#rapid aves | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

minnophee-writes · 2 months

Text

His Judgement

A/N: Been in such a Dead by Daylight fixation that I don't think it can be stopped. Pyramid Daddy can smash, I don't care - don't @ me. It was a great crime that BHVR took his ass away from us! Also, I wrote this fic while listening to 'Insanely Illegal Cage Fight' by Dal Av + Jackson Rose. For some reason it gave Pyramid Head vibes. This isn't beta read so any grammar and/or spelling mistakes are my own.

Fandom: Dead by Daylight

Pairings: Pyramid Head x Female Reader

Fic Warnings: Character death, blood, violence, betrayal, slight angst, blade / knife, death, dub-con touching, dub-con, smaller female / taller man, size difference, hair-pulling (brief), dark smut, injuries, mating press, long tongue action / tongue fucking (brief) / tongue deepthroating, claiming, breeding, squirting (brief), creampie, (🔞MDNI this fic is for ADULTS! Begone minors🔞)

Summary: When things go from bad to worse during a trial against the Executioner, Reader finds herself standing face-to-face with the large killer himself, ready to accept whatever judgement he deems fit to bestow upon her. However the situation doesn't seem to go as she suspected.

Word Count: 4,311 words

Taglist: @stygianoir

You grabbed onto the hips of Feng and dragged her off the hook, her groans of pain audiable but she tried to quieten them as you herded her behind a large rock to mend her wound. Blood oozed from the gaping hole in her right shoulder but you worked quickly to bandage the injure to slow, and hopefully, stop the blood. Feng nodded to you in thanks before you guided her toward the generator that you were working on before going to her aid.

The realm the entity chose for this trial just so happened to be the Midwich Elementary School, the home of one of the most terrifying killers in the entity's realm. It didn't help that the entity wanted to rub salt in the wound and have the killer actually be the Executioner, he was known to be ruthless during trials, showing no mercy, and defying the entity's rules by outright slaughtering people in these sick, twisted matches. Feng was able to run the large man but he managed to outplay her, ensnaring her within his trail of barbed wire - also known as his 'Trail of Torment'. You had taken shelter in a locker nearby when the Executioner placed her on the hook.

Rushing footsteps startled you and Feng, the sudden appearance of Yun-Jin Lee panting and breathing heavily should have been the first sign to let you know of the oncoming danger yet you and Feng continued working on the generator, now with the help of an anxious Yun-Jin Lee. Everything was quiet for a moment, the only sounds were the generator pistons powering up when you noticed Yun-Jin Lee glancing behind Feng for a few seconds before pushing Feng and running off in the posite direction. You stared after the suspicious woman in confusion and agitation when the sound of Feng's scream caught your attention. The looming figure of the hulking Executioner had pierced his heavy weapon into Feng's torso, the tip of the knife sunk deep in her stomach while her arms scrambled for purchase, rapid gasps left her lips and her eyes were wide in absolute fear.

Time seemed to operate in slow motion, your brain now just processing that Yun-Jin Lee sacraficed Feng to the killer to save herself and fled, leaving you to fend for yourself once he was done punishing Feng. Your heart lurched in sorrow and disappointment, more so disappointed in yourself for not having seen the large killer coming toward them, maybe you could've saved the poor woman - if only Yun-Jin Lee hadn't just selfishly pushed Feng toward her death.

Feng turned her head toward you as her arms weakened in strength, her eyes pleading for something that was not an option, something you couldn't give her. The Executioner yanked his knife from her body before driving it back in, a dark puddle of blood and barbed wires appeared around Feng and devoured her into the ground, taking her and leaving no evidence that she was ever there. Your heart skipped a beat, seeing someone you viewed as a close friend, due to being in many trials together and forming a bond, hurt you deep down and caused tears to slightly blur your vision. The scraping of metal on metal brought you back to the present and you're terrified eyes stared at the large killer a few feet from you, his triangular helmet looking in your direction - his helmet tilting slightly to the side as he seemed to glare you down.

In a sudden rush of adrenaline your body shot into action, you quickly spun around on your heels and sprinted in the last place you saw Yun-Jin Lee and prayed for the best. Your legs carrying you down a flight of stairs and turning down a long corridor, your lungs struggling to intake oxygen and vision slightly unfocusing from how hard you were pushing your body to work in running away from danger. By the time you had reached the end of the corridor you pressed your back against the steel wall and attempted to collect yourself. You didn't hear any heavy footsteps coming after you, and a timid glance down the direction you had just come from proved that the Executioner wasn't pursuing you. You seemed to be in the clear.

A breath of relief escaped your lips before a faint whistle caught your attention, your head turned to the right to see David waving you over into a classroom he was holed up in. You rushed over to him, glad to see a friendly, familiar face, and agreed to help him on his generator. You were tempted to tell David about what Yun-Jin Lee did to Feng, how she willingly sacraficed a teammate - a friend, to the killer and left you for dead just to save her own skin, but you thought against it. Your main concern and goal was to repair the generators so you could get the hell out. The elementary school chilled you to the bone, the disarray of everything in the school and classrooms - they they all left in a rush, almost as if they were quickly evacuated unerved you to no end. So your main motivation on completing your generator tasks were because some of the realms absolutely creeped you out. As the third piston started to pick up speed the woman that had caused you grief appeared in the doorway, making her way arogantly to the other side of the generator, acting as if she hadn't just betrayed a teammate.

An occasional spark would fly as the three of you worked on the gen, the progress slow but surely going, David giving quick glances at the only doorway in and out of the classroom. Your nerves were on alert for any sign of the Executioner, waiting for his sudden arrival and hoping to be able to distract the killer long enough for David to get out of dodge. Any creak or groan from the steel structure had your head turning behind you and toward the door in search for the large man but was greeted with nothing which only calmed your racing heart slightly. Your eyes took note of the vault window on the other side of the classroom which led into the other, a good escape route in case the killer were to appear and block the doorway. David must have seen you looking at it and gave you a subtle nod, acknowledging your find and piecing together two wires which completed the generator, the engine running smoothly now and the three of you made a slow approach to the window vault in the classroom. You were first in the line, then David, leaving Yun-Jin Lee to carry the back but as you neared the vault the loud, piercing sound of metal scraping across metal brought their attention to the classroom doorway.

The bloodied image of the Executioner almost seemed to freeze the trio, his shadow loomed and seemed to swallow the entire room before he then took thundering steps toward you. Yun-Jin Lee rushed passed you and David, shoving the both of you toward the killer while she vaulted the crumbled opening. David lost his footing and was tumbling right into the path of the Executioner when you quickly reacted, grabbing onto David's wide forearm and pulling him back, adrenaline giving you the strength to drag David over to the vault as the killer closed the distance between you.

"Go, David! Run!" You shouted before turning around to face the large man.

His knife was embedded in the ground leaving a trail of torment, cutting off one of the paths to getting out of the classroom. You didn't want to lead the killer in the direction of David so you chose to try and run around the Executioner's left side - the one unaffected by his torment. Just when he was within arms reach you bolted to his left and rushed passed, jumping over a small section of the unforgiving trail and making a mad dash down the hallway, the killer's heavy footsteps storming after you.

He was a man on a mission, only having eyes for you, and you were hoping he would lose track of you soon because your stamina was rapidly draining, but he seemed to always know where you were going. You've run through the bottom floor before attempting to lose chase upstairs, quickly turning corners before dipping into a random classroom and ducked behind an overturned table while you took the time to catch your breath. David slowly exited one of the many lockers that were lined against the wall and rushed over to you, a relieved expression painted on his face.

"Thank God you're okay! You're not hurt, right?" He then looked over your figure for any injuries.

"I'm fine, lets just focus on getting that last gen done." You got up and started to dust yourself off before looking David in the eyes with concern yet certainty after your second run-in with the untrustworthy woman, "Don't trust Yun-Jin Lee... She's the reason Feng is dead..."

"...Shit."

David looked shocked and opened his mouth to say something but the approaching march of the Executioner caused you two to run back over to the lockers and hide next to each other, hoping the beast of a man would just keep walking but those hopes were dashed away when his large figure stepped into the room. His helmet slowly scanned across the room in search for you, his eyeless gaze fell upon the lockers that you and David were hiding in, your breath hitched in anticipation. His steady stride carried him across the spacious room, your muscles growing more tense the closer he got to your lockers, when you noticed a little too late that the Executioner was looking at a different locker - the wrong locker.

The Executioner's thick arm shot out from beside his lent body and grasped the locker door and ripped it off its hinges, David's surprised shout ringing throughout the room as the larger man pulled him out of the locker, and placing him onto his wide shoulder. You bursted out of your locker and clung onto the killer's arm that seemed to put him off balance and dropping David. You grabbed David's hand and began to run away, a very angry killer hot on your heels. One of the hallways had a pallet in the middle that you knew you could use to block the Executioner and gain some distance so you made sure to head toward it, your feet carrying you faster while David kept pace and followed your every move. When the pallet was in sight a few feet away a smile started to grace your face for the first time that trial, but that all came crashing down when you noticed Yun-Jin Lee standing on the other side of the pallet, staring you dead in the face before tossing the pallet down and bolting around the corridor. Your feet stuttered for a split second before you decided that one of you were gonna have to vault the pallet first. You looked over your shoulder to see that the Executioner was a lot closer than you thought and was reeling his arm back to strike at David and your brain went into a panic.

"David, watch out!" You screamed as you pushed him ahead of you, the edge of the knife sliced into the outside of your bicep.

The flaming sting of the injury caused you to let out a squeal as you held onto your arm and made a run for the pallet, David waving encouragingly to you on the other side. Your staggered gait didn't get you far when a strong hand gripped a decent amount of your hair and pulled you back, dragging you into a warm, soild body, ripping another screamed from your lips. You heard David shout your name from where he stood before rushing back over the pallet to get to you.

"No! Let her go!" David readied up to throw a punch but the Executioner just thrust his knife upward.

The blade kissed David's skin, cutting through his button-up and exposed his chest which now displayed a deep, flowing wound from where the blade cut him. David winced and clutched his chest, a groan left his mouth as he looked back toward you. You were terrified, uncertain if anyone was going to survive, and it didn't help that the merciless killer had you in his hold and was readying up to strike David again - this time a killing blow. In a desperate attempt to save at least one of your friends this trial you decided to try begging and bargining. Right as the Executioner drew his arm back to deliever a deadily strike you clung onto the arm holding your body to his and began pleading.

"Wait, no, please!" You cried while squeezing your eyes shut, "I-I'll do anything, please... You can k-kill me right now if you want but spare him!"

You were rambling but you were hoping that the killer would at least pause long enough for David to make an escape. The Executioner slowly glared down at you through his large helmet, his head tilted in feigned thought before suddening swinging his arm overhead and implanted his knife into David's neck, blood spurted out everywhere, and his eyes bulged out while his gasps were wet and thick. Whimpers and whines left you as you watched the light fade from his eyes, his body steadily sinking to the floor before it slumped down and hit the floor with a thud. Before you could process anything you were then thrown against one of the steel walls and lifted a few feet of the ground by your throat, a large hand encased it and made it a struggle for you to take deep breaths. He stared you down while he watched you struggle to get out of his grip, his suffocating presence suddenly making you have flashes of some of the children drawings scattered around the school - some of the drawings depicted said killer in front of her, a name scribbled on top that made sense for a child; Pyramid Head. 'Seemed fitting for him', you thought brieftly.

Pyramid Head jabbed the knife into the floor next to you both before using his other hand to grope your body, using it to spread your leg to insert his hip between them and opening your legs wider. The position caused you to have to wrap your legs around his waist to try and lessen the pressure on your neck but he just placed his hand on your ass and held tight, hitching you up higher and pressed you between the wall and his solid body. A deep rumble spread from within his chest and a slick, slimy appendage timidly appeared from under the pulsing puss under the helmet before it confidently started to lick your face, covering your face in thick saliva. The tip slid across your lips a few times before forcing its way passed them, exploring your mouth and worming itself down your throat.

You let out a squeal in rejection but that didn't seem to do anything to the Executioner as he continued to thrust his tongue down your neck, sliding it back and forth, as if it got pleasure from it. His hips humped into your crotch which shot small waves of pleasure up your spine, strained moans escaped your lips while you tried to find where to place your hand before settling with clutching onto the arm that's holding you by the neck. He let go of your ass to ruck up his filthy apron to expose his pulsing cock, the tip red and leaking with pre-cum. You choked on his tongue in horror, trying to angle your hips away from him but he took that as some sort of invitation to shred your pants from your legs, your underwear disappearing with it while he rubbed his thumb against your folds in an attempt to get you wet and wanting. He retracted his tongue from your throat to then go down to your pussy, smearing his saliva over your vulva and clit, teasing your hole by probing it in exploration before plunging in deep.

You yipped from the wet intrusion of his tongue, you could feel it wriggling around inside - pushing against your spongy walls until it found your g-spot, your body eliciting a full-body spasm. Your mouth opened and closed from the onslaught of pleasure his tongue was giving you once he discovered your hidden spot deep within you, not even your toys could find it half the time and yet this large, brutal killer found it within seconds. It left you stunned more than anything else, your brain going fuzzy and all logical thought disappeared. His thumb pressed into your clit again which made you clench your pussy around his tongue, a moan left your throat at the pleasure flowing through your in waves, your body warming up from the growing arousal.

Your head flopped to the side as you let out a sigh, your eyes fluttered opened and your vision was then filled with David's cold corpse lying on the floor, his glazed eyes staring in your direction and your stomach squeezed - threatening to make you throw up any sustenence inside. You shut your eyes tightly before righting your head straight, a cool chill creeped up your spine at the mental image of your dead friend only a few inches away. Once you opened your eyes again you stared up at the helmet, hoping you were looking where his eyes may roughly be.

"Pyramind Head, please-" You managed to rasp out, "- I-I wanted you to spare him... why?"

Tears fell from your eyes and down your cheeks as you continued to look at him but you got no response, the only response you got was a deep, rumbling growl and his tongue thrusting in and out of you faster, his thumb rubbing circles on your clit rapidly as well. Your breath hitched and a loud, prolonged whine echoed around you both, your walls spasming before hot, white ecstasy burst through you - the tight knot that had quickly formed in your lower stomach suddenly snapped that caused you to drench Pyramid Head's lower sternum and tongue. A foamy, white ring surrounded the base of his appendage and smeared itself across it with each thrust, it drove him feral and the pulse in his cock couldn't be ignored anymore.

Pyramid Head thrusted his cock against your wet cunt, soaking his dick in your juices before attempting to align the tip with your twitching hole and as he steadily pushed in it stretched you in an impossibly delicious way. The moan you let out rang down the corridor but your attention wasn't on how loud you were being, your thoughts were on how big the Executioner was and how he may have ruined any other man for you and he wasn't even halfway in yet. He thrusted in a few more inches before the base of his cock was snug against your pelvis, his hips grinded on your swollen clit, your cunt clung to him from the stimulation. After giving you a brief moment to get adjusted to his cock he began to back his shaft from you before driving it back in with a deep, powerful thrust, punching noises and air from you. Each strong thrust loosened your legs from his waist and he decided to wrap his thick arms under them, he brought them up so that your ankles rested on his shoulders and the angle made it feel as though he was fucking into you deeper than before. Your nails dug into his biceps as he drilled into you, the wet sound of skin slapping skin and your meek moans were the only sounds that could be heard, his tongue hovered over your clit as a large glob of spit splattered onto it - his hips smeared and grinded it into your clit and your toes curled.

A silent scream left your lips as your pussy splashed the Executioner in your juices, your back arched sharply as the walls of your cunt throbbed intensely as it milked his cock. A rumbling groan vibrated inside his chest and his hips stuttered for a few thrusts before burying it deep within you, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix and thick, heavy ropes of cum coated your walls. His cock pulsed with each shot of cum and he gave a few small thrusts to fuck some of it into your cervix, laying claim over you by hoping to breed your fertile womb.

You let out a drawn out whine as you felt his cock slowly withdraw from your abused pussy, your gaping hole twitched as it tried to suck in the cum that slowly dripped out of it. Pyramid Head carefully set you onto the ground as he readjusted his apron, his hand grasped his weapon's handle before yanking his knife out of the floor. You lazily stared at the looming figure accepting your fate, knowing it was only going to last for so long before he killed you in painful ways only he can imagine. Your eyes closed as you waited for the final blow, hoping that he would be nice for once and show mercy with giving you a swift death yet none of that happened. You opened an eye to see what he was up to prior to opening your other eye to glance up at his still form.

A horrified gasp came from your left and you turned your head to see Yun-Jin Lee peeking around the corner, her hands covered her wide mouth and her eyes were almost popping out of her head, a disgusted and petrified looked was etched onto her features. Her eyes bore into your tired figure on the ground, too drained to even properly cover your exposed bottom when, faster than you had ever seen him move, Pyramid Head clutched a fist into the other woman's hair and threw her across the air, her body colided with the hard with a hard smack. Yun-Jin Lee yelped in distress and attempted to crawl away from him but he drove his knife into her calf, the blade sliced and shredded through her muscle and bone, and she let out a piercing scream that had you flinching away.

Yun-Jin Lee stared up at the Executioner with pleading eyes but they wouldn't reach him for he has already decided her fate. Lifting his blade high in the air he brought it down with fierce strength, swinging his weapon multiple times and created many deep, slash wounds - each one becoming more violent than the last. Pyramid Head slammed his blade across the forearm of Yun-Jin Lee, her right arm became detattched and slumped to the floor, while his foot crushed her mid-spine between him and the ground. Yun-Jin Lee was getting desperate and frantically thrashed around hoping to wiggle her way from under the intense judgement of the Executioner yet it was useless, he only put more of his heavy weight onto her spine and a cry of pain was torn from her. With two hands he raised his knife and, with the swiftest movement you've ever seen, he drove the blade into her back - a loud crack pierced through the air and a wet squelching could be heard when the knife sliced through Yun-Jin Lee.

