures Series Masterlist

↳ Taglist: @ashy-kit

171 notes · View notes

infiniteetcetera · 4 months

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The recent discourse of “Cassian/Nesta don’t make sense as mates from a power standpoint” is so interesting (and true) but I also find it interesting that I don’t think there really is any other SJM world mates that parallel Cassian/Nesta?? Like there’s nothing about them that reads as mates to me. Whether you like them or not, Feysand, Rowaelin, Elucien, and Quinlar all make perfect sense to me as mates (even if it’s not in a romance sense but in like a powers/fantasy bond/parallels sense) The only SJM couple that comes close to Nessian in terms of parallels for me is (Nessian stans turn away now) Azriel/Mor.

There are actually a lot of interesting parallels here on the surface/in terms of scenes. I give you examples:

• Mor yanking her hand away from Az and Cassian yanking his hand away from Nesta, even though the action shows incredible (rare) vulnerability from Az/Nesta.

• The entire Cauldron/end of ACOMAF scene, Cassian’s reactions to Nesta being hurt and Azriel’s reactions to Mor getting hurt are the same.

• A complete lack of understanding for one another despite their connection?? Cassian and Nesta are almost never on the same page and Mor and Azriel still fail to understand each other after 500 years of friendship.

•Choosing Rhys/orders over each other, specifically when it matters most.

•The way Mor describes Azriel’s feelings of inadequacy and feeling undeserving of her are exactly how Nesta describes her feelings for Cassian and not being good enough for him (also neither Cas/Mor has ever told the other they’re wrong for feeling that way).

•Despite their own disregard of the others feelings, Cassian/Mor demonstrate a similar weird possessiveness over Nesta/Azriel, in particular i’m thinking of Cassians reaction to Neris (even though Nesta doesn’t even like Eris) and Mor’s reaction to Elriel (like you’re a Lesbian girl why do you care who Az is flirting with)

•A surface level parallel of powers that implies a subservience that isn’t normal with mating bonds (where powers are meant to compliment each other, even if one is slightly more powerful.) For example, Nesta’s power is death and Cassian is a war general (who delivers death, but is inherently subservient to it) and Mor’s power is “truth” while Azriel is an interrogator with a knife called truth teller (again sort of subservient to the idea and pursuit of truth, not equal to it)

•The implication of having no shared hobbies and one being forced into doing what the other likes (Nesta training to become more like Cas, Azriel going to Rita’s and generally putting himself out there to please Mor)

•The manipulation of emotions to force the other into doing what they want. Nesta goes from 0 to 100 in accepting the bond bc Cassian pushes this idea of being “shackled” to her and reminding her she’s inferior/not enough for him. Mor is constantly using Azriel’s feelings to force him to talk/agree to plans and just generally do what she/the IC wants

•The complete IGNORING of an implicit love confession (Az/Mor after the Autumn court debacle, Cas/Nes at the end of ACOWAR) even though ignoring it is weird and makes no sense.

WHY DO I POINT ALL THIS OUT? I think these parallels could mean some important things, especially because SJM could have chosen to ignore all the weird/bad things about Nessian and pretend they had a happily ever after following ACOSF but she didn’t. So, what are the options here?

1) I’ve seen this one a few times and I think it’s an interesting concept: there are “true” mating bonds, like those in TOG, and there are “cauldron” mating bonds, which have less to do with love/romance/compatibility and more to do with breeding and just generally creating a path the cauldron deems suitable. I think Mor/Azriel being “cauldron” mates would be a great way to explore this concept since Mor can’t love Azriel, giving Azriel a chance to be with someone purely out of choice (no matter who that is), and forcing the Archeron sisters to contemplate their mating bonds and whether they really want their mates (I focus more on Nes/Elain here, I hold true that Feysand is here to stay, though this could be an interesting contention point for Rhys)

2) This seems less likely to me but would be SO interesting: Rhys has the power to fake mating bonds to a certain degree and has been doing so when it suits him. Now let me specify one thing: Rhys did NOT fake his bond with Feyre, we do know this for certain. Based on his thoughts it’s also very likely he did NOT fake Elucien’s bond. HOWEVER i think it is totally plausible and makes sense for him to fake a bond between Mor/Azriel and Cassian/Nesta as a means of controlling Azriel and Nesta. We are told several times throughout the series Rhys doesn’t know how to control Az and the first time we see Az try to defy him (by being with Elain) what does Rhys immediately ask??? wHaT aBoUt mOr, aZ? Such a weird thing to bring up, except it’s not when you get to the basis of all Mor and Az’s interactions and why people think Az loves Mor (he does what she says and tries to make her happy, even to his own loss) except apparently when it suits Rhys. We’ve seen the SAME vibe with Nessian, and we know Rhys has been hardcore struggling to control Nesta. I think if he saw they had some mutual attraction, faking a bond there would make sense. it would also make sense they were able to avoid/ignore each other for so long (like the bond was faded) but then have an intense connection when around each other

3) These parallels mean nothing except SJM poorly wrote both of these pairings 💔

Truly, I know NOTHING for sure but I hope SJM chooses to do something interesting with these pairs rather then leaving them with weird icky damaging histories and ignoring them. Cant be too sure but I have some hope

#a court of thorns and roses #acotar #nesta archeron #azriel acotar #anti nessian #acotar mor #acotar 6 theories #anti inner circle #pro azriel acotar #pro nesta archeron #maybe this is just my way of saying free Az and Nes

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lets-try-some-writing · 1 month

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I'm behind because you posted this like 6 days ago (when I write this ask) but when you asked if someone was asking you to make Smokescreen angst... I'm asking.

Idea: Cortical Psychic Patch. Screw with his mind and drive him insane. You may take that as you will.

Please and thank you

I know it took me like three months to answer this, but here is a 10K or so long fic to make up for the wait :D

Seriously be wary if you click read more because this is LONNNNNNG

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He shouldn't have tried to play the hero.

Strapped down to a medical berth with harsh clasps and half blinded by the lights above, Smokescreen regretted every decision leading up to the present moment. That wasn't to say he wasn't proud of himself for getting as far as he had, but he really should have listened to Arcee and Ratchet more. Maybe if he had, he wouldn't have rushed to get the Omega Keys on the Nemesis of all places and promptly gotten himself caught at the last possible moment.

His plan had been to jump and use the phase shifter to escape certain death. But one wrong move later, and Megatron had him by the arm with no room for Smokescreen to squirm away. That was how he found himself in what he could only assume was either Shockwave or Knockout's workspace, strapped down and ready to be tortured, picked apart, or whatever Cons did to their prisoners.

He'd heard more than a few grizzly tales, so he was really putting his shanix on the hope that they would go for verbal interrogation over straight-up killing him. He'd gone through some basic interrogation training with the Elite Guard. He could probably hold out until the team found a way to get him out, or barring that, he might be able to squirm enough to escape. The clasps weren't impossible to worm his way out of. Sure, he would probably have to snap his thumbs to make it happen, but that's why it was a last resort.

What he was really concerned about was Megatron doing something to him. He could probably deal with Shockwave. Probably, at least if he made himself interesting. But Megatron? He doubted he would hold out longer than a few cycles. If he had to pick someone to torture and interrogate him, he was really, really hoping Starscream ended up in the same room as him. The Screamer was easy to rile up and just as simple to calm down with insults and compliments, respectively.

He could hear pedesteps coming closer. He couldn't really see because of the light, but he prayed to Primus that it wasn't the warlord.

"Smokescreen, that is your designation, is it not?" Slag it all. His luck was the worst.

A familiar, scarred face showed itself through the blinding light. Bright red optics bore down on Smokescreen with maliciousness and venom so strong it practically permeated the very air. If he lacked the training he'd gone through as a youth, Smokescreen would have crumbled under that gaze. As it was, he forced himself to frown, pushing up against his bindings in a show of rebellion and strength. He would not falter, not because of Megatron.

"What's it to you? Aren't you going to kill me now that you've caught me?" Bearing a bitter smile, Smokescreen sneered. Megatron was quick to grab his face, his cold and dangerous claws threatening to crush his jaw with strength hardly contained. Smokescreen tensed on instinct, and his well hidden fear only grew as the light was removed, allowing him to see just where he was.

Cords ran along the ground and up the cold steel walls. Purple lights flared periodically as a mech Smokescreen, recognized as Shockwave, prepared something on the other side of the room. Smokescreen was bound at a slanted vertical angle, giving him a solid view of the room while also keeping him from being able to work up the strength to snap his bindings. It was a minor form of physiological warfare that Smokescreen was familiar with.

Give a prisoner a taste of potential freedom, but keep them held on the edge, forever unable to escape but still hopeful enough to have some fight left in them. It was a method used to exhaust prisoners, keeping them more docile over long periods of time. Smokescreen was not thrilled to think about the possibility of being held captive for any length of time. But from the looks of it, Megatron had plans.

"I considered the idea, even indulging in the thought. But I believe I've found a better use for you." Megatron smiled, and by Primus, that set Smokescreen on edge. It was hard to keep up his rebellious outward appearance when the scourge of Cybertron was grinning like he'd just won a million shanix.

"You aren't well trained enough to bother recruiting. And unfortunately for you, the value you hold as an Autobot has proven less than spectacular. Optimus won't act as quickly because he knows that I know you aren't worth killing." Smokescreen wanted to be bitter over the statement, but logically, he was well aware Megatron wasn't wrong. Smokescreen was a rookie, and as it stood, his usefulness was limited. When push came to shove, he wasn't as valuable as the other members of the team, at least on the surface. Knowing Optimus, the Prime would be quick to try and get him back, regardless of his value.

"I could hand you back over in exchange for the relics I know your Autobots house. But I think this opportunity would prove far more valuable.” Smokescreen watched Megatron like a cornered animal. It took all his strength to not tense up or flare his plating as the warlord finally released his jaw, instead opting to stand with his slag eating grin proudly displayed.

“You can’t make me talk.” His voice wavered slightly, despite his best effort. The warlord in front of him merely grinned wider, his optics bright with mania.

“I don’t need to. In fact, I don’t want you to.” Smokescreen's fuel lines practically froze as Megatron chuckled, standing back to his full height with all the regality of a monarch. If he weren't the leader of the Decepticons, Smokescreen might have been able to find it in himself to appreciate the stance the warlord had.

“Shockwave. Begin preparations for the cortical psychic patch.” Fear roared in his spark as he tugged on his bindings. He didn't know everything about the patch, but he'd heard rumors. He wouldn't allow himself to give Megatron any information. He'd rather take his chances leaping off the edge of the Nemesis than let his mind be tampered with.

“You bucket helmed piece of slag! I won’t give you anything!” He struggles against his bindings, his wrists and ankles burning with the effort. He fought with all his might, trying to thrash. All it earned him were a few scuffs that ached with every movement.

“Good. Then you will have more to give to your new master.” No, no, no. He wouldn't serve the Decepticons. He wouldn't give them anything, not even the color scheme of Optimus's windshield.

“What?” His voice shook and his door wings, pressed awkwardly as they were against the slab, twitched in response to his growing fear. This wasn't what he was trained to handle. How could he fight against someone tampering with his processor? That sort of thing only happened before the war with the old Council of Cybertron.

“Optimus Prime, my ancient nemesis. He claimed he had no interest in accepting the Matrix. I remember quite vividly how he denied any desire to take it.” Megatron met his terrified gaze with a smirk worthy of Liege Maximo himself. Smokescreen could only watch in horror as Shockwave, now visible at the far corner of the room, prepared a series of needles and cords.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Keep him talking. If he could just keep Megatron talking, maybe he could still get out of this.

“Optimus claims he does not want to be seen as a god. He preaches that he is a mere mech, despite the relic he carries. He despises the worship of the faithful. Truly a humble mech to the bitter end.” Megatron's gaze felt like a hot iron against his plating. Smokescreen wanted to run, he wanted to phase through the walls and into the ground, where it was safe. And yet, he could do nothing except shake faintly as Megatron circled him, his clawed digits running along the slab that bound Smokescreen in a threatening manner.

