cali cat {35/she}

35 - she/they - COD smut writer AO3 | Kofi | Masterlist

[the-californicationist]

Welcome to Cali's Blog!

So glad you're here!! ^_^ I am Cali, a fanfic writer (35, she/her, pansexual) who creates stories in the COD fandom and most of them are full of smut.

This entire blog is MDNI! No exceptions.

I block blogs that contain racism, TERFism, homophobia, body-shaming, slut/kink-shaming, ableism, minors, and drama/flaming. Don't like it? I don't care! Here's a lesson in fandom etiquette for you new people. <3

All of my writing, ideas, and (frankly stunning) graphic designs are AI FREE. This is a no AI zone! Fuck AI!

Request Status: OPEN

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Cali's Long Fics - multi chapter; 10k+ words

Cali's Dark Fics - graphic violence; non-con; or character death

Cali's Gangbang Fics - TF141 gangbangs/group sex dynamics

Cali's Breeding Kink Fics - breeding/Impregnation themes

Cali's Omegaverse Fics - O/B/A dynamics; knotting

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Cali's Kinktober 2025

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Cali’s Kinktober 2023

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Asks, reblogs, comments, and kudos are always welcome and appreciated, but I do not consent to any reposting, translations, or cross-platform re-uploading of any work (written or otherwise) that I produce, especially AI programs of any kind.

[the-californicationist]

HIII CALI ^^

so glad u saw my other post! so glad i can make ur days a little better :) also, a tad bit unrelated, but idk if u saw the mw4 trailer (i'm betting you did but i dont remember fs) and there was this theorist i saw on my page on yt! tumblr won't let me send links so it's called "Modern Warfare 4 Campaign: Every Character Who Dies!" by IceBurgz.

i just wanna say, like... in the video (sry that im alreaedy briefing u on it) basically he's theorizing that in mw4, it's confirmed johnny is dead, but he's theorizing that gaz and price ALSO die.... which is kinda breaking my heart :((

also, the fact that elliot knight (gaz's actor who i absolutely ADORE) has removed all cod-related posts from his social media worries me!!! i mean, some celebs do it before a big project or whatever but idk fs 🤔

SO sorry for rambling but i have nowhere else to go!!

have a nice day :)

Omg! That is some piping hot tea, pinkie. I had no idea about all that. I'm hoping some of our better informed friends have MW4 details that they can throw in the comments for us.

I definitely hope Gaz is going to be in this next one. He might just be crafting his social media for a surprise. Who knows! I'm gonna keep my fingers crossed, for sure.

I have to admit that while many of the canon scenes and dialogue lines do bring me some inspiration, I will continue to write almost all of my fics in my safe little AU where everybody is alive and well. 🥰 Self indulgent? Definitely. But who's gonna stop us? Nobody. 😅🩷

[the-californicationist]

Celestia Masterlist

{@the-californicationist x @auberghyn collab}

Art by Auberghyn Foreword Chapter 1: The Princess Chapter 2: The Seeding Chapter 3: The Assassin Chapter 4: The Keeper Chapter 5: The Prophecy Chapter 6: The Trial Chapter 7: The Suitor Chapter 8: The Ritual

[gloomwitchwrites]

great wyrm; red mountain

Knight John "Soap" MacTavish x Dragon Shifter Simon "Ghost" Riley

for the anon who desperately needed some ghoap in a fantasy setting, I hope this will do.

Content & Warnings (mdni): fantasy au, dragon au, fated mates, oral sex, mate bond, dubcon, pov soap

Word Count: 1.9k

ao3 // main masterlist

Ash coats the inside of Johnny’s lungs.

His mouth tastes of it, teeth gritty, tongue dry and without moisture. It puffs out his nose and mouth with each exhalation, filtering through the holes in his helmet. The lands themselves are not ashen, the grass is still green, the animals come and go, but there are no humans here. Not anymore.

In the shadow of Red Mountain, the farms sit empty, the towns ransacked, the roads overgrown with weeds and broken stone. Ash falls from the sky, dissolving into the ground, absorbed and forgotten as if enchanted, sticking to nothing except his lungs and his tongue and the back of his throat.

In the shadow of Red Mountain, John MacTavish, knight to The King, journeys alone.

Those sent to Red Mountain never return. No trace of their bones, no hint of weapon or shield. Gone and vanished. Unknown in fate or fortune. This, too, may be his fate. There is no one else to go, no one left to face The Great Wyrm.

At the base of the mountain, where flat land meets rising slope, Johnny pauses, staring up into the sky. Historical records, the ones Johnny read by single candle flame in the church archives, say that Red Mountain has not erupted in over a thousand years. It says the belly is empty, devoid of molten fire. A great explosion of heat blocked out the sun long ago, set the lands into chill. It happened fast, the mountain’s heart hardening, the great fires within hollowing to a finite point of intense heat.

From that heat came The Great Wyrm, the soul of Red Mountain, the thing that has stalked these lands for hundreds of years. It comes. It goes. The land is resettled. The wyrm arrives soon after, repeating the cycle.

Johnny coughs. Lifts his face plate. Spits black.

He drops the face plate and ascends, following the path that others carved before. His steel armor slowly grows heavy and hot. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. There are no bones or broken swords. No hint of life. Only red clay buried beneath layers of ash.

He turns, looking back the way he came. There is green grass, blue sky, and a solid line that separates it from the mountain. It’s a sharp cut, as if someone drew a knife tip over the land. Johnny never saw the change beneath his boots because he kept his head up, gaze fixed above the billowing behemoth.

There are stretches of time, moments when Johnny believes he hasn’t moved at all, or that he’s moved too far up too quickly. Dizzying. Strange. Each step weighted, sludgy, like he’s dragging himself along. Focus is on his feet, on moving each leg independently of the other, concentration on the intention to walk. It splits his focus, diverting all attention to the red clay and not the path before him.

Cool, fresh air hits him first, refreshing to point of deliverance. Johnny wobbles, nearly topples backward and down the mountain, only to correct at the last moment, throwing himself forward into the darkness. Hands outstretched, he falls on solid stone. Not a long fall, more of a trip, like when he first became a squire and couldn’t find his head even if it was shoved up his arse.

Tentatively, Johnny removes his helmet, and breathes in deep.

There is no burn. No cough. No itch. The grit on his teeth is gone, tongue no longer parched, the need for water evaporating. He feels like a new man, born again after a good rest.

And the air smells, like crushed eggs long rotten in the back of a chicken coop. Beneath the sulfur and stink, is a hint of sweetness like a mouthful of honey cake. Johnny sniffs as he walks forward, one hand on the pommel of his sword, alert and attentive. It wraps around him, lulls him forward, spins around him like chains, guiding him on and on and on.

Light appears, soft and low. There’s a glimmer. A flash of gold. Johnny steps around what he believes to be a wall, only for it to crumble beneath his fingers, a rampant torrent of cascading gold, gems, and jewelry. An abundance of wealth. They fan out, breaking open a gap, exposing the light to a heavy brightness.

Johnny throws up his arm to cover his eyes, crouching slightly. He keeps to the edges, walking between stacks of gold that ascend into darkness. That is all he sees at first. An intense light ahead and miles of treasure.

And then it shifts.

The top of a plain wood chair sticks out from one of the piles, followed by a broken wagon wheel, a charred beam, torn clothes, a child’s toy. More items appear, the gold receding, revealing belongings, woven baskets, scythes, an anvil. They ascend like the gold, creating piles of broken things, as if everything in the shadow of the mountain was caught in a large gale, and swept into the mouth.

“A visitor.”

The deep, rumbling purr startles Johnny, sending him stumbling away from the stained-glass window he was about to touch.

“Where are you, foul beast?” he calls out, but even he realizes how hollow he sounds. The threat is plucked out like a rose needle in skin.

“I’m right here.”

The voice is quiet this time. Right next to his ear. Johnny swivels, drawing his sword, and finding nothing.

Around him, the light dims, darkening the edges of his vision. The piles of broken things are not things at all but piles of gems, and then it melts, oozes, becoming wood and the lives of fallen people once more.

Past it all, there is a flicker, like a candle flame. And Johnny swears, swears that the flicker is not light at all, not a sparkle of gold, but eyes.

“No,” comes the voice again, directly behind him. The air is heavy with presence. “Here.”

Hesitation is weak. Hesitation will slit your throat.

Johnny swings.

Sword meets solid flesh, and bounces off. Johnny’s grip slips, the sword vibrating. It falls, clanging to the floor, and Johnny can only stare. Ears ringing like the vibrating sword, Johnny looks up, expecting a blow to the face, an arrow to the throat, or a slice across the stomach.

What he finds instead is a man.

Just a man, but not.

Naked and tall, broad shouldered, every limb thick with muscle. Power oozes from him, and that honey scent, it’s denser here, intoxicating as it is suffocating. A turn of the head reveals a glint of scales at the back of his neck.

“They sent one?” he scoffs. “They used to send armies.”

“You killed them all,” Johnny replies lamely. The Great Wyrm is a serpent of the sky, not flesh and blood. “This is a trick,” murmurs Johnny. “A trick.”

“A trick?” he says, feet silently circling Johnny.

