Simon takes the stairs two at a time, leaving you to trail after him on the rusty stairwell. It creaks beneath your combined weight, and you couldn't be more relieved when you finally get to the top floor. Your job is to scout the area from above, and let the team know if hostiles are approaching. It's simple.
Simon exits the stairwell first, metal creaking underfoot. You look down at the 40-something foot drop beneath you, a coil of unease settling in your stomach.
"Waiting for something?" Simon stares back at you, and you shake your head quickly, stepping onto the solid ground of the top floor right behind him. Simon shrugs and moves forward, quiet as a ghost as you raise your weapons to begin clearing the floor.
There's not a hostile in sight. Just an uncomfortable ache at your groin as you watch the lieutenant clear a room; biceps strained against thick fabric and rappelling harness tight around his thighs. You wait at the open doorway to the balcony, slinging your rifle over your shoulder as you discreetly adjust yourself.
Apparently not discreetly enough.
"You always walkin' with a stiffy?" Simon grunts, brushing past you and checking over the edge of the balcony railing. He throws you a look over his shoulder, and you bristle.
"Just enjoying the view." You reply, waiting for him to look away before your eyes trail down to the meat of his ass. Simon steps backwards, hand raising towards his headset to speak over the radio to the team.
"Bravo 0-7, in position." He mutters, and taps his side with a look. You step in beside him, before he thumps his closed fist against your arm. "Watch my back."
So you throw a glare at him, turning around to be shoulder-to-shoulder, covering the stairwell with a watchful eye as Simon keeps watch over the balcony. A staticky "heard" is given over the radio, before it falls quiet.
There's nothing but the breeze to comfort both of you; the quiet breath of your lieutenant through the fabric of his mask and the small rustle of your pants as you shift your position. Your cock is achingly hard against the fabric of your boxers, and the heat of Simon at your shoulder is not helping.
Simon is quiet, but you can tell he knows. He's probably mentally trying to keep from strangling you. You tap your shoulder lightly to his.
He gives you a look.
You give him a look back.
"Fuckin' --christ."
Simon's hand hits the front of your gear, and trails down your chest. The heavy weight finally settles on your lower stomach before reaching lower. Simon's fingers dig between your waistband and your skin, and the cool brush of his leather gloves sends a shock straight to your dick.
"...Unbuckle, Sarg." His usual composure is betrayed by his rough tone of voice, a little thicker than normal. Simon's gaze, however, is fixed straight ahead, keeping watch over the balcony railing.
"Impatient?" You grin back, already hastily clamping hands over the buckle of your utility belt. It doesn't budge for a moment, your hands jittery, and Simon exhales beside you.
"Jus' burning daylight right now," He remarks, and his hand sits heavy between your pants and skin, waiting for the belt to be loosened to travel any farther down. His fingers rap against your skin. The slightest twitch of your hips belies your own impatience. Finally, the belt falls free, the ends hitting the inside of your thighs. Simon wastes little time with his hand, heading straight down to palm over your cock.
"Ahah--!" You suck in a breath, Simon's hand groping. The leather of his gloves is smooth against your cock and you rut forward to find anything of the friction you want, but Simon's shoulder knocks against yours.
"Cut that out," He grunts, surveying over the balcony, before sending a look over his shoulder your way. "Don't want to get compromised, hm?"
It's cruel, it's cruel and you want to rut up again anyways just to send a message. But Simon's in charge here so you clamp your thighs together, head ducking when he wraps fingers around your cock slowly.
"I know, I know..." Your voice trails off when he languidly moves his hand, taunting and too light around your cock for the feeling you want. You dig your heels into the floor, and Simon gives a chuckle.
Your cock is warm to the touch, heavy in his palm and filling out his grasp. His thumb strokes slowly up and down the shaft, shifting to run over the underside of your cock. It's soft and warmth blooms in your stomach, every small motion feather-light but leaving you aching for more. Simon exhales out through his nose, and a crackle over the radio fills the space from your radios.
"Ghost, sitrep?"
"Nothing to report." Low and controlled, like he isn't currently fondling your cock in his hand. He's stood straight, shoulders relaxed, overlooking the balcony, while you're partially tipped forward, desperately trying to not grind forward.
You wait for the static to die down from Simon's intercom before gritting your teeth. Your hand shoots up to the meat of his arm, a tiny shock running up your spine when his fingers curl tighter around your cock. "C'mon, please please please let me..."