The last of her breath escaped her dry lips before her body fell limp, her still figure stayed face down as Pyramid Head removes his weapon, from the now dead corpse, and turned his helmet toward you once again. A small feeling of dread shot through you for a split second but your brain was still foggy from the rough fucking he had given you just moments ago, and your limbs felt like they were made of lead - anytime you tried to move your arms or legs you were met with no response from your muscles. You watched as the Executioner walked over to your slumped body, examining your for a minute or two before he leant forward and wrapped an arm around you, lifting you from the ground and over his broad shoulder.

Pyramid Head started a steady gait toward one end of the corridor, his destination unknown, yet you weren't afraid of being hooked and being sacrificed to the Entity. He walked passed many hooks on his journey, your mind growing more and more confused while you watched one of the hooks fade around a corner as Pyramid Head continued on, his steps only speeding up once the howling, whimsical noise of the hatch could be heard. Pyramid Head turned quickly into a classroom, the hatch a few feet away from you both when he gently set you on your feet, his hand clutching onto your hips to steading you - and to grope you one last time. You warily glanced between the hatch and the Executioner, as if waiting for him to then crush your hopes of escape by beating you to the hatch and closing it, but he just stood there.

The Executioner subtly nodded over to the hatch, giving you a slight nudge toward it and you timidly made you way over to it. You looked back at Pyramid Head one last time and muttered a hushed thank you before disappearing into the hatch, the opening then slammed close and a black, smokey abyss surrounded the Executioner, teleporting him back into the killers realm. Somewhere in the back of his mind a faint voice promised him that within due time you'd be his, that you would become his pet and that was going to be his reward for being such a loyal being.

~~~~~~~

A/N: Hope you enjoyed this fic! Make sure to like and reblog this to let me know that you want more <3 Had heaps of fun writing this and hope to write another banger soon 😎

260 notes · View notes

delightfultheoristfox · 10 days

Text

Hesitate

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

This can be considered as a part 2 to Un-evil, but it can also be read as a standalone.

The description you'll read of Simon is heavily based on this fanart by @tiggerriot (give the creator some love!!!) because it has been occupying my mind 24/7. I'm in a chokehold.

18+

Word count: 6k

CW: smut (fingering, PinV), but with plot. Tiny angst, fluff. Protective and possessive Simon Riley. Mentions of stabbing and blood. Minor injuries.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

“Quiet.”

He barges in. Because of course he does. There isn’t a piece of flooring in this godforsaken base that hasn’t been violently reclaimed by Ghost’s boots.

Not even in your goddamn room.

Thankfully, you have the reflexes of a trained operative and have moved out of the way in time, otherwise you'd be sporting a wonderful, purple knob in the middle of your forehead. And while there is a certain distaste surging in your chest – the kind that makes your lips pucker and your stomach knot –, you know there is very little you can do to move the mountain that is Ghost.

So, you close the door behind you with an exhausted sigh, as he ventures further into your room.

“Good eve-“

He swivels on his heel as soon as your mouth parts to speak. “Where the fuck ‘ave you been, uh?”

The balaclava on his face does absolutely nothing to hide the hatred sizzling in his eyes. Funny, because you’ve always thought that it was the whole point of the thing – to hide his face. You wonder, sometimes, if he knows just how expressive his eyes are.

Does he know he tells so much more with those than he ever does with words?

Nevertheless, yours are as telling as his own, as they bulge out of your sockets. The odd look you give him is comical, compared to the ire that's practically singeing his clothes.

“Uh,” you stutter. “Deployment?”

He narrows his eyes at you into tiny slits. So tiny you have to squint your eyes yourself to catch a glimpse of his irises.

“Alone?” He asks, clearly skeptical.

To match the distrust in his tone, you tilt your head toward his, brows furrowing in confusion.

“…Yeah?” You reply, and the more you go on the more sarcastic you sound. “We do that, sometimes. Lone ops, recon. Y’know, we’re in the UKSF, in case you, uh – forgot.”

He hums gravelly. A sound that causes his body to straighten up as if the cogs have finally started whirring and working seamlessly once again.

“Don’t get smart, now.” He warns, freezing you with a look.

You pucker your lips and instinctively show him your palms, cheekily replying with an “I would never.”

Wrong move, unfortunately.

You are your worst enemy.

If this conversation goes downhill, you are the one to blame. Schedule a punishing whipping for yourself, later – you better fetch the goddamn cat o’ nine tails.

The movement causes the long sleeve of your loungewear to slip further down your forearm, pooling at your elbow, and exposing a large bruise. A galaxy of greens and mauves in the shape of five fingers and a large palm.

Ghost’s eyes zero on your arm with the rapidity of a hawk. Price has always said it, after all: he only knows one sniper who’s better than Ghost, and she’s a thousand klicks away now. You miss her – Farah would’ve been a lot nicer about this than him.

When his focus returns to you, he doesn’t even have to ask. As you’ve already stated time and time again, he conveys a lot more with his eyes.

And they are absolutely fuming.

You suck in a sharp breath, nodding your head slowly while returning your sleeve where it’s supposed to be. Fucking traitorous piece of cotton that should stick around your wrist.

“Y’know,” you start, your chest all puffed because – well, you ain’t breathing right. Not with Ghost staring you down like you’ve gone and killed the King of England. “I had to sneak in, grab the USB key our contact set up for us, and then – bang, vanish. And I did it, yeah? I was brilliant at it.”

The smile on your face is as fake as the cheerful tone you’re using to dispense this information. It cracks as soon as you see the fabric of the balaclava shift on his jaw.

He’s grinding his molars into dust.

“And?”

You gesture vaguely. Shift your eyes to the ceiling. Tongue your cheek. Try to downplay it. “Well, ‘s nothing really.”

“Sergeant.” He barks. If he had hackles, they’d be dusting the ceiling.

You sigh.

God, how long have you been holding onto that breath? You’re positive it was the air you’ve inhaled, like, ten thousand years ago.

“Someone thought I was acting a bit dodgy and had me pinned to the floor.” You made grabby hands with a cheeky smile, “I have meaty forearms. Plenty to grip.”

Humor is usually the key to lessen the tension that would strangle your and his lungs. Normally, he’d let it go. He’d listlessly smack the back of your head or pinch the flesh of your biceps and call it a day.

Now, sarcasm seems like the last thing you should’ve resorted to. His posture is stiff and straight. The night lamp on your bedside table sheds light against his back, making him look like he's the wolf ready to pounce what it's going to be his dinner.

It makes your blood curdle.

“Yeah, okay.” You huff, digging your fingertips in the back of your neck to release some tension. “Nothing happened. I jabbed him in the throat before he could shout for help and shoved him under a desk. Got myself a proper blood shower.”

Ghost’s eye twitches.

And then he goes silent.

Not the news of the year, of course. He’s always silent. You know he doesn’t get his callsign from that, but you can’t help but find his personality incredibly fitting with the military nickname.

However, this isn’t the usual Simon shut-up-and-sod-off Riley. He’s so still you wonder if he’s breathing. You have half a mind to wave your hand in front of his eyes to check if he’s gone catatonic.

You don’t, of course. Dogs bite.

You sneer, more in concern than anything, and gingerly take a step forward. Initially, your question comes out simply as a sideway tilt of your head paired with a puzzled look – a question mark would be floating above you, if physically possible.

But when that doesn’t seem enough to coax an answer out of him, you blurt out an “Oi.”

His eyes are jaded as they swivel to your face. Always with the heavy-lidded gaze that makes him look like he’d love to be anywhere but where he currently is.

He seems… calmer. You're not sure whether it's a good or a bad thing. You prefer it when he's fuming because, as the saying goes, better the devil you know.

“Off.” He states.

Of course, he prefers syllables to full, clear sentences. Expressions you (or anyone else, really) don’t seem to catch, unfortunately. You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told him that if he wants to have a conversation, he should start stringing words one after the other instead of settling for just one.

“What?” You deadpan. “Off with the bullshit? Off with my head? Words, L.T.”

You don’t seem to have learned from your past mistake of using humor to sneak out of a predicament when Ghost appears to have all hell ready to unleash.

He roughly points at your chest, “The shirt,” and then aims his finger to the floor. “Off.”

Look at you: dumbfounded.

Sure, you two have fucked, occasionally – ever since he’d come to terms with the idea that he could do it without getting into trouble. It’s not like he gives two shits about someone finding out, he just doesn’t want to deal with commanding officers explaining to him why he shouldn’t stick it anywhere he finds fitting. God forbid someone puts him through one of those seminars about relationship policies and how they can disrupt the chain of command.

You splutter, “Wha – Excuse me?”

“Ya heard.” He reiterates. “The shirt. Off.”

You scoff. “You wanna fuck now?”

“Didn’t say tha’, did I?” He says flatly.

“Oh, sorry!” You snark. “Didn’t think there were other reasons why you’d want me to flash my tits.”

“Didn’t say tha’ either.” He deadpans and swipes his index finger in the air again. “Off with the shirt.”

You huff, pinching the bridge of your nose while, stubbornly, still wearing the t-shirt.

“Not in the mood to have sex, honestly,” you explain, trying to stay calm in the face of the implications of the request. “I came back this morning, I’m beat. I need a cuppa and some sleep –“

He switches, then. “Take off that fucking shirt, sergeant.”

You bristle. Anyone would, at that tone.

Suddenly, you’re back to basic training in Pirbright with your wench of a drill instructor calling you a fucking idiot.

Needless to say, you follow through with his order and rip the shirt off with more spite than cooperation. With a big frown on your face, you turn on your heel and start stomping angrily towards the bed.

“Make it quick.” You snap, getting on your knees on the edge of the mattress, ready to get pounded into oblivion.

You’ll like it, eventually, even if you’re not really in the mood.

Ghost fucks you good. It’s undeniable.

You’ve soaked his sheets, his clothes, his mask – he’s that type of good. You won’t tell him though; his ego is already too big. If it grows more, HQ won’t be able to contain it and the whole base will blow up into smithereens.

You’re saving lives, here, by keeping your mouth shut about it.

But he has other plans, it seems.

“The fuck are you doin’.”

It is not, in fact, a question.

You look over your shoulder and find him still standing where you left him, a few paces back.

You quirk a brow, and shoot it back at him, “The fuck are you doing.”

“Why are you bendin’ over.” He states.

"To fuck?" You say, an unsaid obviously lingering in the air.

Something shifts under his mask, as if he’s scowling. “Who said I wanted to fuck?”

You splutter, yet again caught by surprise. “You made me get naked.”

He sighs, sounding exasperated, and approaches you, who is – by the way – still shamefully on all fours on the tiny bed of your quarters.

Suddenly, all that spite sublimates under the heavy, hot weight of embarrassment.

What are you doing, on your knees on the bed, half naked, if he doesn’t want to fuck?

In your defense, while the two of you often spent time chatting about everything and nothing, that happened in public places. Not once has he knocked on your door for a spot of tea and decent conversation.

Regardless, as soon as you manage to stand on your knees, you can feel him right behind you. Scorching fingers of shame crawl up to your neck. You feel your chest warm up, all the way to the apples of your cheeks. Awkwardly, you bring your arms up to cover your breasts.

“Off,” he orders, again.

You swallow dryly, offering an insecure smile. “…With the pants?”

He gives you a glacial look. Your blood freezes in your vessels. You think you might have turned cyanotic.

“Fuckin’ hell – Off the bed.”

Obviously, your feet touch the ground with impeccable speed, because after that display, the least you can do is follow through with his orders before you make a fool of yourself twice in under a minute.

You feel his fingers curl around the top of your head, only allowing the pads to tangle through your hair and touch your scalp. It’s as if he doesn’t really want to touch you, but feels compelled to do so.

He flicks his wrist to give you a sense of the direction he wants you to turn to, and you do, waddling a little on your feet as you slowly twirl.

Your hands are tucked under your biceps, which are currently strangling your ribcage in an attempt to cover as much of your chest as you can with your forearms.

When you’re finally facing him again, you look up at him through your lashes. His eyes, however, are not on your tits as you expect. He’s not even ogling, to be honest – which would be a blow to your ego, if the situation weren’t so… odd.

Your brows are pinched. Your mouth parts only so you can suck in some air and then worry your lip between your teeth.

This is much too intimate than what you’re used to.

You realize, as he studies your body, with that weirdly placed hand on your head, that Ghost has never… seen it.

Or – well, he’s seen it all right, but he’s never looked at it. Your encounters are usually very quick and to the point.

He fucks you.

You come – once or twice. Thrice, if he’s feeling particularly generous.

He comes.

Get yourself a glass o’ water and jog on. ‘M knackered.

Yeah, okay. G’night, prick.

Right back at ya.

That’s it.

Sometimes, you don’t even take off each other’s clothes. Sometimes, he doesn’t even turn on the lights.

Now, his gaze is heavy as he looks at the dip of your waist, then at the fuzz below your belly button and where it leads, until the hem of your slouchy sweatpants that have seen better days. It’s like having lasers pointed at every nook and cranny of you, leaving scorching lines along your profile.

He taps his finger on your forearm, the one without the bruise – a silent request to take your arms off your chest. Your hands are shaking as you comply, but you’re too preoccupied with him to notice.

Ghost seems utterly uninterested at the sight of your tits bouncing down in response to gravity, instead setting his focus on the edges of your ribcage.

He flicks his wrist again, and you slowly turn the other way, giving him your back.

You feel his fingers twitch against your scalp, before a cold fingertip brushes against your right side.

"Here." He states, barely tracing the lines of your ribs.

It's been so long since he's last spoken that you feel goosebumps rise along your neck. God, his voice will never not make your insides churn.

Regardless, you spread your elbows out, lifting your right arm so you can look at where he's pointing. You can't see much, but you definitely feel how the slight movement of your shoulder causes your right side to ache as if the skin were ready to burst at the seams.

“Ow.”

You frown and curiously try again to take a peek at the cause of the pain. After some squirming, you spot the darkening patch of flesh, speckled with purples and yellows.

“Mh,” you muse. “Didn’t know that was there.”

The hand on your head finally abandons it, allowing the muscles on your neck to relax.

You continue, somewhat feeling the need to explain why there is yet another bruise. “When that man saw me, he knocked me onto the floor. Must’ve hit it harder than I thought.”

He hums noncommittally. You could’ve told him the most absurd tale, and he wouldn’t have batted an eye, much too focused on the expanse of your back.

You shrug, then. “’S alright. It’ll pass. It’s just a bruise.”

It’s then that he meets your eyes.

There’s always a sort of veil over his, whenever the air around you both thickens. You wish you had scissors to rip it, sometimes. Or walk to the curtain and take a peek inside.

“What is this?” You gesture at the two of you, looking back at him over your shoulder. “What are you doing?”

He deflects your questions with the same reflexes he uses to dodge bullets, answering instead with a question of his own. “You went to medical?”

Your lips twitch and you have to school your face into more muted frustration.

Your response is a little petty, but you can’t help but give it to him. “No, just a couple of bumps, nothing that needs a trip to the doctor."

He is a looming shadow behind you, encompassing you with dark tendrils that threaten to swallow you whole. He sucks the warmth of the room with the ice embedded in his eyes – it forces you to look away, finding comfort in your own hands cupping your biceps.

You don’t even manage to reach for your t-shirt again, feeling the need to cover yourself up, that he curls an uncharacteristically gentle hand around your jaw.

You stiffen.

He seizes that moment to turn your head, his other fingers already hooked at the hem of his balaclava around the neck. He slides it up and off naturally.

There’s always some sort of solemnity when his face comes into view.

Each groove and bump tell a story of their own, not a single one coming from the same tale, nor the same blade.

He has crow's feet, but he rarely smiles – if ever. There are lines originating from the sides of his nose tipping at each corner of his mouth. They should symbolize happiness carved, but you fear it’s the opposite.

Thick, convoluted scars paint him like rough brush strokes given by an angry hand – bristles of steel, paint of blood.

Teeth peek out from a particularly gruesome injury that has torn the flesh off his upper lip. He constantly looks like he’s scowling at you, and if you didn’t know any better, you’d probably think he was. Would fit the character, and all.

Truth is, Simon rarely cares enough to scowl at anyone. You can either get a cold side glance or a disinterested one – if it’s the former, then you might be in his good graces.

Right now, though, you don’t think he’s giving you either. His eyes are murky; a mud of anger, annoyance, and disappointment. He looks like he hates you with all his might, staring at you as if he could, by sheer force of thought, scoop out the eyes from your sockets.

“You wanna kill me?” You mumble, finding it hard to speak as he holds your jaw between his fingers. “Get in line, mate. There are at least a bunch a’ Russian men and their mothers before you, ever since I shanked their colleague.”

Then, his eyes leave yours to glance at your lips. He must think you haven’t noticed, because he doesn’t bother to hide it. However – and you’ve always found this incredibly interesting – Ghost tends to forget when he’s wearing the mask and when he isn’t.

Each time, it’s like watching a child learning how to rein it in. Or, you know, like that sibling you have to surreptitiously elbow under the table at Christmas dinner when your pissed uncle is going off a tangent regarding the most idiotic, misplaced subject ever known to man.

That’s Ghost right now.

The sibling elbowing him? Simon.

He blinks out of his headspace and then frowns, returning his eyes to yours.

“Don’t need to.” He grunts. “You’re doin’ a fine job by yourself.”

