No but the Hunger Games really said "what do you hate more- the atrocities or the people who commit them against you? Because like it or not there IS a difference. If you hate the people who commit acts of pure evil more than you hate the acts themselves, what will stop you from becoming just like your enemies in your pursuit of justice? What will keep you from commiting those very same acts against THEM when the opportunity arises? And what then? The cycle of pain and suffering will never stop. Round and round it'll go. Nothing will ever change. But. BUT. If you hate the atrocities. If you hate the vile, senseless acts MORE than you hate the people who did them to you. If you are able to see that evil is evil regardless of who does it... The cycle ends with you. No, you may never get justice. But you will never be responsible for making others, even your enemies, suffer the same crimes you have. The atrocities will never be committed by you, never by your hand. And that's the way you change the world. It's the ONLY way" and that's why I am sure it will never stop being one of the most relevant works of fiction ever created
Simon can feel his entire face heat up, and he guesses it's gone red too when you giggle. He can barely think with how close you are, how your entire attention is on him. He doesn’t know how to handle it, he's not used to this.
Do you like them? He wants to ask. Do you like them? They're for you. All of me is yours, if you want.
But he doesn't, and instead just basks in the heat of your touch. Your eyes wander all over his face, shining with awe that he doesn't get. He's not going to question it though, he's not stupid.
"Do you paint them too, when you put on your face paint?"
He blinks a few times, trying to search for an answer that will satisfy you, that will keep you looking at him like that. He shakes his head slightly, trying to clear the fog you've created inside his brain.
"Not on purpose," he mutters softly. You're so beautiful, he can't stop looking at you. He feels something heavy and plush grow inside his chest, fueled by the weight of you on top of his legs. He still can't believe he gets to have you on his lap.
"Does that mean you have a bicolor eyelash now and then?'
He chuckles, but it's breathless. He probably does, he had never thought about it, but who cares? Nothing really matters to him if you're near.
You care though. You seem to care about him a lot.
"Maybe," he whispers, caressing your thighs up and down with both hands. You smile at him, weaving your fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes briefly, smiling without meaning to.
"You have freckles too." He nods. His cheeks go red again, and you laugh for real this time. "Stop blushing, Si! You're making them disappear!"
He laughs too, embarrassed. You make him feel almost giddy, light. He's happy.
Your thumbs brush over the apple of his cheeks, tracing scars that right then, he doesn’t remember how he got. How could he, when your nose is almost touching his?
"You're really handsome, Si. Can see why you cover your face now, you'll cause a crash with that jaw."
He squeezes your legs softly. It's almost too much, his chest feels almost too tight. You're filling him up with something sweet and syrupy that chokes him, that he doesn't know how to breathe through. "Stop."
But he says it so low that you must know he doesn’t mean it. You give him a soft smile as an answer, kissing the tip of his nose with equally soft lips that he dreams of covering with his own.
Objectively speaking, he knows he's good looking, but it didn’t matter to him before you. To know you like that part of him too makes him warm inside, even more so when he acknowledges that you liked him well before knowing his face.
"Your hair is pretty too," you comment, like your words aren’t sending an earthquake all over his insides. Your fingers brush through it, sending shivers down his spine when they graze his skin. He tries to repress them, doesn’t want to scare you. "How do you even have it this soft?"
"Must be the mask," he answers, looking up at you with hooded eyes.
"Maybe I'll start using one too, if it gets my hair this pretty."
He shakes his head immediately, wrapping his arms around you so he can pull you closer. You're pliant, let him move you this way and that. His entire body heats up.
"No?" You softly ask, stopping your moves. He nudges you with his head like a cat, and you resume them. "Why not? We can match."
Because your face is not one that should be hidden. He's selfish, but even he can admit that covering your beautiful face would be a crime.
"I won't be able to see you," he answers just as he buries his face in your chest. He closes his eyes, and breathes in. He's home.
He feels you shake your head, still playing with the curls that are starting to form with how long his hair is getting.
can i pls request könig just being utterly desperate for reader?, like he's practically dry humping them and they're being a little mean about it but he doesn't even care because he's so far gone?
ok so könig doesn't fall in but...they're both cold so it counts, right!!
könig x reader || 6100 words || 18+ ONLY. AFAB/fem reader, no description, use of y/n, pronouns, or gendered language. frottage, size kink, and könig being a smug little shit
Fuck — everything hurts. Everything really fucking hurts. It’s cold, and your socks are wet, and you are absolutely fucking miserable.
And everything. Hurts.
Even your face. The chill is biting, the sort of sting that lights up your animal hindbrain in aversion. Warmth, it tells you shelter, fire, food. Warmth! You’re close to tapping out, close to saying fuck it and lying in the snow and hoping for the sweet, sleepy release of death.
A branch catches you across the cheek sharply, a worse snap of pain than wind and cold combined, and you cry out, gloved hands coming up to clutch it.
“Ah!”
The huge shadow moving several feet in front of you pauses its long, quick stride. Turns slow, facing you with the hooded visage you’d come to acquaint yourself with in the last few days. He still scares you, but you’ve gotten relatively decent at reading him in so little time. You can tell he flashes no anger, no impatience, just concern.
“Shit!” He catches the branch before it can swing at you again, brand your cheek in another red line, and shoulders the mass of shrubbery so you can pass by on the meager trail.
He’s nice. As nice as a stranger could be, you suppose. Also… very peculiar. Since he’d picked you, your friend, and her boyfriend up at the basecamp several days ago, that quality has become increasingly apparent. But you note it with no judgment nor malice — he’s weird with a certain charm. You find it remarkably endearing.
He had, admittedly, not been the sort of person you wanted to see upon being assigned a guide for the little excursion. You had followed along your friend on the ill-conceived trip because her new piece was an aspirant survivalist. Had, he claimed, watched enough documentaries to survive in the arctic for at least a month. You doubted it, but kind of wanted him to attempt such a feat anyway — he never did the dishes, your friend said, and often made snide comments to explain something she already knew. For all you cared, the arctic could have him.
She’d convinced you to join them for a trip into the Austrian countryside, a fun vacation that was much needed on your part. A way to disconnect, a short excursion, and one that, if you agreed, her latest obsession would fund. You expected a bougie ski lodge or humble touristy food-circuit with a view of the Dolomites.
Not, you’d snapped at her upon arrival at your destination, the fucking Alps.
Her boyfriend had tracked down and hired some obscure survivalist tour group. Signed the three of you up for a week-long ‘extreme camping’ experience — safe, he’d promised, because the excursion came with a trained professional to direct the trip and negate any risk.
Not all of it, though. Because, as is the depraved character of nature, shit had gone fucking south.
The snowstorm had come out of nowhere, despite reports of clear skies and moderate to mild temperatures. Overnight, too, so you had the distinct luxury of waking up shivering to a tent covered in snow and ice. As conditions worsened your terrifying guide — König, all he’d introduced himself by — made the tough decision to end the trip early.
Your friend’s boyfriend fought back, empty-handed on a refund. The two of them had packed up and disappeared after a lunch huddled around a flickering campfire König had barely managed to get started in the wind. Off on their own adventure, or chasing their own death. You weren’t sure. Were too cold to care, frankly.
König’s mood seemed to chart similarly.
“I am so…well. Mad is the word I want, but worse.” He grumbles, moving his hands in circles as he speaks. A tight, barely-controlled gesture of frustration, focused now on little else than getting you both to relative safety. Translation doesn’t seem too high on his list of priorities, if the adjoining string of German that spills forth is any indication. “How could they be so stupid?”
“Angry,” you offer, teeth chattering. You’ve slowed your pace substantially, muscles tight with exhaustion, achey with something more compellingly unpleasant than a fever. You just want to sit down. Rest, for five minutes. Chilled to the fucking bone, apt as the saying could be.
It’s hard to think of more words, but König shakes his head, fist shaking in a more! gesture. Something tells you to keep using your brain, to stay conscious, and you figure a little verbal thesaurus rant might just be the thing to keep yourself present.
“Uh,” you say, words coming short. “Mad?”
König stops so suddenly you nearly bump into his broad back. He turns to look at you, hood dashed and sprinkled like powdered sugar in the surprise flurry. The snowflakes glisten against the fabric, crystalline and delicate, and your eyes focus hazily on the contrast of dark material and diamond-shine flakes.
“We started there, at mad.” König points out. His head tilts down, finding your gaze distant, and then to the side. A curse flutters out, lost to the wind. Suddenly, big hands clutch your shoulders. Shake you a little. “Verdammt. Your lips — why didn’t you say anything?”