"On'a mission, Sarg." The flat of his thumb rolls over your tip, causing a mewl to leave your lips. A white-hot heat rushes down your cock.
"Make this your goddamn mission LT?" It's breathy and maybe far too hostile for Simon to make this any easier on you, but to your surprise, a shaky sigh leaves his lips. You can see the whites of his eyes, bright as day against the dark of his eye black, widening with a raised brow.
"Fuck." He grunts, and to your relief, his grip tightens. You rut forward into his grasp, cock aching and finally feeling the tight squeeze of his gloved fingers drag against your skin. It's lightning in your veins, short gasps leaving your lips with each snap of your hips as you thrust into his hand. The relief quickly gives way to blissful shock as he roughly jerks his arm in time with your movements, the meat of his hand pounding against the base of your cock, then dragging up to your tip in a spiraling grip, again and again. It's become slippery, the leather of his gloves slicker with precum smeared from your tip down the shaft of your cock.
The slapping of skin against fabric and leather cuts the air as you bend, pressing his arm into your stomach, pulling him tighter against you like it'll get you further inside his clenched grip.
"I'm close, I'm--" You yelp, fingers digging into his arm. Simon responds with a gruff, mumbled affirmation. You can feel your pulse in your ears, hips snapping forward for every delicious drag of leather down your cock. The pressure builds, warm and then blindingly hot in your stomach, and you careen forward --
His fingers squeeze tight around the base of your cock.
A shudder passes down you, hands tight around his arm, hips stuttering, uselessly bucking forward as your orgasm is denied. You think you see white spots in your vision, a broken noise coming from your lips before your legs twitch and you press harshly against Simon's side.
"Wh--at? Why?!" Your head lifts, each inhale ragged from the pressure still pooling in your stomach but out of reach. Simon's eyes meet yours, dark and pupils dilated. It's a cold shock when his fingers peel away from your cock, leaving your pants entirely and wiping off on the front of your gear.
"Got movement down on th' ground," The words are so simple, but you swear you can hear the amusement behind them. Cruel bastard. You slump forward, knees hitting the ground. Simon pats your shoulder like he's sympathetic. "You can hold on, soldier."
"No, I can't," You whine back, hand digging into your pants to replace the emptiness. Simon taps your thigh with his boot, before walking back a few paces, motioning to the stairwell.
"Got a mission. No time." He chuckles. One leather glove a bit more glossy than the other. He stares down at you, and you realize he's not going to let you finish yourself off. "C'mon. Up."
You groan, hand hastily pumping your straining cock, before defeatedly hanging your head.
So I recently found out that March is Poetry Month? Well I wanted to share something I wrote a while ago...might even do a recording of it being read aloud if I'm feeling brave enough. But anyway here's my poem
Advice to new Significant Others
In the beginning everything feels exaggerated
The passion
The butterflies
The desperation
And the heat
You have to be touching now
I need you now
Hold me close so I don't float away
I want to stay
With you
And not on this porch saying goodbye
You're like an addict wanting another hit
Another injection straight into the heart
So you can feel like your floating on air
But over time you develop your immunities
The exaggeration is gone
Communication is hard
And please stop touching me
I need space
What once was a battle for separation
Becomes an easy parting with no sorrow
Sweet or sour
It just is
The love is still there but now it takes work
There is no clocking out
The pay is always in a state of flux
The benefits are pretty great
Unless you piss off your boss
No, partner
Collaborator
Friend
And sometimes friends fight
Maybe you're too forgetful
Or they're too anal about how the laundry is folded
Or maybe you keep eating their food from the fridge without asking
Or they're too clingy at the worst times
Or you're too sensitive
Or they're too much
You're too much
It's too much
Take a breath
Whew
Love is patient
Love is kind
Love takes communication
Love understands or at least tries to understand
Love apologizes for mistakes
Love holds you when there are tears
And laughs when there is joy
Love is communicating
Love is listening
Not hearing, listening
Love is embarrassing
But you don't mind because
Love doesn't judge or shame
Love is the warmth when your partner says your name
Love is pain when your partner cries
Love is an embrace when you are low
Love is the transformation of a person into a home.
Love is a conversation
And sometimes you stumble on the words
Or get your metaphors mixed up
Or you get frustrated because emotional vulnerability is hard
To enter,
one narrow hollow winding far with no direction
discernible your definite steps, each as certain,
particular and peculiar, yet,
preceding my threaded pitfalls the eyes follow
tracing failures each scuffing cut below,
ones tarnished living-room curtains.