You scoff. “It’s just a bruise.”

His jaw ticks.

“Yeah, but it’s on you.”

It’s said low and bitter, as if he’s had to fight tooth and nail to yank it out of his chest.

You, on the other hand, are stock still in place – not only because of his hand holding you firmly by the jaw, forcing you to look over your shoulder to where he stands, but also because what was that?

You swallow but it's futile because your tongue is stuck to your palate. The air surrounding you crackles. The oxygen is lacking, and your lungs are suffering from it.

You blink. That’s all it takes, and he lands his mouth on you.

Ghost’s kisses are always rough, determined to take your breath away and leave you wondering if you’ll ever say any other name but his own. This one is not much different, but you have to recognize that it is somewhat angrier.

His lips part as if he could swallow you whole, working his tongue against yours and hindering your movements with his fingers holding your face, and a hand over your belly.

You can work with this. This, you know how to behave around. This is charted territory – the hunger, the stress, the need to decompress and find solace in the oasis you offer so generously between your legs.

You know the dance, and so you press your bum against his groin. You weren’t in the mood, like – ten minutes ago. You were a different person back then.

If Ghost now wants to split you in half, you’d hand him the butcher knife.

You’re already turning feverish, lifting your right arm to tangle with his hair, ready to grab and pull and bite and –

He stops you. Palm to your knuckles, guiding it down once more. He doesn’t hold your hand, instead removing his own as though your skin were burning coal.

Not as carefully, though, he snakes under your sweatpants and unceremoniously dips his middle finger inside your cunt.

“Fuck,” you hiss.

You weren’t that wet, and while you're not one to say no to a bit of pain, this has caught you so off guard that you decide to chastise him by nipping at his lower lip.

It’s not much of a punishment, you guess, because his hips jerk to rub himself against you.

You wish to move and take this to the bed, where you can lie down and be his pillow princess. Let him fuck you until his heart's content, because you're tired and you'd love to get used for his pleasure and yours.

But he’s an unmoving statue, boots glued to the floor and hand shackled to your pussy, dipping in relentlessly until your knees buckle under the sheer pressure of his finger buried to the knuckle.

When your hips start undulating to increase the friction – specifically of his palm against your neglected bundle of nerves where your pussy tips – he inserts a second finger, and you positively melt against his chest. It’s then that he releases your lips, allowing you to moan under your breath.

He starts sucking blindly at whatever piece of skin he can find, leaving love bites on the length of your shoulders all the way to your neck. Teeth and tongue and words that escape his lips, while he curls his fingers inside you, drowning your thoughts in frayed growls from his mouth, and raunchy squelches from between your legs. His offhand gets busy and starts toying and pulling at your nipples.

You're being absolutely ravaged; his nails are talons and he wants to rip you apart and eat you inside out after he's prepped you alright. It's juxtaposing - the pleasure, and the crudeness. It's new, but not unwelcome.

“You should’ve told me.” He grunts. You don’t pay it much mind, he usually murmurs a lot during sex, and less than half of the time you catch what he says – the other times, you’re already too stupid to use your senses.

“Should’ve.”

He snaps his finger upward, burying them to the knuckle.

“Told me."

Then rolls his palm against your clit.

"You were being posted."

Finally, he curls his fingers inside, making your legs quiver.

You whimper and your eyes roll back. Is this your punishment? Hell fucking yes, then. You’ll keep your secrets more often.

But alas, you do feel compelled to at least explain and apologize.

“M’sorry,” you breathe, “It was a last-minute thing. Got called the day before.”

Surely, he’ll understand. That’s how deployments work: they give you a timeframe, and you might or might not get the dreaded call. If you do, then you’re off – one day you’re lounging at the beach, the next you’re buried in gore.

No in-between.

You don't want to distract him though. You're so close. If he just – moved a little, maybe? Or allowed you to rest your legs somewhere.

You shift imperceptibly so that you can rub your clit at your preferred pace against his palm. The callouses on the heel of his hand make it somehow even better.

He allows you, meaning that even if you’ve kept the deployment from him, he’s feeling magnanimous.

You roll your head against his shoulder to nuzzle his neck, the tip of your nose tucked behind his lobe. You pant as he fucks you with his fingers, and murmur sweet things about how good he is to you, because he’s being kind and for that he deserves a generous stroke to his ego. You leave open kisses on his neck, his jaw, lapping the sweat off his skin with your tongue – to try and give back some of the pleasure he’s offering you.

When you come, it is with a loud groan muffled in his neck, and he holds you by the waist before you keel over. The orgasm almost stings, since he’s ripped it out of you so quickly and forcefully. It tingles from the tips of your toes, curling against the linoleum, all the way to the knot that finally snaps in your gut.

Only then, when your vision clears and your skin still prickles in goosebumps, do you hear him through the ringing of your ears.

“You don’t understand.” He’s saying, like a prayer repeated gruffly to the skin of your neck.

He doesn’t say it once, he doesn’t say it twice. He repeats it with fervor, and the more it escapes his mouth, the angrier it gets.

You feel the back of your knee being pushed by his own, and you stumble forward on the mattress. You’re confused, still descending from the high of your orgasm, feeling your limbs move under his command and notyours. Trying to find sense in his words.

You don’t understand.

Your ears are cottoned – the orgasm has been that blissful – but you still catch the sound of a zipper being pulled down. Your front is plastered against the mattress, cheek buried in linen of freshly washed sheets.

You don’t have the strength to stand, nor to look behind, so you can solely rely on your hearing, on your touch.

Shallow breaths.

Shuffle of fabric – he’s taking off his shirt.

His hand skims over your back, purposefully avoiding the bruise on your side.

A finger pulls down the sweatpants to your ankles – the air feels cold against your skin, flushed and burning.

Wet fingertips trail down your legs with uncommon reverence, until they reach down and yank the pants off your feet.

The denim of his jeans shifts. A thud – he’s on his knees.

He forces your leg to bend and kisses your ankle. Then the arch of your foot. Your toes, and it makes your cunt flutter around nothing. The actions are paired with a wet, rhythmic sound – he’s touching himself the way you’d touch him.

He has fingered you with such voracity you thought you’d rip in half on his hand, and now he’s on his knees, kissing your feet. He’s switching rapidly – angry, then devoted.

The former you know, but the latter is different. It’s new.

You feel the mattress dip and protest under the additional weight, each of his thighs on either side of yours, keeping your legs flush together.

A hand appears in your vision, gripping the sheets.

You kiss the knuckle on his thumb, and he flicks it gently over your nose.

His chest exudes warmth even if he isn’t properly touching your back. He simply hovers above it, putting his weight on his palm, while his other hand is busy stroking his cock.

You're wet and prepped just how he likes, in fact he slides in easily.

You already came, which means you're hypersensitive – it feels like he's inserting something long and scorching hot inside. Your breath hitches in your throat at the intrusion, and he dips his forehead to your shoulder, leaving an apologetic kiss.

He fucks you slow and deep, dragging backward without ever pulling out. He wants to stay sheathed inside. He wants to bury himself in there, with your velvet walls squeezing him dry. You won’t complain. You’ll keep him snug until he’s sated. Until you are, too.

This dance you know as well, and so you fold your arms behind you, bending your elbows so that he can grip both your forearms with one hand and use them as leverage to rail you until you’re only babbling nonsense.

But he… doesn’t?

He still fucks you, sure, but his hand doesn’t reach for your arms, preferring the sheets instead, and it makes you feel a little neglected, wondering if you're doing something wrong. Sure – you just came, he’s treated you to your nice little post-operation orgasm, and then proceeded to fuck you. So, he must still be into this – into you.

Right?

You thought this could’ve been a nice way to reciprocate, since you know how much he likes to get you to bend as he pleases.

A thank you of sorts.

You reach up with your fingers, tickling his abdomen to make him notice that you’ve prepared yourself for him, arms knotted behind your back like a bow on a present – just in case he’s missed it, you know?

But he reaches down only to guide your arms back to the bed, distending them ahead. He goes to hold one hand but stops, instead digging his palm back into the mattress.

Just when you’re about to protest, lifting your head from the bed, he drags his tongue around the shell of your ear.

You shudder.

"I- I'm not good at this." He grunts as he fucks you slowly, dragging breathy moans out of your lips. "So jus’ listen for once in your goddamn life.”

It’s then that his pace picks up, punching a ragged groan out of your lips at the first abrupt thrust.

He’s either doing it to shut you up, or to make you focus on something else while he speaks. So, maybe, if you’re busy molding your pussy around his cock and rolling your eyes to the back of your head, you won’t hear what he’s saying.

“Lieut –“

“Simon.” He chides loudly. “Fuck – Told you it’s Simon, ‘ere.”

You grip the sheets as your head bobs to the pace he takes. Your breathing is more akin to a wheeze, and your belly flutters each time he hits you just right.

“Simon,” you whimper.

“Yeah,” he croons. “Simon. Good.”

Simon is as breathless as you are, but much more contained.

“Need to know where you are,” he murmurs under his breath. “You got no idea wha’ I –“

He releases a shuddering breath that tickles your ear.

You’re keening and shivering, trying to focus on his words but it seems like he’s trying his best to prevent you from listening, even if he’s the one who’s asked you to.

There’s something rabid in his motions. He bullies his cock as deep as it can reach, his hips brutally slap against your ass. You can feel the fat recoiling, the vibration tipping at the base of your skull. He’s feral and yet it’s so different.

He groans, but it's frustrated more than satisfied.

“You got no fuckin’ idea, do ya?” He mutters the sentence like a curse. “No fuckin’ idea. You – “

You reach for his hand with your own, but he swats it away.

You try again and he nibbles at your ear.

“Don’t." He warns lowly, stilling his motions until he’s hilted all the way inside.

You suck in a breath as he shoves himself until there’s not an inch of space for him to move.

He’s ramrod stiff above you, struggling to keep his chest off your back – denying you of his skin. Of intimacy. Of contact.

You twist your head that much to look at his face and find him staring blankly ahead.

To say it worries you would be an understatement, especially if paired with the puzzling behavior he’s had all evening.

You follow the trajectory of his gaze with your eyes and heartbreakingly discover that he's burning holes in your bruised flesh – the hand of that now-dead man still darkly imprinted on your skin.

Is that why he doesn't touch you? Is that why he's taking pains to not press his weight on your body when he'd usually have you flattened under the whole of him?

You feel yourself falter. “Si-“

“You’re hurt.” he croaks. “I’ll hurt you more.”

You don’t know what staggers you the most: his cock up your cervix making you dizzy, or the hesitance in his voice.

Hesitance.

Simon doesn’t hesitate. He’s not tentative.

He takes.

If he can’t take, he delegates, and whatever he needs eventually will fall into his hand.

You fell into his hand without too much of a fuss. He gave you the impression that you were the one demanding and obtaining, but the truth obviously lies elsewhere.

Simon wanted you, too. He wants you, too.

He gave you the chance to sneak into his office and request an immediate closure to the cat-and-mouse chase. He delegated it to you.

And then he took.

Hesitance, clearly, isn’t in his daily vocabulary.

This dance, you don’t know. You’re out of your zone. You don’t know which steps to take without tripping over his toes and disrupting the music.

He’s unmoving inside of you, catching his breath with his lips on your ear.

“Can’t hurt you.” He breathes, and you have to focus to even catch it.

“You won’t,” you whisper, trying a first step. “I’ll tell you if – “

And it’s the wrong one.

He starts again, pulling out and fiercely slamming back in. Your breathing snaps, palm coming down to slap against the mattress, “Fuck!”

It would feel oh, so good, if you were in the right headspace.

He won’t allow you to talk. He’s begging you, in his contorted ways, to let him speak without judgment. Without the fear of knowing he has dropped the mask too low.

This is his time.

You should’ve shut your mouth, for once, and allowed him to speak. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He asked for one thing.

Jus’ listen for once in your goddamn life.

You purse your lips in a line and nudge your head against his own, a silent way to prompt him to go on.

I’m sorry. I’m listening.

“You got no idea.” He repeats again, but this time his voice cracks – overwhelmed.

He starts his voracious pace that always steals your breath and fucks your brain into a mush.

“I’ve looked for ya, asked ‘round – no one fucking knew. Got told you were off on deployment, and that’s it.”

Each word is as accusatory and irate as the cock he’s drilling inside of you.

“You weren’t comin’ back. One. Two. Three weeks. No fuckin’ sign of ya.” He thrusts in for each week you’ve gone missing, “I was – “

He stops. Inhales sharply. Hesitates, once again.

“Don’t wanna feel tha’ again – don’t put me through that again.”

Suddenly, you can feel everything at once.

Your body perks up.

Vision, hearing, touch, taste, smell – all filled of him.

And it’s not about sex anymore.

It never has been, but how obvious it is now.

You want to hold his hand, but you decide to leave him space.

The hand-shaped bruise on your arm glares at him like a promise he silently made with himself and failed to keep. You won’t make him feel like he broke a thing, because he hasn’t.

If anything, you’ve never felt more whole in your life.

You and Simon have never gone further than physical. You don't know how to soothe a heart so afraid if it belongs to him. So, you do the only thing you’ve learned that manages to get through to him.

You keen and moan and breathe, allowing tiny praises and sinful curses to leave your lips.

Like that – yeah. Shit.

Yes, yes, yes.

Deeper. Please.

His name – not his callsign, not his rank.

Simon, you croon. Simon, Simon, Simon.

You feel the pressure of his come spurting out, flooding your walls like a dam has broken and crushed. His mouth on your ear won’t allow a single sound to pass, but he’s clearly overly affected – you know, by the way his breath comes. As if he’s clinging to life and has found purchase for survival right on your skin.

You want to kiss him, but you leave the choice up to him. You won’t squirm under the press of his forehead against your temple, but your lips are there for him to taste – moist and plump and ready.

Simon’s lashes flutter against your cheekbone as he regains his bearings. Looks at you. His eyes hint at regret – it’s a fraction of a second that has your stomach knot. But then he squashes it down, when he realizes that you saw nothing wrong in his words.

He kisses your cheek, and then your lips. Thankfulness seeps through.

"Don't hide from me again," he murmurs and gingerly hooks his thumb around your pinky. Not touching you yet, not so close to where you’re already aching.

You curl your finger around his own. “I won’t.”

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #call of duty modern warfare #cod #cod mw2 #fanfic #archive of our own #ao3 #ghost x reader #smut #cod smut #x reader

123 notes · View notes

halcyone-of-the-sea · 1 year

Text

Blood-Stained Wool Spun At Midnight (II)

AU MASTERLIST || PART III

PAIRING: Werewolf!Ghost x F!Tailor!Reader (Set in Van Helsing Era/Aesthetic)

WORDCOUNT: 7.7k

WARNINGS: Blood, very intense gore and body horror, angst, mutilation, violence, wounds, blades, death, being hunted, VERY intense religious imagery/references, nudity, protective!Simon, etc.

A/N: All I can say is that I'm sorry...take that as you will

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

He was still watching you when you woke up, groggily blinking and your mouth dry. It was amusing to him, really, how you twisted your lips and furrowed your brows before you shoved your cheek back into the pillow away from the cold light.

Simon tilts his head and stares—letting you come to your senses while he sits in his chair. He hadn’t moved once, thinking and stewing in questions.

It wasn’t rare for him to completely forget what he had gotten up to in his…state. More often than not, he remembered only the scent of blood and wind; broken earth and the taste of the moon. This time it was different.

You were different.

Simon remembered your scent. Recalls tracking it down as he abandoned all the others in the air. Racing to it with a rapid heart like a simple fool. He knows he held you down, laid his great snout along your neck, and tried to scent you—layer your flesh with him so your sweet fragrance mixed with his own.

The thought made his lips thin and his hands clench, the blanket sitting tightly wrapped around his waist as his body expanded with a tight-jawed huff.

There was still a spark of pain in between his legs, but at that, he welcomed the grounding reality of it. In fact, a bit of pride even made his nose twitch. Simon’s lashes caress his cheeks as he blinks at you, shifting his thighs wider as his hands hang off the arms of the chair.

He hadn’t expected you to come to this forest during his little problem—this could have gone very, very wrong. The man runs a hand over his head, pushing his fingers through his locks and watching you slowly sit up; confusion is seen in the lines on your forehead.

“Can I ‘ave my fuckin’ clothes back now?” You flinch at the low question, sleepy eyes snapping open and locking onto the nearly nude man in his chair.

The air stalls in your lungs, strangled down as you bite your tongue so hard you taste copper. Brown eyes flicker to your mouth before Simon’s lips move in a thin smirk.

“C’mon now. Easy, then.”

“Mr. Riley,” you clear your throat, gawking at the rippling tension in his abdomen and the scars along his pecs. Your entire soul burns as you snap your head away from the image of his face—the first time you’d seen it fully.

Stubble along a strong jaw; bent nose and carefully crafted lips with pulling disfigurements.

“You…you’re back,” you push out, fingers intertwining into the sheets. Simon gazes into the sliver of flesh from above the collar of his shirt that you wear, licking at the corner of his mouth before he looks away.

“And getting cold, Love,” he levels to you. The strips of his own clothes had been thrown on the table, no use wearing them as they offered no coverage. All he had was the blanket. “You hear?”

“Right,” you’re still not looking at him, nervous. Standing quickly, you stubble and brush your hands along the man’s top—flattening it before scampering to grab your clothes from yesterday.