“And yet, he took the Matrix anyway. He never even considered stepping aside so that real change could be enacted. We all would have been so much better off if he’d put down his arrogance and allowed those more suitable to step up.” The screech of Megatron's claws tearing through metal assaulted Smokescreen's audials along with the sheer venom in his captor's voice. For a moment, he couldn't vent. He expected white hot pain to overwhelm him, but when he worked up the courage to look, he saw that Megatron's claws were dug into his slab, not his plating.

“He took on a role he was never meant to fill, and now he heralds himself as a leader, a commander, and a vessel for ancient wisdom. And yet, he refuses to take responsibility for all he’s brought upon himself. He won’t accept the praise of the faithful like a good puppet-Prime. But he also refuses to silence the whispers about his supposed divinity.” One by one, those claws pulled out of the slab, leaving terrifying gashes in their wake. Smokescreen had to fight back the urge to cry out in terror as Megatron's voice edged into something even darker. He was practically seething as he ranted. Smokescreen could hardly understand all of it.

“He stole a station he was never meant to take. Maybe he did it to spite me and is now too devoted to back down. Perhaps he truly thought, in his naivety, that he was better suited for the role. Whatever the case, I will abuse his humility. I will make him pay for taking the place that was rightfully mine.” Megatron's arms rose to the skies, almost as though he were preaching to a crowd. His back was to Smokescreen, but his words were still just as cruel and wicked. He spoke Iaconian common for Smokescreen's sake, but it was so heavily layered with Kaoni subglyphs that Smokescreen could sense every last iota of emotion.

Megatron was truly bitter. It had been generations since the start of the war, and still Megatron was clinging to an ancient conflict. Smokescreen wouldn't dare claim to understand it all, but he knew for a fact that Optimus was a better Prime than the crazed warlord ranting before him. It didn't matter if Optimus got the Matrix through underhanded means, he'd long proven himself worthy of the title in Smokescreen's mind. The fact that Optimus refused worship merely showed his humility and devotion to the cause. He expected nothing, save for the cooperation of those around him.

A true Prime did not enslave. A true Prime was kind and commanded respect through actions, not words. Optimus didn't need to be worshiped. He had long since become a mech worthy of respect far exceeding the bounds of religious bindings.

“He will become the thing he sought to escape, and you, guardsmech, will be the key to all of it.” Smokescreen gawked as Shockwave began to gather up the cords he was working with. Megatron grinned in a convoluted fashion, almost as if he'd already won. What were they planning? What could they possibly want, if not information?

“I won’t do anything for you! Never!” He thrashed against his bonds again. It did nothing but prompt Megatron to laugh.

“Struggle as much as you want. It will yield you nothing. In the end, you will make Optimus squirm and drown in his guilt.” Megatron stood like royalty, but to Smokescreen, he looked like nothing more than a mad ghoul eager for its next hunt. Smokescreen would rather die than betray his team and Prime. Whatever Megatron had planned, it could not be allowed to succeed.

“The patch is prepared, Lord Megatron.” Shockwave approached the Lord of the Decepticons, a threatening series of cables in his servo. Smokescreen could see a needle on the end of one, likely meant to stab directly into his processor.

“Excellent. Begin uploading the simulation schematics. I want him fully engrossed in it until Optimus agrees to a conference.” A simulation? Were they going to try and turn him into a Con or something?

“Optimus won’t ever surrender to you!” He flailed, fighting desperately enough to tear his armor around his wrists as he fought to be free. He wouldn't become a weapon. He refused to become a tool for Megatron to use.

Despite how hard he tried to get away, it wasn't long before part of his slab was removed, leaving his helm exposed from the back. He tried to move, but he could do nothing except bite back a scream as something sharp and painful jabbed directly into the back of his helm. Coolant threatened to gather in his optics as his systems were thrown into overdrive, trying to find the source of the problem to little avail. All the while, Megatron continued his mad monologue.

“The Primes of old were heralded as gods. The Primacy was devoted to their every wish and fancy.” The warlord paced, his sickening smile still ever present. Smokescreen could feel a faint buzz at the back of his mind—the beginnings of the patch's work, no doubt.

“It is ancient history now, but before the war began, every Prime was given devotees who were meant to serve them.” Smokescreen's optics trailed the leader of the Decepticons, observing with growing horror how much emphasis Megatron put on the word, 'serve'. Just what was Megatron hoping to make him into?

“Mecha personally trained to meet their Prime’s fancies.” No. No, Megatron couldn't be trying to change him. Information fishing was one thing. But changing his mind?

“Warriors brought low through humiliation and submission so that their will could become an extension of their Prime.” This couldn't be happening. He wouldn't succumb to Megatron's twisted will. He had to keep himself composed.

“The most loyal and submissive servants. Just the kind of subordinate Optimus fears and despises in equal measure.” Megatron loomed over him, his gaze knowing and expectant. Smokescreen wanted to spit curses, but everything was starting to feel fuzzy, almost as though he were drifting into recharge.

“He fears becoming corrupt if given such devotion.” Twisted laughter bubbled in Megatron's vocalizer. His amusement rang out in the air as Smokescreen frantically tried to keep coolant from gathering in his optics. He couldn't show how scared he was, even though his shaking door wings betrayed him.

“Let’s see if his fears become reality.” Red optics glared down at him, demanding results. Smokescreen wanted to cry. Torture, interrogation, and suffering of all kinds—he could endure those. But changing his very core? His mind and his beliefs? How was he able to withstand that?

“The processor is a delicate organ. Despite how firmly sentient species claim to be unchangeable, a certain degree of stimulus can alter the very core of a Cybertronian’s personality.” Shockwave's clinical voice echoed in the space as Smokescreen's vision began to fade. He wanted to scream, to do anything. But his frame was sluggish, and darkness threatened to overwhelm him.

“I intend to test a few hypotheses and see how long you can withstand the conditioning I’ve prepared.” Shockwave's sickening statement was the last thing he heard before the world faded away, leaving Smokescreen in darkness.

----

“Smokescreen, wake up.” A gentle voice called out to him in the darkness. Deep, but soothing. Amidst the sensation of slow wakefulness, Smokescreen could hear what sounded like a choir, singing in Ancient Cybertronian. Their words were strange, but they worked with such skill that they sounded almost exactly how old recordings of the Primacy Temples made the priests out to be during services.

"Wake, my chosen." Smokescreen's optics began to come online, a cold stone floor greeting his frame as he groaned and pushed himself up. His processor ached, but he paid it little mind as he started to come to awareness.

He was... in a Temple. He'd never had the chance to go into one before coming to Earth. The Temples had long since fallen, leaving nothing but their ruins as a stark reminder of the glory of the old world. But this place was not in disrepair. If anything, it looked as though it had just been built. Blue and gold walls arched around him, grafting into shapes he could hardly comprehend as they turned into a domed roof. Pillars covered in ancient crystal growths towered high into a ceiling that faded into a sea of stars. It could have been painted, but Smokescreen honestly couldn't tell.

The entire place was warm, with light coming from stained glass windows along every wall. Each depicted a Prime, every one of them holding the Matrix with solemn expressions. Despite the gloom of the ceiling, the Temple was not dark. Not in the slightest. Instead, it was lit by a great stained glass window that took up the entire front wall. The mighty work of art was stunning. Each piece of glass carefully placed to create an image of Optimus Prime himself held in Primus's servos, the chosen of their world's god.

"Come, my chosen. Let not the darkness of your thoughts distract you." The voice called out again, and this time, Smokescreen saw the speaker. Standing on a dias just below the great window was... Optimus. The Prime was stunning. His armor was perfectly polished and his plating tended to with expert precision. He looked healthy, no longer weary from war. His red and blue paint stood out like stars amidst the hues of the Temple, drawing Smokescreen's attention.

The Prime was covered in gold markings, the script of Ancient Cybertronian. He was adorned in similarly colored ornamental armor, with accents that ran along his audials to give him small angelic wing shaped attachments. More such pieces crept along his chassis, emphasizing his open spark chamber where the Matrix shone, pulsing faintly. A cape fell from Optimus's shoulders, segmented and made of precious metals much like Alpha Trion, before his fall.

Optimus looked like a god.

And for that reason alone, Smokescreen knew that this being was not his leader.

“I call upon you to serve.” The fake Optimus held out a servo, a pleasant smile upon his perfectly sculpted features. He looked so gentle and yet so stern all at once, truly the embodiment of Primus's chosen. The fake was nothing like the leader Smokescreen knew. Optimus bore scars just like everyone else. He was weary, just like them. He was still just a mech, no matter the origin of the relic he bore. He was not a god, nor did he parade himself like one.

“You aren’t real.” He spoke softly, almost afraid that the moment he uttered his thoughts aloud, Megatron's plan would leave him in agony. Whatever all this was, it was the work of the patch. It wasn't real, no matter how real the cool stone felt beneath him or how warm the gaze of the fake Prime seemed.

“You deny me?” Optimus tilted his helm ever so slightly, a sad frown upon his features as he slowly began to descend from his place. Light emanated from him in such a way that it almost seemed as though he had wings as he carefully made his way down each and every step leading to his dias. His pedesteps were feather light, nothing like the heavy treads of his leader. Yet another difference to focus on.

“You aren’t Optimus. You aren’t my Prime.” Smokescreen got to his pedes shakily, unintentionally shrinking back as the light of the fake Prime drew nearer. It was intoxicating, but so very foreign. He wanted to flee, and at the same time, he wanted to bask in it. What the frag was wrong with him? It wasn't real. None of it was.

“Retract your declaration and come to my light. You need not be punished by the divine.” Optimus, still appearing saddened, paused a few steps away, watching Smokescreen with optics that glowed both blue and white, the hidden essence of the divine. He seemed genuinely upset, not angry, just... sorrowful.

Smokescreen bit his glossa softly, trying to give himself something to focus on aside from the being before him. The fake Prime wasn't threatening, if anything, he seemed loving. But that was what set Smokescreen on edge. It was so very wrong. All of it was wrong.

“You. Aren’t. Real.” He fought to force out the words, trying to not let the look of hurt on Optimus's face phase him.

“My chosen, how can you not see the light before you? Does my divinity blind you so much that you are incapable of reason?” The fake Optimus held out his arms, his optics sad and pleading. His field extended, wrapping around Smokescreen in a comforting manner that merely served to make his plating crawl.

"Stop it! You aren't, Optimus! He's like the rest of us! Not angelic or perfect! Optimus isn't a god!" Smokescreen screamed, desperately trying to step back but only managing a few steps as the fake Optimus allowed his arms to drop to his sides. The exposed fake Matrix pulsed, its light covering Smokescreen like some sort of mark. The chanting of the priests he hadn't even noticed began to die down as Optimus looked down to the ground, the winged audial attachments showing themselves as he did so.

"Of course I am not a god, I am merely a vessel for the one and only. How you see me now is only made possible through Primus's touch. Without him, I am made weaker, more weary." The fake Optimus traced his false Matrix lovingly, a faint smile on his face as the relic blazed with unnatural power. Smokescreen tried to activate his in-built blasters, but his frame would not obey him. He was trapped, watching as the fake Prime spread his arms wide, in a mockery of an embrace for all creation.

"Primus suffers under Unicron's tainted blood, and for that reason, I bear the marks of mortality." The fake Prime's form shifted for a moment, showing the Prime Smokescreen knew. World weary, tired, and so very wise. For a klik, Optimus Prime, as he knew him, stood in the light of the great window, no longer basking in the strange innocence of the fake Prime's false divinity. This Prime was exhausted—an angel who'd long since had his wings cut away.

"But do not mistake my outward appearance for my true essence. This is what Primus intended for me, and my will is his. I desire only to protect his precious children and bring them home." The Prime spoke, and the illusion was broken as the fake returned to its previous form, glittering and without even the slightest imperfection.