“You’re—" Johnny shakes his head. “You’re—”

“The Great Wyrm?” His nostrils flare, all animal, shifting in Johnny’s direction as he does so. “I am. Expecting a beast?”

Johnny bends at the knees, the shock of the reveal receding. Duty rushes in, reaching out for a blade. Fingers centimeters away, Johnny is yanked by the throat. Human hands grow claws, latch in, keep him still. The Great Wyrm’s brown eyes reveal hypnotic-honey, a cerebral gnashing that loosens Johnny’s limbs.

“I have a name. I did. Once.” As The Great Wyrm speaks, black smoke drifts from his nostrils and mouth. Down his throat comes a warm, molten glow. “A ghost is what I am now.”

“Ghost,” replies Johnny, nearly slurred. “Suits you. Never caught. Slipping through the king’s fingers.” Each word is stuck, refusing to come out, escaping in clipped jolts of syllables. “Thought you’d be taller. Less skin. More scales.”

Ghost’s lips quirk slightly in amusement. Leaning in until their foreheads are nearly touching, Ghost inhales deeply, closing his eyes. Johnny’s stomach is weird, brain jumbled, limbs goo. Each inhalation and exhalation from Ghost worsens the fog until all Johnny can see and taste and touch and smell is Ghost.

“What—what are doing to me?”

Ghost’s eyelids snap open, widen, narrow to a primal possessiveness. “What do you smell?” His question filters into Johnny’s ears at a distance, muffled as if through rock. Ghost’s head dips, one claw on his otherwise human hand catching on Johnny’s bottom lip.

The flip is sudden, and Johnny groans.

Fog recedes, expanding outward, the crushing weight curling his back and tightening his balls. Arousal comes quickly, cock stiffening until it throbs to the point of pain. Ghost’s eyelids flutter in ecstasy, closing the distance, nuzzling the side of Johnny’s face. It only worsens the stimulation.

“What do you smell?” Ghost asks again.

Through gritted teeth, Johnny says, “Honey. Warm honey.”

Ghost’s clawed thumb draws downward to his chin, replaced by his lips. Johnny’s mouth opens involuntarily as a small shiver of awareness despairingly resists. The kiss is a blacksmith’s forge. All heat. Burning.

And Johnny feels no pain.

No burns. No blisters.

Nothing.

The sharp intensity snaps. Locks into place. No longer confined, Johnny senses everything, and another. Right there. Nestled in his brain as if it were his own. Johnny opens his mouth, to speak to scream to say anything. With the want of words comes images. Not his own. They unfurl within him, unpackaged by another hand.

Mate.

Mate.

Mate.

It’s a steady war drum. Over. Over. Over. Over.

Ghost’s free hand cuts through Johnny’s armor, slices it like soft butter. Smooth and with no effort. Johnny’s head spins. All he knows is that one word and Ghost’s mouth. Of scaled flesh beneath his hands, of a heat that should be roasting him alive where he stands.

“I’ve been waiting,” growls Ghost, steering Johnny backward, commanding his movements. “Waiting for millennia.” The next growl isn’t human. It’s a rumble from deep within the earth. “Bound to this land.”

Ghost’s body brushes against the clothes Johnny wears beneath the armor. They catch fire, burn low, becoming ash that drifts off into the air. His skin remains untouched.

Another step.

Another.

Johnny is seized by the ankle but there is no strength in the weight. Within the haze, Johnny glances down, sees a familiar face.

“I know you,” he murmurs. Head swiveling, he finds another. Naked, male bodies all in various states of arousal and consciousness, some starting to writhe under The Great Wyrm’s immense heat. Knights. Men he knows. Men he watched leave and not return.

“They weren’t what I needed,” says Ghost. “They can’t carry my heat. My fires. My young.” Ghost’s hand wraps around Johnny’s cock. Precum drips from the tip. “They pleased me. But they’re not you.”

Johnny shakes his head but the images are constant. Through the connection, Johnny sees everything, Ghost’s whole history, the loneliness, the desire to escape, the fruitless search for his true mate. Desire weaves through the images like crawling vines.

His head falls back, lips parting with a moan. Ghost’s hands slowly descend and Johnny manages to bring his attention back, and down. Down to where Ghost kneels, his features shifted. The scales have multiplied, his irises narrowing and lengthening into cat-like slits. Horns adorn his head. Two are larger than the rest, thick at the base and rising into points. The rest are small, some still emerging from the skin.

“You’ll understand,” says Ghost.

Mouth opening, every inch of Johnny’s cock disappears into Ghost’s mouth.

Johnny grabs the base of Ghost’s horns and comes.

[the-californicationist]

{fanfic by @the-californicationist & artwork by @auberghyn} Masterlist -- See AO3 for tags

The next day, you’d woken up on Station Etagh, solemn and broken. When the Station Master had given you the grand tour of the facilities upon your arrival, he’d taken you through the arena, and - internally - you’d fallen apart. All the progress you’d made, all the tears you’d already shed; it was nothing compared to the breakdown that happened as soon as you entered your bedchamber as they left you and Johnny to your own devices. 

You’d been dreading this day. Violent, nauseating sobs wracked your body as you sat in your bedchamber. Johnny didn’t judge you. He just held you until it was time to go to his Trial.

And now, that time had come. 

The arena was filled with people, and from where you sat, covered in wards and sequestered for your safety, you could see the entire field. You thanked whatever architect who had created this stadium that none of the audience was near enough to your small pod to see your tears. 

The main stage was not large. Perhaps no more than ten meters wide and long, and the floor was made of soft rubberized material. Johnny stood by your side, naked and without his Maol, holding his Keeper’s knives in each of his hands. For a moment, you watched him examine the etchings on the blade you gave him, rubbing across them with his scarred thumb, and you wondered what was going through his mind.

The first suitor he would face was Czar Mahlon. Your mother’s eyes narrowed as he walked into the arena, and you could relate to her displeasure. His entire body was painted gold, along with his unremarkable cock. His hair was decorated down his back with painted adornments. Nothing else was allowed. 

He carried a single knife, but it was curved like a scythe, gold as well, affixed with a crystal handle. Mahlon gleamed in the light of the arena, and the crowd cheered his display. 

“The Septan Princess will be my Empress, and I will bring riches into this Dominion like never before. We will rule the skies together, you and I!” 

His first address was to the cheering crowd, and then he spoke directly to you. You did not reply. You simply looked up at Johnny to give him the signal and watched him sprint, full speed, at this unworthy suitor. 

Mahlon managed to block the first blow, but Johnny slid beside his knee, slicing a long line up his thigh, his blade strong enough to hack through his femur bone. 

The scream that escaped from the Risonian’s mouth was cut short by the soft thud of Johnny’s second knife sinking deep into his heart.  

The crowd murmured, their cheering made awkward by such an immediate result, and there was a stunned but polite applause as he returned to his post next to your pod, using the towels that you had provided to him to clean off his blades. Then, he replaced his kilt and sheathed his weapons. He knelt before you, and you slid his Maol into his mouth. Then, he sat dutifully at his post, waiting for your command.

You stood, inclining your head at him to follow you out, and exited the pod. You walked with Johnny out of the arena, ignoring whatever the attendants were doing behind you with the body of the suitor, and headed back to the chamber that you shared on Station Etagh. 

Lunch was ready for you when you walked in, and you sat with Johnny at the table. You ordered the attendants to bring him salves for his muscles and two extra nutrition packs, watching as he clicked the tube of one of them into the small metal port just below his ribs. You offered him a masseuse, but he shook his head no. 

“What else can I do for you, Johnny?” You asked, your voice hoarse from your crying. You’d done little else. You’d tried your best to hold it in, but as soon as you saw the arena, you fell apart like a broken glass, everything around you sharp and painful. 

Earlier, when you had your Awakening this morning, it had been just you and Johnny, performing the ritual alone. You were in no condition to be witnessed even by your attendants, you’d been crying so hard. When Johnny gave you his blood, you’d been naked, and his red life had dripped from your lip and onto your sternum. You’d left it there, refusing when he’d tried to wipe it away. 

Even now, though many hours had passed since then, your eyes were swollen, you didn’t have any tears left, and as you curled into your throne, your chest ached. 

Johnny took both of his nutrition packs, and he held out some cool water to you, urging you to drink. 

You shook your head. He held it closer.

C’mon, bonnie. Dinnae do this.

He put the water down on the table and bent to kneel between your knees. Johnny used his hands to straighten your silks. You’d worn blue today, and you would wear blue every day, you decided. MacTavish blue. 

You took Johnny’s salve out from his medicine pouch and rubbed it warm in your palm. Then, as he was kneeling in front of you, you began to spread it across his bare shoulders and chest, massassing long, deep circles into his muscles. 

You worked up to his neck, and his eyes closed. You could feel his breathing slow, and he relaxed into your touch. 

Suddenly, an attendant came into your room and announced, “Sir Faolan Ruadh, Your Highness.”

Johnny was still kneeling at your feet as Faolan walked in the door, and he tried to get up, but you kept him on his knees, pressing down on his shoulders hard enough to send a message.

“Your Grace.” Faolan looked to you and then to Johnny. “Am I interrupting?”

“Yes,” you said without even bothering to look up at the man, “you are.”