Ripped and dirty, you drag them to you while having to stand closer to Simon as his knee hits yours. He tenses lightly but doesn’t comment.

“My apologies, Mr. Riley, I didn’t want to dirty your bed, you see.” Your hands are shaking. “I suppose I could have taken the floor, of course, but I admit, I didn’t think about—”

A hand grabs your one shoe and hands it to you, Simon having stood up and his chest against your shoulder. You still, breath hitching tight.

You stare at the shoe before your free hand carefully moves out to take it, being side-eyed by an earthen stare and blank expressions. Fingers blush, and you have to swallow a sigh at the heat you feel emanating from Simon’s bareness.

Taking your shoe back, you clear your throat. “Thank you.”

“No need to apologize—that’s my bloody cross, yeah?” He moves back from you, and your lungs take down air again. You don’t like how you respond to him or his touch. How you’re stuttering and stumbling over words.

Sure you found him attractive…incredibly attractive, but with the knowledge you now held all of this became jumbled. The memory of your sheer terror flashes, a mad dash and gripping thorns. The murders. Your wounds pulse.

“Mr. Riley?” You ask, lips twisting at his comment. The man rubs a hand over his face, and you notice the bags under his eyes with a small bead of concern.

“Simon,” he glances at you. “Just Simon. Figure with all I’ve done that’s better than nothing.” A hand hovers over the bottom of your sleeve, pushing it back a smidge to look at the bloodied bandages. “Fuckin’ hell, I do this?”

He leans closer again, picking at the bandages as you explain.

“No,” you breathe. You’re taken aback by his attitude—his flickering eyes as they slowly move to look up at you. “No, I ran through some thorns.”

“Can smell the blood.” Simon bluntly eases out, releasing you and taking a step back. “Get dressed—there’s a stream. I’ll get some fresh water.”

Before you can say anything, the man’s walking outside in nothing but a tied towel, the door opening and quickly closing behind him. Gobsmacked, you blink rapidly as you open and close your mouth, pushing your clothes farther into your chest. Inside your ribcage, your heart palpitates; the flesh is an inferno of contained fire.

“My neighbor is a werewolf,” you breathe, putting a hand to your temple. “Simon Riley is the Ghost. Oh,” you drag. “Where’s the alcohol when you need it?”

Dressing went quickly, and you hope Whistlejacket is out of the forest and was able to find shelter like you had. It became obvious as you tightened your belt and slipped your silver blade into it, that Simon would not hurt you—not in this state or the other. When you’d woken up, you’d feared that if the man was back in the monster’s place, he would snap at the sight of you.

Damage control. But now…

“Now I’m just bloody confused,” you huff, glaring down at your one shoe as you wiggle your toes. Back in your skirt and shirtwaist, you frown at the damage done and vehemently avoid looking at Simon’s own scraps. It would only serve to make you angrier.

Pushing your gloves into your pockets, you grimace at the aching in your wrist and legs but push forward until you open the door to a small covering of snow. The world overnight had continued without you, it seemed, and you frown as you wrap your hands across your chest from the chill.

Wherever you look, the forest rules. It speaks and lives—writhing and bending; this place wasn’t meant for you or your kind. It was meant for monsters.

But was Simon a monster?

You find with all the memories you have in your head, you can’t answer that question anymore. Before you can, you need to get answers.

Real answers.

You wait for the man to return, and he does so with a wooden bucket sloshing liquid over his blanket-skirt. Blinking, you hold open the door and allow him in. He grunts in thanks, running his eyes up and down your outfit.

“You fell from your horse.” It isn’t a question, but the tone makes it seem like he doesn’t know for sure. Simon places the bucket on the floor and gathers his clothes that you’d folded.

“Miriam’s horse. Yes.” You take down a breath. “Simon?” He stares hard at his shirt, nose twitching and eyes going small.

The man’s fingers clench over the fabric before he comes back to the present.

“What is it?” He forces the shirt over his head, blanket holding fast. Simon has to stop himself from shaking as your scent buries itself into his nostrils. A noose around his neck that makes his voice gruff and breathy.

“You’re going to explain to me what’s going on.” He grunts.

“Bit complicated, that is—”

“What’s complicated is that I just got chased through the forest by a dog as tall as a damn statue that stands on two legs. Not to mention the strange obsession you have with smelling me.”

“It’s not fuckin’ me,” Simon growls, eyes flashing. You tense and he settles, snapping his head away to glare at the far wall. He grabs for his blanket and you just manage to snap your head up before you see anything besides the very tops of his large hips and the dip of his pelvis.

The fabric hits the ground and your under-the-skin hellscape spreads all the way to your curling toes.

“You weren’t supposed to be in here.” The man pulls up his pants, shoving himself into them and pulling the strings tight. “Got distracted.”

“I apologize for having work to complete,” you huff, still hyper aware of every sound from the man a few feet away. “I wasn’t aware that I’d get favored by a dog.”

A low growl lets you know his displeasure at the comment.

“Dog, yeah?” Simon grunts.

“Am I wrong,” you state dryly, glaring at the ceiling.

“Bloody mutt can’t compare to me, Love.” The man scoffs and pushes his top into his pants, walking over to his trunk to peel it open and snatch at the pair of large boots inside.

“Oh,” you breathe, slowly looking back to him and sighing when he’s fully clothed. “I’m so very lucky, Sir.”

“Would you quit it?” Simon snaps. “Christ, just ask your damn questions. And use the water on your wounds.”

Rolling your eyes, you walk forward and pull out a chair at the table—grabbing at the bucket and pushing up your sleeves. You tap at your forearms with your fingers, open your mouth as you think, and begin to speak.

Yet something’s missing. A weight at your side. Something that was there before but is now absent.

Pausing, you blink slowly, finally able to calm yourself and get a handle on your emotions. Looking down at your hip where the comfortable weight of your satchel is supposed to be, you grow tense.

Wait a second…

Simon pulls out a rough-looking jacket from the trunk, shifting his large arms into it and quickly fixing the collar as he rubs at his chin.

“...Where’s my bag?”

The man pauses, hand leaving the last few buttons of his shirt open to glance at you—confusion grows in his eyes.

“What?” You’re already standing, turning in a circle.

“My bag,” you say again. “I had it on Whistlejacket but now it's gone. I…must have dropped it when he bucked me off.”

Simon’s jaw clenches, expression going somewhat tight at the mention. “Thought you said you fell.”

You wave a hand and step around the bucket, walking swiftly to the door with your one shoe and intent on trekking back to the path.

“Same thing,” your lips utter, frowning. “It must have slipped off my shoulder. Hell.”

You’re only able to put your hand on the barrier before you’re pulled back into a firm chest. You’re reminded of the blanket of fur that had encompassed you just yesterday, and while the sensation might not be the same, the pure muscle underneath is still just as prominent.

An arm circles your waist and you’re lifted easily.

“Hey!” You shout, but Simon says nothing until you’re dropped back down into the chair and you’re glaring heavily at him. His heat leaves for only a moment before he pulls up your sleeves with his large palms; fingers slipping under the bandages and caressing your skin with scars and calluses.

Watching, wide-eyed, you grumble out, shocked, “What exactly are you doing, you brute?”

“Making sure that you don’t get fuckin’ sick if you insist on being difficult.” You pull your head back, lips parted.

“I’m the difficult one? Simon, you do realize that you turn into a god-forsaken gigantic wolf in your free time?” You’re leveled with an unimpressed look and dead eyes. “Don’t you stare at me like that,” your face burns, nose pointing up. “You know I’m right.”

“You speak too much,” the accent gravels, blunt.

“Well you kill people too much,” is the answer, and none of the fear that should be there is. It’s as if the second you realized that the Ghost was Simon Riley, the terror had leaked out of you steadily to form annoyance instead. “And rip up all of my work.”

Simon clenched his jaw and reached for the water in the bucket, picking up a rag from the table and dipping it in before closing his fist around the fabric to wring most of the liquid out.

“I pay you,” he tries, voice hissing.

Growling, you glare into his head as he presses the rag into your small cuts. “Not enough.”

“Why were you in the forest,” you’re snappily asked. You try not to show how his grasp on your wrist makes you weak to him, the scent of his body so close bleeding into your nostrils. Even Simon seems to react to the close contact, a pulse in his veins making his grip tighten before loosening. Something flashes his deep browns; brows tight on his scarred forehead before he grunts and rolls his shoulders.

“I needed wool from the farmers.” You huff, body lightly shifting on the chair. “Why did you kill all of those hunters?”

“They were trying to kill me.” Tight orbs glance up as the inside of your forearm is soaked with the warmth of his touch—the essence of his inner care. You tilt your head, narrowing your vision. You could believe that, of course, but there was one man you couldn’t.

“And Mr. Lambert?” Simon pauses, chest expanding with a grating sigh. But even he knows you won’t be taking anything short of the truth.

He shifts his feet, moving back to grasp your ankle and begin peeling at the wrappings there as you blink in surprise at his willingness to help. You rewrap your arm and frown, shivering at the slide of his hand under your calf; yet you can’t stop the shaky inhale you take.

The man delays, half-narrowed eyes turning their attention to you in slow intervals of flicking earth and glinting charcoal. He stares, not blinking, not moving. Exactly like the beast that had waited at the edge of the glade to lock eyes and turn your insides outward—splaying you open like a book and flipping the pages of your mind.

You don’t know how someone can stare like that, can’t make sense of it. If those brown eyes kept stuck with yours, you wouldn’t find it entirely unpleasant.

Simon grips your leg tighter and blinks, tilting his head away. The rag lets water drip long down your flesh, but it’s wiped away by a thumb before the accented voice graces your eardrums.

“He was trying to bite you.” You’re torn back to the present, your face and neck tight with burning sin. You clear your throat and re-think the words you’d just heard.

Silence falls for a moment.

“He…what?” Simon’s lips flicker into some semblance of a smirk. He stands and tosses the rag to the table.

“Vampire.” It’s like your heart nearly jumps out of your chest.

A Vampire? Speechless, you stand carefully and turn your head to the side in rapid thought.

“That’s not…” Simon interjects.

“Pinned him to the tree branch, right?” He had done that. “Never came to visit, ‘cept at night, yeah?” The man shrugs, putting his hands into his pockets. “Could smell it.” Watching. Dead burial-mound eyes. “Didn’t like him comin’ ‘round to bother you.”

It’s how he explains this that makes you wonder, an internal understanding as you stutter a question.

“You don’t remember things when you’re…like that,” you breathe, “do you?”

He had said the beast wasn’t him—that had stuck with you. The shock of Mr. Lambert being a monster sunk in, dots connected with thread. It made your shoulders tight to imagine what could have happened if Simon wasn’t there every time the other man was. There was no way you’d be able to fight something like that by yourself.

The man blinks, and for the first time, he can’t answer that question honestly because now he truly doesn’t know how to.

Simon hums, looking at the door.

He only remembered you despite all else.

“I’ll bring you back to the path,” the man grunts, moving to the door and exiting the hut with a last comment over his shoulder. “Keep the knife on you.”

Simon slips out of the house, door open and the chilled breeze filtering through. You watch him take a silent deep breath and begin walking into the trees. With one last shaky twitch of your hands, you look at the journal on the desk and dart after him.

It’s a silent affair until you speak, and Simon had known without a doubt that you would the minute the dark trunks were all around. He guides you with heavy steps.

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

“Don’t know.” A lie.

“Why did you shove your head under my neck?”

“I don’t know.” A second lie. The man’s tone doesn’t change, a bare grumble as he walks ahead of you.

“What else lives in this forest?” Simon stops walking. The dead air all around you is thick and heavy, like a blanket of uneasy weight; you can put a description to it now, and your last question wasn’t only out of curiosity but a hunch.

It felt like the very trees were listening when you spoke.

“Things like me. Things that are worse.” Simon turns and gives you a tight look as you stare up at him and barely feel yourself breathe. “So never for one second leave my sight.” He nods his head to your knife in a quick jerk. “And ever lose that if you don’t want to end up on a bloody butcher’s block, eh?”

You nod slowly, swallowing. The man looks like he wants to say more but refrains, making a noise in the back of his throat before he locks onto the shivering of your body. Not even noticing that the cold was getting to you, you had words coming off your lips in small chatterings of teeth.

“W-Well, if all of the things in this forest will let me live, they can’t be that b-bad.” Squeaking, a jacket is layered over your shoulders, and in a flurry of skirts, you’re picked up into a bridal hold as your hands snap to wrap a thick neck.

A voice in the shell of your ear.

“They’re not like me, Love.” Your eyes widen. “An’ they won’t take a fancy to you like I ‘ave, hear?”

He carries you with as much ease as the trunks of fabric for your shop, stepping over rocks and easily stomping up ravines. From the side of his eye, he blinks at you as his smell surrounds your body to coat it just the way he wants it to, even if he hates the instinct with a bitter grudge.

Why couldn’t you have just stayed away until he came back to the city? When all of his senses were eased back to normal, when the song of the wolf was no longer in his head—that call and primal embrace of fang and claw.

There was a reason he left, there was a reason he always wore your clothes to keep him here—away from others and not to seek you out.

Your scent.

The oils on your flesh that press into him and make his head swim; hold you tighter into him to take it in. Simon’s heart pounds, his eyes going small the longer you stay here with him.

You were both a blessing in the dark and the very phantoms that haunt it at the same time. A hurdle and a stepstool. You made it worse, but, damn him, you also made it better.

Grunting, Simon shakes his head once, staring straight ahead and willing away the sharp pinch of claws poking from his nail beds. He clenches his jaw as you melt into him, legs swaying with the loping movements of his legs. Your hands around his neck dig into the skin softly, letting it mold around you as you lick your lips and avoid his eyes, shy to this type of chivalry.

You shivered far less than before.

“Thank you,” you say, hesitantly.

Simon huffs a chuckle at the tone.

The man carries you through the bed of thorns that you remember, and he hikes you farther into his arms until not even a single one thinks to touch you—no sharp drag. Your face gently rests on Simon’s head, the top of his scalp as your nose itches at the feeling of his hair.

You blink softly, holding on as he moves you back down after the threat is gone.

“What other monsters, Simon?” Your voice is tiny. “What’s out here with us?” He sighs, and you feel it.

But he doesn’t answer you.

“When I get you out,” Simon explains. “You don’t come back. You never come back.”

Your heart skips a beat. “And what about you? Do I just…” You trail off, licking your lips. “Do I just let you keep living like this?”

“Yes.”

“Simon,” his hands tighten on you in warning, but you continue without fear. “I want to help you. We know each other enough to care, don’t we?” You both make it back to the path and Simon clears off a rock with his foot before placing you down next to the large boulder from yesterday.

Simon turns to look around the area for your bag, glancing at you with thin lips. You grow more serious and ask him again, “Why didn’t you kill me?”

“It’s nothing that you need to know about,” you’re glared at, though it holds no true venom to it.

“I have been thrown from a horse,” you stand, pulling Simon’s jacket closer as you spot your lost shawl off in the bushes. “My practice insulted, and most certainly thought dead by now. Mr. Riley, I am not asking you for answers—” You set your jaw. “I am demanding them. So speak and be a good boy.”

Simon watches you, his face blank and his mouth slightly slackened. He doesn't answer you for a long time, as if put in a trace as his eyes flash with life for a moment. You hear him clear his throat at your last sentence, cheeks gaining a sheen of red that could be played off as a reaction to the cold.

His stomach flips.

“It’s your scent,” he says, low and even like a steady promise. You had already started to gather that, at least, so it wasn’t as much of a shock to you—but it was still strange. “It’s like a fuckin’ opium. Can’t get it out of my damn head.”

Simon speaks as he looks around as if to distract him from what he’s telling you. “Whenever I smell it, it’s like my head’s about to cave in, yeah? Like I can’t think of anything else.”

He leans over the small hill to where you fell, and he hones in on long three-fingered drag lines along the earth. Simon’s brows pull in, eyes fluttering from one tree to another, his ears twitch.

You don’t notice, sitting back on the rock and rubbing a hand on the back of your neck as the air changes.

“But why, Simon? I don’t understand what’s so important about that—besides what soap I use.” You mutter the last bit and groan. “This is hurting my head.”

“Stop talking.” The forest is dead. No bird wings flapping, no wind, even. No smells besides yours, which makes Simon back up a step.

Yet, no…no there was something else. It smelled like flesh rot and maggots; a church’s pews that had been laid with black fire.

You throw up a hand at the man’s comment. “Would you stop saying that to me—!”

A palm is placed on your lips and held there firmly, fingers digging into your cheeks. Simon’s eyes bore into you, far darker than they had been at any other time than when you’d been face-to-face with the wolf. You take in a swift breath, hand snapping up the wrist and gripping it in shock.

The snow begins falling again, flakes sitting in his hair as Simon puts his free finger to his lips and motions you to not speak again. Growing more and more nervous, you nod twice before the flesh is removed.

“Get your knife up.” It’s a deep rumble like a falling stone. Felt more than heard. “Stay behind me.”

You do so with a swift hand, knowing something else is going on just by how he keeps glancing at you and then at the trees. That's when you hear it—the low whispering like it’s almost speaking in tongues.

The same you had heard on short occasions when you’d been with Whistlejacket. And then far off into the woods, that shaping of bark.

It wasn’t a twig—you’d known that. You glance at Simon and he seems tensed for something to jump out at the two of you, his large shoulders hiding you from most of the view. One of your hands grabs onto his shirt, your un-shoed foot freezing but you don’t make a comment.

“Simon?” You whisper, and he holds out his hand to once more tell you to not speak.