"Shut up! You are just a simulation!" Smokescreen tried to yell, raising his voice above the soothing buzz at the back of his mind demanding his submission. He shook, trying desperately to force himself to leave, to think, to do anything other than give in.

"Smokescreen, has the brokenness of my mortal frame deceived you so much?" Again, the fragging false Prime put on a facade of sorrow, his optics glittering with so much pain that Smokescreen could have momentarily believed that the fake truly did carry the weariness of an entire world. His servos were held out in a pleading manner, begging Smokescreen to return to him.

Smokescreen didn't so much as twitch. He glared. The false Prime sighed.

"Neverthematter, I will not abandon you, my dear chosen. Primus did not cast me away in my foolish unbelief, and I have no intention of leaving you to wallow in the shadow of lies woven by those of mortal make." The false Prime stepped back, allowing shadows to creep over the windows. The faint whipping of wind and the crash of thunder echoed throughout the Temple, all light dying, save for the glow the false Prime emitted.

"See that which awaits you. See a world without my light." The false Prime raised his servos, cupping the Matrix and meeting Smokescreen's gaze as everything grew darker and darker, leaving only Optimus to light the way.

Then, with a sad smile, the Prime stepped into shadow, vanishing.

Smokescreen was left in darkness, his optics were his only light.

He took shaky vents, trying to stay calm and reminding himself that the whole scenario was fake. Megatron was just trying to mess with his mind. So long as he kept calm, he was going to be fine. He just had to vent and walk, keeping his focus on his mission.

Stay sane. Stay focused. And keep Megatron from winning long enough for the team to get him. Simple enough, right?

He walked carefully in the gloom, expecting to hit pews or to see even the barest hint of the Temple windows. Instead, he walked through rubble and destroyed structures. It was almost pitch black in many places, but in others, he caught sight of a world filled with gray. Not a hint of life was to be found anywhere, although more than once he saw what remained of corpses, long since left to rot.

He liked to think he had a firm resolve, but as he walked, he found himself growing more and more... lonely. It never seemed to end, the gloom just continued on and extended into the void. He almost purged when he came across the corpse of a youngling, perhaps no more than a deca-cycle old, crushed beneath a building. Their expression was agonizing, and Smokescreen was only able to continue walking along in growing unease.

The dark was suffocating, and no matter where he wandered, it seemed to grow denser. Towering buildings lay in ruins. Great statues were brought low and left to be claimed by the shadows all around him. Smokescreen was the only living being left, and no matter how much he called out, nothing ever met his cries. More than once, he thought one of the corpses might have still been a living person, but each time, he was met with disappointment.

He didn't know how long he wandered in the dark, moving through cities inhabited by the dead. But eventually, his limbs began to burn and his mind started to unravel. He was alone, so very alone. He knew it was fake, but there wasn't anything for him to cling to. No plants, no animals, not even stars. All he had was the gloom and the bodies of mecha long since left to be taken by time.

Kliks, groons, cycles... he wasn't sure how long he wandered. He tried lighting a fire, but he had no kindling, and when he tried to cut his digit and use his own energon to create a temporary burst of flame, he found it wouldn't light. The energon glowed, taunting him as Smokescreen fell to his knees, clutching the ash and dust beneath his pedes. He hated to admit it, but he missed the fake Optimus's light. He missed the warmth and the kindness shown to him. He despised the creeping cold and the eternal gloom.

“Smokescreen, you need not linger here. Come with me, enter my light, and be free of this grim place." Light entered his vision, a blessed light breaking the never-ending darkness. The fake Prime stepped forward, glittering and perfect as always. His expression was soft, like a mentor looking upon their foolish student. He did not kneel, but he leaned down, offering his servo with a hint of a smile.

It was welcoming, almost like being brought home. But Smokescreen could not falter, he had to remind himself again and again that none of it was real. This fake was not his Prime, no matter how kind he seemed.

“You aren’t real!” Smokescreen covered his audials, not wanting to listen for fear that his resolve would crack. He could handle the darkness. He had to. Just until the team saved him from this wretched place...

“This you proclaim with such dedication. Why must you stay in this world of darkness and gloom? This place is for those who turn away from Primus. I know you are capable of returning to him. I know you can still change.” The fake Optimus reached out, cupping Smokescreen's face with servos so strong and yet so kind. It made him sick, but he didn't have the will to pull away. It was so warm, so bright and safe.

“Shut up.” His voice shook, his servos clutching his audials tighter to drown it all out. He couldn't succumb. He had to be strong.

“It will only get worse. Let me guide you. Come into my light, come unto the divine and I shall protect you from the darkness.” The fake Optimus leaned closer, his light wrapping around Smokescreen like a shield. He almost sobbed in relief as the chill of the dark, which he hadn't even noticed, began to flee his limbs. He wanted to beg the fake to stay with him, to keep him warm and away from the gloom.

But he couldn't. The fake wasn't real. None of this was real. There was no salvation to be found in Megatron's curated dystopia.

“Leave me alone!” He tore himself away from the false Prime, throwing himself onto the ground in an attempt to keep from giving in. His body ached, the cold seeping back into his tired limbs. Looking back, the fake Optimus stood there sadly, his perfect face contorted into something worthy of tears if the false divine had the capacity to cry.

“Very well.” Turning away, the false Prime vanished into the gloom once more. Smokescreen was, once again, left alone. But before he could act, his vision faltered and the world fell into a mess of code and pixels.

-----

“The subject is showing surprising levels of resistance.” Smokescreen gagged, his helm ached and his optics couldn’t properly process the visual data around him as he was dragged from the world of dark he had come to know. Everything was hazy and his entire frame felt distant, not quite painful, instead like an unbearable itch was crawling along his plating in waves.

The light above him was blinding and cold as he struggled momentarily against his bindings. He tried to cycle his optics and see, but all he could pick up with the warped forms of Megatron and Shockwave working away on the other side of the room.

“Integrate an external threat. Some warriors can withstand solitude, but I doubt the guardsmech can endure being hunted while entirely alone.” Smokescreen could almost hear Megatron’s cackle in his words. He wanted to act, but everything felt sluggish and out of place, almost like he’d just woken up from stasis lock all over again.

“Very well. Artificial fear response protocols will be injected into the subject and the Prime simulation will continue when the subject shows sufficient mental weakness.” What was going on? Smokescreen’s optics burned and all he had the power to do was shutter them as he heard Megatron approaching. It was all a simulation. He had to keep being strong. He didn’t want to think, he only had to act.

“Fight as much as you like guardsmech. It will make your fall all the sweeter.” He didn’t see Megatron’s expression, but he could feel claws running along his chassis in a threatening manner. It took all his power to not cry in fear as his senses started to fade and the patch again activated.

-----

Smokescreen awoke with a gasp, his frame shaking as he frantically felt the ground. It was dark, with only his optics lighting the space around him. He tried to process what Megatron had said when he was momentarily pulled from his living nightmare, but the knowledge faded away like a distant dream as suddenly, he heard things in the gloom with him.

He heard creatures that scuttled in the dark, dozens of terrifying legs clattering over lifeless ground. He was no longer alone. Now... he was being hunted.

“It's not… real.” He tried to comfort himself as he walked, tripping and stumbling over obstacles as his exhausted frame struggled to keep going. Every time he faltered, the things in the dark drew closer. Even with the light of his optics, he could never see them for long, always obscured by the gloom.

He couldn't help it when coolant finally fell from his optics, rolling down his cheeks as he frantically tried to keep moving. The things kept getting closer and closer, sometimes so close he could feel them running past his pedes or caressing his legs as he stumbled along. He was terrified, and his terror only grew with every passing moment.

It didn't feel fake anymore. He was scared and no matter how much he tried to remind himself to be strong, he couldn't help but sniffle and wish that the false Prime would come back and take him away from the things in the dark. He didn't dare utter his silent wishes aloud, at least not until the monsters in the gloom started to become more bold.

He could never see them, but soon enough, they began to claw at his plating. It was never anything serious, a cut here, a scratch there. They whipped around him, hissing, growling, and laughing as they prodded at him, toying with his mind. Smokescreen tried to find high ground and activate his blasters. But no matter how hard he tried, the creatures always followed, and his frame refused to obey him.

He cried in the darkness, finally tripping and falling to the ground shaking like a sheet of tin. The creatures crept closer, threatening to have their fun before even giving Smokescreen the mercy of death. He sobbed, clawing at the ground as he tried to pull himself along. He crawled, lighting his path with his coolant-hazed optics, as the creatures nipped and bit him.

“Primus, Lord below, to you will give our sparks and sight. May our optics bring forth your light.” Desperation left him singing an old prayer from his time with the Elite Guard. He was never particularly faithful, but left alone in the dark with things that hunted him, he wanted to have faith; he wanted to believe. His helm buzzed and his mind felt like it was made of static. All he had was his terror and his frantic pleas to a god who may or may not have been listening.

"Primus, please, save me from this place." His words were choked as prayers made way for a desperate plea. He curled up, clutching his helm as he cried into the void, dust and ash seeping into his vents and seams. He wanted it all to be over. Why couldn't the team save him? Why weren't they faster?

“I am here, my chosen. You only needed to call for me.” A soft warmth entered his tired limbs. Light filled his vision, and the creatures of the dark fled before the divine glow of the Prime before him.

“You aren’t real. None of this is real.” He murmured despite the relief that flooded him. His very spark seemed to ache as again, the false Prime offered a servo. Smokescreen could feel himself being lifted, held against divine armor and cradled like a youngling fresh from the Well. Despite his protests, it was comforting.

“Child, you cause yourself more pain this way. I carry Primus’s light. Let me share it with you.” Optimus carried him out of the darkness, back into the Temple so full of light that Smokescreen couldn’t help but sob in sheer relief for a moment. As he was deposited on the ground, he curled up, basking in the glow of the space.

“Stop. Don’t talk like that.” He covered his audials again, trying desperately to drown it all out. Why did it have to feel so nice basking in Optimus’s presence? Why did it all have to feel so real?

“You have seen the darkness in which you still suffer, and yet you refuse salvation?” The Prime stared at him, his optics showing nothing but pity. Smokescreen despised it, and yet he couldn’t pull away from Optimus’s light. He didn’t want to be cold or hunted. When Optimus was around, it was safe, even if that safety was fake.

“I don’t need any salvation.” His words sounded hollow even to his own audials. He didn’t know anymore. He didn’t understand what was going on or what Megatron was trying to gain, or rather, what Optimus was attempting to gain. Why was Smokescreen forced to endure the dark? He didn’t understand…

“I hate to do this. I despise using suffering to showcase truth.” Optimus sighed, his angelic form comforting even as the Temple darkened again. Smokescreen prepared himself for the dark world he had been cast into, but somehow, what greeted him was far worse. The Temple was still alight, but the colors were all off. The golden morning light was replaced by the harsh light of dusk. The walls of the Temple shone, their biolights flashing red in warning. The painted sky above was dark and hollow, no longer comforting in the slightest. It was all the same, yet so different.

It frightened him, and looking at Optimus, he saw the Prime take no joy in his suffering.

“You have seen a vision of the doom that awaits you. And yet you reject Primus and his chosen.” Priests came forward from unseen halls, their frames covered in ceremonial robes. He saw each of their faces, but he couldn’t recognize or remember them as they hummed a haunting hymn. They circled around him, each watching Smokescreen with white, almost sickly optics.

“This cannot stand.” Optimus’s voice rang out clearly, sending a bolt of terror through Smokescreen’s frame. He looked at the Prime, seeing a true frown of displeasure for the very first time. It frightened him, so much so that he could hardly force himself to speak.

“What are you-?” He didn’t have time to speak before the priests forced him to his knees with strength they shouldn’t have had. One at a time, they began to pull on his plating. He tried to stifle his cries of pain as armor was forcefully removed, one small plate at a time. It burned it burned it burned-

-----

“The subject’s mind is threatening to fracture without sufficient intervention.” Smokescreen’s optics blazed as he came back online, he was gasping, thrashing against his bindings as he struggled to comprehend what was going on. Where was the Temple? Where were the priests? Where was he and why didn’t it hurt anymore?