You blink at him slowly, rubbing them together. You can’t feel it. “I d-did. Say things. Angry…m-mad.”
König swears again, much louder. His hands fall away and you rock forward, chasing the warm spread on your body. Instead, he walks in a quick, manic circle, both palms flat on the top of his head. They tap rhythmically, little pap paps like he’s drumming a beat into his skull.
“Wappler. Fucking. Two months on the job, and now you’ll be fired for getting a fool tourist kill—““ König stops the rant, interspersed throughout with words in his native tongue. He turns to look at you, eyes roving over your form. “Hey. Hey, listen. Are you going to die?” He asks, shuffling back through the snow to take you in hand again. One on top of your forehead, adjusting your jacket’s hood, and the other fisted in the front of it.
You sway a little where you stand, eyes lidded.“I’ll h-haunt you if I die out in the middle of fucking nowhere.”
König laughs. It snips high at the end, like he can’t quite manage the excitement — or, perhaps, relief.
“Ok, I think you… will hopefully be fine.” He tilts your chin up, gloved index finger tucked into the curve, and peers at you from under the mask. His eyes are gorgeous, lit inhumanely bright with the sun that reflects off fresh snow. The pallor of them, just like the rest of his imposing figure, is intimidating, but again — you’ve simply embraced that you find all his fantastic curiosity compelling.
Attractive, even, which is ridiculous because you haven’t even seen his goddamn face.
“Although it would be better if you had not fallen into that puddle.” König mutters.
“W-wasn’t a puddle,” you argue, dancing in place. Your feet, damp from the embarrassing spill you’d taken and barely protected in hiking boots, are starting to numb. “Practically the ocean.”
“Stupid. Come, we should keep moving.” He laughs again and rubs your arms vigorously. A friendly gesture, one meant to comfort and warm you. It does…perhaps just not the way he intends. König’s big, and you’ve spent the last several days staring at the wide splay of his shoulders, the obvious dents and curves of muscle underneath his turtlenecks, and the tantalizing patch of skin you’ve glimpsed when he stretches.
You wonder what he looks like. You wonder what he looks like face flushed in the cold. You wonder what he looks like face flushed with arousal.
The collage of thoughts, blurry without detail and obscene nonetheless, makes your head swims. It’s no small blessing that he mistakes your accompanying whimper for a noise of discomfort or exhaustion.
“I know, I know. We’re almost there. Just a ways more to go, and then you will be warmed up and we can eat.” He’s nodding as he speaks, empathetic. Voice rousing like a trained orator. Convincing you, convincing himself, and staring at you while he waits for a response, intense and dazzling. Beseeching in a manner that hypnotizes you in place, along with the grip of his hands around your biceps.
“Can you go just a little longer for me, mauschen? I think you can, right? You’re doing well and being brave about this. You can take a bit more.” He squeezes.
You’re nodding before he finishes the sentence, eyes wide and stinging dry against the wind. Fuck, you’re not sure if he’s doing it on purpose, sounding like that. Maybe you’re delirious, maybe then cold is getting to you quicker than you thought.
“C-came with her to make sure she wouldn’t get, like, fucking murdered in some college-slasher B-movie horror type shit.” You explain, shivering so violently you nearly bite your tongue on the words. “And I might just die a popsicle instead. That’s way less badass.”
König laughs heartily, head tossed back against the wind, and pulls away with one less pat. “Yes, it is. So you’ll have to not die that way, yes?”
He trudges forward, and every step he takes sweeps an extra six inches to the side — clearing an easier path for you in the building snow.
●
As promised, shelter isn’t much further along the trail. You’d prefer a resort, or perhaps somewhere with central heating, but the ancient, tiny A-frame cabin tucked against a hillside will have to do. It’s probably gorgeous in the summer, with the creak thawed and flowing, the surrounding forest thick with the scent of rain and green, lush life, wildflowers and fauna and the dazzling expanse of blue Austrian sky.
So you try not to swear at it too hard as you cross the threshold, find it nearly empty and sparsely supplied. Keep that warm image in your head: in the spring, it’ll be pretty. If you make it past this forsaken fucking storm, you’ll come back and witness it for yourself.
König practically shoves you through the doorway and makes a beeline for the humble fireplace. The floorpan is open, so you stand in the center of the space and watch as he leaps into motion, into emergency mode. You haven’t seen him so frantic up until this point, and the concerned glances he keeps tossing your way make you anxious.
“What. H-have I turned into an…an i-ice cube?” You quip, arms wrapped around your torso while you watch him wrench open the oven and check to see if the power is on. He swears colorfully and slams it shut, pumping at the sink handle without results.
“This is not ideal.” He mutters, returning to his task of stoking the fire. It flickers gently, flames licked promising at the dust settled into the crevices a fir log found next to the mantle. “It will be awhile before it’s is warm enough, and you’re still soaked.”
You glance down at yourself, the puddle of brackish water pooled at your feet, and lift a boot. “I think coming inside was enough, actually. I’m starting to warm up.”
When you look at your guide again, his eyes are wide with panic behind the hood. “You are…warm?”
You nod, unaware of how stilted and loose the motion looks. Everything in your skull feels syrupy, your thoughts starting to whirr together in a pleasant buzz that leaves your vision blurring. Swaying where you stand, kept up only by the hand König places on your shoulder.
“Oh,” König says, staring at his gloved hand. Unnaturally cold to the touch, your wet jacket — certainly not warm enough for the weather. “Scheiß. This is…” His gloved hand cups your face, turning it this way and that. Your eyes flutter shut. “Ah, fuck.”
“It’s fine. I’ll warm up if I just lay down for awhile.” Heavy, trudging steps carry you towards one corner of the cabin, where a plainly made mattress and pile of blankets have begun to sweetly call your name.
König grabs you by the wrist, tutting. “You are not allowed to sleep, mauschen. Don’t even think about it.”
You pout up at him, but he’s unswayed at your attempted manipulation.
“You are hypothermic. Or nearly there.” He says, the word clipped and precise in his accent. “If you go to sleep now, you might not wake up.”
The exhaustion is really getting to you now, a lull that tempts you to pull away, sit on the ground and surrender. It will be the best sleep of your life. It will probably be the last.
“Okay.” You shrug as König pushes the hood from your head. Underneath, your hair is damp with sweat and droplets of water and snowflakes. With your temperature low as it is, the tiny gleaming bits are lingering, stubborn to melt. “And? No more taxes.”
He huffs, amused despite the narrowed, worry sliver of his gaze. His fingers pluck deftly at the buttons of your jacket, quicker than you could manage right now. “Don’t joke like that.”
“No more streaming service subscriptions.”
“Stop,” he warns, and you imagine he’s biting his lip under there to keep from laughing.
“No more porn ads when I’m trying to read the news.”
Now he does chuckle. Muffled and low from beneath the fabric, but the sound of it is endlessly charming.
“Give me your hands,” he demands, reaching for the wrists that have already floated up towards his grasp. König’s confidence and readily-shared accumulation of survivalist tips, animal facts, and botanical knowledge had been just a few of the things that immediately enthralled you. Hearing him speak with authority on the subjects that interested him, eager and passionate, had been the source of your only true smiles during this fucking trip. The demand from him now, warm with fondness and yet unwavering firm, makes heat pool into your belly.
It’s not much: a faint, flimsy battle waged in certain doom against the hypothermia numbing you. Still, it’s something.
“Oooh,” you coo, flirtatious without much more detail, and grin when his fingers fumble on the clasps of your gloves. The idea that you’ve made him nervous is like catnip. “K-keep telling me what to do.”
König shakes his head — either amusedly chastising or dismissive. You know which you’d prefer. “I really do not think this is the time.”
You tip your head down, try to find his eyes as his face is bowed over the gloves giving him trouble. When you catch them, you grin saucily. “You’re saying there will be a time, though?”
“I am trying to save your life.” He chides, and finally manages to get a glove off. He tucks it between his arm and rib cage to warm your shaking fingers, moving onto the other. “Stop distracting me.”
“Am I?” You murmur, voice dropping. König glances briefly at your face and then studiously back down, working the button on your glove with fingers that are less sure than a moment ago. While he’s engrossed, you take the opportunity to wiggle your hand against his side, banking on —
König jerks away, folding protectively as he pulls from that provoking touch. He makes a fucking incredible noise, something pitchy and rough in his throat that teeters off breathlessly.
“No way,” you snicker, doing it again for a mirrored reaction. “W-wow. That’s great. Big guy like you? Ticklish?”
“Don’t,” he warns, but it stutters out on what is undoubtedly a giggle. As a result, it sounds significantly less solemn than he intends. “I will throw you out into the snow.”