The long shadows in between the trees darken, and that whispering choir infects your ears—what is it saying? You can’t make any sense of it…it jumbles and jumps like these flakes of snow as they fall to the ground.

Girl…Girl…Listen

You flinch—free hand releasing Simon and coming up to your head to grasp at it as a bad headache starts to form. The man ahead of you, for whatever reason, seems to not be affected by this.

He stands rod-straight and you see his fingers curling into fists, the knuckles going white and facing deep into the open forest—wound up and tight. You try to speak but it all goes like metal on metal behind your skull. The whispers come into focus before the light is swallowed by a shade of gray.

It is a void of all else; you have forgotten what your heart feels like as it pounds in your ribcage.

I can show you the sound of your soul tearing in two.

You gasp and then the screaming starts.

Dropping your knife you fall to your knees, your fingers both dig into your scalp and draw blood from the sheer volume of voices inside of your head—yelling in tones accumulated by victims and imprisoned specs of being. Old, young, middle-aged, yet still the rattle of diseased bones going through osteonecrosis; clacking of baby’s teeth.

You’re screaming with them.

Simon’s panicked face comes into view, grasping at your hands and trying to move them away from your flesh. He’s calling to you, loudly and in an ordering tone, but you can’t hear it.

The screaming, oh, the screaming. This is what Hell sounds like.

Something in you is ripping, and you plead for it to end as Simon begins looking around the space, standing and bringing you with him as he keeps you to his chest; you feel his heart hammering twice as fast—hands grasping at your clothes and pressing you into him with all his might. He’s growling and snarling, trying to find what’s hurting you so he can help.

The reverberation of his challenge is felt in the vibrations of his throat as you scream again. Simon flinches, cursing, and you feel the poke of claws on your spine as the scent of your fear enters the air—your suffering.

Your body is shaking; quivering, and in the state of here and there reality begins to blur like a musty window, like mud on a cup. In Simon’s grip, you’re entirely slackened, coughing and choking down saliva.

But then it all stops.

You gasp so loudly that your busted vocal cords finally snap, blood is expelled from your mouth and it ends up all over Simon’s neck, staining his clothes and splattering onto his cheek. Trying to force down breaths, you push at the man’s abdomen—begging to be released weakly.

Your legs don’t work beyond the shaking.

Watching you with wide eyes and panting breath, Simon’s canines had gone sharp, claws on your spine fully out; he’d even grown taller, your feet only brushing the ground as pale skin began to gain pigment along his neck.

He lets you down just as you vomit all over the snowy grass, sputtering and letting vile tears make lines down to your chin.

“What in the bloody hell..?” Simon breathes arms still around your waist. Your ears are ringing, high-pitched, and reverberating in your skull. “Fuck!”

Whispered laughter makes you whimper through a sob.

Simon can’t get the smell out of his nose—the maggots, the black fire. He knows what this is, what game it plays.

It wants a show.

Oh, you never should have come here. This forest…it wasn’t just a place of black trees and buried deeds; of monsters.

It was a prison. And these lesser beasts were the wardens.

The shadows grow closer, and Simon, as a wailing breeze picks up from the South, covers you with his changing body; hiding a breathless gasp on his lips as muscles tear and ears elongate.

Pain encompasses him, making him bury his face into your neck and grunt out garbled curses as his teeth morph and shatter to re-form. You shake, shell-shocked, from under him, feeling the brushing of fur and the tear of fabric before you’re encased in a canopy of shaggy blackness and snapping jaws. The arms around your waist broaden and elongate, bones snapping.

You’re both panting now, breathing hard and in pain unimaginable. The glint of your blade is far off into the side of your fluttering eyes.

A figure forms from those wisps of shadow—those thrown-away memories of death and the recollection of ancient cities burning back to before the creation of metal machines or the wheel. Formed before oceans or continents and ultimately trapped here in ages long past when these trees were saplings.

You felt it under fur and muscle just as the Ghost did atop you as your shield, his eyes now shining with rage and horror.

This being was not old. It wasn’t even ancient.

It was primordial.

Your eyes look up slowly from behind the curtain of obsidian, arms shaking as they twist into the Ghost’s lengthy forearms still anchored to your waist. His snout slips past your right ear, digging you into him as a low snarl emanates from the back of his throat.

It stands on two legs, and has two arms—you could mistake it for a human at a far-off distance. But its body is malnourished, nothing but thin, twisting, skin over bone as if devouring maggots live under that barrier. Your terror increases the longer you look at it, snow hitting your eyes not even making you blink.

This being was a very stain upon reality as if the body it takes is a rip in time itself—a ripple of disease and an unforgivable sin.

Look at me.

You are looking.

Looking at a featureless face and the large black hole that takes the place of nose, mouth, and eyes—unending and limitless as if what had once been there had been ripped through and replaced with eternity. The shadows writhe to make an imitation of wings on its back, a leaking circle above its head, and the slash of fleshy, pulsing horns that secrete blood down to the snow.

Fingers that shake and twitch as if in the throes of death. Its arms are melting like gray wax. An appendage slowly leaks out from the void of its face, forming a hand holding something like rope, and then a long, blackened arm deeper than a moonless night. It turns over and the intestines, not ropes, are dropped from its grip. Long and viscera-coated; flies dig themselves out from the tubes and you have to stop yourself from heaving again as they flinch and quiver.

As if the owner was still alive.

The hand splays itself, waiting for another’s palm to slip over and grasp it. An invitation as it’s clicking body takes a stumbling step forward.

It’s calling to you.

Look at the face of God.

The Ghost roars and you snap your vision away, burying your face into his neck to shake the image from your brain.

You don’t know what to do—what to think. But you knew you had to run.

“Simon,” you gasp out, and the Thing laughs through muttering generations as sigils flare to life on its skin, words and powers that have no meaning to living souls. “Simon!”

A panting maw shifts to you and the threat of violence is still in the air. Large human-ish hands tighten as blood drips off your chin.

“Run.” Your hand scoops back up your blade, and not seconds later the wind is making your clothes ripple all around you as you’re lifted and carried away. Arms around the Ghost’s neck, you breathe shakily, your head still pounding something awful as the Primordial watches Simon’s rapid dash—far faster than any dog or horse.

It tilts its blood-slick head, and, for some inner intuition…you know it’s smiling.

The beast below you keeps you tight to him, one hand pressing on the small of your back and the other under your knees, not at all slowed by your weight; he can smell your fear and it makes him enraged.

The Ghost’s eyes are small when you press your face into his cheek, but they flicker to you as you send your bone-deep distress his way. He lets loose a low whine in between pants of breath.

“S-Simon, what was that—”

There’s a glimpse of that monster from over his shoulder and you startle, head popping back up to stare fully as you pass trees at an alarming rate. But when you blink the maggot body is gone. Looking behind, you see it again as the Ghost runs faster, taking a sharp right and you once more get the view blocked by a large stone.

Everywhere you look, that blackened halo shows up, hands grasping the side of a tree or watching from a river—its third hand outstretched. Whispering still dances in the shell of your ears, and in your heart, it feels like a string is being plucked; stitches undone from a tapestry.

Until it ends up right in front of Simon in a blink of a second.

All he can do is roar and twist himself, curl around you as his claws kick up snow and dark earth before there’s a sudden sweep of power that ricochets through the trees. It breaks down trunks and makes the world scream, and you, trapped under the body that does anything to protect you, hit the ground hard.

You think perhaps you flew through the air at first because you seem to remember the sensation of flying before the ground came up to meet you.

Yelling Simon’s name, you shatter and slide, clothes ripping more, and other shoe gone to the wind. Flesh peels and tears, cheek skinned on harsh material.

And the whispers laugh, and giggle, and speak in a million voices of the damned.

Look at me.

You cough and stagger upward, stumbling with twigs in your thighs before backing up and immediately looking for Simon while keeping this monster at the edge of your vision. This was more than fear—more than terror. You can’t describe a feeling like this; can’t put it into words or thought.

It made your body shake just by it being here, made you want to turn your blade—which you’d held onto, miraculously—on yourself to end it.

Simon was the only thing to stop you, and you kept backing up, feet knocking over roots and stone. You find his limp body far to the right, wisps of shadow leaking out. You yell, glancing at the Thing as it limps to you with failing legs.

“Simon, get up!” You can’t get to him without taking your eyes off the Primordial—can’t risk that faster-than-light movement as if it wasn’t falling apart just by standing. Its third-hand dribbles black liquid from its fingertips; pooling it in its palm. Closer now. “Simon, fucking get back up!”

You can’t leave him here, but the instinct to run was infecting you just as much as your care for him. The more you looked the harder it was to turn away, mind slipping from you. But you can’t move your eyes from it either.

What was this? This temptation and possession? Oh, God, it was sucking you in.

The great blackened beast does not stir and you grasp your blade until your knuckles ache.

This headache was ripping your brain apart, and you gasped and gripped your head again, noises of agony escaping your lips.

It laughs, but the action makes it sound like an entire world is on fire.

Groaning in suffering and wrenching your eyes closed, you send your palm into your skull; hitting it over and over again.

“Get out of my head!”

Your voice echoes off the trees, breaking and desperate. Shaking your head back and forth, you growl and whine like a dog with a knife through its stomach—intestines in your body bunching and turning in knots.

The presence gripping your mind leaves.

Immediately, you sag to the ground; knees slamming into the earth. Eyes still closed but able to think again, you take a breath, cold sweat falling quickly down your temples to mix with congealed blood and bile.

Knife-hand burning from all of the force you’d exerted, you loosen it and sag forward to take a deep breath.

A hand lightly captures your chin, and you sigh out easily, leaning your weight into the grip as a thumb caresses your cheek.

“Simon,” you open your buggy eyes in relief but only see a void.

You freeze, comfort immediately turning to pure horror. Black sludge drips down your neck, staining your shirt and burning as it absorbs into your flesh.

Its head tilts, and that blackened limb levels your face with the nothingness behind the vale of its ripped-open flesh. There’s a jumbled twitching and horns that make the tight skull dance like it's on a string.

There’s a brush against your mind and the fingers dig into your flesh; pushing and breaking the skin. You can’t move. You can’t look away.

Its face moves closer, demented elbow bending as your neck is dragged forward to meet it. Infinity rolls out behind your quivering eyes.

Don’t worry, it breathes, though you don’t know how because you can’t see its chest moving. God sees you.

Your throat closes, and the black dig of its hand leaks into your open flesh, tendrils of infection that move like worms into your being and up your veins; maggots, flies.

You start choking on air, your spine arching and your hands jerking around, tensing up closer to your chest. There’s foam at the corners of your mouth, eyes still stuck open into the bleak reality of your future.

You smell rot. You smell like rot.

Simon, you think of him—of his actions in the city and the way he always came to you to fix his clothes. You wondered then, in a moment of numb hysterics and revelation, that if he liked your scent so much then he must have stuck around you because of it. To feel your presence and bask in your company. Recalling moments of soft words and looks you could not decipher before.

Surely he could feel when he was going to change, he could have slipped out of his clothes and left them somewhere.

The question that you think of in the small moment before your hand twitches over your blade is like a spark of light.

Was he purposefully wearing them because he wanted you to fix them for him later?

A sniffing nose can almost be heard in the clutch of your neck, and the whispers dim. One shoulder shaking and spasming, you’re able to push back just a small bit.

Brown eyes and ivory fangs. A deep voice that you can feel against your heart. Blood runs from your nose, down your face, and splatters to your bent knees. It bleeds down your throat; your chest and your shirt. Bathing in it, mixing with black damnation.

The grip on your lower face tightens, fingers drilling deeper until muscle tears and snaps.

Your fingers tighten along the hilt once more.

It clicks at you as its bones break in its throat, corpse-like body’s flesh opening to let unearthly tendrils of blackness leak out like it was a cup of wine only holding something until it can be drank down.

The corpse shivers with pleasure. My Vessel shall please Him. Let your soul join His choir.

Your throat feels like it’s being slit, your very essence being corrupted. It’s hot, burning—it all gets brighter, like a fire and a pit of ice. A beast at the very center of Hell; three faces and bat-like wings under every chin. Great and terrible—beautiful and disgusting.

A slobbering, wordless being punished just as all sinners for eternity unending.

You throw up black blood, and as the concerning amount of gore floods you, your mind flashes one last time.

You blink softly, holding on as he moves you back down after the threat is gone.

Simon, you plead, Simon, oh, my Simon.

Your hand seizes over the blade and in a brief second of fading thought—mind flickering between screaming souls and black fur stuck in your ears as blockers—you force your watering eyes to blink.

And when you blink you bring the silver blade up…and then stab it directly into the oblivion of a starless sky.

It rips its fingers out of your skin, screeching louder than a mountain being split in two. You do as well, arm jerking out of the gaping face and bringing the smoking limb to your chest. It was like you’d just put your arm into an oven—your sleeve was on fire before you fell backward and shoved it into the snow, yelling and screaming in pain.

It mirrors.

Third-hand snapping and waving as it whips its head back and forth, its halo quivers and melts atop of it like black fire; sigils glowing brighter. Smoke comes out of its face, wings jerking up and down.

You notice none of it—mind fading fast with maggots still in your flesh. Worms. Parasites. You can feel them moving, up and down and to the sides of your ripped jaw, to your burning arm.

Infected.

All you can do is lay there and vomit them out—black writhing blood mixed with crimson. You feel empty inside, void of something important. Cut in half.

The Thing backs up and as it does it begins to bend in on itself, body splintering like a wet piece of paper before it begins to stretch back out. Reality shifts, time warps as you blankly watch through leaking eyes that hold burst veins.

Its legs break backward as its rib cage pushed in, but before it can entirely be sucked away, it points at you.

You will never forget how it speaks. It’s a wail—a brand of unholy tongues and a world lost to distant memory. A clanging of war bells and dark deals signed in a night of eclipses and the hidden homes of shadow. But you know what it says to you.

I know the sound of your soul and I mark it as mine in Hell!

Something snaps in your chest, and you flinch wildly, bending over yourself and shrieking.

And then there’s a strike of wind and a roar of rage, and the being gets sucked into itself without another word.

You pant, slamming back down to the ground and laying limp—quiet. Dead to all else besides the agony you can now express. With one last wheezing breath, your eyes flutter closed and you pass off into a blessing of unconsciousness.

—

The Ghost’s nose sniffs the air, eyes tight and small, head roving from where his back is large in front of you. You see his tail lightly swish, feet lifting and settling back down to the floor.

Simon seems confused, one leg limping more than the other and leaning heavily to one side; he shakes his large head and his ears slap as he does.

It’s deep night now, and you slowly, weakly, push yourself to stand up. You’d been out the entire day.

Your blood is all over the snow, and as you stumble to your feet, you can’t speak beyond a slurred gargle from your ripped-open jaw.

How have you not bled out yet?

“S–Sim…” A black head snaps to you, but there’s nothing familiar in those eyes.

They shine in the moonlight and those ivory teeth glint. Ears swiveled forward with sharp tips and tiny whispers of tufts. Long arms that scrape the ground in front of a bent spine.

He doesn’t blink.

Stumbling, one leg giving out, your only option is to breathe through your mouth in shallow gasps.

The Ghost’s nose twitches, but otherwise he is deathly frozen. Too frozen.

Like he can’t recognize your scent.

Infected.

Your burst eyes widen, but it’s already too late.

An open maw bites down on your throat with a tearing of flesh before your neck fully snaps.

TAGS:

@luuvbuzz, @emerald-valkyrie, @anna-banana27, @blueoorchid, @cryingnotcrying, @writeforfandoms, @homicidal-slvt, @jade-jax, @frazie99, @elmoees, @littlemisstrouble, @alpineswinter, @phoenixhalliwell, @idocarealot, @lavalleon, @facelessmemories, @h-leigh, @20forty9, @glitter-anon-asks, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @neelehksttr, @aeneanc, @escapefromrealitysm, @i-d-1-0-t, @pparcxysm, @hawkscanendme, @caramlizedtomatoes, @waves-against-a-cliff, @sanfransolomitatm, @maelstrom007, @jemandderkeinenusernamenfindet, @pheobees, @glitterypirateduck, @uselsshuman, @fan-of-encouragement, @halfmoth-halfman, @ghostlythunderbird, @l-inkage, @pukbadger, @kopatych11, @0nceinabluem00n, @cocrorapop, @knightofsexyness, @abnormalgeil, @smallseastone, @jacegons, @330bpm-whiplash, @simon-rileys-housewife, @4-atsu, @tiredmetalenthusiast

1K notes · View notes

stinkfacestories · 8 months

Text

The day you found out you had won Jason Kelces Beard Challenge was the best day of your life. The challenge was simple: put together a snap or tiktok video of how to get a beard as good as Jason and the top winner would win a day with Jason. Your video was a long shot: you made a tiktok showing how if you mixed essence of dwarf, with a bit of neanderthal, and just a splash of viking inside Abraham Lincoln's hat and applied it to your face, you'd look as good as Jason. It did t get very many views but Jason loved it. The next thing you knew you were in Philadelphia meeting the man himself at the airport.