“He’s a soldier. He should be able to handle a little pain.” Megatron? Yes that was Megatron’s voice. Was he in the Temple too? Where was Optimus?

“Too much mental strain has been placed upon him. Too many new scenarios with too little time to adjust.” Through the blinding lights above him, Smokescreen could vaguely see Shockwave. He recognized that lone terrifying optic and the monotone voice. It didn’t frighten him, not nearly as much as the dark did at any rate.

“What do you suggest then?” He sensed Megatron near him. He still didn’t know how Megatron was near him, but he could feel the warlord nonetheless. It was unsettling, but it didn’t prompt panic, not anymore. The creatures of the gloom were far more frightening. At least Megatron had a face, a voice, and a presence Smokescreen could actually target.

“Reprogramming. I understand Lord Megatron wishes for the subject to break naturally, but we do not have enough time for such an outcome to take place successfully.” Smokescreen’s optics cycled, but they were out of sync. His vision was all over the place, but he could still pick out Shockwave holding up a set of strange looking needles. He’d mentioned something about time perhaps? It was hard to think.

“What would need to be altered?” Claws tapped against the back of his helm, right where the patch still connected to his processors. At that motion, Smokescreen did stiffen in terror. It was too close, far too close.

“A simple personality matrix realignment. Currently, the subject lacks sufficient religious inklination to take to the Prime simulation in such a short period of time. The subject will need to be reconfigured to be more susceptible to indoctrination.” Reconfigured? Smokescreen tried to focus on what was being said around him, but everything was so out of place. Looking over to his right, he momentarily wondered if it was because of the strange looking IVs hooked into his frame. The liquids didn’t seem right. Their colors were off.

“How long would that take?” The claws tapped again, freezing Smokescreen in place in silent terror. He almost couldn’t hear what was being said around him due to how sharp those claws seemed as they ran along the back of his helm.

“The adjustments can be made while the subject is undergoing the Prime simulation. They will be integrated as the scenario is playing out.” Shockwave’s lone optic blazed in the darkness beyond the overhead lights. To Smokescreen, it was a sign of doom to come.

“Excellent. Send him back in, I have Optimus on the line eager to hear about the status of his new devotee.” Megatron laughed. Smokescreen flailed for only a moment before his vision failed and he was again cast into the Temple.

-----

When he woke once more, Optimus remained standing a ways off, his expression settled into a distinct frown. He only had a moment of respite before the priests descended on him like rapid cyber-hounds, pinning him and returning to their gruesome work of making him in their image.

He couldn’t flail, he couldn’t fight back. The priests held him there, digging their digits under his armor and pulling away anything that wasn’t vital or attached directly to his protoform. He tried to maintain his dignity, but they were so slow, and by the time the priests started to pull knuckle plates from his digits, he screamed without restraint. It all burned, his frame felt like it’d been cut into with a million knives and all he could do was wail as energon fell from new wounds, leaving his delicate protoform exposed to the elements and countless connectivity points bleeding and stinging.

Logically, he knew it wouldn’t kill him. But every single plate torn away felt like fire was sent scorching across his very protoform. All the while, his Prime watched on, disappointed.

He remembered babbling, begging for them to stop as the priests maneuvered him to keep prying armor off of him. Sometimes they tied him to the ground; other times they would hold his helm in place so that he could see exactly what they were doing to him or so that he could witness the sheer sorrow on his Prime’s face. Optimus didn’t want this, he didn’t like seeing his suffering. If Smokescreen had only listened, this wouldn’t be happening.

He couldn’t recall exactly when the pain started to ease, but eventually, Smokescreen was tenderly lowered to the ground, almost in a loving manner. The priests each touched his wounds, running their digits along them with hymns pouring from their vocalizers. They were the ones that tore away at him, and yet their touches were so caring. It was a blessed relief.

“None are hidden from Primus’s holy light. Your armor will not guard you, nor shall it disguise your sins.” His Prime’s voice reached him eventually, and while weakened, Smokescreen found the strength to force himself to his knees. He was laid bare before his Prime. His armor was stripped away, leaving him in protoform alone. Being like this, so open before his Prime, it felt… right. His processor screamed at him, saying that everything was a lie and that he was meant to fight. But it was all so fuzzy, like something in the back of his helm was blurring rational thought.

He didn’t mind it, not when his Prime’s light could infuse every part of his bare protoform. It was warm. So very warm…

“No longer are you shrouded in darkness. You see me for what I am. You are beginning to come unto my light.” His Prime did not smile, but he did reach out, touching Smokescreen for the very first time since he was carried out of the darkness. It felt like he’d passed a great trial, and as his Prime’s servo cupped his cheek, Smokescreen wanted to sob. Optimus’s touch filled his entire frame with warmth and a sweet buzzing sensation, almost as though he were inebriated but still more aware than ever. It was intoxicating.

“But you do not yet see your shortcomings, your sins.” Smokescreen’s spark sank as his Prime pulled away. He reached out, trying to grasp Optimus’s servo but aborting the action halfway as those powerful blue optics met his own. It was not his place. He wasn’t allowed to touch. Every fiber of his being told him so.

“Do not despair, my chosen, for at the end of the long road, you shall be ready to come unto me.” He couldn’t help the tears that fell from his optics as Optimus moved away from him, allowing priests to take Smokescreen away. Unlike when they took his plating though, they did not force him to stand; instead, they offered him the chance to move on his own.

He looked to his Prime, seeing that his frown had diminished. This was a choice, an opportunity, and a test all wrapped into one. He had to accept this trial, or be cast off. He didn’t want to endure the darkness again, especially not so exposed. Only his Prime could see him like this.

“I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I did wrong.” His voice shook as he got to his pedes, exposed cables, and protoform tensing at the chill in the air now that he was so far from his Prime. Hearing him, Optimus smiled again. His arms spread out, as if to embrace him.

“Endure your trial, my chosen. Now that you have emerged from the dark, you must shed your impurities. Only then can you be made mine.” It sounded so very wrong, but Smokescreen nodded anyway. His mind screamed at him, but his spark flared in joy. The warmth that came from his Prime was beyond comprehension, and he would do anything to have it wrapped around him once more.

“I will do my best.” His words came out strange, almost as though he himself had not spoken them. Smokescreen didn’t care, he smiled as he followed the priests, rationality slowly being overridden by newfound purpose. He had to be clean. He had to be worthy of his Prime’s light.

He was taken to a dark room, one where only a symbol of the Primacy was carved into the wall. He was left there, alone in the gloom. But unlike the shadowed world he had been left to suffer in, this darkness instead felt defeatable. It edged in all around him as Smokescreen fell to his knees, but his optics bit back the encroaching darkness, and that gave him a sense of peace.

He prayed, his voice echoing as he struggled to recall the few songs he learned in the Guard. Whenever he stumbled, a priest would provide him with the words he was missing through the door, helping him complete the hymn. It was comforting, alone in the dark with nothing but his mind and his growing faith to shield him. Why had he feared this all so much? Once he was made better, he could serve and bask in holy light. All was going to be well.

Time blended into a strange mess of experiences and songs. Prayers poured from his derma endlessly, his chanting never ceasing. His faltering grew less and less frequent, and while his knees and back ached from his submissive posture, Smokescreen ignored them. He ignored the screams of his mind, demanding he remember.

What was there to remember? He was undergoing a trial of purity. Nothing else mattered.

“Are you insane? This is fake! It’s a simulation designed by Megatron!” In the dark, he saw himself. His counterpart screamed, his plating flared, and his optics were wide and desperate. Smokescreen frowned, watching his wilder self try and reason with him. He could almost see scrips of code run along his and his counterpart’s plating as he looked both of them over.

Smokescreen was in his protoform, open for the light of Primus to fill his very spark. His counterpart was armored, closed off, and unwilling. His voice was loud, and his temperament was unruly. He was unfitting. Seeing him, Smokescreen could almost feel the shift in his very being as those distasteful pieces of personality began to fade away. Was this truly who he was before his Prime came to him? It was no wonder Optimus had to drag him through the pits and back to make him see reason.

“Even if this place I find myself in is just a crack in reality, it has brought me to the light. Through this place, I am made whole.” He spoke simply; his glyphs layered with pure devotion as he continued to pray silently. His counterpart screamed, clutching his helm in agony, before moving closer, trying to reach out with tainted servos.

“It’s not real! Megatron is trying to turn you into a tool!” Smokescreen’s optics cycled down in distaste as his counterpart shrieked like some sort of dying animal. How undignified. His Prime would never stand for such dishonorable behavior. Optimus was his Prime, and it was only right that Smokescreen emulate him and keep such aggressive behavior to a minimum. If he was to die, he would do so in graceful silence. His counterpart should know that much.

“If a tool is what he seeks, then he shall find none here. I am devoted to my Prime.” He returned to his prayers, trying to block out all of the distasteful aspects of the mech before him. His counterpart screamed again, his form flickering. Faintly, Smokescreen could sense something changing in the back of his mind—an aspect of himself warping. Part of him wanted to fight the change, but he saw no need.

“That’s what he wants! He wants us to hurt Optimus with our devotion! Optimus is just a mech! He’s not a god, and he doesn’t want to be treated like one!” His counterpart fell to his knees, and for the first time, Smokescreen stood up. He stared down at the creature before him, pitiful and desperate, wild and untempered. Was this how his Prime saw Smokescreen when he first arrived? If it were Smokescreen who was Prime, he would have cast such broken things aside long ago.

Such mercy from his Prime. To spare him and to heal him. It was beyond admirable; it was godly.

“Our Prime is a humble being, one who is kind enough to walk among us without showing his true nature.” He remembered every instance where Optimus gave a speech to the public as the war dragged on. He’d only ever seen the videos, but looking back, his Prime was truely a merciful being. He stood before them all, wearing mortal protoform when he could shine as a true god among them. He bore pains and scars just so he could walk among them, easing them and bringing them back to him.

They did not deserve their Prime. They had taken much from him and given little in return. Smokescreen’s devotion would do little to change that, but at least he could begin to carry some of the weight of his people and their collective sin. Even one small shift could bring forth a tidal wave of faith.

“Our Prime is merciful. Our Prime is an aspect of the divine. It is only right we worship him.” Approaching his counterpart, Smokescreen stared down at his mimic in distaste. There would be no saving this one. This shell of his prior self.

“He gives us his wisdom and offers us a direct connection to our god. He is all that matters in this grim reality plagued by war.” Smokescreen quickly pushed his counterpart down, straddling the pitiful creature to wrap his servos around the thing’s neck. His counterpart thrashed as Smokescreen held it down. The thing’s door wings cracked as they hit the ground and tears fell from its optics. Smokescreen’s spark cried out within him as his counterpart met his gaze pleadingly.

“Optimus doesn’t want this. You will only hurt him this way.” His counterpart spoke softly, and for a moment, Smokescreen considered halting. What if his counterpart was right? Something in his spark told him that all of this was… somehow wrong. But that couldn’t be right. He was becoming purer. It was only natural that he would feel discomfort becoming greater than what he once was.

“Our Prime is perfect, but trapped within mortal frame, he is weighed down by sorrow. I will carry that burden. I will make it so that our god may again speak through him.” His servos tightened their grip. The priests sang somewhere in the dark, urging him on. Smokescreen’s optics were wide, most likely wild from an outsider’s view. But as he cut off energon from his counterpart’s processor, watching the light bleed from his optics… Smokescreen felt nothing but sheer and complete satisfaction.

His Prime was burdened. But now that Smokescreen knew the light, he could help. And it all started with removing this thing, this tained echo from his life. No longer would he be foolish. No longer would he fight against the divine. He now knew his place.