“No you won’t.” You call his bluff, eyes fluttering. He’s taken both your hands in one of his huge paws now. You’re hypnotized by his movements, the free hand that pulls the zipper down his coat and guides all your frigid digits inside. Cocooned between his body heat and the down fabric, they ache at the temperature change and make you shiver. It hurts, your fingers reddened by the cling of wet material and blistering wind, but the pain is a sweetly removed inconvenience against the thing that settles like a blanket over the two of you.
König stares down at you, his fingers stroking over your wrists. Beneath the curl of your knuckles, his torso is firm. You want little more than to flatten your hand and explore the breadth of it, slip your hands over the muscle that you know lies beneath. Chisel away at that disguise, peel back layers until you find out what color his hair is, what his skin looks like flushed.
Your teeth chatter suddenly, loud in the deafening silence, the quiet crackle of flame in the fireplace, and he jumps as if startled.
He releases your hands, lets them drop to your sides, and steps away. Putting distance, maybe, as he assesses you. The concern wipes away whatever gentle spell had just fallen between you, and the return of it makes you frown. His eyes pull at the edges.
“Are you feeling much better?”
“No,” you admit, because your toes could be a country away, for as distant as they feel. “I’m really tired. Can’t I sleep while you go look for them?”
“No,” König echoes much more brusquely. Annoyed, almost. “You are not sleeping. They can figure it out themselves, if he is so confident. Oaschbrunzer.”
“Compliment?”
König reaches for you, grumbling, peeling now at the jacket and your windbreaker underneath. “Yes, sure.”
“W-whoa,” you murmur, chin tucked to your chest as he pulls at you. “Not complaining, but I thought you didn’t want a distraction?”
His hands snap away as if burned, and you kick yourself for even saying anything at all. König’s nice, but flighty; sometimes all it takes for him to withdraw inwards is the wrong word, calling attention to something he hadn’t meant to show.
“Sorry,” he says. “I should — we need to get your clothes off.”
You spread your arms, eyebrows raised, in open invitation. “So down.”
He reaches up and pinches the bridge of his nose over the hood, sighing. Done with your fucking antics, it seems. “Not like that. The fire won’t be hot enough for at least an hour. You are going to die if you stay in wet clothes.”
Blinking rapidly, you admit: “I don’t have any spare. They’re in my friend’s pack.”
“I —“ König trails off, eyes glazing a little as they trail over your shoulders. Pointedly, it seems, staying away from the center bits of your torso. Like he’s trying to be respectful, trying not to piece together a mental image. “We need to get your clothes off.”
“You said t-that already.” You point out, rubbing your hands together, seeking heated friction — anything, really, to pull life back into the tips of your fingers.
König shrugs, helpless, and then seems to steady himself. He reaches for you once again, pushing your sopping outer layers off your shoulders. They plop into the puddle you’ve left, streaks of mud and snow on the floor. Any sort of tension you might be keen to act on dissipates under another violent shiver. He notes the intensity of it and speeds up his efforts. A sounder mind would be more concerned with the panic of those movements, but you’re only distantly aware. Everything edges black, you sway in place, and König must help you over to the cot. Jostled and guided about like a puppet.
“If I d-die you should definitely d-de…delete my phone history.” You request. Your skin prickles in goosebumps as König drags your thermal undershirt over your head, fingers quick and assured but surgical. He’s being very careful not to touch any bare parts that are revealed, keeping everything polite. Proper. You wish he weren’t.
“You need to stop talking about dying.” He grumbles, and the end of the sentence trails quieter as he gets to his knees. You reach out and steady yourself on his shoulder, noting the tense flex of it under your palm before he relaxes slightly. Your trousers and fleece leggings follow, thrown into a pile with the rest of your clothes. “What’s on it?”
He’s trying to keep you present, keep you talking. “Weird porn.” You tease, just to make his movements stutter. “Pick up lines in Austrian.”
“Sit down,” König grits out, and you fall to the edge of the cot with a speed that would be embarrassing, were you able to process such emotions at the moment. You grimace at the tug of wet boots and socks from your feet. Curl inward a little, because you’re now at least slightly aware of the situation. You wish you’d picked more flattering undergarments, or at least underwear without a threadbare hold at your hip. At least something that matched.
König’s not looking, anyway. In fact, he’s looking desperately anywhere else — icy eyes dancing over your face, dipping never lower than the top of your naked shoulders, bouncing around the corners of the room like a DVD logo.
“This — uh. I’m not trying to be. Perverted,” he says. For all he stutters and hesitates over the words, you’d think he were the one at risk of passing out. “But we…the best way to warm up is, uh. Skin to skin contact.”
You blink at him, just once, and then laugh. “Oh man. Is that real? I always kinda thought it was an excuse to fuck? Like, a porn plot device.”
“It’s not!” He says defensively, wringing his gloved hands. Still not meeting your eyes. “I mean. I suppose that it is? Not now, shit, I’m not saying I am trying to get you naked —“
“A-aren’t you? Shame.” You fall back on the cot, reaching for one of the two fuzzy duvets at the foot of it. When you can’t manage the energy to reach for it, König leans down and wraps it around your shoulders. “Already did that, anyway.”
“Not entirely,” he laughs nervously, and then hiccups a sweetly shock “O-oh!” because you shoot him a challenging glare and peel yourself out of the ragged sports bra. Your underwear follow, even though the motion of kicking them off makes you dizzy.
“I. Okay. Well,” König tries several times to make the words come out, and then seems to give up. You watch with bleary, interested eyes that flutter sleepily as he undoes the belt on his pants, kicks off his boots, and then reaches for the hem of his shirt. “Okay.”
A little showier than necessary, you think, because he arches into the motion as it pulls over his head. No complaints — you get a front-row seat as firm, pale muscle is revealed. He’s got a spray of freckles over his hips, up his side, splattered along the center of his chest, and —
His hood comes off with his shirts and jacket, tangled in the fabric, and König is…oh. You bite your lip.
“Damn. Hi. You h-hide that for a reason?” You ask, gaze darting around the regal arch of his nose and angular features. He’s handsome, that sort of weird-attractive that you feel foolish for not expecting.
“Huh?” He brushes a hand through his hair — auburn, messy waves cut below his chin that have fallen out of a tight bun at the nape of his neck. It’s a few shades darker than maple-spiced cider, a hue that reminds you of dying, crunched leaves. He’s as huge out of his clothes than in them, built with a generous but lanky muscle that makes you think he has to work hard for it.
“Your face,” you breathe, dragging your gaze back up his torso to find said feature. There’s a delectable spray of pink over his cheeks, almost boyishly shy at your compliment. Invigorated, you offer: “You’re really cute, König. Bet you’d get more business if you advertised this way.”
He gapes at you like a fish out of water, scooped up from whatever depths he frequents by your hand, yanked rather than coaxed to the surface. Baited by the worm — your compliments, freely given, wriggling at the end of the hook. He seems wary of it, and rightly so. You liked him before, his quick wit and intimidating charm. Now that you’ve seen him laid bare, all you want to do is sink sharp into him, find the soft parts and pierce, attach yourself.
“This is going to be much more awkward if you keep doing that,” he mutters, taking several steps forward. Lingering in front of you, staring down the bridge of his nose from all the way up there. Eyes hooded as they travel over you freely now, tracing your bare arms and down, a polite yet admirative pause at your unclothed chest.
You smile up at him, head tilted demurely. More bait: “Doing what?”
König puts a massive hand on your shoulder and pushes, guiding your loose, cold limbs to the cot. Before you can say anything, he slides in with you.
Breath caught in your chest, you hold yourself still as death while he pulls the blankets up both of your bodies. They’re not long enough to accommodate the absurd length of him, and neither is the cot. To get comfortable, König tucks his knees. The movement presses his thighs flush to yours, warm, firm flesh and tickling hair making you giggle.
“Compllimenting me,” he accuses. “And that. The laughing.” His hand, awkwardly flat on the mattress, slides across your forearm and squeezes.
You’ve never felt dwarfed by someone the way you do by König. Every inch of him is warm where it presses against your chilled flesh. The temperature difference becomes distinctly clear; you’re still not out of the woods yet, but the reality of how close you’d come to an irreversible edge is obvious to you now. He radiates heat, and you can’t tell if it’s because you’re so fucking cold or that he just runs that warm all the time. Like a furnace — you could get used to this.
Now that your body has enough energy to expend function to your brain, it supplies a series of sweet images. König fit awkwardly into your bed at the hostel, draped like a Renaissance nude under the cheap sheets, smiling up at you. Sitting shirtless at your kitchen table, bashful smile on his face.