“When Lady MacTavish told me that you were close to her son, I didnae think this is what she meant.”

You didn’t like his tone. You rolled your eyes up to him, your hands working their way down Johnny’s back, and you asked, “Do you have business in my chambers, Sir Faolan, or are you just here to dishonor my Keeper again?”

You ignored the look that Johnny was giving you, massaging his nape ever so slowly. Faolan watched your hands as they moved across Johnny’s body, and you could tell that it was bothering him. 

“I did apologize for my unruly mouth, Your Grace, but I have nae interest in doin’ any such thing.” He paused and fixed his eyes on you. “I have been told by the Station Master that the late Czar Mahlon was discovered with communiques from the Alandrian Guild. Payment, they suspect, for your recent assassination attempt. Apparently, his goal was to take your Keeper out of the equation and wound you enough to warrant his expedited regency. I wanted to express my outrage to you personally. Station Etagh is running a full investigation. His betrayal to the Crown willnae go unpunished.”

As you rubbed your hands across Johnny’s wide shoulders and back, you thought about how protected you had been in the palace. On Alpha Astra, attacks by your enemies had been so rare. You knew there were risks, but you had been willfully blind to them. Now that you were a Sovereign in your own right, you knew you should confront the Alandrians with more care. 

But all you could think about was the present. All you could fathom was his skin beneath your fingers. Faolan, and everyone else in your life, didn’t understand how your attention could be so diverted. 

You sighed, stopping your ministrations, and signaled for Johnny to rise from his position to return to his post. He did, staring at you the entire time, and not out of worry. He, too, was wondering why you wouldn’t take this threat more seriously.

That bastard could’ve killed you, bonnie.

You looked up at Faolan, guesturing to Johnny’s weapons at his side. “My Keeper has already delivered justice, has he not, Sir Faolan?”

Faolan huffed out a breath and bowed a bit, begging your forgiveness, running a hand through his bronze hair, his annoyance still present in his stature. “Aye, Your Grace. But, in lieu of an official report, I had hoped to host a luncheon for you as you read the preliminary findings.” 

He handed you a small datapad from his pocket. You didn’t take it, so Johnny grabbed it from Faolan’s hand himself. 

Faolan looked a little put out by your lack of concern, but he had no idea that the only disturbance the so-called assassin had caused was to injure Johnny’s face. Your Keeper was more than capable of dispatching any threats. And right now, he was your only concern. Every moment you spent dealing with Faolan was a moment stolen from you and Johnny. 

Faolan straightened his jacket, continuing on in your extended silence. “I expect Emperor Omri-Rah will join us shortly, once he figures out that I gave him the wrong wee directions. But…” He looked at Johnny again. “Perhaps that wasnae the right call. 

“You thought that earning my favor through this…” You paused, searching for the right word. “Act of careful diplomacy would spare you from my Keeper’s blade.” It wasn’t a question. You fired your statement like an arrow, straight at his chest.

“Nae, Your Grace. I didnae th–”

You interrupted him. “And you expect that my Keeper will throw his Trial because this hurried announcement proves that you are a man of honor, and that your shared history on Celestia serves in your favor.”

“Nae, th–”

“But, what you don’t know, Sir Faolan Ruadh, is that I am prepared to assign this planet under my sister’s Dominion, Sovereign Sextan Bellia of Khora Delta. So, assassins, trials, suitors - or anything of the sort - will no longer be my problem.”

The sudden quiet that filled the room was so satisfying. Johnny turned toward you, his eyes full of frustration and disbelief. Now he realized what you had been threatening about having alternative plans. You looked up at him, raising your chin, challenging him to stop you.

“You cannae.” Faolan said decisively. “The prophecy –”

“Fuck your prophecy.” You hissed your words at him, speaking as harshly as you dared. “If you think that I need to be the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter to run an empire, then you are unfit to rule by my side. I will rule an empire because I have the strength to do so, not because of my blood.”

“I am nae doubting your strength, Your Grace.” Faolan’s voice was thin and impatient. “You dinnae believe? Truly? The Queen’s vision –”

“You are welcome to abandon the Trial, sir. There is no penalty for forfeit.” 

Faolan looked at you with wide eyes, but he shook his head, “There hasnae ever been a woman more worthy of a Trial than you, Your Grace. I willnae abandon you. I am just… surprised that you dinnae believe, especially given your… relationship with Duke MacTavish… Your Awakenings…” He chose his words carefully, and without an invitation, he seated himself at your table, his shoulders hunched forward, looking like a man lost. “But, it doesnae matter. I will guide you, Your Grace.”

You looked at him and narrowed your gaze, not understanding his meaning and warning him to get to the point. “I have no need of guidance.”

“You love him.” Faolan was looking straight at you. He was dead serious.

You felt yourself boiling over. You lowered your voice, and you told him, “Get out of my chambers.”

“You love him. Is that it?”

“I told you to get out! Joh–”

“I dinnae care!” Faolan stood, stepping away, and Johnny held back, watching his retreat. “Even if he has bedded you, even if you never love me… It doesnae matter, Your Grace.”

“How dare you!” You pulled Johnny’s knife out of his sheath and brandished it at Faolan’s neck.

“He doesnae carry royal blood. They’ll never let you have him. Never.” Faolan looked at you, not caring about the blade at his throat. “But I do. Celestia finally has a chance. This is the moment. You cannae feel it?”

You were silent, and you were crying, but you were not sad. You were full of a terrible wrath. Faolan looked over your shoulder at Johnny who stood beside you in shock, and he told you, “You would let Celestia fall just because you cannae believe in this prophecy? You can save our planet. Our entire Solarium hinges upon your will. Do it for him. For his people. They are your people, too. You are Celestian through his blood. Dinnae throw away his life for nothing. Dinnae throw away yours. If you reassign our planet, they will cast you into the void, and th–”

“Am I… interrupting?” Emperor Omri-Rah stood in the threshold of your open door and stared at the scene unfolding before him. He eyed your knife warily.  

You clenched your teeth, your voice trembling. “Get. Out.”

Faolan backed away from you again and bowed much deeper this time. “Your Grace.”

The Emperor bowed as well and followed closely behind him, his face twisted in fear and confusion, quickly escaping the strangest luncheon he’d ever dared attend. 

You dropped the blade onto the table and sank to the ground.

“Lock the door,” you whispered.

Johnny didn’t move. He just stared at you, frozen in place. 

“Lock the fucking door!” You tried to scream, but your voice was broken and cracking, your volume nothing but a strained hush. 

He moved to the door at once, locking it in place. 

Johnny put his hands on his hips and stared at the closed portal for a moment, and then he turned his attention to you. He was upset. Ripping his datapad from his gear bag, he scrolled for a moment and then showed you a picture of Khora Delta, your elder sister’s planet. 

“What about it?” You snarled half-heartedly, leaning against the back of your throne.

Johnny threw the pad across the room, cracking the screen. It flickered and went dark. Then, he marched over to you and grabbed you by your shoulders, hauling you up so that you would see him, face to face. 

He’d never been so rough with you. He’d never dared. His eyes were rimmed red, and the tint made his blues look that much more vibrant. 

“You think I won’t send myself into the void? I’ll do it,” you said bitterly, your voice still hoarse and strained. “I don’t have to play their games. And I don’t have to watch you die.”

Johnny shook his head, his frustration and desperation boiling over. He was gripping your arms so tightly that they hurt, but you didn’t mind. You wanted to hurt. You wanted anything he would give you. Pain. Pleasure. He could do it all to you, and you would take it. 

“There… is… no… prophecy,” you said, trying to reason with him. “I am my mother’s zealotry. I am not special. I’m just someone else’s dream.”

“Rnngh!” Johnny screamed through his Maol, letting go of you, sinking with you to the floor.

“It’s alright, Johnny,” you tried to soothe him, leaning forward so that your head would press against his chest. Between your bodies, you and your Keeper were a tangle of arms and legs. Your silks hung off of you, pulled in odd directions, almost to the point of indecency. “It’s alright. The people of Celestia don’t need to be ruled. They need industry. Independence. They don’t need me.”

Johnny took your face in his hands and nodded, insisting:

Yes, they fuckin’ do, bonnie. They do need you.

He raised his arm, showing you the scar under his elbow, a long jagged thing. You remembered it well. Now, he pointed to it, insisting on the memory.

It happened before he was your Keeper. You’d been travelling with him and some other boys from his sect to visit a distant relative up in the hills of New Thuel. Your parents had sent you by yourself, and you hadn’t wanted to go. But, as you traveled, you realized that you noticed strange markings on the trees, and there were footprints that didn’t match any of your shoes. You tried to tell the sect’s leader, one of the Queen’s guard, but he wouldn’t listen. He was preoccupied training his sect. Your journey was just practice for them.

Then, as the sun went down, you heard voices in the distance. Still, your concerns were dismissed. Nightfall came, and sure enough, your camp was attacked by vandals. You didn’t recognize them as Alandrians, but it was possible that they were. Johnny and the rest of his squadron killed them, but not without serious injuries. So, you and Johnny ran to the nearest town, sprinting well into the pale hours of the morning, begging for aid. The only person who could help you was one of the royal doctors who just happened to be on his way in the opposite direction, back to your palace. At first, he refused, treating Johnny as if he was a street urchin, looking only at his dirty clothes. Once he recognized you, he was all too pleased to help, and you used your privilege to save the wounded boys in the sect. 