“Please…” His counterpart’s vocalizer spit a plea in a mix of static and garbled glyphs. Smokescreen frowned, keeping his grip tight enough to crush cables in his counterpart’s neck. The thing before him gagged, coughing up energon, his optics wide and terrified. For a moment, Smokecreen found himself pitying the thing, enough to try and ease him as he was returned to his maker.

“Rest. Know that I will take care of him. Our Prime will never again walk this world alone.” His counterpart cried, his face contorted in anguish, before he, at last, fell still. Smokescreen maintained his grip a while longer before he finally stood, watching in distaste as the echo of his former self faded away into nothing.

It wasn’t right. Something in him told him that everything was wrong.

Smokescreen silenced those thoughts the instant the door opened and he was led back to the main Temple where his Prime stood, smiling in greeting. He’d done well. He was worthy.

-----

“Basic indoctrination has been completed. The subject likely will not reach the levels of fanaticism Lord Megatron desires at this rate.” Smokescreen’s winced, his voice coming out in a hiss that bordered on a growl as artificial light assaulted his optics. He was back on the Nemesis. He could sense it clearly now that his Prime’s light was not wrapped around him. This place was evil in the most despicable of ways.

“We have some time before Prime comes to collect his prize. Introduce a new scenario.” Smokescreen snarled, a ragged sound escaping him as he did so. Megatron no longer scared him, not nearly as much as he had before at any rate.

“The Prime simulation has largely run its course. What adjustments does Lord Megatron desire?” Shockwave seemed somewhat uncertain. Smokescreen watched him like a hawk, trying to see just what was going to be done to him. Now that his mind was clearer, he could understand what they were aiming to do. They were attempting to remake him.

Instead, all they had done was wake him up.

“Show him some of Optimus’s history. Drive home his Prime’s ‘fallen’ state. I want the guardsmech willing to throw himself into the pits without being ordered.” Fallen? Smokescreen scoffed. His Prime was not fallen, merely burdened. He would ease that burden over time.

“Lord Megatron wants the subject to feel superior to Optimus Prime?” Again, Smokescreen fought the urge to cringe in disgust at Shockwave’s commentary. How could he ever feel supreme when a shard of the divine called for him?

“No. He must worship and obey his Prime. But I want him to be willing to disobey when he thinks he knows what’s best for his Master. Let him sow discord among his Autobots in an attempt to ‘help’ his beloved leader.” Megatron put a certain emphasis on the glyph for ‘help’ that made Smokescreen distinctly enraged. He couldn’t act on it while bound, but he glared daggers at wherever he assumed Megatron was in the blinding light.

“Very well. An additional simulation will be run for the subject and further social restriction coding will be implemented.” Smokescreen growled, words unable to form in his vocalizer despite how aware he was. Megatron smirked, he could sense it. Nonetheless, Smokescreen silently cursed the warlord as he was pulled back into the false reality that brought him to the light.

“My chosen, you have done well.” Smokescreen returned to awareness just in time to see his Prime waiting for him. No longer did his Prime or the Temple frighten him. This place was a holy one, even if it was just a string of codes. No program could replicate the glory of Primus’s chosen. Even if the scene was fake, Optimus was real. His Prime was real. And his Prime was pleased.

“I am honored by your mercy, my Lord Prime.” He fell to a knee, bowing his helm respectfully as he basked in the golden light of the divine. His protoform felt tingly in the best of ways, his frame was rejuvenated and his mind was more active than ever. Just being near his Prime made everything so much better. No longer did the world weigh him down. He was loyal, and that loyalty had earned him the cleansing praise of the most holy.

He wanted to reach out and touch his Prime as Optimus stepped closer, his winged audial attachments seemingly glowing as he did so. The Matrix shone within his exposed chassis, gold paint glittering like stars all over his frame. He was perfect, and Smokescreen meant that in a way that far exceeded any potential attractions of the frame. Everything Optimus was, everything he happened to be, all of it was perfect.

Optimus was his Prime. He could not disobey unless it was to protect him. A good guardsmech did not touch. A good devotee was forever near, ready to act. Always ready, always loyal, never questioning-

“It is my pleasure to grant you such an honor, my dearest chosen.” His thoughts came to a screeching halt as his Prime reached out to touch his helm. For the first time since he’d been lifted from the darkness, light radiated through his entire being, filling his spark with sheer euphoria. He didn’t have the strength to even so much as twitch, instead basking in the gift his Prime was bestowing upon him.

“The time has come for you to see your design now that you are freed of delusion and sin.” His Prime’s optics were almost blinding as Optimus met Smokescreen’s gaze. He couldn’t shy away, not when Optimus held his face so tenderly.

“Look and see all that was; see what I have been forced to become.” Those blue optics widened, almost comically, if not for the sheer power contained within them. Smokescreen gasped as his vision shifted, blue overtaking everything until scenes began to play out before him. Or rather, memories.

He saw Optimus, or rather, the mech he was before he took the Matrix. He watched as the Archivist became god born, his frame restructured, and his spark made pure through temporary agony. His awe with the scene quickly shattered when he saw his Prime be forced to war, pushed to slaughter. Energon coated his Prime’s frame and blade, dulling his divine glow and haunting him. Smokescreen could see the horror in his Prime’s optics, the sorrow at what he’d been forced to do in the name of protecting the good and the faithful.

He saw his Prime executing a whole battalion of Decepticon soldiers, his blaster raised to each one at a time. The Prime’s battlemask was in place, but Smokescreen saw the growing horror in his gaze. Optimus took no joy in his grim work. He hated what he had to become, and Smokescreen could see it in the faint tremor of his digits as he held the blaster to each and every soldier’s helm, murmuring faint reassurances that the victims had no time to process.

He saw his world weary leader, exhausted and battered, slaughtering his way across a battlefield to buy his people time to flee to their ships. Viscera and energon flew, coating the chosen of Primus and the ground in the remnants of vicious brutality. His Prime moved fluidly, but every action was desperate, with not a hint of divine light infusing them. It was the action of an angel with his wings torn off, a beast hunted until it could no longer run. His Prime had been forced to fight until his light had all but gone out, only dark cynical brutality evident in his actions.

“Never should a Prime sully his blade with the energon of his own people. A Prime is meant to protect, not to destroy.” Optimus’s voice rang out in his mind as countless depictions of violence flew across his vision. He saw wars, burning cities, and dead and dying mechs piled high as his Prime waded through it all. He witnessed ships fleeing to the stars, soldiers on the ground frantically fighting to buy them even the smallest amount of time.

“My spark is burdened by the cries of the sinful and innocent alike. I was never meant to raise a weapon of war against Primus’s precious children. It has damaged me, and my ability to commune with our god.” He could feel coolant gathering in his optics as he was given a final vision, one that showed his Prime standing still in the wastes of a devastated battlefield. There was no life, there wasn’t even the faintest hint of peace. It was a mess of weapons long discarded, corpses lacking proper funeral rites, and trenches abandoned for Primus knew how long. Optimus tood amidst it all, his expression stoney and his gaze haunted.

He looked dim, his plating worn, and every part of him battered and torn. There was none of the divinity Smokescreen witnessed when the Archivist became something more.

Primus’s angel had fallen. His wings clipped by the weapons of mecha far beneath him.

“Forgive me for failing you. Forgive me for allowing you to be drenched in the sins of our people.” Smokescreen’s tears fell silently. He couldn’t make noise, that would be disgraceful for a follower of Primus’s chosen. But as the visions faded as his Prime’s touch again returned, Smokescreen lamented his very existence. How many vorns had he wasted with the guard sitting around doing nothing, when he could have been serving?

“You were lost in the darkness. You are not to blame for this. But my dearest chosen, I cannot continue on this path. The more lives I am forced to take, the further I fall.” Optimus’s touches were feather light, but Smokescreen leaned into them all the same as frantic determination surged in his spark. He could not allow this. He refused to be the one responsible for allowing his Prime to continue drowning in the sorrows of their tainted species.

“Then let me be your blade! I will carry out your will so that you never again need to suffer like this!” He spoke with all the conviction in his spark, ignoring the faint buzz at the back of his mind that still screamed at him that something was very VERY wrong. He chalked it up to the visions. Of course, he would be unnerved by them. His Prime was hurting and he hadn’t even noticed until now.

“It is a heavy burden to bear. In times long gone by, you would have had brothers and sisters by your side to aid you. But in this age of war, you are my only devotee.” Optimus dropped to a knee, prompting Smokescreen to all but scramble to fall to his knees properly, his helm bowed and back exposed. He could never stand taller than his Prime, that was beyond heretical.

“I understand, and I accept the burden. Even if my impact is small, I will help you. I will not allow Primus’s chosen to be tainted any longer.” He meant every single glyph he uttered as he clawed at the pristine stone floor beneath him. Anger bloomed within him, righteous and hot in a way he’d never experienced before. It was so sudden, it hurt.

Optimus was hurt because of his inaction. He could no longer allow it. Good devotees died for their divine.

“I am in awe of your growth. So short was our time together in this place of glory, and already you are a worthy devotee.” Against all expectations, Optimus lifted him from his prostrate position, urging Smokescreen to sit upright. He almost didn’t listen, but his mind screamed with such ferocity that he swiftly obeyed.

“I am your blade, your voice, and your subject. Your will is mine, and yours is the will of our god. I am honored to help fulfill the rite of the divine.” He spoke without meaning to, almost fearing retribution. But the smile on his Prime’s face eased him immediately, even more so as his Prime drew him closer.

“This is as it should be.” Strong arms wrapped around him, metacloth falling from the Prime’s shoulder to briefly brush against Smokescreen’s frame. In that moment, nothing else mattered. Smokescreen’s every thought fell still, his mind clearing and yet also turning into mush all at once.

“Mortal frame weakens the mind. Sorrow dampens the spark. Do not fear the murmurs of my waking self. With time, he shall understand.” Optimus’s words sounded like a choir, the essence of a thousand mechs speaking through him all at once. For a moment, it almost seemed electronic, fake in a strange way. But Smokescreen shook away the murmurs of his blasphemous consciousness, instead leaning further into his Prime’s embrace.

“As you will it, my Lord.” He could feel his vision beginning to flicker and fade as his Prime held him. It was so very peaceful here…

“Our time has come to an end. You must return and make things right.” Digits caressed his helm, soothing Smokescreen even more. He wanted to fall into recharge right then and there, but he felt the call, the order his Prime had given him. He could not disobey.

“I will fulfill your will, chosen of Primus.” His voice echoed, almost as though he were not the one speaking at all. He could barely see Optimus’s face as his vision faltered. But he saw a smile, and that was good enough for him.

“Then go in peace, my chosen. Fight in my name. Sully your blade to preserve the divine. At the end of the long road, Primus shall welcome you home.” With those final words, Smokescreen found himself ripped away from the Temple, away from the light and the warmth it brought.

-----

“The reprogramming had taken root. The subject has had basic devotee doctrine fully implemented with his base personality.” Smokescreen shot online, his mind and everything around him hazy in the extreme as he felt his straps come undone. The patch in his helm came away with a click, but the fog did not clear.

“As a safety measure, the subject will only experience full awareness when around Optimus Prime. This will ensure the subject maintains loyalty and that Optimus Prime experiences guilt, just as Lord Megatron desires.” What was being said? Smokescreen wasn’t catching any of it. He just knew these mechs were enemies—or, worse than that, heretics.

“Perfect. I am sure Optimus will be thrilled to have his new and improved guardsmech back.” Smokescreen couldn’t think, he couldn’t even move as he was picked up and slung over someone’s shoulder. He could see, but he couldn’t process anything. All he could understand were the commands screaming at him.

Fight in my name. Sully your blade to preserve the divine. Protect the Prime. Bear his burdens. Do not leave him. Make him understand. He cannot fall. The Prime cannot fall. He CANNOT FALL-

It hurt to think. He had to get to Optimus. He needed to get back. He couldn’t leave his Prime alone… but it was so hard to move.