Another, much less romantic, fueled by the image of his huge form guiding the three of you through the forest, eyes frighteningly keen, discerning. You’d clocked him as ex-military during that first meeting; something about being led into nowhere by someone so clearly dangerous had scared you. Had intrigued you, too. So for all your brain paints him in soft brush strokes and pretty reds, it hands you flashes of being pulled roughly into his lap. Pressed against a tree, into the ground, those hands clutching and demanding instead of reverent.
“You like me or something?”
König’s turn to still. He’s holding himself further from your body than necessary, stomach angled carefully, purposefully away. That tells you all you need to know about his answer.
“I was going to ask you out at the end of the trip,” he admits, breath pouring over your neck. You shiver. It’s not from the cold.
“Were you? That’s…really cute, actually.” Your fingers coast up his arm, blunted nails dragging through the hair. “I would have said yes.” Shifting a little, pushing yourself back against his chest, you purposefully shoves your hips back into him. “I’ll definitely say yes if you ask now.”
There’s no escape — he’s trapped between the seeking crawl of your body across the cot and its edge. You’re content to lay there, soaking warmth like a cat in a spot of afternoon sunlight. In fact, your breath begins to slow, chest rising with less frequency as the saccharine comfort of a body against yours lulls you further towards sleep.
A big hand taps your thigh, and you jolt.
“Stay awake, okay? Not in the clear, yet.” His hand lingers, then pulls away. Resumes its awkward guard in the center of the cot by your nose.
Fuck it. Officially the trip and story of a lifetime, you might as well have this Austrian excursion sprinkled with one more near-unbelievable detail. You lean forward, tilting that hand towards your mouth, and deliberately trace your lips over the delicate expanse of his wrist. Behind you, the man shudders. Sucks in a breath, noise at the start of it like he’s biting back something louder.
“Any ideas to keep me awake?” A whisper against his skin; it goosebumps under your mouth, tiny bumps against the softness of your lips, and it’s such a sweet reaction that you have to plant a kiss there.
“Several,” König chuckles. “I am afraid they are not all about treating hypothermia.”
You squirm, flipping yourself onto your back and then your side to face him. König holds still while you arrange yourself, an arm thrown haphazard over his shoulder, your leg tossed atop his hip with more possessive vigor than seems acceptable for a stranger. With your ankle pressed into his ass, you drag yourself closer, analyzing each twist of his face as more and more of your body comes into contact with him.
“What a coincidence. Me too.” You purr, angling your elbow so you can bury your hand into the messy tangle of hair on the back of his head. You brush through it carefully, rubbing any snags between your fingers until it unwinds. Eager to see how he looks with it down, framing his face, you find the hair tie and pull it free.
“I promise,” König cuts off to blow a piece of it out of his eyes, “I promise I…I really wasn’t doing this to sleep with you, mauschen.”
“Yeah, sure buddy.” You tease, shuffling closer to assess the exact shade of pink he’s turning. “Just trying to save my life, or whatever.”
König shuffles too, a nervous stretch that slides his groin against yours, and you gasp. He does too, and as shocked as you sound at a vague hint of his size, he seems much more ruined.
“Fuck,” he groans. Unprompted, like he doesn’t seem aware of the motion himself, König’s hand shoots up to grip your ass. He pulls you forward, fingers splayed over the entirety of it — just that fucking big. He palms at you, leading you to believe you might not be the only one feeling oddly possessive.
“I don’t — we can’t really, uh. I’m…” König breaks off, letting go of your body to wipe a hand over his face. “I want to fuck you, but it might not be. Uh, possible, without some — verdammt. The more I talk, the more I sound like…What is the word. Douchebag? I promise I’m not being egotistical.”
You tilt your head, mouth curled in a smile. You’re baking now, warm all over, slick with anticipatory sweat instead of snow and pond water.
“What, are you saying you’re too big to —“ you cut off, eyes shooting wide as they slide between your bodies, down to where König has pushed the hem of his boxers down. “Oh. Oh shit.”
“We can just — honestly. I would love to taste you, maus, we can just kiss or…”
“Fuck no, I want that,” you breathe out, letting go of his hair in favor of wrapping your hand around him. He’s half hard, but you can’t imagine he’ll get any more length. He’s already…Christ. You don’t want to say so, because there’s no way he doesn’t have an ego about this, but it’s without question the biggest cock you’ve ever seen.
Absurdly so, and that knocks a laugh from you. At the noise, he twitches against your fingers. You glance up at König, finding his teeth sunk into his bottom lip, eyebrows knit together.
You hum, rubbing your dry palm over the vein running along the underside of it. “No compliments because you like it too much, but I laugh at your cock and —“
“Shut up,” König whines. “Mein Gott, you are so frustrating.”
“Seems like it,” you respond airily, letting go of him in favor of scooting closer. You throw your arm back over his shoulder, elbow squeezing the back of his neck until he curls down closer to your face. With the leveraged you fit him between your legs, gasping as his cock slips against the wet seam of you. Just as undone by the motion, König matches your noise with an undampened moan, burying his face in the top of your head.
“M-Mauschen, oh,” he whines. With a steady hand on your hip, König ruts against your heat — because you’re warm now, and you can’t remember feeling cold. Not now, not stuck against him as the cabin fills golden with the climbing fire. It crackles just like each hitching rumble of his voice as you move together.
You’re wet, and he’s starting to dribble from the tip. His cock slips deliciously, easy, through your folds, right up against the stifling split, and on one particularly hearty thrust of his hips, it catches warningly on the edge of your hole.
It’s your turn to whine, because it breaches just a little bit, a sweet, promising cleave that gives you a dizzying hint of what it would be like to be fragmented whole by that thing. And you want that, now that the opportunity has presented itself, now that your body has a tease of what it would be like —
“I can’t,” König groans, chants it, even as he uses his vice on your hips to guide you into an angle that lets him do it again and again and again. Each time it incenses you more, sends you into a wracking shiver that threatens to tear you apart at every joint. You’re clawing at his chest, scratching over his scalp, writhing against him and begging for it. You’d be ashamed, might be later, if you could see yourself. But König’s face is just as ruined, sweat beading on his temple already, and his lips are slick with spit. Fucking drooling as he ruts against you.
“P-please?” You beg, scratching your nails down his collarbone, his chest. “It’d keep me awake for sure.”
He laughs despite himself, despite the hitching, panting breaths he’s almost struggling to take. Holding himself back — you don’t fucking want him to, you want him to let go.
“Stop me,” König says, snatching your wrist from his hair and guiding it instead flat over his abdomen. You pet appreciatively at him for a moment. “You — tap, if it is too much, I need to…fuck, I want to put it in. Just a little.”
“Yes,” you hiss triumphantly, instinctive about the way your hips tilt, widening so he can maneuver himself between them. He takes your knee over his elbow, opens you up in a way that makes you flush down to your chest. The inquisitive prod of his cock against you makes you jolt, arching away from the intrusion, but König holds you fast, drags you closer with an inescapable strength — another illicit reminder of his size, his capacity.
You both groan as he slips in, the wide swell of him splitting you open. It’s not the part that requires your focus — despite his promise, König keeps fucking going, breathing harsh through his nose. Controlling himself, careful, and you wonder how many times he’s been in this position. Having to treat a partner like glass so he doesn’t hurt them, so he can still make it good. The idea has you moaning, your nails digging into his biceps, and he matches it happily with a grunt.
“You’re so hot inside,” he croaks, mouth against your forehead. “Maus, oh, please, oh. Tight — fuck, you’re small.” Not particularly so, but in comparison to him, absolutely. “More, darling? I think you can.” His hips rock, dragging the third of him you’ve managed to take and driving it back in. Steady, slow, but a purposeful punch of his hips at the end that has you seeing stars. “Doing so fucking well. You can take some more, right?”
“Oh, fuck off,” you whine, tossing your head back. It’s almost exactly what he said to you earlier, praising your resilience and survival drive as you trudged through the snow. “I knew you were doing that on purpose.”
König drags his tongue up your neck, tucking his face into the crook of it. “Not sure what you’re talking about, mauschen.”
He absolutely does, and so he laughs as he begins to fuck you in earnest. Joy and warmth and shimmery gold — sweet like summer. As promised, he keeps you awake.
Ghost x fem!reader NSFW; 18+ ONLY [fingering, p in v sex, overstimulation, use of "good girl", service dom (?) Simon]. some fluff. unsafe sex practices [no protection].
(part III of a mini series; part I here, part II here).
Simon keeps his promise—he stays.