Johnny had been cut badly, but he didn’t get the tissue repaired in time; making sure the others got help first. So, the wound scarred over, and now there was a twisted half-moon that shined opalescent on his tan skin. 

“I understand, and I remember.” You shook your head. “But…”

Johnny held out his hand, showing you his thumb, bringing your fingers up so that you could feel the ruin of scars etched into his soft pad. Years of his own sacrifices mounting up to this moment. 

I dinnae need you to believe in yourself, Your Grace. I believe in you, and tha’s enough. It’s enough for me. Please. 

He removed his Maol, and you watched him pick up your hand and kiss it in his way, and then he did it again as Faolan had. He looked at you and waited for your response. You took a long breath in, the air shaking through your lungs, and then let it all out. 

“Alright, Johnny. I won’t yield my Dominion to Bellia. And I won’t send myself into the void. You have my word,” you whispered, taking his hand in yours and tracing the lines of his wide palm. “But, if you throw your fight with Faolan, I’ll walk out into that arena and kill you myself.”

Johnny used his other hand to pull his second knife from its sheath and held it to his chest, the tip facing his heart, a smirk tugging at his lips. 

I’ll let you, bonnie. Tha’s a promise.

You knocked the blade out of his hand and crawled the rest of the way into his lap, letting him win, just this once. 

Later that night, Johnny escorted you down to the great hall for dinner which was much the same. The drinking, the talking, the mindgames between people in power; it was all identical. Predictable. Every now and then, someone would have a moment of decency, something good to say about their work or their planet and its people, but it would fade away, lost in the selfish greed that stained every aspect of your life. 

A man had been killed today, and no one even mentioned it. 

You didn’t want to mention it, and Johnny had looked completely unbothered by it, but you couldn’t get it out of your mind. What if the roles had been reversed, and you would be marrying that traitor right now instead of casually eating dinner? 

Johnny pushed your bowl of crispy scallop closer to you, urging you to eat. You looked up at him with tired eyes, and he took your hand below the table, giving it a short squeeze. You took a bite, just to please him. 

“Are you looking forward to your next Trial tonight, Keeper MacTavish?” A short, stumpy man spoke to him across the table, stuffing his mouth full of scallop and smearing sauce in his greying mustache. The Master of Coin for Clan Còmhan, if you remembered correctly.

Johnny nodded once, a silent affirmation. 

“The Tarlarian will not go down as smoothly as that Risonian. Mark my words,” the man said as he pointed at him with the tines of his fork. “He’ll have a few tricks up his sleeve.”

“Well, he won’t have sleeves in the arena, will he?” The woman to his left, a noblewoman from Pooli laughed, her face wide and open with excitement. “Seeing them fight in the nude has been most invigorating.”

“I thought you would enjoy that, Frellia. That seems like just the sort of show you would attend,” another woman piped up. 

“I dare say!” The Poolian woman fought back, but you tuned her out. You had to be back in that arena tonight, and suddenly, you couldn’t breathe. It was like the pressure of time and space and all of your duty was crushing you in a vice of your own making. 

During dessert, Emperor Omri-Rah stepped up to your seat, and he bowed, holding out a box for you to take. “For you, Your Highness, to wear to my Trial tonight.”

You bowed your head slightly, the words coming out of your mouth as if they had been programmed to do so. And you supposed, in a way, they were. “Thank you. That is very thoughtful of you.”

“Until then.” He clicked his heels, and he turned away from you, leaving the hall with his guards and attendants in tow. 

You turned to Johnny and asked, “Do you need to go prepare? We can leave –”

Johnny shook his head, taking your gift under his arm, and using his thumb to nudge your plate again. Then, when he saw you weren’t eating, he set the gift aside and began buttering a small scone and placing it on the edge of your platter. 

You bit into the soft bread and sank down in your seat. 

“You’re mean,” you smiled, joking with him. 

He looked over at you with a sly glance. 

I know, bonnie. But, you cannae starve. Eat, then we can leave.

You finished the scone, and finally, when you looked to him to make your escape, he obliged you, pulling out your chair and guiding you to the exit. 

Waiting for you at the door was Faolan Ruadh. 

“Your Grace.” He knelt fully on the ground this time, right in front of all of the guests, “I want to make amends for my behavior at your luncheon. I was heavy-handed and… I didnae understand your… situation. May I walk you to your quarters?”

“You may,” you said, but you didn’t wait for him. You walked with Johnny down the corridor and Faolan followed, catching up to you in a single stride. 

At first, he didn’t speak. You were waiting for him to make some sort of comment or dig at the way you were behaving with your Keeper, or maybe for him to cite more of the goddamn prophecy, but he didn’t. He just walked with you, keeping you company, you supposed. You hoped he was out of words, but apparently not. After many moments of silence, he spoke to you gently, almost in the way that Johnny used to. 

“I wish we were on Celestia. This station is a wonderful venue, dinnae mistake my words, Your Grace, but there is so much I want to show you. So much that you should see.”

“I look forward to it.” You glanced sideways at him, and you noticed that he was looking out of the wide viewport, staring at his planet. 

There was nothing particularly wrong with Faolan as a suitor – aside from his penchant for believing soothsayers – but you couldn’t imagine him holding you, keeping you safe, even when it was from yourself. Would he be able to sense your displeasure just from the way you took in a breath? Would he know what you needed from a stolen glance? Could he tell when you were hungry or when you were just lost in your own mind? You doubted it.

“Thank you for your company, Sir Faolan. I assume you will attend tonight’s Trial?”

“Yes, Your Grace. I expect another swift defeat from your Keeper.”

“I promise that is what you will see,” you confirmed. Turning toward your chamber door, you opened it, and just before you stepped through, Faolan reached out to touch your shoulder. 

You heard Johnny’s blade before you saw it, but Faolan quickly removed his hand from you before your Keeper could pull it all the way out. 

“My sincere apologies, Your Grace, I w–”

“Perhaps you should limit yourself to one apology per day, sir. It’s getting harder for me to keep them all straight.”

A ragged sigh escaped his chest and Faolan ran a hand down his face, exhausted and struggling.

“I just wanted to tell you how radiant you look in that gown. As bonnie as a petal.” He paused, and for his sake, you waited a breath longer for him to continue. “I cannae claim to be an experienced suitor, but I want to be clear about my affection. I know you have… other attachments. But, we Celestians marry for love. We dinnae understand this custom of arrangement, and I… This is difficult for me.”

“As I said before,” you told him, trying to keep your composure, “you may exit the Trial if y–”

“I know what you said. And I cannae promise that you will love me as you love him.” He looked over your shoulder at Johnny and then fixed his eyes back on you. “But, perhaps it will grow between us. With time.”

You did not reply. You pushed your way through your door and waited for Johnny to come through it behind you. He did, but he lingered for a moment, looking at Faolan with a strange stare before turning toward you and following you into your chamber. 

You waited for the door to close before you let out a rough cry of frustration.

“Can you believe the gall of that man?” You threw up your hands, venting to Johnny. “How dare he… touch me like that! Talking to me about affection and love, like that has any bearing on… What? What is it?” 

Johnny was facing you with his hands on his hips, giving you a knowing glance, waiting for you to come back down to your senses. 

“What? You think that was genuine?” You scoffed loudly. 

Johnny held your shoulders in his hands, softening his expression as if to say:

Why wouldnae it be genuine, Your Grace? Give the lad a wee chance.

“He has overstepped his bounds. He has… He’s dishonored you. He’s dishonored me! I can’t imagine what he thinks will finally curry favor with me.”

Johnny held up the gift box that the Emperor had given you, as if to suggest:

So, it’ll be this one instead?

“Ugh.” You threw your hands up one more time before finally deflating, softening your expression when you looked at Johnny. “Give me that.”

You opened it, and a daring, intricately woven dress spooled out. The fabric was almost liquid in nature, and there was very little of it. It was an oceanic aqua mixed with an almost iridescent sheen, pearls dotted across its surface, and the softness of it made it feel like you were touching water instead of cloth. 

“He wants me to wear this?” You marveled at the audacity of these suitors. 

Johnny held up the dress in his own hands and nodded approvingly. 

Suits you, bonnie. I think you should try it on.

“You’re just as bad! Oh, no. Absolutely not.” 

C’mon, Your Grace. Johnny held the dress up to your shoulders, his eyes raking down your frame, Dinnae wear it for him. Wear it for me.

“Call the attendants, then. Let’s get this over with,” you relented.

Johnny winked at you, and you supposed that was reward enough. 

An hour later and you were stuffed into that slinky gown with pearlescent jewelry hanging off of your body. You were spilling out of this thing everywhere. Your tits were barely covered, and the dip in the back of the dress went all the way down to your thick ass. If you moved too quickly, your body would be on full display. 

Johnny followed you to the arena, but you noticed that he kept sneaking long glances at your curves, his eyes wandering where they saw movement – or a slight jiggle – which was everywhere. 

“You need to focus on your Trial,” you whispered, chastising him. “Not on my attire.”

His gaze told you everything you needed to know. 