Crumbling, my creaking castle,
a dancing jester trances, trounces, wooden
boarding together horrors at order –
collapses, though shouldn’t, more doors
one gallery walls, adorned,
glorified blood-smears artistically spurned; churn
their swirling mass to nostalgic stores
strewn public in display.
Desire, the killing kitchen, a bonfire,
scraps for dust the line, wire binding each particular; peculiar
entwining vampires align my dinner’s finery –
cutlery raised high, yet, feast on the inquisitive, impolite choir
shrilling about fears finding a way onto the course;
mind mulling red violence near silent, so hoarsely my exit
expired.
A real extroverted sergeant, and you and Johnny take to each other like two peas in a pod. You watch his six while he clears a room, he snipes from up top while you dash down the street. You mix well, well enough that when Johnny’s on leave to visit family back up on the North Sea coast, you’re his first pick for a little vacationing.
Now, there’s one thing everyone seems to forget. You’re a hybrid. Specifically, a moth hybrid.
And you don’t blame anyone for forgetting. You haven’t got your wings yet. You haven’t cocooned. It’s a bit simpler this way. Sure, you’d love the fulfillment of getting your wings and coloration, but you already hear a lamp joke every time you introduce yourself as a moth hybrid. You aren’t particularly wanting one straight off the rip, either. It’s easier to forgo the cocoon for now and pretend to be human.
Besides, you don’t look much different.
Johnny knows this, too. But your friendship isn’t based off your hybrid status. It’s rarely a conversation point, and it’s been that way since the first time you flipped him off when he told his own lamp joke. Johnny likes to be funny, but he knows when to can it. Maybe at the threat of your temper.
He hasn’t brought it up again. Besides, he knows enough about moths, he’s sure of that. Doesn’t need to ask about a thing. Basically small butterflys, eh? You’ll be a pretty caterpillar, and then you’ll go into a chrysalis, and you’ll get your nice big pretty wings. Hes betting a rusty red-brown. He’s never bothered to ask what kind of moth you are. There’s only one type, right?
You’ve packed and traveled up, taking the A90, stopping in Stonehaven for petrol before finally getting to Johnny’s place. It’s a rented out home near the coast ten miles from Balmedie and it’s freezing but Johnny calls it home, so you will now too.
You’re given a small guest room that’s collecting dust. It’s not like Johnny gets to be back here to use it often, military life has the both of you on your feet at every moment of the day.
Johnny’s making himself a cup of coffee downstairs, opening the little window above the kitchen sink to let in the sea mist, when you come down the stairs in your jammies and a bundle of soft fabric in your hands.
“Johnny, are you keeping these?” You hold up the bundle of fabric. It’s a soft white woolen sweater, a little bruised up, but just ‘well loved’ from days since passed. Johnny hasn’t seen the thing since his primary years — where’d you find it, the back of a closet?
“Ach, haven’t seen that in forever,” he stretches, crossing the kitchen to come to the bottom step of the stairs. He bunches the fabric up into his hands and sniffs it, nose wrinkling at the itchy texture of the wool fuzz. “‘Ah bet it’d look better on you than me nowadays.”
Johnny smiles back when his words make the corners of your eyes crinkle up with joy. You snatch back the sweater and pull it on over your head, over your jammies, and pose against the stair railing. “It’s mine now.”
Johnny thinks it’s a funny request. You’re unsubtle. It’s rather endearing.
What’s not rather endearing is days later, packing up to leave and head back to base. He’s helping you pack like the gentleman he swears he is. You’re collecting your toiletries in the other room and he’s stuffing clothes back into the duffel bag, trying to make what should obviously not fit, fit.
He grabs the next item, and his fingers clasp itchy wool. He stops and stares and then smiles, shoulders relaxing as he pulls the sweater from the heap of unsorted laundry and smooths it out on the end of the bed. It’ll find a better home in you, he’s sure, and it’s a bonus to see you wear something of his. He wished you’d worn it during the week past that first day, but beggars can’t be choosers, he supposed.
Johnny hears the sound of the bathroom light flicking off and your footsteps down the hall, so to not look like a sentimental fool in front of you and the sweater, he picks it back up and prepares to smoosh it down into the duffel bag.
The wool catches on the zipper. Ach, shit, a hole’s there now. Shit, fuck, he’s just torn the sweater he’s pawned off to you.