The tour of Philadelphia through Jason Kelces eyes was a lot of stops at places he loved to eat. Steak sandwich, sausage, pizza, ice cream. The man just loved to eat. As the day dragged on just as Afternoon turned to evening he took you to Lincoln Field, his home turf. There was no game and the place was locked down, but that was nothing a few signed balls couldn't handle.

He took you to the locker room, the place where he told you he feels most free to be himself. You both sat down on the bench in front of his locker. He took out a case of bud light and cracked one open. The man drank so much bud lite you swore he was sponsored by them.

He told you to be quiet. To just listen to the sound of the room. To drink it in and become one with the soul of real American football.

The only thing you heard was the bench breaking as Kelce leaned forward and let out a fart with a satisfied grunt.

"Oh, sorry," he said, not sounding very sorry.

"Really? " you said. You looked at him, almost appalled that he would do that with you right next to him.

Jason turned and gave you a wink. "Dont tell me you don't find farts funny. Your a guy. All guys love farts."

You rolled your eyes. "Not really."

"What about this one," he said and let loose a loud bassy fart.

"God stop it, it's so gross," you said as you slid away, but suddenly found yourself pressed against the wall of the locker room. "Seriously dude. What the fuck?"

"C'mon," Jason said as he moved over towards you. “I warned you. Remember when I ate that large sausage with pickled garlic ave said ‘were in trouble later’? What do you think I meant.” and placed a hand on your chest, giving you a bit of a push. "Don't be a prude."

You were caught between a wall, and a wall of beef holding you in place. "Seriously, stop it".

"Can't stop. Won't stop," he said still pressing you in the wall. His eyes were the kind of dull that only cheap low quality beer can make the."You know I bet you never had an older brother. Between me, my dad and Travis we learned to appreciate farts. My dad told me that the best cure is exposure. So to get you up to speed I think I need to gas you more"

He pressed into you and lifted up his keg and let loose with a fart so powerful it echied through the empty locker room.. You struggled to get away from the horrible stench, but couldn't escape.

"No, don't do this," you said as it overwhelmed you.

He turned around and pressed his huge soft center lineman ass in your face, the soft fabric of his shorts spreading across your face like warm dough. It was too much, and you were powerless to stop it. His asshole flexed and relaxed as it sent out a long drawn out series of wet sounding farts. You gagged as the air around you filled with the horrid odor.

"Fuck that was a good one," he said, not budging an inch. “Three point stance just rips these farts out of me.”

"I think I'm going to puke," you said, trying not to vomit.

"If your gonna puke, aim that way, I like these shorts." he said pointing. "Do you think it's funny yet?"

"No!" You coughed.

"Alright you asked for it" he presses his ass harder, wedging your nose on his cheeks. He let loose with a rapid fire volley of farts that left you breathless and coughing. He backed away, chuckling at you.

"God, fuck, that's rank!" You coughed. You tried to breathe fresh air but the locker room had been total polluted by Kelces ass.

"Come on. You don't have to love them, but you gotta at least admit they are funny and manly now. How can you like football and not think farts are funny." he let you stew and come up with an answer.

"Fuck...no," you say.

He shrugged. "Ok. Your loss," he said and pressed his ass in your face again.

"No! Please. God. No. Fuck!"

"What's it going to take? Do I need to pull my shorts down and give you a bare ass stinkface?" He said, pressing even harder.

"No! No more. Fine. They're fucking funny," you cried.

"What?" He said. "I couldn't hear you"

"They're funny!"

"Now are you just saying that to make me stop?"

"No, I mean it. They are funny and they are manly."

"Well, if it's funny you won't have a problem asking me to do it a few more times so you can properly laugh. Right?"

"Uh...fine. Sure. Just, please, no more, I can't take it."

He turned and farted once. "Laugh. Laugh hard and long and deep." He was getting frustrated that you weren't laughing. "Seriously come on guy. This is just as bad for me as it is for you. It's hard to hold this position and if I keep farting I'm going to have to take a dump soon"

"Oh god no!"

"Laugh dammit!" He yelled.

"No, no, I can't."

"Fine then," he said. He pulled you down and set you face up on the bench. He loomed over you. "Ok big fucking guns time" he pulled down his shorts and hovered his raw hairy bear ass over your face.

"Oh shit, dude please don't!" His as was a beast. This close you could make out the rough skin. His ass had taken a pounding over the years and looked like a hefty bag overfilled with cottage cheese. The hair on his crack was dense and black.

"Do you think this is funny?"

"Yes, yes, fuck, yes!" You were sobbing, your body convulsing.

“Good. Then you'll find this hilarious.” he sat down. He sat down hard. He rocked back and forth, the wiry hair of his ass crack scouring your face. He dug deep like he has an itch he was trying to scratch.

"Laugh. C'mon. Laugh, laugh like a big boy." He said, simultaneously belching and farting.

"Ahahaha!" You started crying and laughing.

"Oh fuck. What a fucking cry baby. Laughing at farts is supposed to be funny. Not sad."

"I'm sorry," you sobbed.

"Just...fucking stop," he said, standing and pulling up his shorts as he got off you. "Baby can't handle a grown man's ass. Jesus fuck"

He sat down next to you. You were still shaking a little, tears coming from your eyes. "I'm sorry," you said.

"It's fine, it's not the first time I've gassed someone like that," he said. "your not the only one who cried either "

You sniffed, still wiping tears away. "It was just so...overwhelming. The smell, and the sound, and the pressure..."

"It was a lot. It was," he said.

He drained his bud light and crushed the can. "Ok second chance to get it right." He leaves forward and farted, then looked to you to see your reaction.

You laughed. A genuine laugh. "Fuck, dude."

He smiled and farted again. You kept laughing. "It's funny, isn't it?"

"Yeah. It is," you said, laughing some more.

"Now you" he said

You panicked. You didn't have to fart. You were to nervous.

"What the hell. Do it"

"I don't know if I can," you said.

"Come on. Do it. Do it" he chanted.

"I can't."

"You trying to make me mad? You're a guy. You should always be ready to let rip"

"But I'm not drunk like you are. And I'm not a fucking monster with an ass like yours."

"Fine, then, let's fix that." He reached down and ripped a huge one. He reached for his phone and placed a call "Trav. Yeah we got an emergency. Yeah get that chili defrosted and get some real cheap beer. Ooooh and some gas station food. Yeah he's a wimp. Didn't laugh. No he did. Fuck no she can't come to. Alright. Love you. No homo" he hung up the phone.

"Your brother's coming over?"

"Yup. And he's gonna be pissed if you don't laugh when he cuts one. He loves farts. And he's got an ass that could kill a guy."

"Wait..."

"We're going to our man cave. It's a cabin in the woods. Just guys. Strict no pants policy. You better hope Trav remembered his boxers. You are gonna learn to love being a man like us and become the third Kelce brother, or you ain't leaving that shack."

"What's it going to be like," you said, afraid, but also excited.

"Oh, you're gonna hate every minute, and you're gonna love every minute."

"Fuck. I'm going to get wrecked, aren't I?"

"Oh definitely. We will probably fuck up your head so much. You're going to end up with a fetish for this."

You laughed.

All you could do was laugh.

#stinkface #farting #face farting #face sittting #gassy hunks #jason kelce #stinkface stories

194 notes · View notes

new-dinosaurs · 7 months

Text

Imparavis attenboroughi Wang et al., 2024 (new genus and species)

(Type specimen of Imparavis attenboroughi [scale bar = 20 mm], from Wang et al., 2024)

Meaning of name: Imparavis = odd bird [in Latin]; attenboroughi = for Sir David Attenborough [British documentary presenter and conservationist]

Age: Early Cretaceous (Aptian), between 119–123 million years ago

Where found: Jiufotang Formation, Liaoning, China

How much is known: Nearly complete skeleton of one individual preserved with feather traces.

Notes: Imparavis was an enantiornithean, a group of bird-like, flying dinosaurs from the Cretaceous. Although they would have looked a lot like modern birds, most enantiornitheans had teeth. Imparavis was an exception in that regard, being one of the few known toothless enantiornitheans. Prior to its discovery, the only other enantiornitheans confirmed to have been toothless were the Late Cretaceous Gobipteryx and Gobipipus from Mongolia and Yuornis from China, making Imparavis one of the oldest known enantiornitheans to lack teeth. (The describers of Imparavis additionally reinterpret another enantiornithean from the Jiufotang Formation, Chiappeavis, as toothless as well.)

Imparavis may have spent time both in trees and on the ground, based on details of its hindlimb anatomy. Its wing bones exhibit pronounced muscle attachment points, suggesting that it might have been capable of rapid, powerful take-offs.

Reference: Wang, X., A.D. Clark, J.K. O'Connor, X. Zhang, X. Wang, X. Zheng, and Z. Zhou. 2024. First edentulous enantiornithine (Aves: Ornithothoraces) from the Lower Cretaceous Jehol avifauna. Cretaceous Research advance online publication. doi: 10.1016/j.cretres.2024.105867

#Palaeoblr #Dinosaurs #Imparavis #Early Cretaceous #Asia #Enantiornithes #2024 #Extinct

156 notes · View notes

demonicbaby666 · 10 months

Text

Anywhere, Everywhere

One shot | Supergirl Masterlist | Masterlists

Fandom: Supergirl

Pairing: Supercorp

Genre: Angst, fluff and smut

Words: 4.1k+

Warnings: 18+, minors DNI, fingering, oral sex, idiots in love

Summary: Lena's been avoiding Kara, and she's not entirely sure why. But after too many cancelled lunches and meet-ups, Kara decides to find out.

A/n: Listen, this wasn't exactly proofread immaculately, but I'm low-key off my game, so I hope it's still an enjoyable read.

Kara always knows when Lena is stressed. She can hear it in her voice, see it in the slips of her always solid stature, feel it in the rapid thrums of a once steady heartbeat.

It isn’t unusual for the brunette to be stressed, what with her being CEO and constantly juggling project after project. However, what is, is her sudden reluctance to seeing Kara. The journalist has repeatedly tried to arrange lunches, dinners and movie nights. Anything and everything she knows usually alleviates some of the extraordinary pressure that comes with Lena’s day-to-day workload. It’s just that Lena says she’s busy or agrees, then cancels at the last minute with the increasingly frequent excuse of ‘I’m overloaded at work’, adding a less-than-reassuring ‘another time, I promise.’

For what it’s worth, Kara does try not to take it to heart. She’s more than privy to work seizing control of every aspect of her life. It’s only that there’s been a silent agreement between herself and Lena that they manage to find time for one another, no matter the circumstances. So, for the life of her, Kara can’t work out what is so important to Lena that trumps spending time with her best friend. But she decides enough is enough. She’s going to get to the bottom of this, even if it means exerting a little more force than necessary.

“Miss Luthor isn’t seeing anyone at the mo-” before Lena’s assistant has time to finish, the super is past her, barging through the doors into Lena’s immaculately clean office. Everything is in its place. The only thing that appears to be in disarray is Lena, who sits at her cluttered desk. There are mountains of paperwork surrounding her, and one would assume there is no order to them, but it’s Lena, after all, so there most certainly is a system in place.

“I’m sorry, Miss Luthor, I tried to stop her.” The sullen assistant says, looking rather down on herself.

Razor-sharp eyes flicker up to the commotion bursting through the doors. Lena takes in Kara and her flustered assistant. The blonde appears fine, but Lena can see beneath the surface. Kara is on edge. She can see and feel her best friend's eyes studying every inch of her for anything out of the ordinary. Hell, Kara’s fingers and legs are twitching, like she’s holding herself back from jumping Lena right then and there.

She takes a moment to brush through her hair and release a well-needed exhale before standing up and walking to the pair.

“It’s alright,” the brunette says to her assistant with a smile. The poor thing looks like she needs it, “For the future, it’d be best to let Kara be the exception to my no-visitors rules.” She takes a brief pause and looks at the blonde as she finishes talking to her assistant, ushering her out of the room, “I wouldn’t want to put you in the crosshairs of her wrath when she’s being denied something she wants.”

The door hinges creak to a halt, and the two are alone. As the CEO predicted, Kara doesn’t wait a second, blurting out, “Lena, what’s going on?”

It comes out rushed and is likely too fast for anyone to understand. But Lena lets out a resigned sigh before answering, proving she’s so in sync with Kara that her jargon and fast-paced ramblings are a second language at this point.

“Nothing is going on,” she brushes off the question, sashaying back to her desk to haphazardly look over the stacks of papers, “I’ve been busy, that’s all.”

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Kara tries again.

She knows. The CEO knows she’s been doing precisely that. The reason Lena is so averse to owning up to her actions is simply that she’ll have to tell her best friend the actual reason she’s been dodging all her calls, texts, and meet-ups is because she is undeniably and insanely head over heels for her. And that isn’t an option.

It started small, crept up on her without her knowledge. She’d stare at Kara and find herself lost in the way her smile made her cheeks jut out like a little chipmunk. She’d watch wisps of soft blonde hair fly about in the wind whenever Kara came to her rescue and became drunk with the need to run her fingers through them. She’d crave Kara in such a primal way it no longer felt like she was missing a friend when Kara wasn’t there, but a piece of herself.

It was the amalgamation of all these small quirks that began to drive Lena crazy. She told herself to ignore it. To ignore the butterflies in her stomach whenever Kara's name was mentioned, to ignore the sickening fright that arose every time the blonde went on a mission, ignore the overpowering urge to engulf Kara into her arms and never let her go.

Then, one night, when the two shared a parting hug, Lena came to the conclusion that being in Kara’s arms - feeling her strength and warmth and the safety provided - was her everything. Kara was her home. The smell of sunshine and honied tulips meant that the walking embodiment of joy was around the corner. Kara was her safe place. But Kara was also her best friend, the most important person in her life.

When she realised the cons vastly outweighed the pros of fessing up to her true feelings, Lena made the tough decision to suffer in silence rather than do anything to jeopardise their friendship. After that night, her relationship with the woman in question suddenly became both too much and not enough. It was happy yet melancholy, fun yet draining. She felt filled with so much love, but none of it was without a chestful of aching yearning. So naturally, she pulled back.

Still, reminding herself of her justifications does nothing to alleviate the guilt she feels. The hurt evident on Kara’s face is not lost on Lena, and she’s filled with the need to reach out and fling herself into those strong arms because if anything can put a smile on the blonde’s face, it’s a hug. Alas, she can’t. She can’t because if she does, she’ll never want to leave Kara's welcoming embrace. She’ll get too comfortable in the arms of someone always willing to catch her. So Lena stands her ground- or rather, remains seated.

“Honestly, Kara,” she starts, “It’s work being-”

Lena, however, isn’t granted the opportunity to finish because Kara speeds over to her, spins her chair and grasps firmly onto the sides. If Lena hadn’t known her best friend possessed abilities, she’d have been somewhat worried. But she also knows better than to think Kara would ever think to lay a hand on her.

“Stop lying,” the blonde said firmly, eyes burning the lies straight out of Lena’s mouth.

Her tone of voice sends shivers down Lena’s spine, and she has to hold back a whimper. The authority Kara wields in times like these is downright illegal. During missions, outings, and interrogations - especially interrogations - when Lena is granted the pleasure of seeing Kara in an all-too-tight suit and wielding her power of submission, the CEO often finds her body her worst enemy.

When she’s with Kara, she’s on fire. She’s electric. She’s embarrassingly and uncharacteristically so fucking turned on she’s having to squeeze her legs together and fuck herself to exhaustion the following evening. It’s a constant cycle of shame, and the cycle begins anew with the object of her desires so close, so close. She cranes her head up. Too close.

There’s a sudden meekness in Kara as her crystal-blue eyes look intently into Lena’s greens. “Have I done something?” she asks, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

The blonde is leaning over her, and her grip on the arms of the chair hasn’t loosened at all - Lena figures this out when she tries and fails to push herself away from the proximity of Kara’s scolding warmth.

“It’s not you,” the CEO mutters, her resolve fizzling away as the pout on Kara’s face grows more and more prominent.

The moment is becoming increasingly charged, and Lena can’t stand it. The truth is right in reach, but a lie begs to save her. Kara is, as always, patient. Silent. Waiting. Lena feels sick. Tears are beginning to sting the back of her eyes, and Lillian’s words echo in her head. She’s telling her to show no weakness, to stop being so pathetic. She’s a Luthor, for god's sake.

But Kara is so close, maybe closer than before, and she doesn’t know if that’s her doing or the blonde’s. For a brief moment, her eyes flicker south. She watches as lips part and hears Kara’s breath hitch. Their eyes are on each other again, and Kara is leaning in. No, they’re both leaning in. The air between them is thick and hot, shared as they take turns to warm the other's lips with shaky breaths.

Lena can smell Kara’s sweet perfume and the floral laundry detergent on Kara’s clothes. She closes her eyes. The peppermint lingering on Kara’s breath is sharp as it travels up Lena’s nose; the scent awakens her senses and pebbles her skin in susceptive goosebumps. They’re so close. Too close.

A blaring ringtone bulldozes the moment, snapping the two women apart at an alarming rate. They stay stark still, staring at each other in astonishment as the room fills with an uncomfortable heat, and Kara’s phone seems to get louder and louder.

Kara is the one to break their heated staring contest, turning to her discarded bag on the couch and reaching for the pesky device.

With her jaw clenched and her feet pressing firmly against the ground, Lena turns to her paperwork. She tunes out the sound of who she assumes is Alex talking to Kara and shuns herself for letting whatever just happened to happen.

From the corner of her eye, the brunette sees Kara pacing. She looks like she’s composed herself, nonchalantly humming and nodding along as she carefully listens to the information being fed to her over the phone. Lena can practically see the cogs turning in the super’s head, and her thrumming heart and clouded mind grow envious of how Kara seems to have moved on so quickly from the heated moment that arose only seconds ago.

The call is over, and silence engulfs the office. The tension is palpable; it’s suffocating. No one speaks, and Lena keeps her eyes on legal documents, pretending not to notice Kara staring, waiting.

“I should go,” the blonde finally says after sighing and turning to place her phone back in her bag.