Dinnae fash yourself, bonnie. I’ll handle the Trial.

“Please, promise me you’ll take him seriously. He’s not the man you fought before.”

I’ve fought harder men. 

“Promise me, Johnny.”

You stopped at the entrance to the arena and held his arm, making him look at you. Then, he nodded, his playful demeanor dissipating into one that was much more serious.

I promise.

As you walked into the main arena, the crowd cheered loudly for you and Johnny, their applause deafening your ears for a moment. Before you entered your pod, you took his Maol from him. You couldn’t help but notice the way he wore an almost lustful expression tonight, his eyes still wandering over your curves as you stood before him. 

“Make sure you win quickly, Keeper,” you teased him below your breath. “If the attendants are too busy with the celebrations after your fight, I will need help getting out of this gown.”

Johnny’s eyebrows raised high into his brow, and he gave you the cockiest smile, shaking his head at your brazen attitude. 

It was fake, though. You were not brazen; you were terrified. But, if Johnny wanted to be playful, you could make him believe in your mischief. 

As you watched him prepare for his fight, you thought about what you’d promised him. About how, if Johnny had his wish, you would be in Faolan’s bed tomorrow night, betrothed to a Celestian, fulfilling the prophecy for the good of your people. There was still some doubt in your heart that Johnny would truly fight with his full strength, or if Faolan would be given some mysterious leeway. You weren’t nervous about Emperor Omri-Rah. You were only nervous about John MacTavish. You knew him, and you also knew that once your Keeper had his teeth in an idea, he wouldn’t let it go. 

Unlike Mahlon, the Emperor had no opening commentary. He rushed the field just like Johnny did, his thick knives poised and ready. They clashed almost as equals, each one blocking the other until, shockingly, Omri-Rah managed to hook his ankle behind Johnny’s calf, tripping him and taking him to the ground. 

Johnny slashed out with his left hand, his Keeper’s knife gleaming in the light of the stadium, drawing blood from the Emperor’s right shoulder. But, when he went to deliver a killing blow to his throat, Johnny’s blade was blocked, and he lost his grip on his weapon. You watched in horror as the second knife flew onto the ground. However, Johnny didn’t seem to care. He managed to wrestle the large Tarlanian onto his belly, and then he wrapped his huge arm around the Emperor’s neck, bringing his blade around to slice open his throat. 

Suddenly, the Emperor dropped both blades and held up his hands in defeat. 

“I yield! I yield.”

Johnny was well within his rights to kill him. There was no rule that prevented it, but after a moment, Johnny stepped back, holding his knife to his neck like an executioner. Then, he looked at you. You thought for a moment, but then you shook your head. No, he did not need to die. Johnny stepped away, allowing the Emperor to turn and escape back through the exit, favoring his right arm as he retreated. 

“By submission, the winner is Keeper John MacTavish,” a computerized voice announced. The crowd cheered again, and Johnny came back over to your pod, panting hard and out of breath. He held out his hand for the Maol, and you gave it to him, waiting for him to clean up before leaving the arena together once again. 

Outside of the arena, in the large ante-chamber, the Emperor stood with his squadron of guards and attendants. He was still naked, his arm being tended to by one of the medics. You tried to ignore the absolutely enormous cock that hung soft in his lap, reaching nearly to the middle of his thigh. He waved off the medic when he saw you, bowing to you as much as he could,

“Your Highness, forgive my weakness.”

“It is no crime to lose a fight, Emperor Omri-Rah,” you explained in a dry tone.

“Your mercy will not be forgotten by the people of Tarlania. Keep the ships.” He smiled at you, his magenta eyes softening a bit. “And the dress.” Then, he looked over your shoulder at Johnny, even though it sounded like he was still talking to you, “Enjoy it.”

You dipped your head, and the Emperor did the same. Finally, you left the hall with Johnny, making it all the way back to your chambers without incident. 

It was later than you thought it was, and the lights in your room were dim, set for sleep. You sat at your vanity, and you called out to Johnny over your shoulder, “Keeper MacTavish, I order you to abandon your post. Get some rest.”

Your Keeper walked up behind you, barely visible in the mirror, shrouded in the darkness of your chamber. The stars outside of your viewing window lit his silhouette from behind, and as you began to remove your jewelry, you watched him step closer to you, dressed in nothing but his kilt, both knives sheathed at his thighs. 

You wondered if this would be the last night you would see him haunting your space. How much longer could you keep a man marked for death? Would his ghost linger here with you? Would you see him out of the corner of your eye, his muscular shoulders and proud stance protecting you in the dark even after his soul was long gone? Would you see him again after tomorrow, or was this goodbye?

You didn’t turn around. You simply stared at him in the looking glass, your fingers slipping off rings and bangles until all you had left was your dress. 

Leaning away from your seatback, you gave him your neck like a submissive pup, asking him wordlessly to unclasp the gown and free you from it. 

For a moment, you thought he didn’t understand your request, but then, he bent his nose to your hair and smelled your scented oils, moving down to your neck to inhale your perfume. You’d worn his favorite every day since you’d left the palace, and now, you allowed him to indulge as much as he wanted. 

His hand moved to your shoulder, and you felt his fingers curl beneath the thin strap of your dress, pulling it down your arm and letting it hang limply there. His nose followed his touch, and he never brushed even the tip against your flesh, but you could feel his breaths. Cold when he inhaled, hot when he exhaled. 

Johnny made his way across your back, breathing close to your nape, lingering in places where you had daubed your perfume, but also in places where you hadn’t, and you wondered what kept him there. Then, the other strap. It took almost no effort for him to roll it down, and when he did, the scant neck of the dress tumbled down your front, revealing your breasts to the mirror. 

You gazed upon yourself, your skin glowing in the dim light of the stars, your nipples soft and supple, the areolas relaxed from your body’s natural warmth. Without prompting, Johnny pulled both of your straps the rest of the way down your arms, and you removed your hands from them. He was standing on your right side now, and when you lifted your hand away from the dress, he took it in his, bringing it up to his nose before pressing it to his Maol for a long, quiet moment. 

You turned in the chair so that you were facing him, both of your profiles framed by the mirror. He released your hand and knelt in front of you. Your legs were closed, so he was not between your knees as before, but he was large enough to still sit eye to eye with you, even in your seated position. Slowly, he leaned forward, scenting your neck just below your chin, following the line of your throat until he reached your sternum. He took in a big breath there where your perfume and sweat had mixed with his blood from your Awakening. Then, another. 

You watched his eyes dart over to your left breast, fixating on your bare nipple as it rose and fell with your aroused panting. Every inhale felt like the touch of his fingers upon you, and every exhale was like his tongue, licking you warm. 

Johnny moved his face over your tits, smelling your skin as he explored you, hovering at your nipple, exhaling sharply through his nose just to make sure you could feel it. When he heard you gasp, he knew he’d succeeded, and his eyes flitted up to you, enjoying your lustful unravelling. 

Then, he treated the other to the same experience, only moving down to your ribs when your gasping devolved into a low whimper. 

Your gown was in his way of scenting your belly, so without the gentleness he’d had before, he used both fists to yank it to your hips, exposing your soft curves as they rolled in on each other. For the first time, Johnny used his huge palms to knead your softness. He kept his face close to you, watching as his fingers sank into the pliant pillow of your tummy, just below your ribs. He moved his hands lower still, gripping the top of your hips tightly, and you felt yourself sighing and hoping that you’d find ten dark bruises in the morning, one for each of his cruel fingers. 

Just below your navel, Johnny brushed the skin with his thumb, swiping it like there was a stain, but he simply enjoyed the feeling, doing it again and again, erotically repeating the motion for purely hedonistic reasons. 

Your dress was in his way again. And now, it covered his prize. Johnny looked down into the join of your legs, and then back up at you. He was asking for permission. 

You ruffled his hair gently, slowly, petting him like a hound, lazily scraping your nails against his scalp, and you watched his eyes roll white with pleasure, fluttering closed as he leaned into your touch. Then, you lifted your hips from the seat, and he began peeling your dress over your thick ass and thighs, every inch of his progress painstakingly slow and deliberate, his eyes feasting upon you as he revealed more and more of your skin. 

Finally, when your dress was below your knees, he looked up at you again, and you spread your legs open, the wetness of your pussy cooling against you in the air of the room. Wider and wider, you pressed your thighs apart, much wider than you’d done during his Seeding ritual, fueled only by the growing excitement in his pale eyes. 

His nose didn’t go straight to your sex like you expected it to. Instead, he cradled your knee in his palm, smelling your scent along your thigh, tracing a long line of breath all the way to your inner seam. Then, the other thigh, just as slowly. By the time he ended up in your center, your legs were trembling, the anticipation of him scenting you making your whole body shiver with desire. 

When he bent forward to smell your sticky nectar, you heard him let out a long, low growl behind his Maol. You hadn’t noticed it, but one of his arms had disappeared into his lap, and you could hear that he was milking himself in slow, even thrusts of his fist. 

Your breath caught in your lungs and his eyes flashed up to yours; a carnal challenge. Would you stop him?

No, of course not.