He stays, and when he wakes up the next morning from the gentle fractures of sunlight peeking through your bedroom curtains and your hair tickling his nose, he wonders what kind of world would have to exist for him to wake up like this everyday. What would he have to give for slow, sleepy mornings, tangled-up sheets, quiet, fumbling happiness? What would this kind of intimacy cost him? He thinks, pulling you a little closer, that he would be willing to pay it; whatever the cost, he’ll pay it.
The movement wakes you, despite his attempts not to.
“G’morning,” you mumble, breathing out a pleased sigh.
“Hi,” he says, kissing your cheek.
“I missed you.”
Simon huffs a laugh. “I was right here the whole time.”
“I know, but I was asleep.”
You twist around to face him, wiggling so your torso is on top of his.
“Oh, so you don’t dream about me?” he teases, playing with your hair.
You roll your eyes. “I know. I’m as devastated as you are.”
Simon hums. “Guess I’ll have to fix that.” He twists a strand of your hair around his finger. “Give you something good to dream about.”
“Oh yeah?” You smirk, sliding over to straddle him. “What kind of good dreams?”
He grins, rolling his shoulders to sit up more so that he’s leaning against the bed frame.
“What kind of dreams do you want?”
“That’s cheating.”
He shakes his head, resting his hands on your bare legs, his eyes trailing down your body.
“A gentleman always asks,” he says.
You rest your arms on his shoulders, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck.
“You consider yourself a gentleman?” you giggled.
Simon smiles, his gaze flicking from your eyes to your lips.
“If you want me to be,” he says.
“Mm. So whatever I want then?”
He nods his head, bumping noses with you. “Whatever you want.”
“Well, what if I want you to touch me?” you ask, lips hovering over his.
And once again, Simon doesn’t even answer–he just acts, because this is what he’s good at. He kisses you with a hunger he was holding back before—flooding you with the desperation he feels to make sure you want him, that you’ll need him, that’ll you choose him even if you have other choices. He sucks at your neck, licking and biting and bruising—each mark an open-love letter to you, signed and sealed with the core of his humanity: loneliness. Stay here with me. Please don't leave me. Please just stay.
“Turn around,” Simon growls, pulling your shirt over your head.
Your brain is already growing foggy. “What?”
He holds you at the hips and turns you, staring openly at your exposed breasts.
“Look,” he says, settling you in his lap. “Look at this.”
He grabs your face, orienting you head-on with the very large, square mirror you have propped against your wall.
“Look how pretty you look,” he says, eyeing your reflection with open-adoration. “You should always get fucked in front of a mirror.”
“Simon,” your voice is breathy and pitched, reaching for his hand and sliding it down to your core. “Please.”
With your hand still atop his, he toys with your waistband of your panties. The tips of his fingers barely brush the sensitive skin there, making you twitch. His breath is hot against your ear, his lips dragging along the curve of your neck, his voice is a deep, rumbling baritone.
“Show me,” he says. “Show me how you like it, so I can make you feel good. Yeah?”
Your breath catches in your throat and you grip tightly at his wrist, nodding your head.
“Yeah?” he asks, chuckling. He shifts his tattooed hand under yours, pushing them both past your waistband. “Show me, love,” he says again.
You take control, using his hand to pleasure yourself. He responds to the slightest of pressures, the carefullest of adjustments.
“You're wet,” he says as you rub his middle finger up and down your slit. “Soaking.” Just the sound of his voice makes you moan, grinding yourself against his growing erection and pushing your head back further against his shoulder.
“When’d you get so wet, sweetheart? Hm?”
He presses just the pad of his finger inside you, an appreciative hum coming from his chest. You use the wetness on his finger to rub circles on your clit, squirming just the slightest in pleasure.
“Last night,” you breathe out. “When you u-undressed. You took your belt off with one hand.”
You can feel his cocky smile pressed into the back of your neck, his canines nipping at the warm skin there.
“Yeah? That turned you on?” You’ve started to lose focus on guiding him, but Simon takes over without hesitation.
“Yeah,” you reply, eyes closing in pleasure as he rubs faster.
“Maybe I’ll have to use that belt on you sometime then. Bet you’d look real pretty with bruises on your ass.”
You whimper, and he yanks on your hair. “Or maybe wrap it around your throat?” he says.
He pulls away from your pussy, gripping your face and pulling on your hair so you can look at yourself in the mirror. He squishes your cheeks together, his eyes smoldering as he stares at your reflections.
“I could hurt you, and you’d thank me for it. Isn’t that right, love?” You blink and whine and squirm. He only smiles at your desperation and then pushes two fingers into your mouth.
“Suck,” he tells you. “I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, petting your hair. “Maybe some other time. If you want me to.”
He pulls his fingers out of your mouth, a strand of saliva trailing as he guides them both inside you. The stretch makes you gasp, and he groans.
“Right now, I just want to make you feel good. Is that okay?”
He fucks you with his fingers, curling them upwards in a way that makes your legs shake. He holds them open.
“Just want you to feel good, sweetheart. Let me take care of you, okay?”
He uses his thumb to swipe at your clit and you’re nearly there, eyes squeezing shut.
“You’re such a good girl. Always taking good care of me,” he says. “Let me take care of you now, yeah? I’m good at that.”
You nod your head vigorously, whimpering and shaking. Simon finds your hand, letting you squeeze him tightly until you finally reach your peak.
“There you go,” he says with a chuckle, slowly working you down. “Good fucking girl. You look so pretty when you cum.”
When you finally gain some composure, you look in the mirror to see him already looking at you. He smiles and moves all your hair onto one shoulder, kissing from your shoulder to your earlobe.
“You want more?” he whispers, lightly tracing over your ribs with his fingernails.
You’re melting into him, softly buzzing from your post-orgasmic high and his tender affections.
You reach your hand up to grab at his hair. “Yes.”
Simon grins—and it’s boyish and self-assured and intoxicating.
“Get on top,” he says, and you’re not sure you understand until he quickly maneuvers your body and settles himself beneath you. He readjusts, positioning himself so his head is near the foot of the bed.
“Get on top.” He kicks his pants off and hastily pulls down your panties. “And watch yourself in the mirror, so you know how good you look getting fucked.”
You’re nervous about the fit, almost trembling, but he rests his warm hands on your thighs and rubs circles with his thumbs.
“You say stop, and we stop,” he says, trying to catch your shy gaze.
You shake your head. “I don’t wanna stop.” You bite your bottom lip and try not to blush. “I just…” you look away, embarrassed, but Simon squeezes your thighs to try and bring you back. “I just haven’t done it before, like this.”
“But you want to?”
“Yes.”
“Then do it, baby. Go slow if you want. Use me how you need to.”
His words make you breathless. “Okay,” you say, grinding on him.
His hands twitch where he holds your hips. “I’m yours,” he grunts as you start to press yourself down on him.
The stretch is significant and you move slowly, whimpering as you take more and more of him inside you. Simon groans long and deep, putting one arm up behind his head to keep from pushing you down further, the other kneads firmly at your waist and hips and thighs—a compulsion that helps him resist the need to fuck up into you.
“You’re too big,” you cry, finally reaching the base of him.
Simon lets out a pained sound. “Good fucking girl.” He puts both hands on your waist, just slightly rocking into you. “So good, you made it fit, didn’t you?”
You moan, rolling your hips in tandem with his.
“You look so good with my cock inside you.”
He squeezes the small of your back, feeling the curve of your ass.
“Look, sweetheart. Look at yourself,” he says, forcing your head up straight. He rests his palm against your chest, letting you grip his wrists with both hands while you watch yourself in the mirror.
“You look the prettiest when you’re taking cock, don’t you think?”
His words make you whimper and you move faster, quickly approaching your climax. Simon’s steady thrusts speed up with your rolling motion, pressing against your cervix over and over.
“Say it,” he tells you. “Say you’re pretty when you take cock.”
You want to cry, getting closer and closer to the edge of bliss.
“I’m pretty,” you hiccup, “when I take cock.”
Simon groans. “Fucking beautiful.”
He readjusts, grabbing your waist tightly to pin you against him and thrusts forcefully.
“Yeah, you’re pretty,” he says. “You’re fucking pretty. And you’re mine—my fucking pretty girl. Right, love?”
You squeeze one of his arms tightly, and cover your own mouth with your other hand.
“No, no,” he says, trying to pull your hand away. “Let me hear those slutty little sounds.”
“Simon—”
“I know. I can feel it.” His eyes squeeze close for a second. “Just let it go. I’ve got you.”
“I—I want—,” you can’t quite orient your thoughts anymore, but he understands.
“I want you to cum,” he says, immediately captivating your attention. You’re dangling on the edge, almost painfully so, unable to pass the threshold. “You’ve got five seconds.”