“Well, if it isn’t the mighty Optimus Prime?” Smokescreen jolted to awareness as he finally registered the fact that he was outside again. He wasn’t in the Nemesis, he was… on the ground. Harsh and rough earth was getting into his seams now that he noted his place prone in the dust. When had he been dropped?

“Give him back, Megatron.” That was Optimus’s voice. The moment he recognized who was speaking, it was as if the haze in his mind had cleared. White hot anger and sheer determination infused every part of his frame as he rushed to his pedes. His vision still swam, but he bolted all the same.

“Take him and enjoy the alterations I’ve made! I am sure you will find them quite entertaining.” Megatron laughed, but he wasn’t a threat right now. He didn’t matter. Smokescreen needed to get to his Prime and he didn’t care how.

He leapt from ledges and rockfaces, hardly noting where he was stepping until he finally stood before Optimus and the rest of the team. His fans were spinning wildly and he could see just how shocked the team was. He paid it little mind. Of course, they would be startled. He’s been woken from the dark after Megatron tried and failed to make him into some sort of weapon. He was bound to look a little different.

"Rookie, are you good?” Bulkhead stepped forward first, but Smokescreen didn’t move yet. He needed permission. One did not just approach the divine without being invited.

“Smokescreen, what did that slagger do to you?” Arcee tried to speak as well, but Smokescreen’s optics were locked onto his Prime. His digits twitched as he noted the many scars and the sheer weariness in his Prime’s gaze. Oh, how his Prime had suffered… He needed devotees. He needed help.

“My Lord Prime, I have returned to you. May I have the honor of serving at your side once more?” The team froze, each staring in horror. Ratchet even dropped his scanner in shock. Smokescreen regarded them all with a sigh. He knew what he was like prior to his cleansing. Wild, untamed. He was a beast before; it was only right that they expected a creature of sin and sacrifice. To see him purified had to be quite a shock.

“Smokescreen, come here.” Optimus’s voice was shaky, but Smokescreen felt sheer euphoria as he hurried to obey. He stepped around Ratchet as the doctor tried to stand in his way. Within a nano-klik, he was knelt before his Prime, content to be in his presence.

“I apologize for my prior demeanor, my Lord Prime. I was impure and blinded to your light.” Optimus didn’t respond. Smokescreen risked retribution to look up and see the sheer shock on his Prime’s face. How long had it been since his Prime was properly cared for? When had a devotee cleaned his plating last? When was the last time a devotee was given the honor of tending to their precious Prime?

“But no longer. Megatron attempted to turn me against you, but instead he brought me to full awareness. I now know your glory and am eager to serve, if you will accept me.” Not a spark said a word, and for a moment, Smokescreen worried he’d said something wrong. Was his oath incorrect somehow?

“What in the Allspark are you talking about?” Ratchet was the first to break the silence, giving Smokescreen reason to snarl. How dare the doctor speak before the Prime. It was not his place.

“You should know when to shut your trap, Doctor. Your Prime has not yet spoken!” Smokescreen’s optics widened and he almost activated his blasters, but the faintest sound of shock from Optimus had him returning his attention to his Prime. Optimus’s optics were flashing, his digits trembling in a way Smokescreen had never before seen. Was it due to awe? Confusion? He didn’t know. He decided reassurance was the best course of action.

“Forgive my outburst, my Lord Prime. I know you have not yet acknowledged me as a devotee, but I cannot bear to watch such disrespect play out in your presence.” The team seemed horrified as he spoke. Why?

Smokescreen tried to focus on his Prime. He tried to smile and show his devotion. Why did Optimus look so scared?

‘Mortal frame weakens the mind. Sorrow dampens the spark. Do not fear the murmurs of my waking self. With time, he shall understand.’

Right.

Optimus was burdened with too much to see clearly. Smokescreen would have to be his optics and his blade. That was fine. He could work with this.

“I assure you, my Lord. I am perfectly functional. I am willing and eager to serve just as I did before.” Optimus stepped back, his plating flaring defensively. Ratchet clutched his scanner like it would protect him. Meanwhile, Arcee and Bulkhead raised their weapons in confusion. Even the ever quiet Bumblebee was on edge, standing next to Optimus in a defensive position.

They didn’t understand, that much was clear. But Smokescreen would help them. He would remind Optimus of his divinity and help him recover. Then, when that was done, he would help the rest of the team.

He would make things right.

“Allow me to be an extension of your will. Grant me the honor of the divine so that I might serve Primus’s chosen.” He received no response, merely a short gasp from his Prime. He looked terrified.

His poor Lord. He was so unused to devotion that it frightened him.

Smokescreen would have to change that.

#yes yes I know I have a problem #I like the religious fanatism theme #I just think its neat #that said here you go #smokey angst because why the heck not #transformers #maccadam #transformers prime #team prime #alternate universe #smokescreen #megatron #shockwave #optimus prime #one shot #transformers fanfiction #angst #brainwashing #religious imagery

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darlingmbappe · 1 year

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Innocent Offer | Kylian Mbappé x Fem Reader

Summary: Kylian begrudgingly admits his lack of sexual experience to you. As a good friend would, you offer him some help. Based on this request.

Warnings: Literally just smut, so minors don't you dare. Keep scrolling, nothing to see here! Virgin!Kylian, experienced!reader. Oral (male receiving), friends to lovers kinda, cussing. This was repurposed from another fic I wrote while I was in another fandom. I'm 99% sure I fixed all of the names/inconstancies. It's a little short, sorry guys! Let me know if I missed anything! — English is not my first language —

Masterlist

“You’re lying.” The accusing words come out of your mouth through a smirk. The boy sat across from you leaning on the headboard of the huge daybed in his gameroom with crossed arms, avoiding your gaze after having just admitted something he never thought he would. Especially to you — the girl he’s been silently (but heavily) crushing on for at least an entire year.

Kylian scoffed, pinching at a loose thread on his T-shirt sleeve. “Now, why the hell would I lie about that?”

You sit on the same bouncy mattress he did, leaning on one arm while you try to catch his eyes. He’s clearly embarrassed — not that he has to be. You didn’t want to make him feel bad about it, but couldn’t help yourself from making sure you heard him right.

“You’ve never gotten a blowjob?” He purses his lips as an answer. “A handy?” He shakes his head slightly, trying to focus on anything but your interrogation. “Not even before...”

He throws his arms down in frustration. “No, alright? Let’s just make it clear that no girl has ever seen my dick and move on. Please.” He snaps in a mumble, feeling slightly humiliated at the topic of conversation.

Your hands raise in defeat, committing yourself to dropping it for his sake.

You haven’t known Kylian for that long, a little over a year at most. What began as an acquaintance through friends of friends developed into a strange friendship of its own. After getting formally introduced to each other four times at separate events and droning ‘we’ve met’ each time, there was a sort of unspoken fellowship. Once you finally got to speak at someone's birthday party at the open bar, you two didn’t stop for hours. Laughing and trading stories until your separate groups dragged you both away. Now, you see him constantly. You were always getting those 'come over' texts the second he got home from training. You two just clicked.

You watched his chest rise and fall as he did his best to focus on the giant TV mounted on the wall, giving your eyes time to feed on his tense shoulders, his exposed collar bone begging to be kissed.

You wanted him to relax; you’re not judging him, you just couldn’t believe he was a virgin. He’s just so confident… and so goddamn sexy. You were actually kind of convinced he was a man-whore. You’ve seen all these women throw themselves at him over the course of just one year, but you never thought about the fact that you’d never seen him go home with any of them until just this second.

The words ‘no girl has ever seen my dick’ echoed in your head, your thoughts have been reduced to more perverted ones. You cared about Kylian so much and you noticed the way he looked at you sometimes, so you tried to be flirty and let him know that you were very much interested... but he would turn away and get shy about it each time. You just assumed he wasn’t into you and cut your losses, satisfied enough with a close friendship with the global star. Now, you’re thinking maybe he wasn’t uninterested, just flustered.

You crawled up the bed and sat next to him shoulder-to-shoulder, leaning your back on the headboard. He stayed completely still as he felt the heat of your body next to his, wishing he had just lied or something.

Kylian looked back at his lap. “Will you stop looking at me like that?” You furrow your eyebrows, his words snapping you out of your own head. “It’s just… My whole life I've been so focused on becoming the world's greatest football star and then… I don’t know. Time flew by and all of the sudden I’m twenty four and still a…” He cuts himself off avoiding the V-word, simultaneously contradicting his whole let’s move on plea. He gulps, fiddling with his ring as if he had never seen one before. “I… I’m not going to be any good at it and I feel like women have all these expectations while sleeping with a football player, and I don’t want to embarrass myself. At this point I have to wait until it’s someone I trust, but I don’t have time for a relationship. Maybe I’m thinking too much about it.” He shrugs. “It’s not on purpose, is what I'm trying to say.”

You can’t seem to look away. He’s flustered and cute while he chews on the inside of his cheek. Maybe his shy confession has you wanting to take care of him, or maybe the infatuation you’ve suppressed for so long is coming back up to the surface; whatever it was drove you crazy. Crazy enough that you couldn’t stop yourself from saying something so bold. So direct. So out of character...

“Can I give you a blowjob?”

Kylians eyebrows shoot up, whipping his head to the side to finally meet your eyes. You could see him searching for any form of malice, he wondered if you were pulling some sadistic prank on him.

Maybe he didn’t hear you right – it was the only explanation he could come up with.

He opened his mouth to ask, but absolutely nothing came out. His lack of response kept you on the edge of your seat, giving you time to think about what you had just offered. It was ridiculous, inappropriate… he was going to think you were a weirdo. But you couldn’t back out now, it’s already out there.

“Wh—uh. I… Me?” He eventually stuttered, a blush creeping up his neck and cheeks.

“Who else could I possibly be talking to, Ky?” He just continues to stare. “Look, if you don’t want that, we can just pretend I never said anything.”

“No! I mean… yes. I mean…” He laughed awkwardly, shifting slightly to face you. Your brows pinched together, confused at his mixed response. “A-are being serious?”

“Dead serious, Mbappé.” You could see he was conflicted. You give him a few seconds to think before speaking again. “I know what you’re thinking, and I’m not just offering because you’ve never had one before. I want to do it for you. I wanna make sure you feel comfortable with the person. No judgments.” The idea of making Kylian moan sends a shiver down your spine. You see him gulp. “But, again, say the word and we’ll forget about this.”

His eyes are so wide looking into yours. “Y-you’re sure about this?” You nod, smiling and taking his hand into yours on his lap. “Then… yeah. Hell yeah.” Kylian grins, the rosey color deepening on his cheeks. He knew he would have to be an idiot to pass up this offer.

With his clear consent, you bite your lip, looking down at your locked hands and extending your fingers to free them from his lazy grip. You began to rub his palm softly, letting your finger graze off onto his jean covered thigh, going over his exposed skin through one of the rips. You applied more pressure as you slowly let your touch get closer to his crotch — Kylian’s breath hitched every time you made your way up.

You sat up on your knees and straddled one of his thighs, you continued your movements with both hands now. Looking up at him, his eyes were barely open but they stayed on you.

“You can tell me to stop at any time, okay hun?” The nickname was new, but felt right in the moment.

“Don’t.” He choked out, his hands now resting on the sheets.

Your right hand finally settled on his semi. The second it landed there he grunted, shifting himself lower on the matress. You wanted to kiss his parted lips, glistening with spit as he quickly went over them with his tongue.

You leaned in but landed your kiss on his neck just below his jaw. You wondered if anyone had ever kissed him there before as you bit the skin gently, earning a muffled groan and another gulp from the man underneath you. You continued a path of wet kisses and hickeys all over his neck, his semi now almost completely hard in his jeans. Pulling back, you looked at Kylian— his eyes threatening to close but prying themselves open, the dim light from his lamp making your spit glisten on his bruising neck. His breathing was quick and heavy. Seeing him like this under you makes you realize… you’ve got it bad for Kylian Mbappé.