Your hands were shaking, but you moved them up to touch your tits, playing with your nipples and drawing circles around them, feeling them tighten beneath your fingers, allowing you to finally pluck at the sensitive peaks. As he breathed in your sex, he watched you touch yourself, and you squeezed them for his benefit, pressing them together before allowing them to fall back down, hanging heavy and smooth above his face. 

“Mmmmnghhhhh…” He moaned loudly. The noise repeated itself over and over and over. Each exhale was a guttural snarl.

“Johnny…” You whispered to him, one hand still pinching your nipple and the other lacing your fingers through his mohawk. 

“Mmrrghh… Rrghh... Rrghh...” His breaths quickened, and his moans grew louder, more violent, more needy. 

“Johnny, I love you.” You confessed before you could stop yourself. 

His eyes shot open wide, and then shut tight, his whole body freezing in place as you watched the dark hair of his belly turn white with huge, creamy loads of his seed, his orgasm launching out of his swollen cockhead in long ribbons, smearing across his skin. 

Johnny leaned his head back, showing you his muscular neck, breathing in rushed, desperate breaths behind his Maol. Then, he bent forward, laying his cheek on your stomach and weakly wrapping his arms around your hips. You could feel the warm slip of his come on his palm as he held you, but you didn’t care. You pet him softly, breathing with him, letting him linger as long as he wanted to, without shame or prejudice or duty getting in the way.

Masterlist

[maximus110986]

[maximus110986]

[twolegsandbleeds]

alpha!ghost takes a visit to the gloryhole and has issues with his self worth. hehe.

simon ‘ghost’ riley knew the signs too well. the burn under his skin, the way his jaw ached from clenching, the low thrum of aggression that made his fingers twitch toward a knife that wasn’t there.

rut.

fucking hell.

he’d ridden them out alone in shitty safehouses before, fist lubed with spit and spite, but this one was slamming into him fast. vicious. base was no place for it, so he slipped out under cover of night in silence, hood up, mask on, moving through the city until he found the place soap had once joked about - a brothel catering to alphas with nowhere else to go. a sterile, dark environment where cash was traded and names weren’t. where faces weren’t even seen.

perfect for a man like him.

he didn’t need a face or name or eye contact. didn’t deserve it. couldn't imagine his hands covered with invisible blood stains skating across someone's skin. he just needed a willing cunt to let him work out the next few days of frustration. 

the door of the stall clicks shut behind him with a soft thunk, the only other opening to the small room a padded hole around waist height. he can hear muffled grunts from the stalls either side, smell the thick scent of slick and rut mingling like smoke and air around him. simon’s hands shook as he freed his cock, already painfully hard and leaking pre cum in fat white drops from his tip. the thick scent of omega - sweet, willing, ready - drifted through the gloryhole, wrapping around his rut-addled brain like a vice. he presses forward,your soft, slick heat greeting him immediately. you moan, soft, low, audible even through the wall and push back, cunt already dripping, taking the blunt head of his cock with practiced ease. simon’s breath catches, and he snaps his hips forward in one sharp motions, burying himself to the hilt in your fluttering warmth.

tight. wet. fucking perfect.

you let out another low moan as he fills you, stretches your pussy in a way that you haven’t felt for a long time, clenching down around his girth like you were made for this - which… you were. 

“fuck,” simon hisses under his breath, vision darkening around the edges as he lets his instincts take over the drivers seat of his brain. his hips slam against the partition, the wet slap of skin echoing in the small space, every drag of his cock through the soft, welcoming heat of your cunt feeding the fire burning in his veins. his knot was already swelling, catching at the fluttering entrance of your cunt with every thrust.

you push back harder, half greed, half performance - but entirely wanting to take him deeper, to feel the head of his cock nudge against your cervix, to feel his knot bully its way inside you. 

simon’s mind blanks. all that exists is the tight clutch of omega cunt, the scent driving him mad, the instinct screaming to breed, to claim, to fill. his palms land flat against the wall, nails scraping at plaster like he can dig his way through to you, low broken groans tearing from his throat as he ruts into you like an animal. his knot pops inside your entrance, swells obscenely, the stretch so much you let out a broken cry; locking you both together through the wall. he lets out a wrecked groan, thick pulses of cum filling you, hips jerking with every spurt as he throbs. your cunt flutters around him, milking him for every drop like a good little hole.

simon stayed locked there, panting, forehead pressed to the cool wall. the rut haze dulled for a moment, shame creeping in at the edges. just a gloryhole. just a stranger’s cunt. It was all he deserved. no gentle hands, no whispered names, no soft omega to curl around after.

his knot slowly deflates and he pulls out with a wet pop, cum dripping from the used hole, from your used hole.

the sight of your puffy folds leaking with his release, combined with his hormones swirling has him instantly hard again.

[marycherryx]

Okay so young James Spader as Simon Riley? Anyone? Maybe in some sort of dark academia AU?

To me he slightly resembles Samuel Roukin

Thoughts?

[nekrosmos]

I swear price’s hair was a dark brown and not black. Do you feel the same way or is it just me

Yeah, Price's hair is the same color as mine, definitely not black (ref by 661ave )

Even in darker light his hair was never black

But he's entering his dark Price era so either he dyed it black or his hair turned black from all the #darkness inside him. Or the devs didn't give a fuck about consistency 👀​

[the-californicationist]

{fanfic by @the-californicationist & artwork by @auberghyn} Masterlist -- See AO3 for tags

In the morning, you sensed the beam of synthetic sun pass over your bed, programmed to wake you at dawn. It glowed, and you could see it through your eyelids, a muted orange dancing through your thin skin. 

You felt your body come awake, and you knew that Johnny was still asleep behind you, his body wrapped against you like you would disappear. His hand lay just below your left breast, resting on your tummy, and you could feel his warm breaths against your neck as he slumbered. 

You wanted to lay here forever. Until you starved to death. You never wanted to leave this moment. You tried to imprint it into your mind, crafting a core memory that you could haunt later. When you needed it. When you were wrapped in someone else's arms. Or, a more likely future for you, when you woke up alone, your husband sleeping in beds that weren't yours just as your father had done. Your mother was more interested in ruling an empire than being gently held by warm hands, but you wondered if she had ever felt something like this. You wondered if you ever would again.

Carefully, you stretched yourself out, arching your back and letting the blood pump through you. But as you tilted your hips, you felt something heavy and hard roll across your rump. 

“Mmrngh…”  Johnny moaned, stirring behind you. 

You turned over to look at what had come between you and saw that his kilt had rolled up to the waistband, and his cock was once again laden with seed, hard as a stone. 

Quietly, you took in a shaky breath. Something animal inside of you wanted to rock back against him, writhing like a Seedling, taunting him to breed you. But, just as quickly, your brain set off the alarm, urging you not to dishonor him any more than you already had. So, you tried to turn away, to slip out of his arms, but he was too strong. 

“Johnny,” you whispered. 

“Hrnngh…” he snuffled into your neck, hiding his eyes from the synthetic sun. 

“Keeper,” you said a little louder. 

You looked back at his face and his eyes shot open, then as he took stock of his body, he realized the dilemma. Red flush stained his cheeks all the way up to his brow, and he reached down between you to replace his kilt, turning his hips away from your body. 

But, he didn’t let you go. He kept a protective arm around you as he used his free hand to rub the sleep from his eyes, blinking and trying to come back to himself. 

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d seen him fall so helpless to sleep. Only when he had been badly injured in a fight or when he’d caught the Junian flu did he struggle to regain his consciousness. 

“Do you require… a Seedling?” You kept your voice low. You didn’t want to say the wrong thing. 

He looked down at you in a sort of quizzical disbelief, and he shook his head. No.

You thought he might turn away from you and get out of bed, but he didn’t. He kept his eyes on you, feathering his hand through your hair, rubbing his thumb across your lips and your cheek. Touching you reverently. 

“Are you sure you’re alright?” You whispered, reaching out to touch his chest, letting your fingers rake through the dark curls that covered his skin.

Johnny nodded, and with his eyes, he asked you the same question. You’d seen it thousands of times. He was always checking in on you. 

You smiled softly, and told him, “I will be at my best today, for you. I promise.”

Johnny pressed his Maol to your forehead, and you leaned into his kiss, closing your eyes for a moment and pretending it was his soft mouth against you rather than the steel. 

Then, he helped you out of bed, and after taking down the wards, he called for your attendants. There was a flurry of commotion as you dressed. Your crown was secured onto your head, the smooth gold circlet sitting across your forehead and resting just above your ears. 

You were dripping in jewelry, and the makeup that the attendants applied to you made you gleam like starlight. Your robes were cut low, purposefully showing off your voluptuous body, and small crystals had been stuck to your skin in a trail all the way down to your navel. All of the finest regalia for the first day of the Trial.

Johnny sharpened his Keeper’s knives, fastening his new sheath on his opposite leg, looking every bit like the warrior that he was. He’d done his mohawk, and one of the attendants plaited the longer hair on one side of it, laying it down his neck and fastening it with a golden band. 

You watched as the attendants filed out, and you were moved to the breakfast room adjacent to your quarters. You waited for a moment until the chef’s team came in, delivering baked breads, cheeses, yoghurts, jams, and fruits of all kinds. There was smoked fish and Taznian boar; more food than you could eat in a week. 

Johnny stayed next to your throne as you watched them lay out your breakfast, kneeling on the carpet. 