“I can’t,” you cry, shaking your head.
“You will,” he says. “Five.”
He uses his thumb to rub circles into your raw clit, hand pressed flat against your abdomen as he moves with your desperate grinding.
“Four.”
He slaps your ass, and you tighten around him.
“Three.”
His cock is throbbing—so close to his own release.
“Two.”
He grabs the back of your neck and pulls you down, continuing to fuck up into you.
“One.”
He presses his lips to yours, moaning in your mouth as you clench down on him and milk his cock dry.
When you sit up, your chest still heaving, he’s quick to comfort you.
“Shh,” he says, pressing a hand to your chest so you can grab at his wrist again. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. Just try and slow your breathing down, okay?”He helps your nervous system relax, talking you through it and touching you soothingly. You lay with your head over his heartbeat, him still inside you, and listen to the wave-like sounds of his lungs.
Sometime much later, you wake up. You’re alone in bed, feeling clean, and dressed in new clothes. There’s aspirin, water, and an odd assortment of foods on the nightstand—two clementines, toast (one side buttered, one with jam), a handful of chocolate chips, and an opened (but barely touched) bag of smoked-bourbon jerky that you absolutely never purchased. The lights are off and the ceiling fan is on and you can see the security system is alarmed, but there’s no Simon. Instead, there’s a note on his pillow, written in sharpie on a napkin:
Had to leave. I’m sorry.
Tea in the kitchen.
I’m coming back. Always will.
S xx
There is, in fact, a pot of poorly-brewed tea on the kitchen stove, and your tulips placed inside an mason jar by the window, and the lingering scent of blue spruce and eucalyptus, but what makes you truly smile—what fills you with the tiniest budding of hope in your chest, such that you fall madly and irrevocably in love with him—is opening your kitchen cabinet to see Simon’s battered, childhood mug nestled next to yours.
(part III of a mini series; part I here, part II here).
a/n: thank you so much for every like, comment, and reblog they mean so much to me because it gets me new online friends and interests! special thank you to users @lillianastuff @v1naco @love4ghost @ghost-with-a-teacup @breadboyye @theboywhosavedtheworldonce @vincentvandont @blubumblebee for your personal messages, i read and am always tehehe so excited !! for every single one.
tags: how the hell do tag lists work? am i doing this right? very confused, trying my best.
Here is my ao3 account, here is the tag for all my posted fics. You can find my original OC writing with this tag.
ONGOING SERIES
The King and The Mouse - König falls in love with a shy, sweet tech on a military base. After she’s honorably discharged, she joins KorTac to stay with him. Currently 12 parts of long haul character development. Saddle in for angst, fluff, smut. On Ao3, on tumblr (posted only up to 4 parts on tumblr)
Slow Dancing in the Dark - Your father is an international arms dealer and the reason your life is a living nightmare. Your twin brother and you are taken in by 141 (as hostages, or allies?) and you’re stuck with Ghost as a six-four irritating, very attractive body guard as they try to take your father down. Enemies to lovers vibes with a lot of angst and smut. On Ao3, not yet on tumblr.
People Say this Brain Was Infected by Devils - Scifi Horror AU featuring you, an intelligence officer, who is forced to come along with the 141 team as they inspect a drifting prison carrier that’s been firing off a distress signal. This is a story about horrors beyond comprehension and also Soap/Reader/Ghost polycule. Updated very slowly and only on Ao3.
Her Heart Was the Most Beautiful Thing I Ever Broke - You’re a burnt out writer whose last resort is a month long retreat to a cabin in the woods; Vermont is beautiful in fall and your only hope is that the peace, quiet and solitude will make your writers block finally disappear. Except the cabin across the lake has been rented out by a noisy British man who keeps pushing all your buttons. Masterlist here. Also on ao3.
simon “ghost” riley x reader | SFW. GN reader, no pronouns or gendered language. suggestive themes. FLIRTINGGGGG
tw: discussion/depiction of substance use. brief/vague mention of injury
It isn’t often you receive any sort of warning before Simon shows back up on your doorstep. Uncommon for you to get so much as a phone call, so his usual vague ‘back soon’ text is a treat. Always makes you vibrate with excitement. The radio silence is never by choice - he’s rarely in a position to get clearance or a moment to spare for communication.
(A confession, wrapped up in each other in bed: occasionally he’ll send that text as a personal motivator. Makes him chase the end of the mission. Clean up quick. Get back to you. That had been a revelation, and one you’d thoroughly rewarded.)
Time is a little funky, too. His arrival could be the night you get that text, or two weeks later. Anticipation is sweet, but when it comes to Simon, it morphs quickly into concern. Who could blame you? The dynamic is difficult and stressful. It’s not a relationship you would have chosen for yourself, nor one you envisioned in the first place.
He’s eager to make it work, though. He wouldn’t bother sending updates otherwise.
You’ve taken to cataloguing his scars, filing them away. Your fingers always manage to find an unfamiliar bit of marred skin. He collects them, at least one new blemish for each return.
(Some, you can handle. It’s the circular, silvery stars left by bullets and notched strands left by the kiss of a blade that sour your reunions. They keep you up at night. The fate of it: you’ll lose him, eventually. One way or another. You know it. He knows it. Coming to terms with that truth is harder when he isn’t around.)
•
‘Home soon’
An eight letter string from an unknown number, as usual. It’s nothing new.
Except it is.The difference between those two words, four letters each, in such a simple rearrangement of symbols, is astronomical. World-shaking. It’s everything.
Just two hours after his text rolls in, a knock. Midnight, right before you’re about to give up on your pathetic waiting and climb into bed alone. You’re on the couch, half-heartedly watching a show as the light, air excitement and relief sours. Starts to dissipate out of you, off your skin, evaporating from your pores. It leaves you exhausted. The rise of a balloon let loose, the inevitable pop when it climbs too high.
At the familiar rhythm (his ‘safe to open’ knock) you nearly leap over the couch. You bang your hip on the corner as you rush to the entryway. When you reach it, you pause. You try to contain yourself just a little. He’s so fucking insufferable when he knows you’re on the other side of the door, waiting like a dog left at home.
When it swings it open, you are…
Not expecting Soap.
“Hiya!” He chirps, his usual greeting, all easy charisma and that golden-hour bright smile. His eyes drop from your confused expression, and widen when he sees what you’re wearing. “Oh, mate. Yer fit to kick later, for this one.”
The shameless compliment and your giddy excitement make you laugh, cheeks heating. You close the robe tighter around yourself, knuckles shyly resting against the soft junction of your collarbones. It’s not particularly revealing or purposefully suggestive. Just a nice silk piece, moderately expensive and yet still smooth like water.
You wear it now, and every time there’s a planned return, because he likes it. First reveal of the purchase and he’d gone quiet, run the fabric between his fingers… then dragged you into bed. Naturally, it replaced your regular old fluffy bathrobe, though he’s just as likely to fuck you with that one hanging off your shoulders.
“Okay, dude.” You huff out a laugh through your nose, trying not to encourage him too much.
Soap wriggles his eyebrows, gracing you with another brazen once-over. Then he shifts, like he’s managing an immense amount of weight, and that’s when you notice the massive, black-clad arm draped over his shoulders.
You open the door wider. The smile on your face grows as the big shadow hanging off Soap is slowly revealed.
Simon is slumped hard, all that weight slanted, somehow still dwarfing him. His neck is limp at an uncomfortable looking angle, temple resting atop Soap’s head. His body language is loose and pliant in a way that looks alien, outside moments of privacy or intimacy. The only thing expected is the casual outfit — black beanie and that simplified face mask he prefers on leave. It is slightly, endearingly askew on his jaw.
His steady gaze is unfocused and glassy, glued to a spot on the bottom of the door. As it opens, they float listless in his skull to land somewhere near your knees. He draws up your body in a slow, appreciative line — like Soap, only miles away from full cognition.
You laugh at the empty expression on his face, and Simon’s eyes, still smudged in dark paint, widen.
“G’damn.” He slurs breathily. His chin tilts up in what you think must be an attempt at charm. “Hi there. Alright?”
Rolls his shoulders back, fixes his posture — tries to, at least. His limbs seem too liquid to accomplish much. Accent is more pronounced than usual, tinged with something youthful and flirtatious. Couple it with the messy meld of syllables, his lazy stance, and you know something is off.
Your eyebrows shoot into your hairline. “Hi. I’m good. Are you?”
He doesn’t answer, just gazes at you. Creases at the corners of his eyes like he’s smiling. His pupils are huge, and that’s the moment you realize Simon is absolutely fucking gone.