Lena doesn’t so much as look up because she knows if she does, she’ll break. She’s letting Kara leave. She’s letting the one person she loves and will always love walk away for what feels like the last time.

“Be safe,” is all she can mumble as Kara exits.

And then she’s crying.

————————————————

Lena’s lying on her couch after spending most of the evening bawling. Her eyes are sore, and her throat burns from the scotch she’s been nursing. It fails to calm her, and she’s not even tipsy, just painfully tired from an exhausting day.

Unaware that she had fallen asleep, Lena awakens to find herself wrapped in a pair of strong arms. Her head rests on Kara’s chest alongside her hand, and she can hear a steady heartbeat thrum under her ear.

It’s always been like this. The pair have never shied away from intimacy. Hugs, cuddles, and the occasional kiss have always been common occurrences. But now it feels different. Of course, it’s still comforting - it’s Kara, after all - but it’s filled with longing for more. Lena doesn’t want a parting kiss on the cheek, a momentary hug, or to cuddle during a movie while subconsciously counting down the minutes until the film ends and Kara has to leave. She doesn’t want temporary. She chastises herself for being greedy and ungrateful for wanting more but can’t help it. Once she tasted what it felt like to be complete, loved and untroubled, it became impossible to give it up.

“I’m not leaving until you tell me what’s going on,” Kara whispers delicately into Lena's dark hair, absentmindedly drawing circles over her back. “Even if it takes all night.”

“Oh, Kara,” Lena concedes and looks up, “you have no idea what you do to me.” Her thoughts come swiftly to berate her - curse her for slipping up and revealing too much.

Those blue eyes stare at her, and a faint smile paints soft pink lips. There's so much warmth in Kara’s eyes that Lena can’t even feel the breeze coming in from the open balcony doors (which certainly weren't left open on the off chance Kara decided to drop by). Her heart hammers against her chest, and the longer Kara stares, the faster it gets.

Hands come up to cup the brunette’s face, and her best friend bites her lip before heavily exhaling, “Then tell me.”

“I can’t,” she tries to turn away, but Kara holds her still, “I can’t lose you.”

“You never will. No matter what,” the journalist whispers, her gaze honest and sure, thumbs caressing the sharp curves of Lena’s jaw, “What can I do to prove that?”

“Kara,” her heart is racing so viciously that Lena thinks she may pass out; her palms are sweaty, and her head is spinning. She’s making a mistake. Kara’s soft lips are right there. She looks down. Kara’s eyes do the same. A thumb traces her bottom lip, and the CEO is no longer thinking straight. Lena wants this. She needs this, “Kiss me.”

She watches her best friend's expression change from soft and warm to desperate and dark.

“Where?” Kara husks, “Where do you want me to kiss you, Lena?”

“Anywhere. Everywhere.”

Kara momentarily untangles herself from Lena. She moves on top of her and rests her hands on the armrest behind the brunette's head. Her lips hover over Lena’s neck before slowly lowering herself to kiss the perfumed skin.

“Here?” Kara whispers hotly, sucking the Luthor’s pulse point into her mouth and leaving behind a faint hickey.

Lena moans and nods as Kara moves higher, behind her ear, where she presses her lips down firmly, “Here?”

“Yes,” the brunette contently sighs.

Kara moves again, hovers over Lena’s lips and waits, “Here?”

Lena can’t take it. She grabs Kara by the back of her shirt and yanks her down, meshing their lips together with a frenzied kiss.

Every single dream, fantasy and hope are surmounted the moment their lips meet. Electric currents run through Lena’s body right down to her stomach, slowly filling with a swarm of butterflies.

Feeling Kara over her has Lena desperate for more. She pulls her closer, eating up the minimal space between their bodies. Her hands roam freely, finding the bottom of Kara’s shirt. She untucks it from the confines of the blonde’s slacks and runs her fingernails along sculpted abs. The move earns her a groan, and she takes this as an opportunity to slide her tongue into Kara’s mouth and finally taste her.

She’s sweet, just as the CEO thought she would be. The taste of sugared doughnuts still lingers in the blonde's mouth, and Lena can’t get enough of it. She’s greedy, unapologetically so, swirling her tongue and lapping up every centimetre of Kara she can get.

Somehow, as their make-out session grows more and more passionate, Kara’s thigh has managed to find itself between Lena’s legs. The unintentional or intentional pressure has Lena subconsciously moving her hips, moaning as the pangs of pleasure spur up from her clothed cunt to her stomach.

The cherry on top that forces Lena to moan far too loud for her liking is Kara’s hand slipping under her nightshirt and lightly tracing the skin below her breasts with her fingertips. It seems Lena’s reaction doesn’t go unnoticed because, in a gust of wind, they’re in her bedroom. The mattress presses against Lena’s back, and Kara is atop her.

“Are you okay with this?” Kara asks, suggestively tugging the bottom of Lena’s shirt.

“God, yes.”

“I don’t want to force you. If you want to wait and talk and maybe work things out and…” Kara rambles on, and though Lena usually adores this quirk, her body is thrumming with need and desire, and if it’s not sated soon, she feels she may implode.

“Darling,” Lena smiles and reaches out to brush Kara’s cheek lightly, “I want you to fuck me.”

The journalist's cheeks flush, but a playful smirk appears over her lips right before she rips Lena’s top off and devours her neck. She’s marking it all over, and Lena doesn’t care one bit. In her mind, she knows she’ll look at the marks in the following days and treasure the claim Kara is laying waste to her body.

Lena places her hands on Kara's forearms, and a content hum echoes through the bedroom. A smile blossoms over the CEO’s lips as she relishes finally being able to run her hands over bulging biceps, and she doesn’t even try to resist the urge to squeeze.

“I knew you were into my guns,” Kara gloats, making a show of flexing.

“Mmmmhh,” is all the Luthor offers, clearly too busy to offer a witty comeback, and Kara can’t help but chuckle as she pecks at Lena’s neck.

“Guess I should get them out more often.”

Despondently removing a hand from Kara’s forearm and placing it on the back of her head, Lena guides the super back to her puckered lips, “Less talking, more kissing.”

Kara’s resounding smile is wiped off her face when Lena decides to take matters into her own hands and connect their lips together. This time, she doesn’t hold back, plunging her tongue into Kara’s mouth and dominating the kiss.

Their kiss is only broken a few times to remove articles of clothing that grow more and more offending as their body temperatures rise and the pair become increasingly impatient to lay their hands upon each other. The moment the pair find themselves sufficiently naked, Kara pulls Lena into her lap, causing the CEO to let out an uncharacteristic squeal.

She’s quick to hide her adolescent slip-up, burying her crimson blush in the crook of Kara’s neck and hears a muffled bark of laughter. When she eventually finds the courage to emerge from her makeshift cacoon of shame - aided by Kara’s gentle fingers running through her hair - Lena can’t help but smile at the pure adoration in those azure eyes, and her embarrassment becomes pliable and soft. She melds their lips together, and all emotions running through her body, aside from desire and love, make themselves scarce.

Kara’s hand slides between the two women’s bodies and moves up Lena’s thigh, right to where she’s needed most. She lightly circles Lena’s clit, prying a small moan out of the brunette, and Kara takes this as a sign to keep going. With one finger, she traces the entrance to Lena’s sex, gathering up her wetness before slowly entering her. Receiving a gasp from the woman above, Kara begins a steady rhythm, thrusting in and out.

“I need more,” Lena whines and Kara is all too happy to oblige, pushing another finger inside Lena’s tight channel.

“God, you’re stunning like this.” Kara growls. Eyes transfixed on Lena’s full breasts, she takes a nipple into her mouth and sucks hard. The CEO shudders against her and encourages Kara to repeat the action on her other breast, guiding her head sideways.

Emboldened by Lena’s responsiveness, Kara becomes playful. Using her teeth, she latches onto the nipple in her mouth, causing the woman above her to gasp before tenderly lathering it with her tongue in a swirling motion.

“Fuck Kara,” Lena pants, her hips grinding in tandem with Kara’s ministrations, “More.”

Kara quickly follows the order, wanting only to satisfy Lena’s every desire. She tightens her grip around Lena’s waist and pounds her fingers deeper and faster, repeatedly hitting a particular stop inside the brunette that has her crying out.

Lena can feel Kara moving her hips, using the full momentum of her body to fuck into her. The muscles in her stomach are tensing as she gulps in heaps of air between pleasure-drunk moans, and she thanks the lucky stars that Kara's skin is impenetrable because if it weren’t, the poor woman’s forearms would be covered in angry scratches.

Hands clasp Kara’s shoulders as Lena pushes herself up, leaving only Kara’s fingertips inside her, and then she drops back down, sheathing herself onto those deliciously svelte digits.

“That’s it,” Kara huskily encourages, moving her lips from Lena’s breasts to her neck, where she begins peppering kisses over darkening blotches of red, “You look so pretty fucking yourself on my fingers.”

Lena’s head snaps back as she utters a curse, and she forces herself to rise again and repeat the movement.

“I-I’m close,” the CEO stutters, her body shaking in anticipation, “God, Kara, I’m so close.”

Lena’s getting impatient, losing control of her hips, and her thighs begin to shudder uncontrollably. She’s struggling to keep a steady pace whilst balancing on the precipice of her orgasm, and, always attentive, Kara is quick to pick up on this. Using her thumb to press down on a severely neglected clit, Kara focuses, careful not to hurt the brunette; she relies on her superstrength to guide Lena’s body up and down.

“Yes, Kara, just like that,” Lena gasps, her orgasm teetering just out of reach.

The Luthor uses what strength she has left to nestle Kara out from the burrow of her neck, her hand tangling in silky golden locks as she fights off her vehement need to cum in favour of staring at her lover.

She can hear the wet sounds of her pussy being filled over and over, and instead of feeling embarrassed or ashamed, looking into Kara’s eyes, she feels elated. Kara has done this to her, her Kara. She’s worked her up to the tipping point, and she’s about to carry her over the finish line - literally.

The pair stare at each other for mere seconds before crashing their lips together. The knot in Lena’s stomach unfurls, and a warmth spreads through her limbs as she moans into Kara’s mouth.

Lena’s back arches and her expression contorts with a mix of relief and pleasure as her orgasm washes over her body in pulsing waves. She falls slack against Kara’s shoulder, listening to the blonde whisper sweet nothings into her ear as she regains control over her breathing.

“My turn,” Lena murmurs, sucking lewdly on Kara’s earlobe.

With steady hands, Lena pushes Kara’s shoulders until she’s lying flat on her back. There’s a predatory look in her eyes that makes the super think she’s about to be trounced finally, and she doesn’t mind one bit.

Lena uses her tongue to taste her way down milky skin, leaving a shimmering trail from neck to thighs. The sight that greets her tells her all she needs to know, and that’s that Kara is worked up. An unwavering need to be inside Kara overcomes Lena, and she doesn’t hesitate to act.

The first lick has her tastebuds exploding. Kara’s sweet and salty and probably the best thing she’s ever tasted. So, she takes her time, listens to the litany of soft moans coming from above her, and keeps her tongue consistently skirting along where Kara wants it most but never offers the relief the blonde so desperately wants.

“Lena, don’t tease,” Kara whimpers, canting her hips in hopes of getting Lena’s mouth around her aching clit.

“Oh darling, when have you ever known me to play with my food,” Lena taunts, not waiting for a response before she stiffens her tongue and thrusts it inside Kara's dripping entrance.

“Lena!” Kara cries out, gripping the bed sheets, as opposed to Lena’s hair, which she’s sure she’ll rip out, “I’m not going to last long.”

Thighs clamp tightly over Lena’s ears, muffling the sweet erotic sounds coming from above her. With a steady hand looped over Kara’s thigh, Lena tugs her closer, slipping a thumb over the blonde’s clit. She gorges herself on the supple flavours flowing down her chin until she hears a series of curses before hips fly from the mattress, and Lena’s name is echoed throughout the bedroom.

“Come here,” the journalist sighs, letting go of torn bedsheets and reaching out to pull Lena close enough so that the smell of her own arousal fills her nose.

“Hi,” Lena murmurs softly - sweetly - onto Kara’s lips, leaning down to finish her greeting with a deliberate kiss, basking in the intimacy the two had just shared.

click here to be added to my taglist

#supergirl #Kara Danvers #Lena luthor #supercorp #supercorp fanfic #kara danvers x lena luthor

153 notes · View notes

cookies-over-yonder · 5 months

Text

close your weary eyes

Adaine has already been worrying about Riz, what with his thousands of clubs and negative hours of sleep, but when she gets a text from him during an AV club meeting he's surprisingly absent from, she's more concerned than ever. Riz: what does a panic attack feel like?

ao3

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2

title from rises the moon by liana flores

Riz: what does a panic attack feel like?

Adaine: are you ok???

Adaine: where are you?

Riz: tell av i'll be late

Adaine: are you having a panic attack? where are you

Riz: my locker

Adaine takes off down the hall immediately, all but running to Riz's locker.

And then she hears it, faint, rapid breathing coming from the other side.

"Riz? It's Adaine, can I open the door?"

No response.

So she opens it. It's wildly unlike Riz to leave his locker unlocked, but it works in her favour this time.

And then she sees him—curled up on the floor of the locker, glasses abandoned and eyes wide, trembling from head to toe and gasping for air.

Okay.

He's definitely having a panic attack.

It's after school, so the hallways are rather empty, but there's still a risk of people walking by.

Adaine kneels down and rests a hand on his shoulder "Riz, hey—"

"I—I—I can't stop shaking," Riz stutters out between gasps, holding out his trembling hands and looking at her with desperation and pure fear in his eyes.

"It's okay. You're gonna be okay. Can I take you to Jawbone's office?"

"Okay, okay, okay, yeah, yeah, yeah." He nods, and she helps him up, picks up and hands him his glasses, and guides him down the hall.

The door to Jawbone's office is ajar, and when Adaine opens it, she sees him look up from his laptop and he immediately gets up from his chair and rushes over to them.

"Hey, kids, come inside," he says, closing the door behind them and helping Adaine guide Riz, still hyperventilating, onto the couch. "What's going on?"

Adaine sits beside him and rubs circles into his back.

"I—I—I don't know what's happening—" Riz says, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, knocking his glasses out of place. "I think I'm dying, or something. Goblins die young, you know. Maybe this is it for me."

"Don't talk like that, Riz!" Adaine shouts, startling herself and instantly regretting it when he shrinks further in on himself. Adaine wraps her arms around one of his and clings to him despite herself.

"Sor—sorry," he stutters between gasps. "Sorry, sorry, sorry—"

Jawbone pulls a chair in front of the couch and sits across from Riz as the apologies keep tumbling out. "Kiddo, you're not dying. Can you take a deep breath for me?"

Riz sucks in a breath and holds it.

"Now breathe out, nice and slow."

Riz breathes out, though shakily, and his breathing is still shallow as ever. Adaine moves from gripping his arm to running her hands along his back, and works her way into massaging his shoulders. God, he's tense.

Riz starts frantically swiping at his eyes, then, and it's something that makes Adaine tear up herself.

"You can cry if you need to, no one's gonna judge," Jawbone says. "Anxiety is serious, and it's not your fault."

"But I—I can handle it," Riz whines, breathing faster as the tears start to fall. "I've always handled it. Pressure—pressure is good. It keeps me going. It's—it's not—it's not supposed to make me—"

Riz stifles a sob, burying his head in his hands. Adaine moves from massaging his shoulders to wrapping him in a tight hug from behind.

"Riz, I think you have a lot on your plate, and you're overwhelmed. I'm sure anyone would break under the amount of pressure you've got on your shoulders."

"What time is it?" Riz asks, voice muffled and wobbly.

"It's almost five," Jawbone says.

"I'm gonna be late for soil club..." Riz whines, before breaking down in sobs, not bothering to conceal them. Or maybe he just can't anymore.

Adaine adjusts her grip around him so Riz's face is against her chest, and she holds him tight. "I'm sure they won't mind if you miss one meeting, Riz."

"No, I won't miss it, I—I—i just need to calm down," he mumbles into her chest, taking in a few exaggerated breaths. "Then I can go to soil club, and GSA after, or was it aviation club? I need to check my schedule—"

Riz pulls away from the hug and reaches beside where hes sitting on the couch, still sobbing. "Where's—where's my crystal? Where—I—I—I thought I had it—"

"Riz, look at me," Jawbone says, and he does. "Focus on your breathing, alright? That's the most important thing right now. I know you've got a lot going on, but right now you need to focus on you."

Riz's shuts his eyes as his sobs turn into strangled gasps for air. He shakes his head frantically. "Can't—I can't—" he cries, grabbing the sides of his head with his hands. "Can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe—"

Adaine has suffered through many panic attacks. She knows the signs, she knows how bad they can get, and since getting treatment and therapy, she's learned how to cope, how to calm herself down before it gets bad.

In Riz, she sees her younger self, trembling violently from head to toe, and failing to get enough air with each painful gasp, and lost on how to make it stop.

"Riz, Riz, kiddo, can you hear me?" Jawbone asks.

Riz doesn't reply, his eyes still shut, only whining and continuing to hyperventilate.

Ice, Adaine thinks. It's what Jawbone used to help her with panic attacks in the past. Holding onto something really cold is a good way to ground yourself in your body.

Jawbone seems to have the same thought, because he's opening up the cooler and pulling out an ice cold water bottle and carefully pulling Riz's hands away from his head and making him hold it.

Adaine has never seen Riz so anxious in her entire life, and that's saying a lot, considering the way he's seemed stressed since they met in freshman year.

It breaks her heart.

She runs her hands up and down the sides of his arms to try and further ground him. She lets out a small sigh of relief when she sees his eyes crack open, and his breathing slows slightly.

"You with us?" Jawbone asks.

He nods. "I—I can't—" he takes one hand off the bottle and gestures to his chest and its rapid rise and fall.

"It's okay, you're okay, just feel that in your hands. Cold, right?"

"Uh-huh..." Riz nods.

"Just focus on that. The extreme temperature is supposed to help ground you. I want you to focus on that feeling and listening to my voice, okay?"