“Bring a chair for my Keeper,” you commanded the closest person who could hear. 

Immediately, a chair was produced, and Johnny sat on its edge, moving himself off to the side so as not to take away from your spectacle, but still close enough to shield you if he needed to. 

Finally, your guests began to arrive. First, it was your parents who took their place to your left. Then, it was Lady MacTavish, accompanied by her guards, you assumed. A few other dignitaries managed to secure their positions. 

There was a bit of polite conversation, but then, an announcement was made at the door. 

“Presenting His Royal Majesty, Czar Mahlon of Rison VI, Grand Emperor of the Umbrian Solarium, and Crown Prince of the Trichordant Nebula.”

All of the guests without royal blood went through their motions, and watched carefully as your first suitor stepped into the room. He was also dressed in his finery, and although you didn’t know much about Rison VI, you knew enough to expect his attire and his mannerisms. He was charming like a snake, oozing his way through the crowd, his smile nothing but teeth and lies. The robes he wore were synthetic, decorated with gems of all sorts, probably created by Rison VI’s master tinkers, and strange lights and textures danced across the fabric as he made his way to your dais. His crown was set behind his head and had tines sticking off of it, making it look like he was the face of the Pale Star.

“Your Highness.” He bowed a bit to show his deference. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance. Please accept these gifts for you and your family on this most auspicious day.”

Attendants filed into the room in droves, each one carrying gold and jewels aplenty. Dancers and guards filled in beside them, holding up diamonds and meteorzine and palum-encrusted platters and vases. His wealth was almost obscene. 

“The pleasure is mine, Czar Mahlon. Please, join us for breakfast.” You motioned for him to sit in his assigned seat, but he didn’t follow your command. He turned to Johnny and smiled even wider,

“And this is your famous Keeper, Lord MacT–”

“Duke.” You corrected him sharply. The room went still. 

“Forgive me, Your Highness. Duke MacTavish. They tell me you once defeated an entire squadron of Alandrian warriors – on a quad-ship, no less. Tell me, is that true?”

Johnny nodded his head once. 

“And you made quick work of that terrorist ploy which threatened you on your way here. My, my. I do look forward to your Trial, Keeper.”

“I had hoped that you might wish to discuss the diplomatic relationship the Nebula can bring to Celestia. We will be creating a hyperline between the Alpha, Beta, and Delta quadrants. The Nebula would prove to be a suff–”

“Yes,” he interrupted you, his tone bored and dismissive, “Of course. Whatever. Ah! Lady MacTavish, I presume. You are the Prime Defender of this planet, are you not?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” She answered him politely, but you noticed the knowing glance that she gave you. It was so similar to Johnny’s, it almost startled you. 

You sighed, listening to them get lost in a conversation about starships and shield technology. Another conqueror. You called them planet-mongers. They weren’t interested in resources or diplomacy. They were simply rulers with a sadistic drive to stake their claim on every planet available. Rison VI wasn’t strong enough to even come close to the power of the Nine Houses, and you didn’t want to even think about how his reign would destroy the foundation of what your family had worked so hard to build. 

Your thoughts were interrupted by the second suitor.

“Presenting His Royal Eminence, Emperor Omri-Rah, High Chancellor of the People’s Republic of New Terra, the Prime Commander of the Thousand Armies of Tarlania.”

Where the Czar had been stiflingly charismatic and chatty, the Emperor was his opposite. He was dead silent, his mouth pulled in a slight frown, the black hair of his beard so dark that it was almost blue. His eyes were a searingly bright magenta, made that way by the high chitin diet of most Tarlanians who survived their oceanic planet by fishing up huge mussels and clams as they sailed between island kingdoms. 

Emperor Omri-Rah hunted through the crowd with his cruel gaze, and when he set his eyes on you, you felt a chill roll up your spine. Johnny noticed your discomfort, but he only gave you a short glance, keeping his face front. 

The large man wore all white, and instead of a crown, his head was carrying a mantle of huge, curling horns, harvested - you assumed - from one of the infamous seadragons that roamed the waves of his planet. 

He knelt, which you found refreshing compared to your prior suitor’s greeting, and he drew his cutlass, holding it horizontally out in front of him as an offering of peace. You bowed your head slightly and waited for him to address you. 

“Your Highness,” his voice resonated through the hall. “I bring to you the Sword of Aleer, and forty-nine ships to enhance your fleet. Together, I hope we will bring peace to the galaxy, driving the Alandrian Guild and all of their warlords into the void.”

“Thank you, Emperor Omri-Rah. Your gift is very generous.” You nodded to Johnny to take the sword from him, and when he did, the kneeling man stood tall, sizing him up, saying nothing and yet raging with his eyes. 

Through the viewport, the vessels he promised you began to slip out of hyperdrive, popping into existence like fireworks, bright and ominous in the starfield. Your guests gasped, ooh-ing and aah-ing at the spectacle. 

Each of the ships looked like it had been armed to its maximum capacity, and their shields were flashing red, a full display of power.

This man didn’t want peace. He wanted vengeance. What the Alandrian slavers had done to Celestia looked like child’s play compared to their treatment of Tarlania, so although you understood, you also knew the cost of war. 

He sat directly across from you, and other than water, he took no food or tea. He simply sat in silence as the rest of the table melted slowly back into conversation. You looked upon his face and saw old scars, raised and pink, and his teeth were not his own. They were bone-pearls, carved to look like huge fangs, and probably every bit as deadly. When he spoke - what rare occurrence that was - you noticed the iridescent gleam of them behind his full lips. Every now and then, his eyes would fix themselves upon Johnny, studying him, sizing him up. You didn’t appreciate that. 

“Presenting Sir Faolan Ruadh, son of Prince Dugal of Ghalri, Leader of Clan Ruadh of Celestia.”

You were staring into your lap when he walked in, and as soon as he spoke, your eyes shot up in shock.

“Your Grace.” His voice sounded so much like Johnny’s. The accent. The variant on your title. A Celestian custom, you assumed. You stared at him like you’d seen a ghost. “It is my honor to welcome you and your family to our wee planet. Celestia is proud to be at your service. I didnae bring forty warships nor kilos of gold for your welcome, and for that, I am quite sorry. But, I can promise you that as my Sovereign, you will want for nothing, and you will have my blade by your side each and every night.”

Faolan was a handsome man in all the ways a man should be handsome. His jaw was strong, his nose was straight and prominent, and his eyes were kind. They were a soft, drab brown, almost like the fur of a doe, and the corners of them had little lines of wrinkles where he’d laughed too much. His body was as well-muscled as Johnny’s, but he was not as tall, nor did he move with quite an athletic stride.

“I will take your vow as an honorable gift, Sir Faolan. Thank you for joining us. Please, have a seat.”

The only open place was next to Johnny on your right, and as Faolan came around the table, he reached out and kissed Lady MacTavish’s hand, talking to her softly like he knew her. Then, he smiled openly at your Keeper, taking him into his arms in a swift embrace. 

Johnny allowed it, and you could see something in his eyes, but you couldn’t tell what he was thinking. 

“Brother John,” Faolan smiled, “It has been since we were both wee lads, but that face is unmistakable.”

“Brother?” You asked, your voice not quite hiding your surprise. 

“Not in blood, Your Grace,” Faolan explained, sitting down and serving himself a huge boar loin, smearing its gravy all over one of the breads on his plate. “But, I stood at Lord John Arthur MacTavish’s funeral, may he rest in peace, and our families have remained close over the years.”

“I see.”

“I am so grateful to see Duke MacTavish in such good health. Thank you for caring for him.”

“My care for him is not optional, Sir Faolan. He deserves every bit of my respect.”

“That isnae what I mean, Your Grace,” he challenged you, his sharp eyes cutting across the space between you and Johnny, looking at you just like your Keeper did when you were playing coy. “How much Celestian blood have you had?” Faolan asked outright. 

You were taken aback at his overly familiar tone, but you answered him.

“I have daily Awakenings, sir. You will witness one this morning.”

“Daily?” He seemed genuinely surprised. “Och, John. I didnae believe it, but it must be true. Show me your thumb.”

You stood, your flatware clattering against your plate, “He will do nothing of the sort. I demand an explanation for this insolent request.”

The room fell silent, and the tension mounted like a bowstring pulled taut. You continued, seeing the blood fade from Faolan’s cheeks. “How dare you give an order to my Keeper?”

“My apologies, Your Grace. I didnae mean any offense.” He held up both of his hands in a slight surrender, bowing his head to you.

“You doubt his loyalty? Alright. I’ll show you proof,” you snarled. Then, you turned to your Keeper, and said, “Johnny, will you help me Awaken?”

Immediately, Johnny drew his Keeper’s knife and pulled off his gauntlet, revealing his scarred digit to the whole room. 

“Princess Septa…” You heard your mother’s disapproving whisper. This was not how polite young ladies behaved, but these people needed to know the truth, and you were all too ready to show it to them. 

Then, Johnny put the blade to his thumb and drew blood. It dripped off of his hand and onto the carpet as he brought it to your mouth. You took in deep breaths as he touched it to the space just beneath your nose and brought it down your lip. You made sure to push your mouth against him, spreading his mark over you much more generously than typically intended. 