Kylian couldn’t believe the sight in front of him. He must be having another one of his wet dreams or maybe took a ball to the head and was hallucinating. He had to reach out and grab your waist to confirm that this was reality. It was actually happening.

Slowly, you pop open the button on his jeans, pulling down the zipper. His erection was begging to be let loose and from what you had felt, he was definitely packing. When he lifted his hips to allow you to pull the material down to his mid thigh, leaving only his blue checkered boxers, you got your first real glimpse at what you had gotten yourself into.

You let out a soft ‘mhm’ as you let your forefinger touch his tip through his boxers, feeling the warm wetness of his precum against the pad.

“Ah, Dieu.” He breathed, digging his fingers into your hips. “Just so you know—hha, putain—I probably… I definitely won’t last long.”

You can see the apologetic look under his hooded eyes already. “Kyks, I’m not expecting you to.” You began playing with the hem of his boxers, lifting his shirt enough to see his belly button, letting your nail scratch at the minimal scruff of his happy trail. “I don’t want you to worry about that, okay?” He nodded, his warm palms rubbing your outer thighs. “I just want you to enjoy it.”

Blowjobs were kind of your thing. Your asshole ex made sure you knew how to give really good head, which was funny since he never once bothered to learn where your clitoris was. Either way, this was your area of expertise — your sexual superpower, if you will.

You pulled his boxers down, watching his length pull down until it released and sprang up, slapping Kylian’s belly.

Holy shit.

“Holy shit.” You said out loud. What a nice cock Kylian had. Long, slightly thick, a perfectly irritated mushroom head twitching against his soft skin. It definitely would be a challenge.

You palmed up his erection in one swift movement, immediately hitching Kylian’s breath, his eyes glued to your every movement. You wrapped your fingers around his tip, letting your thumb spread around his juices. You laid down between his legs, your face now inches away from his throbbing cock.

“Ready?”

“God, yes.”

Your tongue pressed flat against his slit, swirling around and tasting him like a lollipop. He moaned and threw his head back, the sound he made going straight to your aching pussy. The floodgates have opened between your legs with just the first lick, causing you to hum against him.

“Christ, (Y/N).” He hissed at the vibration.

You pulled off for a second, spitting down onto him, using your hand to spread the moisture to make it easier to take him all in. Because you were determined to take every inch of him.

Lowering your head back down, you hollow your cheeks and create suction. He shivered with a harsh exhale and reached to hold your hair back so he could see your face sinking into him.

The second your hands moved to play with his balls, he jolted. “Shit!”

You popped him out of your mouth quickly and concerned. “You don’t like that?”

“Jesus, I love it. Feels so good, amour. So fucking good.” He quickly insisted, involuntarily jutting into your hand that was wrapped around him.

With a smirk upon hearing the nicknames he called you, you took him back into your mouth and continued to squeeze his sack, bobbing your head up and down with your tongue pressed flat against his length, his eyes pressing closed with a loud moan. You looked up at him through your lashes until his eyes finally opened and met yours. Taking this opportunity, you shoved him all the way down your throat, your lips pressing against his pelvis, your nose buried in his bush of neatly trimmed hair.

He gasped then moaned, trying to form a coherent praise for you, but it came out muddled between huffs of air. You shook your head slightly against him suppressing your gag reflex as he continued to mumble incoherently under your grasp. You came back up for air, jerking him off as you stared at him… so pretty. “I- I can’t… merde. I’m gonna cum soon if you pull that shit again.”

“Am I making you feel so good, Ky?” You innocently asked.

“The fuck do you think?” He jokingly retorts at his disheveled state, making you giggle. “So good.” You had begun sucking on one of his balls, licking and swirling it in your mouth. Both his hands lifted to cover his red face and his tummy moved quickly with every breath.

You licked a stripe back up to his tip, taking all of him back your mouth without warning, deepthroating him once again. His tip pushed back behind your uvula and you were quickly bobbing your head up and down, letting his sensitive head rub back and forth against the back of your throat.

All you could hear was your gurgling sounds and Kylian’s loud huffs of air until his moans became more prominent. “I’m g-gonna cum—oh fuck—ahh!”

His warning wasn’t much of a warning, immediately feeling the hot spurts of white fill your mouth and trickle down your open throat. Your one hand squeezed his balls while the other scratched down his exposed thigh. He moaned and his whole body was twitching, squirming his legs around. You helped Kylian ride out his high until there was definitely no more cum left to give.

You lifted off of him gasping for air, swallowing everything he had given you. You looked down at his still twitching cock as it began to soften, wet with your spit and his own cum.

Now sitting up on your knees, you both caught your breaths until you broke the silence, growing impatient. “So..?”

His eyes peered into yours, a satisfied smile taking over his features. Broken between breaths, he finally spoke. “That had to be… the best blowjob… in the history… of blowjobs.”

You laughed, swinging your legs over the bed and stretching out your back. “Careful Kyks, you’re gonna give me a big head.”

“You just gave me big head.” He chuckled, pulling his clothes back to their rightful place.

You shook your head and blushed. “You’re ridiculous.” You looked at the time on your phone. “Shit. I'm late for my shift.”

He sat up as you hurriedly grabbed your things. You probably should have checked the time before you offered oral to your best friend.

“What—you’re leaving? You can’t leave… I didn’t even get to return the favor.” He argued.

“I didn’t realize that was part of the deal.” You quirked a brow as you put your boots on.

“I mean…” He blushed, watching your every move. “I’d like for it to be.” He stuttered.

You stood up smirking, walking to stand over him on his bed. Leaning down, you planted a kiss on his cheek, close to his mouth. “I’ll see you later, okay, big boy?”

You left him speechless when you walked out of his room, frozen in place. The touch of your lips against his skin invaded his body with goosebumps and then he realized: he never got to kiss you.

He knew now that no other girl could be his first. It had to be you.

Y/N: Short and filthy! So, like I mentioned, this was repurposed from an old fan account I had for a separate fandom a year or so ago. Love y'all!

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mrs-elsie-barnes · 3 days

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The Old Gods and The New - Chapter 20

God In Distress | Loki x Reader

Loki wakes up in an unexpected place while the court of New Asgard plans an attack.

Warnings: Kidnapping, angst, a touch of whump and reader being both scared and embracing her new position. A for angst.

Dividers by @firefly-graphics & @reveriesources

Series Masterlist | Loki Masterlist | Masterlist

Loki woke to a pounding headache thrumming behind his eyes. He cracked one lid open and promptly closed it again against the bright overhead lights. With a groan he rolled over, placing pressure on his right side and forcing the air out of his lungs from the pain. There was a smear of blood below him, but whatever injury he’d sustained had clearly been patched despite his lack of access to his healing powers.

He could barely remember what happened, he knew he’d been enjoying a night at The Dog and Bilgesnipe, ever protected from the increasing tourists with a simple illusion that caused Loki no end of joy to have been able to enact.

You had been there, his Asynja, effervescent as always in the company of his friends, old and new, chatting away with Jane and Val, drinking probably a little too much. He had been playing cards with friends, carried away by the easy camaraderie of the village as everyone settled into their routines and the easing of pressures over the holidays. He certainly did not remember starting any bar fights, that was more his brother’s realm of entertainment.

Loki cracked his eyes again, where were you? He reached a hand out but, instead of feeling the soft cotton of his master bedroom sheets, warm with your presence, he felt cold glass and metal. Stunned he opened his eyes, shielding them from the bright light with one hand on his forehead, and surveyed his surroundings.

Perhaps he should be thankful that you were not here, wherever here happened to be. A mostly circular room, more octagonal where the angles of the huge glass windows met wide bars of metal that supported a complicated ceiling structure.

Beyond the glass walls were a series of odd looking machines, blinking, making irritating buzzing noises. So crude, their electricity. And there, stamped on the side of the closest one was a huge A.

Loki swore, sagging back on his small cot bed on the floor. Not this again. The gods damned Avengers, always ruining his fun.

You had left before him at least, so he hoped you’d managed to evade whatever luck the Avengers had managed to rustle up in order to catch him inebriated and unaware. But his anger built nonetheless at the risk that you may be here too, trapped and frightened again like a spider under a glass. He would not be able to control his temper if he found out that they had ensnared you, regardless of whether you were hurt or not.

Loki reached out, sending his sedir as far as he could towards you, feeling for that playful touch of your own magic in response. But there was nothing, it recoiled as if burnt, returning to him bringing with it the agitated pacing of a caged tiger.

He tried to manifest a cleaner outfit, one not salt stained from walking through the snow. He peered down at himself, mud along his right side suggested he’d been tackled in some way and he was most displeased at being unable to clean the caking soil from his sweater. You liked this sweater and he was sure you’d be upset to see it ruined.

No matter how hard he tried to delve into that well of magic, nothing appeared in return, only a smattering of fireworks that dimmed quickly. Sighing once more, he closed his eyes and waited for the Avengers to send their first interrogator, hoping that sleep might show him your face at least.

Across the ocean you were thinking of Loki too, honing your skills with Valkyrie as she trained, sharpening her weapons and making plans in the privacy of her home.

Thor had taken it upon himself to rally as much support as he could find, returning with a huge friend called Korg who introduced himself as, “not a man, a pile of rocks, but not normal rocks, rocks that are like a man.”

You’d shaken the not rock, not man’s hand and thanked him for coming, but all the same you’d had to take a stiff drink from the secret whisky collection in Brunnhilde’s coat cupboard before you could rejoin the small group Thor had managed to gather in the King’s living room.

“Okay, that’s enough, stop raiding my supplies,” she called, once everyone had found a place in the living room. Despite her general tone it was only really Korg who was still opening and closing the doors, everyone else was settled with either a cup of some sort of tea or a large measure of liquor, smiling tightly at the room as if it was a funeral of a distant relative.

Korg squeezed himself into his seat and gave you a smile. “Sorry, I just get hungry, and there are these snacks here on Midgard that -”

“Korg!” Brunnhilde snapped again and Thor, sat closest to him, elbowed him in a way that made you think it hurt the god more.

“Thank you all for coming,” Brunnhilde took centre stage, ever the King, regardless of whether her throne was intricately carved wood or an overstuffed seersucker armchair she’d squeezed into her cosy living room.

On the sofa, Jane turned to look at you and held out her hand for you to squeeze. Her own fingers felt soft in yours, lovely and delicate but too small, and although your friends were trying their best to support you, you missed the reassuring feel of Loki’s long fingers tangled with your own.

“Last night,” Brunnhilde’s voice commanded the room, no longer just their friend, but the King. Everyone fell silent at once. “Last night, Loki was kidnapped from the harbour by Stark and his men. Thor has told me this is because the Avengers still believe Loki has to serve his time here on Midgard, in a Midgardian prison and, as you all already know, I think that’s fucking stupid. I’ve asked you all here to help Estrid, Thor and myself get him back so,” she clapped her hands together, “let’s plan.”

Jane spoke up first, bouncing forwards in her seat, “I can ask Darcy to find out where he’s being kept!”

Thor looked incredulous, “Darcy works for Stark, she is hardly likely to risk that.”

“She works for Stark, but she’s my best friend, don’t you work for Stark as well?” She turned on him, lifting a brow.

“I do not!” The god huffed.

You’d wondered why the pair had ended their relationship, but it was clear they did nothing but bicker so perhaps it was for the best.

“How about,” Thor paused, wondering if there was still space in their relationship for him to suggest things to Jane.

“- Jane will speak with Darcy, she can find out if she’s willing to help and Thor will see how far the Avengers still trust him?” Brunnhilde suggested and both parties nodded.

“I could print some pamphlets, to let the people of Asgard know their prince has been taken?” Korg offered and Thor clapped him on the shoulder.

“Good idea my friend, we should tell all of Asgard that Loki was kidnapped, for it will embarrass him greatly when he returns!” Thor laughed.

“Thor!” You snapped, it was all too much, these plans, the arguing. Your Loki was trapped in some awful prison and his own brother wasn’t even taking it seriously. “Loki could be hurt, who knows what they’re doing to him. You said yourself that Stark hates him and wants him imprisoned.” Your words caught in your throat, making them sound odd and strained.