Riz nods, squeezing the bottle in his hands. Adaine taps his shoulder and then taps her thigh, and he crawls into her lap. She wraps her arms around him and buries her face in his hair. It's oily and stiff. She wonders when he last washed it.

"You're having a panic attack," he starts.

"Yeah, I—I—I figured."

"And that's 'cause when you get too stressed, your body thinks you're in real danger, and it triggers your fight-or-flight, and that's what makes you start breathing too fast. So we gotta remind your brain it's safe, and it'll calm down your body too."

"Mhm, yeah—yeah," Riz nods, "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for, like I said, it's a natural response to too much stress."

Riz nods, taking in another deep breath. Adaine breathes with him, exaggerating her breathing to make it easier for him to follow along.

"It's okay, Riz," she says softly, running her fingers through his hair, "It used to happen to me all the time, so I get it."

"Okay," Riz says, taking in a deep breath, and letting it out, "Okay. Okay. Okay."

"Okay?" she asks.

"Okay," he says, continuing to take deep breaths. He unscrews the water bottle and takes a sip. And then he gulps down about half the bottle in a second. "I'm okay," he says. His breathing is much steadier, albeit still shaky like the rest of his body. "I should get to soil club—"

"You're not going anywhere," Adaine says, moving her hands from his hair to wrap around him and squeeze a little.

Riz whines, but she can tell he's too tired to protest, especially when he tilts his head to rest his cheek against her chest, and shuts his eyes.

"Maybe I should call your mom to pick you up," Jawbone suggests, and Adaine feels Riz tense in her hold.

"No, no, don't do that, please," he pleads, eyes still shut. "She's already worried sick."

Jawbone frowns, and Adaine can see him about to protest when she gets an idea.

"Why don't you come to Mordred Manor? Then we can look after you and you don't have to worry your mom."

"That's a great idea, Adaine. If you're okay with that, Riz, then I can let your mom know you'll be staying over."

Riz nods and mumbles some vague affirmative.

Jawbone sets off to retrieve Riz's phone while Adaine scoops him up and carries him to the car. He's out like a light before they even get in.

She quickly shoots a text to Fig during the drive over.

Adaine: riz crashing at mordred today

Adaine: had a hard day so prob best to be gentle

Fig: :( is he ok???

Fig: will let kris and ragh know

Adaine: he's ok he's asleep rn

Fig sends a thumbs up and a fiery heart emoji back.

They get inside and Adaine carries Riz to her room and tucks him in on her bed, summons Boggy, and tucks him under Riz's arm. Riz smiles a little in his sleep, holding Boggy tighter.

#cookies writes and cookies wrongs #riz gukgak #adaine abernant #jawbone o'shaughnessey #fantasy high #fhjy #fantasy high junior year #riz gukgak angst #angst #hurt/comfort #fic #fanfic

53 notes · View notes

a-dinosaur-a-day · 11 months

Text

Fossil Novembirb 3: Race to the Sea

Among the rapidly diverging groups of dinosaurs right after the end-Cretaceous extinction were quite a few groups that went "hey, the ocean... it's full of food... let's go there"

And the ways they went there? Multifaceted and Fascinating

Today, we know of plenty of different types of marine birds, around the world. But in the Paleocene, the hotspot of marine bird evolution was Aotearoa, aka Zealandia.

Here, many early marine birds evolved, stretching out their wings in one way or another to grab the nearest available food sources. One common way modern birds live on the sea is by soaring - rarely touching ground, living their lives over the water, looking for food.

And this mode of life appears to have evolved early, with the first tropicbirds evolving right out the gate with Clymenoptilon. And it wasn't alone among flighted marine birds! Protodontopteryx, the first pseudotoothed bird, is also known from the Paleocene of Aotearoa.

Protodontopteryx by @otussketching

Pseudotoothed birds are one of the most common clades of fossil bird, having thrived in marine habitats across the world until the start of the Pleistocene. Like all modern birds, they weren't able to just re-develop teeth, as the gene for enamel had been lost. However, they - like many other birds that eat on slippery or finnicky prey - worked around that by evolving fake "teeth", or projections, on the parts of their body they did still have.

Most living birds evolve such things as lamellae, aka, little pointy bits on their tongues.

Pseudotoothed birds did so by evolving jagged edges out of their jaws.

And the early Paleocene is where that all started!

That said, Protodontopteryx does not seem suited to soaring flight, and probably lived most similarly to living albatross, selecting targeted prey and sticking close to the shore - the start of a long love affair with the ocean for the clade.

Waimanu by Nobu Tamura

Of course, the reason we're all here is penguins. Penguins are some of the most charismatic birds today, even dubbed the "pinnacle of dinosaurian evolution" by one Dr. Thomas Holtz. And they appeared right away in the Paleocene, showing up just after the impact event - and showcasing a dramatically rapid evolution towards fully marine life.

Early penguins were weird transitional birds, a cross between a normal Neoavian and their later shape, which looks remarkably like living loons and divers. The first penguins we have, Waimanu and Kupoupou, were very similar to modern penguins - so we don't exactly know how this transition started, or when penguins eventually lost flight. Muriwaimanu, however, did show a different form of swimming through the water, indicating that modern penguins developed it later.

Though, they fly through the water, so it's not like they lost it for nothing!

Kumimanu by Nobu Tamura

The ocean, though depleted from the asteroid impact, recovered faster than the land, and was filled with a variety of food items that these different kinds of birds could feed on. Molluscs, Crustaceans, worms, and fish were all available, allowing Aotearoa to host a diverse flock of marine birds, and for penguins to diversify rapidly.

Because, quickly after the evolution of the first penguins, we start to see more and more - and they were huge. Kumimanu was much bigger than living penguins, and Sequiwaimanu had legs similar to other large penguins found in the region.

This was just the start of the Golden Age of Penguins, and we'll revisit them later. We have some other giant birds to meet first...

Sources:

Blokland, J. C., C. M. Reid, T. H. Worthy, A. J. D. Tennyson, J. A. Clarke, R. P. Scofield. 2019. Chatham Island Paleocene fossils provide insight into the palaeobiology, evolution, and diversity of early penguins (Aves, Sphenisciformes). Palaeontologia Electronica 22 (3): 22.3.78.

Mayr, 2022. Paleogene Fossil Birds, 2nd Edition. Springer Cham.

Mayr, G., V. De Pietri, L. Love, A. A. Mannering, R. P. Scofield. 2019. Oldest, smallest, and phylogenetically most basal pelagornithid, from the early Paleocene of New Zealand, sheds light on the evolutionary history of the largest flying birds.

Mayr, 2017. Avian Evolution: The Fossil Record of Birds and its Paleobiological Significance (TOPA Topics in Paleobiology). Wiley Blackwell.

#Fossil Novembirb #Novembirb #Dinovember #Dinosaurs #Birds

67 notes · View notes

hometoursandotherstuff · 1 year

Photo

Instead of criticizing, I’m getting into looking at these renovated historic homes with a more non-judgemental eye, b/c it is what it is. This is an 1890 home in Grand Rapids, Michigan that has been redone inside and out. It has 4bd. 4ba. $795K. First thing we notice on the exterior - narrow vinyl siding and some new stone.

Entrance foyer.

They went with painting the wood black. I would say that this really requires commitment, b/c after that first panel is painted, there’s no turning back.

Lovely curved glass window.

They went with modern replacement lighting.

Flooring was replaced with modern light wood, apparently, as a contrast to the black.

Modernized sitting room. Looks like a wall may have been removed.

Sunroom off the sitting room was fitted with modern windows.

Vintage-y powder room. Notice the original hardware on the door.

Bright dining room redo - wainscoting and built-in cabinetry painted white with contrasting darker wallpaper and a modern light fixture.

Reno’d kitchen has no upper cabinetry and very pale gray lowers. They chose a solid marble style backsplash.

New doors on the built-in storage.

An original door in the kitchen.

Leads to a newly done back porch.

Curved stair landing. Glad that they did the balustrades in white.

Completely modernized bd. and en-suite.

Cleanly modern hall to the other bds. and baths.

This bd. retains some of the original features, but the hearth has been bricked over. The en-suite is a small shower room.

Original door and built-in linen closets painted white.

Newly redone bath with a vintage tub.

2nd fl. laundry room.

Attic stairs and finished attic space.

Walk-in closet.

This is so cute in the basement, isn’t it?

Some architectural details.

Nice yard and garage.

Close proximity to the business district.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/241-Madison-Ave-SE-Grand-Rapids-MI-49503/23814498_zpid/

#renovated victorian #houses #house tours #home tour

157 notes · View notes

amerricanartwork · 7 months

Text

URL Song Game

Got tagged by one of my mutuals (@maddiethesapphic) to do this game, but the original post was lagging my computer, so I decided to put the songs on a separate post here!

It was quite a challenge picking out my favorites; even with just these letters there were a lot of good candidates! I'm also curious to see if anyone actually checks these out or recognizes them, because honestly I'm pretty eager to get to share some of my music tastes! I will say though, it's pretty all over the place in terms of genre and sources...!

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

A - Another Believer (Rufus Wainwright)

M - Mébh's Tune (Kíla)

E - Embers of a Burning Dystopia (flashygoodness)

R - Reverse (Caravan Palace)

R - Road to Lisdoonvarna (Celtica)

I - I Bring You a Song/Looking For Romance (Frank Churchill and Larry Morey)

C - Collision Chaos Present JP (Naofumi Hataya, Masafumi Ogata)

A - Antonio's Voice (Germaine Franco)

N - No Strings Attached (Swingrowers)

A - Ave Maria, Op. 52 No. 6 (Leopold Stokowski)

R - Rapid As Wildfires (Yu-peng Chen)

T - Through Heaven's Eyes (Brian Stokes Mitchell)

W - What Would I Do If I Could Feel? (Nipsey Russell)

O - One Nation Under a Groove (Funkadelic) (This version is also very good!)

R - Rio Grande (The Oh Hellos)

K - Kingdom Dance (Alan Menken)

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

And for as many mutuals I can send this to: @laismoura-art @hail-strom @ghostlycoze @kociamieta @pansear-doodles @shkika @purpura-box.

And anyone else who wants to do this is free to join!

#reblog game #url song game #music

33 notes · View notes

makeitinkorea · 1 month

Text

Après les quatre familles d'anciens chaebols, c'est l'heure de découvrir les quatre dernières familles. Elles règnent sur le pays depuis une vingtaine d'années pour la plupart et ont réussi à se faire un nom et un statut très rapidement, grâce à l'exploitation des nouveaux domaines technologiques et des nouvelles avancées de ces dernières années.

NOUVEAUX CHAEBOLS, DEVENUS PUISSANTS AU COURS DE CES 20 DERNIÈRES ANNÉES

HALLYU MEDIA GROUP Création : 5 décembre 2000. Fondateur : Shin Donghyun.

Autre dirigeants : Shin Mansik (dirigeant actuel, cousin du précédent).

Fondé au début des années 2000, ce groupe a su exploiter la vague "Hallyu" qui a propulsé la culture coréenne sur la scène mondiale à travers la musique k-pop et les dramas. Hallyu Media Group possède plusieurs chaînes de télévisions coréenne populaires, reconnues pour diffuser certains des programmes les plus regardés du pays. Hallyu Media Group détient également l'une des plus grandes agences de talents de Corée, NW (Next Wave) Entertainment, qui regroupe certains des plus grands noms de la K-pop ainsi que des acteurs et mannequins de renommée.

FAMILLE SHIN

Les nombreuses conquêtes de Shin Mansik ne manquent jamais de faire réagir la presse. En plus d'avoir divorcé de sa première femme alors enceinte, pour épouser une seconde à qui il avait déjà fait un enfant, le CEO de Hallyu Media Group est connu pour avoir épousé la veuve de son cousin dont il a hérité de l'entreprise, dès la seconde où celui-ci s'est éteint. Malgré des repas de famille assez particuliers et quelques accrochages entre demi-frères et demi-sœurs, les enfants de Shin Mansik, tous mélomanes, danseurs, modèles, ou acteurs, participent activement à l'œuvre familiale : deux des plus âgés assistent leur père dans la direction de son agence de talent sous l'égide du Hally Media Group et ont recruté et débuté certains des idols et des acteurs les plus en vogue du pays. Les autres aiment mettre leur talent au profit de l'agence VividStar Agency, en tant que chorégraphe, acteurs ou producteur de musique. Deux des plus jeunes sont des idols déjà débutées ou sur le point de l'être, et sont en passe de devenir les it girl et it boy de leur génération. Mais peut-on réellement faire confiance à une agence bâtie sur la trahison, le mensonge, la rivalité et le piston ?

Shin Mansik (M, 59 ans). Marié à Lee Jinhee (F, 60 ans). - Shin Prénom au choix (F, 32 ans). - Shin Prénom au choix (M, 30 ans). Remarié à Park Haejin (F, 52 ans). - Shin Prénom au choix (M, 31 ans). - Shin Prénom au choix (M, 27 ans). - Shin Prénom au choix (F, 24 ans). Remarié à Kang Junga (F, 45 ans). - Shin Prénom au choix (M, 23 ans). - Shin Prénom au choix (F, 21 ans). - Shin Jisoo (F, 12 ans).

NEOMMA INNOVATIONS Création : 6 août 1998. Fondateur : Yun Seungho (dirigeant actuel).

Autre dirigeants : /

Fondé dans les années 2000, Neomma Innovations est l'un des nouveaux chaebols les plus influents du pays. Spécialisé dans l'électronique et les télécommunications, ce groupe est l'illustration de l'essor technologique rapide en Corée du Sud. Neomma Innovations possède la marque d'électronique Neomma, concurrent direct de Hyeonmi Electronics, qui se distingue par des smartphones et des tablettes au design épuré. Le groupe a également fondé Yeoboline, un opérateur téléphonique et fournisseur d'internet apprécié pour ses prix abordables, et développé plusieurs jeux mobiles très populaires chez les jeunes sud coréens. Enfin, Neomma Innovations est à l'origine de l'application de messagerie instantanée Yeobotalk, et du réseau social NeoSpace, largement utilisés dans tout le pays. Neomma Innovations investit actuellement dans la recherche et le développement et espère lancer prochainement des réseaux 6G.

FAMILLE YUN

Depuis qu'il a fêté ses 75 ans en décembre dernier, Yun Seungho prépare soigneusement sa retraite et met en ordre les affaires de son entreprise qu'il souhaite laisser entre les mains les plus honnêtes et compétentes possibles. Sa relation avec son fils aîné, Jinhwan, n'a jamais été très bonne, et semble ne se déchirer que plus au fil des années. Homme particulièrement dur et distant avec ce fils qu'il considère médiocre malgré la place importante qu'occupe ce dernier au sein de Neomma Innovations, Seungho préfère fonder tous ses espoirs sur sa petite-fille aînée pour qui il éprouve beaucoup d'affection et d'estime, et qu'il considère comme une jeune femme prometteuse. Quant à la sœur jumelle de cette dernière, elle semble plutôt se ranger du côté de Jinhwan avec qui elle partage une relation très fusionnelle, et qui préférerait la voir reprendre le flambeau. Le petit dernier de la famille cache quant à lui beaucoup d'insécurités liées à son manque d'engagement et à sa naïveté, chacun des deux camps souhaitant l'accaparer. Si cette famille ne parvient pas à trouver un terrain d'entente, les jumelles sont déchirées entre la loyauté qu'elles éprouvent pour leur mentor respectif et l'entreprise familiale, et ce lien indéfectible qui les lie entre elles.

Yun Jinhwan (M, 45 ans). Marié à Kang Hyejin (F, 46 ans). - Yun Prénom au choix (F, 23 ans). - Yun Prénom au choix (F, 23 ans). - Yun Prénom au choix (M, 20 ans).

SANGHO CORP

Création : 6 juillet 1999. Fondateur : Ong Joonsuk. Autres dirigeants : Ong Joonho (dirigeant actuel, frère du précédent)

Avec une présence marquée dans le secteur de la santé, Sangho Corp est impliqué dans la recherche pharmaceutique, la production de médicaments et la gestion d'établissements de soins. Le groupe a notamment racheté, modernisé et agrandi le Namsin Private Hospital, un centre médical privé dans la capitale, réputé pour la qualité de ses soins, ses médecins renommés, et ses technologies médicales. Plus récemment, Sangho Corp a choisi d'investir dans le secteur de l'hôtellerie par la création d'une série d'hôtels de luxe en Corée du Sud, ainsi que dans le secteur de l'éducation, en créant quelques institutions académiques qui forment notamment leurs étudiants à la médecine.

FAMILLE ONG

TW : MALADIE INCURABLE

Si tous les membres de la famille Ong sont de talentueux médecins ou de brillants étudiants, c'est avant tout grâce à leur travail acharné et à leur formation de qualité. Chirurgien esthétique ambitieux, particulièrement fier de son œuvre et très impliqué dans son hôpital privé de Namsin, Ong Joonho a à cœur de former chacun de ses enfants à devenir des médecins de renommée. Mais lorsque le plus jeune enfant de la famille est atteint d'une maladie incurable en raison de son caractère inconnu, la famille doit faire face à des choix difficiles et à de nombreux sacrifices. Les enfants de Ong Joonho choisiront-ils la fidélité et l'amour qu'ils éprouvent pour leur famille ou privilégieront-ils leur bonne conscience ?

Ong Joonho (M, 47 ans). Marié à Kim Sookja (F, 49 ans). - Ong Prénom au choix (F, 24 ans). - Ong Prénom au choix (M, 20 ans). - Ong Yujin (F, 15 ans). - Ong Jihoon (M, 11 ans).

NAMU CORP Création : 26 octobre 2002. Fondateur : Nam Joonseok (dirigeant actuel).

Autres dirigeants : /

Reconnu pour ses activités diversifiées dans les domaines de la banque, la finance, les assurances et le commerce, Namu Corp est aujourd'hui un acteur clé du secteur économique sud-coréen. Fondée en 2002 par Nam Joonseok, l'entreprise a connu une rapide expansion. A la tête de plusieurs banques, banques en ligne et institutions financières, Namu Corp offre des services bancaires tels que des prêts, comptes d'épargne, cartes de crédit et investissements. Namu Corp est également actif dans le secteur des assurances. En 2004, le groupe a lancé Solara, une plateforme de commerce en ligne mondiale. Plus récemment, Namu Corp a développé Namu Ride et Namu Eats, des services de covoiturage et de livraison de nourriture.

FAMILLE NAM

TW : HOMICIDE INVOLONTAIRE, MORT INFANTILE

Homme d'affaire brillant et ambitieux, Nam Joonseok s'est construit seul et a permis à sa famille de profiter largement de la réussite de son entreprise. Bien qu'étant un père et un mari aimant, il souffre des problèmes de santé de son épouse, soignée dans le meilleur hôpital privé de la capitale depuis 2010. Cette année là, le couple a tragiquement perdu leur plus jeune fils, alors âgé de quelques mois, dans un accident impliquant l'aîné de la famille, âgé de 11 ans au moment des faits. Bien que l'accident ne fut pas intentionnel, Nam Joonseok garde en lui beaucoup de rancœur à l'égard de son fils qu'il considère malgré lui responsable des problèmes de santé de son épouse. Leur relation est particulièrement difficile et Joonseok peine à montrer son amour et son soutien à ce fils qui vient pourtant de faire ses premiers pas dans l'entreprise familiale, préférant se concentrer sur sa fille cadette. L'aîné de la famille est aujourd'hui hanté par la culpabilité de son geste et vit dans l'espoir d'être remarqué et d'attirer la fierté d'un père qui ne lui montre que de la froideur.

Nam Joonseok (M, 49 ans). Marié à Park Haekyung (F, 47 ans). - Nam Prénom au choix (M, 25 ans). - Nam Prénom au choix (F, 20 ans). - Nam Taehyun (M, 2009-2010).

#avatars rpg #forum rpg #forumactif #projet forumactif #pub forum rpg #pub rpg #rp #rpg #rpg asiatique #rpg forumactif #chaebol #annexe #ressources rpg #faceclaim rpg #pub rpg forumactif #pub forumactif

9 notes · View notes