It wasn’t until Johnny wiped his hand and replaced his gauntlet that you sat back down, staring right at Faolan Ruadh and all of the other Celestians, wearing your Awakening with pride. 

Instead of kowtowing and giving you a look of submissive deference, Faolan’s eyes were bright and wide, and a look of excitement flashed across his face. 

“I told you, Sir Faolan,” Lady MacTavish commented, helping herself to a bit of cheese from her plate. “She’s a Celestian. The prophecy will be fulfilled.”

Two thousand years into your family’s past, there was a rumor of a prophecy. It was said that when the Nine Houses had given birth to seven daughters, a seventh planet would be revealed, bringing untold wealth and riches to the Sacred Solarium. And so, over the past two millennia, that is what your ancestors had tried to do, even enshrining it in a Decree. They traveled the stars, searching for the Lost Planet, losing more and more strength as they stretched away from the Pale Star. Famine, illness, war, economic collapse; the list goes on. Every Queen had tried to give birth to seven daughters, but none had been fully successful until your grandmother, Queen Ellesia, when she had borne your mother, her seventh daughter. 

As a young girl, your mother heard rumors of a twin prophecy on the nearby planet of Celestia, but because of the Alandrian Guild’s evil hand, the planet was marked as uninhabitable, and they had long thought it was abandoned or left for dead. Your mother searched for the truth, using her own mother’s armies to fight back against the Alandrian’s foothold, and then, finally, she was able to make contact with the Celestian people, saving them from ruin. It would be years before she could bring her evidence to the Sacred Solarium and convince the Nine Houses to agree to accept them as a true planet worthy of inclusion, but she believed in her heart that this was the right call. 

On Celestia, the prophecy was reversed. It told of a Clan of seven sons whose youngest boy would take to the stars and return with royal blood in his veins, saving the people of Celestia from the void and marrying a Celestian Queen to rule them all. 

So, when your mother had you, she believed that you would fulfill the prophecy for the sacred realm. You even suspected that you had been given Celestian guards and sects of would-be Keepers from that planet just to further her cause. 

Your father, and most of your mother’s advisors, however, did not support her unfounded claims. They could see the cost of the war with the Alandrians, and they knew that resources would be spread thin. So, your mother saved every coin. She kept the purse tightly closed, and in secret, she hunted for every soothsayer in the quadrant to affirm her dreams. 

But, you knew it was not real. You suspected that she had been manipulated. A two thousand year old prophecy wouldn’t save the people of Celestia. Warfare would. Power would. Gold would. You never bought into her dogma, and you turned away from your supposed Fate. 

To hear it brought up again on the eve of your wedding was like a slap in the face. If your future was set in stone, what was the point of living? You had come your own way this far, and that - you decided - was how you would finish it. 

Your eyes stared down the table at your mother who was smiling to herself, sipping her tea, thinking she had won. All of these suitors were the seventh son of their family, even the twin from Rison VI, and all of them - you were positive - had a Celestian ancestor somewhere down the line. She would get her wish, one way or another. 

A bell rang, and the ship’s captain made her announcement:

“Honored guests, passengers, and crew; we are now docking at Station Etagh. Please prepare to disembark.”

The bell rang again and the speaker shut off. 

Your mother stood, and everyone stood with her, as they were meant to. She cupped her hands across her chest and spoke to the room. “Thank you all for attending my daughter’s final Awakening. I can think of no stronger woman who would serve the people of our Sacred Solarium and the planet of Celestia. Her heart is true, and she will lead us into untold prosperity under the light of the Pale Star. Long may its fires burn.”

“Long may its fires burn!” The room became a chorus, and everyone repeated her praise. Everyone except you and Johnny, of course. 

The chamber began to clear. The food was taken back to the kitchens. Attendants whisked your gifts away to wherever gifts were supposed to go, and one by one, your suitors took their leave. 

Czar Mahlon gave you a flourishing bow, his cape falling across his shoulder. Emperor Omri-Rah gave you a strict salute, kneeling again before your dais. And Sir Faolan knelt before you at last, taking your hand in his and bringing your fingers to his lips, kissing your fingertips softly before standing up. 

“Please forgive my behavior this morning, Your Grace,” he said, sounding genuinely upset, “For years, I have looked to the stars hoping… I never thought it could be true.”

“The only thing true, Sir Faolan, is that I will guide Celestia to power, and I will reign supreme over the Nine Houses. I don’t need a prophecy to know that. I will make it so.”

“Indeed, you will, Your Grace. I have no doubt.” He smiled at you and bowed again, disappearing with the others. 

You returned to your chamber to await transport, every second sticking into you like a sharp needle, prodding you into a future that you didn’t want to be a part of. Without Johnny by your side, what did any of this even matter? 

“The fucking prophecy,” you cursed under your breath, throwing your cloak onto the edge of your bed before sitting down, burying your head in your hands. 

Johnny stood in front of you, and he lifted up your chin, making you meet his eyes. 

You can do this, bonnie. Be brave.

You grabbed his wrist roughly, your eyes flashing with pent-up anger.

“You’re going to die for this prophecy. You know that, right? Thousands of years ago, some lunatic wrote down a bunch of rules for people to follow, and they thought that if they followed them, they’d be saved. There’s no saving us! We can only save ourselves. We can’t just wait around for the magic of the Pale Star to change our fate. There are things that we can do, practical things, real things! Why can’t they see that?”

Your Keeper pulled you close while the storm raged within you. Your words were muffled and slurred as he held you against his chest.

“You don’t need to go through a Trial. You don’t need to wear a Maol! You don–”

Johnny stepped back from you, pointing to his Maol and then to his chest. 

This wasnae forced on me, bonnie. I wear the Maol because I choose to.

“I know,” you sighed, desperate for him to hear you, “I know you made your choice. I’m not trying to diminish that. But, believing in this prophecy is like wishing on a falling star. I still have to take action. I still need to be the one who changes the world if I want it changed. The stars don’t care if I succeed. They will not help me!”

Johnny shook his head, and he touched the shining circlet of your crown. Then, he took both of your hands in his and brought them to his face. First, he smelled your skin, and he moved your fingers down to his muzzle, kissing you in the same place that Faolan had. 

“You think that Faolan will help me? That his belief in this prophecy will not just bring more strife, more hardship to this planet - to our whole system - forcing its people to convert the Solarium’s economy and its intergalactic involvements before they're ready? Do you think he's even prepared for what that might mean?” You challenged him. 

You watched Johnny very carefully, and he nodded his head, letting out a long breath before sitting down in a stool across from you. Then, he nodded his head again.

Yes, Your Grace. I do think he will help you. I do.

“He is not stronger than you,” you shrugged, “So, it will not matter. You will kill him. They can send a thousand suitors from every corner of the galaxy if they want, but no one can beat you. And I will not accept anything less. Besides, there’s always an alternative solution to every problem.”

Johnny sat up straight, taking your words as a promise and a threat, his eyes bright and clear, looking at you with a serious expression that you didn’t want to decipher.

Masterlist

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

some people will be like “I wonder why fanfic writers don’t share their works anymore😔” and then this is them when a writer is kind enough to share something they write — as a hobby, for their own enjoyment — with them for free.

some people really don’t realize how privileged they are that they get fanfics for free. imagine having access to something for free because someone is kind enough to share it with you… and then being rude, entitled and an ungrateful pos to that person who was kind enough to share their creation with you for free

“almost 1 year is a lil too much for me” fuck off. fanfic writers don’t owe you anything. one of my favorite fics was updated after 13 years, and what I did is that I thanked the author for choosing to continue the work, I didn’t act like a spoiled toddler by asking why they didn’t update sooner. and even if a writer chooses to abandon their fic permanently with no explanation, that is their choice, their hobby, their decision. they don’t owe your entitled ass anything.

you people let tiktok rot your brains to the point you see everything as content farm and engagement. not a piece of art created by the artist’s love and passion. it’s dystopian.

[celadoreceladore]

Having never publicly posted anything I’ve drawn anywhere before this is somewhat terrifying, and sharing something that is still a WIP maybe makes it even more terrifying because I can still see so much that I would like to tweak and tidy… but I don’t know when exactly I’ll actually finish him so I thought hey why not be brave and share him as he is!

So here is my interpretation of pagan!soap inspired by @gloomwitchwrites’ fantastic two stories. He has lived in my brain rent free since I read the first one and I just had to get him down on a page. Poppy, you write such wonderful stories and incredible characters. I hope I’ve done pagan!soap some semblance of justice and just a massive thank you for these incredible brainworms. Hopefully I can finish him at some point in the not too distant future, but I am a chronic non-finisher of projects 😂

Did I end up spending far too long reading about clothing from that era? Yes. Do I still plan to draw a version of him with less clothes and/or his wolf mask down the line? Also yes. And you know, give the poor guy some legs!

Here’s hoping I don’t panic and delete this later 😅

[staytrueblue]

Knight Barry Knight Barry Knight Barry Knight

[depsidase]

[spicymotte]

quick Ramattra fanart because he’s my favorite purple guy (full on bsky)

[wyvern-whiskey]

Heyaa!

I now have a Patreon ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Where I’ll be posting my NSFW/spicy content (´・ω・`)