“Jesus.” Soap says, appalled. “Pure dead brilliant, that. Cannae believe he managed it in the first fuckin’ place.”
He adjusts himself to better heft the body weight pulling him down. You know exactly how heavy Simon is, especially when he’s relaxed, and you’re genuinely impressed Soap is still upright under all of that.
”Didn’t recognize me either, at first.” He pouts. “Give it a few to let ‘em cook. Don’t take it personal.” Simon is staring openly at you, now. He doesn’t look anymore present than a moment before.
You tap Soap on the wrist and move aside, giving him enough space to fit the both of them through the door, down the hall to your bedroom.
Simon’s footsteps are sluggish, feet dragging as he stumbles after Soap’s lead. The smaller man seems to be struggling, so you duck under his other arm and take on as much as you can to help. Simon tenses at the touch, your palm over his stomach, and mumbles something unintelligible.
It’s certainly a two person job, getting him to the bed. You’ve no idea how Soap handled it alone, up until now. Simon drops onto the mattress, dead weight, and slumps over like a two-something sack of flour. His feet hang off the bed and the two of you kneel at the same time.
“Is he…good?” You ask, fighting the knot of his laces.
“Aye. Well, naw, actually.” Soap snickers, doing the same with the other boot. “Wee bit better than ‘good’, I’d reckon.”
Your concern must visibly twist your features, because he pats you on the back. “Was it bad?
“Scratch, really.” Is his sincere promise. “Just a through-and-through.”
He gestures at a spot high on his flank. There’s a bunched bit of fabric near the top of his ribcage, just below the armpit. It is concerningly shy of multiple vital organs, far too close to warrant a casual response of ‘scratch’ and ‘just’.
You look down at Simon. Those dark, hazy eyes are still locked on you. When you meet them, they widen even more, then dart shyly away. It is so fucking unbearably cute. Especially when the sliver of cheekbone you can see above the mask reddens in a hot flush.
“Oh my God.” You giggle, totally delighted. “What did they even give him. Elephant tranquilizer?”
“Name it! Fuckin’ cocktail.” Soap agrees. He’s shouting from the kitchen and when he returns to your side, he’s polishing off a bag of chips. As he chews: “When it comes to this big wanker, think they approach dosage like, ‘better safe than sorry’.”
“Makes sense.” You lean down and undo the zipper on his hoodie. The task of guiding it off both arms is considerably more difficult than when he’s lucid.
As he’s freed, he tries to sit up and reach for you. Wires crossed, some pattern recognition activated by your undressing him. You stop him, hand on his shoulder, and he falls backwards with an appreciative, saucy grunt. As if you’ve violently thrown him down to have your way with him.
You grin.
“Right fuckin’ pushy, this one. Like it.” He whisper-slurs at Soap, like they’re the two in the room now and he desperately needs to share a secret.
Then, as if you’ve just popped back into existence, he situates himself, leans back invitingly on his elbows. Tracing the hem of your robe, regarding the bare skin below your thighs, with a heated fixation. He does that stupid fucking chin tilt again and lifts his eyebrows high. “Hey, love.”
You slap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing. Soap isn’t so controlled. His barking cackle echoes off the walls.
“Aye, Lt. We’re well aware you ‘like it’.”
Your face’s turn to heat. Your head swims as you imagine of what, exactly, Soap is well aware when it comes to you and his commanding officer and ‘pushy’. Simon is arrogant, but private, and although you have faith he’d never go around boasting of you like a conquest, these two are close.
“Is he, like, okay to be out of the hospital right now?” You’re desperate to change the subject.
“Docs n’I both tried to get ‘em to stay, but,” he shrugs, gives you a knowing wink. “Just kept askin’ to ‘go home’.”
Your chest tightens. “He made you bring him here?”
“Very insistent, s’matter of fact.”
You bend again, delighted at this new tidbit of information. Slowly, so he can resist if he wants, you take Simon’s hood and beanie off. Brush a tender pet through his messy cropped hair as it’s revealed. Even slower, you hook a finger around the strap of his mask. He butts his head into your touch, drunken and loose like a cat, and you read this as a wordless yes, do it.
“Mate, c’mon. Y’dunno how lucky you are, left me phone in the car.” Soap declares at his shameless behavior, hands on his hips as he watches you set everything aside — mask and all. “Blackmail forever.”
Simon’s eyes are fluttering, sleepy but annoyed, as he looks up at Soap. “Still here?”
The Scot puts a palm to his chest, an indignantly offended gasp leaving him. He matches the middle finger Simon raises with double the intensity, thrusting his arm out.
Despite the display, Soap’s inching slowly towards the door, always respectful of a request for privacy.
You follow him, but toss a glance of concern over your shoulder. Simon has his chin tilted back, hands intertwined under his head. The tight t-shirt bares his throat, and it bobs in a gulp when you leave. He’s openly admiring your ass, looking as if he’s trying to be sneaky about it and utterly failing in his intoxicated state.
So cute.
“Ugh.” You sigh, stop with Soap at the front door. “He must have been pretty fucked up.”
Soap shrugs. “Aye, but. Nothin’ new.” He pats your back again. “S’all fine, calm it. Beast’s hard to put down. Else there’d be naut a fuckin’ scar on him.”
“Very comforting,” you mutter dryly, and open the door for him.
“He’ll crash in a few, m’sure.” Soap reaches into his pocket and hands you a plastic bottle. Several pills roll about in the bottom. “Couple more doses, if y’can handle playing nurse awhile longer.”
“I guess that depends on how obedient the patient is.” You shake your head, considering the bottle. “He’s so fucking stubborn sometimes about medicine. I might need to hold him down.”
“Awh, bleedin’ hell.” He says with a dramatic shiver. “Gotta stop it, puttin’ images in my head.” Soap whines and taps his temple, eyes flashing coy as he backs through the door, hands in either jacket pocket.
“Never” you tease back, poking your tongue at him. “Goodnight, Johnny. Thanks for getting him here. Be safe, all right?”
“Never!” Soap echoes, and disappears around the corner.
•
Simon might be asleep, already. Eyes closed, lips parted as his chest rises in slow, deep measures. You stand above him for a moment, drinking in the sight. Gathering and memorizing each curve of his face, this bear of a man sweet and supple at rest. It makes your chest ache even more. You feel like you’re going to burst open.
His face is smushed between the back of the couch and his arm. When you reach out to brush a fingertip over the curve of his cheekbone, those moonlit eyelashes, his eyes slide open.
“Hi, baby.”
He blinks at you sleepily. At the nickname, a huge paw falls onto his chest, the splay of fingers surprised, embarrassed: who, me?
“Yeah you, handsome. How are you feeling? Does it hurt at all?”
Simon shakes his head, the movement swinging, drunk. Pain is clearly not within his capacity, at the moment. Not a whole lot is.
“Naw.” His brow pinches. There’s an attractive, confused pout on his mouth you’ve never seen. “Pretty. Who’re you?” A lethargic smirk. “Single? Be gutted if you’re not.”
Flirtatious, a tad wary. He is well and truly lost in that foggy place, doesn’t have any clue who you might be. Still, some part of him that’s comfortable. It must know that he’s safe here. He let you touch him, take off his mask. You have no doubt that, with his training and experience, even intoxicated, he’d be alleviating any significant concerns with fight or flight.
You retreat to the bathroom and warm a washcloth, return to scrub the paint from under his eyes before it can stain your sheets. He sighs happily as you turn his chin this way and that, cleaning him thoroughly.
“So,” he says after you’re done. “Single?”
“Not quite.” You sit down at the edge of the bed with a blanket, pull the sheets up over you both, then drape it over his legs. “You know me.”
“Figured,” he says. He rolls from his back to his good side, facing you. Tucks an arm under his head, settles in to stare. Ever observant, even now. He’s getting very close to comatose, words slow, but the remnants of his careful attention are working overtime to keep focus on your face.
“How?”
“How do we know each other? We’ve been—” you chew your lip, feeling awkward and put on the spot. You haven’t sat down for that discussion, yet, and you don’t want to put words in his mouth. It’s vulnerable, important. You’d rather have it when he’s at least on the same planet as you. Right now, his eyes are fluttering, fighting against delirium’s sweet lull.
“We’re, uh. Seeing each other, I guess.”
Simon’s jaw clicks with how fast it drops open. One of his hands twitches. It lifts up once, twice, each time dropping lead-like into the same spot. He frowns, glares at it, as if the expression can force the muscles to behave as his brain intends. After significant difficult, he is successful in patting it across the sheet between you. Ghosts his fingers over your shoulder, down the neckline of your robe. Like you’re not real, and he needs to confirm his hand won’t fall through you. Just needing to touch, to be touched.