“My apologies,” Thor looked more sombre than you’d ever seen him, “I jest only because I’m worried too. Loki may be a handful -” Brunnhilde rolled her eyes, “but he is my little brother, a Prince of Asgard and your beloved.” Thor reached a hand out and cupped your cheek, surprisingly delicate compared to the usual rough pats on the back. “We will see him returned.”

As you looked around the room at your new friends you truly believed it, Jane was sure she could secure the support of her friend Darcy, Thor and Val were fierce warriors and even Korg, who you were still getting used to, had prior experience of defending Asgard. The thrum of anxiety that had beat alongside your heart was dimming, this was not going to be like last time. Your magic was strong, powerful, and you were not alone.

“Let’s plan then.”

You talked well into the night, missing most of the Solstice celebrations, though a few villagers came by with food and drinks from the Long Hall, full of delicious spices. Your first Solstice and Loki wasn’t even here to celebrate it with you. Every now and again you snuck off to the little bathroom to cry and wipe your tears, careful to use your illusions to conjur your makeup again so no one would suspect. After all, you were a Warrior of Asgard now and should therefore not cry. You told yourself again, teeth gritted together, staring into the mirror over the sink.

Every time you returned your drink was full to the brim again, but no one mentioned your absences.

When the darkness had truly arrived and the cold started to seep through the stone walls Brunnhilde declared it was time to make her Solstice speech. She pulled out a small set of note cards and chucked them unceremoniously into the dying fire.

“I guess I won’t be needing that ‘happily ever after’ Solstice speech after all.” She huffed, shucking on her coat in the narrow hall, “I’ll improv it.”

“I look forward to it very much!” Thor smiled, tucking you under his broad arms, “come, Trouble, we will see the people and take our plans forward, my little brother will be back to torment us before we know it.”

Unsurprisingly the hall was still bustling when you arrived, the village had continued its Solstice celebrations without Loki and Thor to complete their ceremonial fighting it seemed. A lead weight of regret settled in your stomach, if you’d stayed at the pub, could you have stopped them from taking Loki? Could you have fought them off on his behalf if they really had controlled him with the rune magic?

And if you had.

If he was with you now.

Would you have appreciated his presence, his smile, the way he tucked your hand into his elbow and held you close? You’d never take his presence for granted again. You’d tell him when you saw him.

It occurred to you that this must have been how Loki had felt while you were gone and though you didn’t want him to ever suffer, you hoped that he’d felt your loss as keenly, because his absence was worse than anything you’d even had to endure, but it had also clarified your feelings so clearly. Loki really was everything to you now, there was nothing but your mischievous trickster. As you thought of him your magic roiled inside, delving into a well of power you had no idea existed.

“Are you alright?” Thor whispered while the King opened the double doors of the hall and silenced the revelry within.

“As I can be just - missing him, that’s all.” You gave Thor a tight, awkward smile.

“I know.” He dropped his arm from around your shoulders and nudged you forwards, through the path your King cut in the bustling hall, towards her throne and the centre of the court.

A day had passed since Loki had woken up. He knew only because of the changing guard and the meals that were presented to him. This was, after all, not his first time in imprisonment. Although the conditions on Asgard were considerably better.

Coffee, toast and what was apparently supposed to be porridge arrived remotely through a hatch in the plexi-glass wall that was protected by an airlock system, as if he might turn to dust and simply float away if given half a chance. The thought had occurred to him, but since he couldn’t teleport he didn’t wish to risk being sucked into a vent as a fine mist or separated from something important should Stark decide to turn a fan on.

Loki surmised that it must be sometime in the morning if there was toast and that, given the guard had changed recently, for the fourth time, it was probably around twenty-four hours since he’d arrived, or since he’d woken up at least. The Norns knew how long he’d been out from Stark’s attempt at forging magic. The man had built a crazed robot before, so he wasn't going to underestimate his ability to cause his own kind of Midgardian chaos. It was a shame, really, that the inventor was so intent on making him an enemy, when Loki could foresee a future where they'd be fine friends, creating mischief and carnage.

Loki spent most of the day plotting, his eyes closed and hands crossed behind his head, trying to remember every detail of the compound, the weakest spots, the places to hide, on the rare chance he might be granted an opportunity to escape.

He knew the outside of the glass prison was surrounded by the same runes he’d found during your own rescue, runes that controlled and suppressed magic. In themselves a strong force, channelling aeons old knowledge, but not unshakeable. Not unbreakable.

Using your shared well of natural, elemental, magic, as well as the sorcery that Frigga had so diligently taught him, you had been able to break them before and he had no doubt he’d be able to break them again. Especially if he had your help.

As he lay there he wondered if you would come for him and, though it hurt him to dwell on it, he wondered if you’d had the same sad thoughts when you’d been kidnapped. Did you wonder if he’d rescue you? Did you doubt him?

Loki brushed the thought away, you had willingly stayed with him many times now, had followed him back to Asgard, you lived together. He wouldn’t allow his fears to take him over, not when keeping a lid on his control was so important.

Perhaps that was the key, a controlled push of his magic in the right weak spot could spell freedom. But where?

Slowly Loki paced the perimeter of the prison. All the sides were an even length, eight in total, but with angles so wide the room was essentially circular inside. On one side was a door with no hinges, he presumed it must rise into the dark ceiling cavity above the prison instead or, knowing Stark, go into the ground for some ridiculous, style induced reason.

In the panel beside it was the hatch for his food, the air lock system seemed simple enough, but there was no warning of the food appearing, no clock to notice the changes in time and no noise or presence. That too appeared from either the ceiling or the floor.

His bed was an insult to both comfort and design, more of a perspex box than an item of furniture, the blacket thin and pillow almost non-existent. Try as he might, Loki was unable to conjure any finer items, more befitting of his station or his taste, and it was perhaps the greatest insult that they’d keep a Prince in such an ugly, ill furnished prison cell. At least on Asgard he’d been allowed the dignity of a few items of furniture and apparel.

Sighing in frustration, Loki turned and paced in the opposite direction, hoping that the change of scenery might prove to give him a new perspective on his predicament. But he had no such luck. Instead he sat again on his bed and allowed his mind to drift to you, to the starlit nights you’d spent together of late and the memories that resurfaced in his dreams, of a young Prince and Princess, laughing and smiling in the golden sunshine of Asgard.

“Prince Loki was taken last night.” Brunnhilde’s voice rang clearly through the silent hall, each Asgardian turned to face her, quiet, reverent. You’d never seen everyone so serious before and it took a moment for you to remember that they had once been a skilled and fierce warrior race, all quietly surveying their King now, waiting for orders. “He was taken as he left The Dog and Bilgesnipe while the rest of us slept and celebrated. A sneaky and dishonourable attack made worse by its location on the harbour at the heart of our village.” The King paused, allowing her words to filter through the crowd, ripples of murmurs drifting past as everyone processed her words.

“ - we believe he was taken by the Avengers, Tony Stark, in particular, using runic magic that he learnt during the rescue of Princess Estrid, Warrior of the Asgardian Court.” You’d never heard her be so formal either and her low tone echoed through your bones, the feeling of anger, of the might of Asgard, building like a wave. “Loki has served his time following Asgardian laws and remains under our jurisdiction as a Prince and a member of my appointed council, Stark has no right to arrest him or imprison him. We are a sovereign nation and abide by our own laws, he has taken our Prince unlawfully and we see this as tantamount to war.”

The hall roared into life, every citizen enraged by this insult. Shouts and angry declarations echoed in the small space, feet beat against the floorboards and hands waved in the air.

Brunnhilde coaxed you forwards and, with a firm hand on your back, Thor followed. Jane and Korg flanked you on either side to form a guard around the King. Her council, strong and capable before the court.

“Crown Prince Thor, Princess Estrid, The Lady Jane and Korg will continue to protect you. To protect our Midgardian neighbours we will not allow any further tourists or visitors until Prince Loki is restored to his home. And then he will once more take his place on this council.”

The hall was still a cacophony of noise, talking, shouting and the banging of fists on the long tables almost drowned her next statement.

“Though we have built ourselves a new home here, a village known for peace across the realms, this insult will not be borne and we will not be deterred from our path of sanctuary by this act of aggression. We will stand strong, together.” She raised her sword above her head and the noise rose again. You turned away, you were full of rage, uncontained and unbound, flames flickered between your fingers and you knew that you were moments away from your casual clothes being replaced by battle ready metal.

“All will be well, Trouble.” Thor’s voice was deep, cutting through the high pitched shouting. “Our King is a Valkyrie, a noble and revered warrior, I would trust no one else with my people. We will return him to you and to this court.”

Brunnhilde motioned for you to follow her, taking the emergency exit at the back of the hall rather than attempting to wade through the somehow increasing mass of people inside.

Outside the air was startlingly cold, it was rare for you to be out without Loki and his familiar presence at your side always made you feel warmer. Despite the new friends surrounding you, you felt so alone. Loki’s absence loomed larger than you’d expected, every facet of your life different without him.

There had been no warm body to snuggle closer to this morning, no kind hand to pass you breakfast, no gentlemanly arm in yours while you took a walk around the village. Even your magic missed him, it coiled and sort for his sedir, homesick for his touch and languished in the pit of your stomach a heavy weight that made you feel nauseous.

The ache of it was too much, bursting from you, it roiled in your stomach and you were sure you’d been seeing your breakfast again. There was a deep tugging sensation somewhere between your stomach and your throat, you turned, ready to be sick into the gutter. Then, it was as if you’d sneezed and the pressure was gone.

“What is that?” Brunnhilde looked at your feet, the round shaggy body of a calf looked up at her, its round eyes blinking. The calf danced to its feet, its flames melting the snow around you into puddles that leaked and settled between the cobbles. On silent feet it danced off down the street, heading for the open sea.

“Be careful!” You called on instinct, your stomach dropping as it leapt from the end of the harbour. But it didn’t fall, there was no splash, instead a ripple of silver floated off into the sky.

Loki stared blankly at the ceiling of the cell. Every moment that passed he thought of new and more complicated ways to punish the Avengers, to bring his wrath upon them. And every time he thought he’d peaked he felt your soft hands on his cheeks, your lips, the warmth of your body as it settled on his and your voice telling him to forget the wrongs of the past, to focus only on the future.

He huffed, placing his hands behind his head, if he wanted a future he needed a way out of here. He was angry beyond measure, that was true, he was not a God to be trifled with. But his anger was stoked by concern, worry for you and, for the first time in many years, true loneliness.

Loki missed the way you settled into his side every morning, the lingering kisses you gave him throughout the day and the calm that settled inside of him whenever you were around. He missed his magic, especially caked as he still was in mud and melted snow, but more than that he missed the sensation of your magic meeting his, warming him deep into the icy home of his own sedir. He knew that his frost giant form loved you too, more than the tryst you’d shared at the Golden Palace. There was a coldness to him that delighted in being warmed by you and now, without it, he felt the same sensation of isolation that he’d become accustomed to.

The lights flickered and he cracked an eye open. There, on the other side of the glass, was a calf, made entirely of flame. It looked tired, sat down with its legs splayed around it awkwardly, but happy. It’s head was cocked to the side and its short tail stuck out, thumping on the floor like a dog.

A noise on the other side of the doors made its head whip round, trailing flame behind it, and then it bounced further around the glass to sit next to Loki, its head pressed to the glass. Loki lifted a hand, his long fingers as large as the calf’s head, and it nuzzled forwards as if the glass was a simple barrier to being petted.

The noise continued and the door burst open, various agents hustling inside before Tony Stark stepped over the threshold.

When Loki looked down the calf was gone, but a trail of silver shimmered where it had been sat. He closed his eyes again, he didn’t care what Stark had to say, he knew now that you hadn’t forsaken him. He knew that you cared and that all he had to do was wait.

<<Chapter 19

Chapter 21>>

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