Except…
Johnny raises the sweater again, and flips it over, and his stomach drops when he finds the back littered with holes. Down from the collar to the body to the hemline. There’s holes and chunks missing from the sleeves, god damn it!
“How’d this get so bloody ripped up?!” He snaps, thrusting the sweater up to the ceiling like an omniscient voice is going to tell him.
You walk in through the doorway, bags of toiletries in hand. You freeze, eyes glancing between the sweater and Johnny like a deer in headlights.
Johnny swivels around, holding the sweater up with one hand and pointing with the other. “I’ll buy you a bloody new one, this one’s damn defective!” He grunts, pissed off at the mess of wool clutched in hand. Your face pales and he notices, because his brow furrows, and he motions to you.
“Did’ya lose a fight with a chainsaw with this on?? Ah’m not mad, just bloody surprised—“
“I— you said I could have it,” your voice is small and perplexed, which is the surprising thing to him. A timid voice isn’t exactly your go-to. “You didn’t say it was special, so…”
Johnny’s brain goes blank. He shakes his head and snaps back to attention. “You did this?”
You falter, mouth opening and closing for a minute, toiletries tucked a little closer to your chest. Your foot brushes over the carpet all antsy. It’s so not like you, and Johnny feels a bit bad over his voice raising. It’s not at you, just the shock, and the surprise, and—
“I saw it in the closet and thought it looked so good and there was dust on it, so I know you hadn’t used it, so I asked if I could have it and the wool was really tasty, and if you were me you would’ve done the same thing, Johnny please don’t be mad—!”
Tasty.
His brain registers that one word and then tunes out. Tasty. You ate his sweater?
Johnny turns his head back to the wool sweater. All the holes, the bites… moth eaten.
The dots connect in his mind over your hybrid status.
graves x vampire reader.
cw: messy descriptions of blood; dubcon kiss; light mentions of puke
“Do you feel better now?”
He says, a shadow in the golden light of the doorway. A dark shape cast across the floor and covering you.
The silence of the room stretches before he slowly crosses the room towards you. He stands behind you, and you feel his fingers in your hair. Scratching lightly at your scalp, petting more than pulling. And yet you feel miserable, sunken to the floor on your knees, sticky with blood and hot with sweat. You feel full, but it’s not the pleasant kind of full. It’s the full that makes you feel too small for your skin, too grotesque and distended, smothered in a pool of crimson.
“Yeah,” you answer. It’s not the truth, though, is it? You feel like a monster. The dead body in front of you, mangled and nothing more than a pile of gore. Graves lowers to his knees behind you, one arm coming forward to wrap around your arms and chest. His chin settling on your shoulder.
You feel bile rising in your throat, the sour taste of iron in the crevices of your mouth, and wish you could puke.
“How 'bout we get you all washed up, hmm? I'll fix a bath.”
But the steam from a hot bath would feel like you’re burning up in hell. You need ice cold water to be dumped on your head. You need someone to rip you open and carve out the gore you’ve swallowed and make space for something new in your chest.
The spit builds up in your mouth as you lean down again, and Graves rubs your arm like he knows you. You sink teeth into the flesh you’ve previously mauled and drag out another mouthful of blood, hot and bitter on your tongue, and fight the urge to gag. Graves sighs beside you. He doesn’t know, doesn’t realize, until you’re pressing a kiss to his lips.
He recoils on instinct but you follow. Your lips mesh with his and when he doesn’t immediately open up for you, your teeth prick at his lower lip, and a dribble of blood runs down his chin. That is what gets him to open up, and you press your tongue to his, blood shared from your mouth to his.
He revolts the taste. It’s not pleasant to anyone but you—to anyone, even you. But you keep your lips on his, spitting blood into his mouth until you feel the squeeze at the back of his throat when he swallows. A short exhale of breath through his nose warms your skin and tells you, just how disgusting it must taste, how disgusting it must be to swallow. Only when his mouth is empty for anything but spit do you break away from the kiss, and Graves coughs.
Graves is a man seldom shut up. But all he does is breathe, lips parted like he’s avoiding the blood on the roof of his mouth. He’s struggling to swallow down the excessive saliva in his mouth, you can tell from how his throat bobs, and he must be fighting to not ingest any more of the vile filth you're doomed to eat for the rest of your miserable life.
“Run a bath now?” you suggest, when Graves doesn’t have the words.