“No.” Sweetly shocked, boyish and fascinated. “Us?”
You nod, biting your lip around the grin.
“Dating?”
You suck in a breath. This time, your nod is much slower.
Simon whistles, low and long and prideful, like he’s impressed with himself. Proud of his more cognizant side. It makes you giggle helplessly.
Conspiratorial and coy, he whispers: “Fucking?”
You just…can’t stop smiling. Pure joy warming your chest, your face. You reach out and trace your fingers over the ridges and valleys of his knuckles, where they’re curled into your pillow.
“Regularly.”
“No.” He groans again. A huff of surprised, pleased air out his nose, one of his free hands scrubs down his jaw. “Swear?”
You draw a cross over your chest with his finger, a third and final nod. Solemn.
He sighs, drops his very red face into the pillow. “Bloody hell.”
A bulky arm slides your waist, tentative, like he’s prepared for you to squirm away, and would respectfully allow it. His addled mind must not expect you to slip across the distance, instead of wait to be pulled in or move away entirely, because as the length of your body meets his, he grunts. He’s quiet and still for a long moment, just his steady breathing keeping the room from complete silence. You think he’s fallen asleep.
Then, suddenly: “Do you wanna —”
Even out of his brains on pain meds, you know where that tone wanders, what the end of that question is going to be.
“Jesus, how are you still insatiable like this. Later, okay? Right now you need to sleep.”
Despite your firm delivery, you’re giggling like a fool again when you lean up on an elbow, press your mouth to his jaw. Almost can’t kiss him properly because of your cheek-splitting grin.
You feel your mind slipping, too. He’s so warm, arm comforting and heavy where it rests over your side, tucks into a loose fist in the silky fabric at your back. Trapped as you are in the sweltering sanctuary between his body heat and the blanket over your shoulders, you’re sure to wake a sweaty mess.
(Don’t really care, honestly. You’d rather die than move.)
You rub your face into the center of his chest, carefully avoiding the wounded section of his rib cage. Scuttle closer, tangling your legs between his, making him sigh contentedly.
“In the morning then, yeah?”
“Go to sleep, Simon.” You laugh.
He does, and you pretend not to hear the words he mumbles into the top of your head. If he wants to repeat it when he’s back on Earth, he will.
summary: When your uncle gets called away suddenly, you set out to take over his remote island farm. It's supposed to be a peaceful escape, relaxing and rejuvenating. But strange shadows move through the bushes at night, and you can't shake the feeling of eyes watching your every action, of something dark and powerful gathering its strength...waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
tags: 18+, afab reader, they/them pronouns, atmospheric and a bit of psychological horror, folklore, eventual smut
Part of the "Anything" verse, can be read as a standalone.
Summary: When the 141 has to make a choice between saving you or a fellow sniper, you know that your time has come to an end.
A/N: This was meant to be a short filler and now it's like 4.5k long. Hope you're all happy.
Category: Angst || Hurt/Comfort
Warnings: Graphic Language | Graphic Violence | Gun Violence | Graphic Description of Injury
The ringing in your ears woke you up.
It was a high-pitched squeal that scrambled your thoughts and made your head pound. You couldn't think straight, you couldn't get past the overwhelming dizziness whenever you tried to raise your chin.
Blood stung your eyes. Your chest burned. You hadn’t been in this much pain in years, every pinch of your nerves prodded at long-forgotten childhood memories. They were things that had been left behind from before you enlisted, things that no longer mattered. What mattered was that you were tied to a chair and barely breathing.
You were going to die here.
And nobody was coming to save you.
"Oh,” someone crooned from behind your seat. You didn’t have the strength to turn your neck and you thanked whatever cruel deity was listening that you hadn’t flinched. The least you could do was fake some courage for what was to come.
“Come back for more?” Your mouth was dry, wretchedly so. You wanted to gag and spit, but there was no moisture in your mouth- it was like sandpaper.
“There’s not much left in you for me to take, Sol,” Valeria said, her fingers trailing the length of your shoulder. Your body shivered beneath her touch as she slowly circled your chair, a cruel smile tugging at the corner of her lips.
“Oh, I’ve always got something left for you, gorgeous,” you chuckled, flashing the drug lord a weak grin.
She snorted, the harsh light of the overhead lamp illuminating the edges of her features. She was a sharp woman, Valeria, somebody that you secretly admired. Not for her deeds or the atrocities she’d committed, but for her tenacity and her ambition- there was no stopping her.
“You’ve always been my favourite sniper, you know,” Valeria mused, pulling her hand from your skin to inspect it. Your blood stained her fingers, thick and warm from where it had oozed from your wounds.
“You usually kill your favourite snipers?” You tried to raise your eyebrow but sharp pain ripped through your face, you realized dimly that the skin of your forehead had been split.
“Only when they steal things that belong to me, Luz,” Valeria whispered, pressing her hands against the armrests and leaning in. “Then, I kill them.”
“We didn’t do it,” you met her gaze evenly, the false claim falling easily from your lips.
“You’d die a liar to protect your friends,” she nodded thoughtfully. “It’s unfortunate that they have chosen not to give you the same courtesy.”
You frowned, taken aback by the statement. You suspected that the 141 wouldn’t be there in time, you’d come to terms with the fact that your journey might end here. But, the way she’d said it… it was as if you were missing something.
Valeria’s brows raised, eyes wide as she mocked your surprise with a gasp. “Oh, I must have forgotten to mention it earlier.”
“Mention what?” You ground out through your teeth.
The drug lord huffed a laugh, pushing off from your seat and standing upright. Sweat began to form in a thin sheen across your skin, anxiety running rampant through your system.
What did she mean?
Valeria’s eyes hardened as she tutted under her breath, pulling the blade on her thigh from its sheath. When her attention turned back to you, the malice in her gaze made your spine straighten.
“What you stole from me,” she began, pointing the knife towards your face, “got someone very close to me killed.”
You swallowed thickly, your throat like gravel and your tongue like concrete.
The woman was seething now, the cool facade that she’d worn had melted into pure vitriol and hatred. It was an expression you’d never seen on her but on so many others throughout the years, it was the stare of someone who blamed you for their loss.
“So, as penance,” Valeria pressed the tip of the blade to rest against your chest, “your Task Force will have to lose one of their own- even after they bring me the information.”
“What-”
“We have the other sniper,” the drug lord shrugged. “The little broken one.”
Your heart stalled in your chest, fear dousing your body like a bucket of ice water. Blood rushed through your ears, loud and roaring and all-consuming with the sound. You couldn’t think straight, the image of your colleague being tortured flashed across your vision like a spotlight.
“Birdy.” You whispered the name but it sounded like a plea rather than a statement. Valeria must have heard the begging in your voice because she only smiled.
“Birdy,” she confirmed, with a smug tilt of her head.
God, please no.
“Let them go!” You lurched against your restraints.
The latina's eyes were like stone, hard and unyielding. She was in pain, she was hurting and now it was her chance to hurt you all for what you’d done.
“I will,” she nodded her head soothingly, fingers coming to trace your trembling jaw. You snatched your face from her touch and she raised a brow. When she leaned back with a sigh, you knew what was coming.
Valeria struck you hard.
The wounds on your face screamed and it felt like someone was making you gargle molten lava. Your eyes watered but you made no sound, you gave her nothing to indicate that she’d hurt you.
“The 141 will bring me what they stole,” Valeria sucked in a breath, watching you from beneath her lashes. “But they can only save one of you.”
Your eyes widened.
They can only save one of you.
You knew then that you were going to die here.
“What’s the matter, pequeño sol?” Valeria spoke with a mocking lilt. Your body trembled. “You don’t think they will come for you?”
“No.”
The word was soft and broken and you wondered if the drug lord had even heard it. The way that her smile wavered implied that she did.
“No,” she nodded, standing straight. “Neither do I.”
If you hadn’t been so shattered, you would have seen the glimmer of pity pass over her features.
You took in a deep breath in an attempt to calm yourself, "will you keep your word?"
"What?"
"Will you keep your word?" You repeated firmly. No one was stupid enough to trust the word of a drug lord but right there and then you would take it as law. If you were going to die you needed to know that Birdy would be safe.
Your eyes bore into hers. Valeria swallowed and you could see her hesitation, the desire to spit on the dying flame in your chest and put it out.
Instead, the woman only nodded.
"I will."
Instantly, you relaxed in your seat and leaned your head back with a sigh. You closed your eyes, fighting the tears that had gathered along your lashes.
This was it.
This was the end of it.
You weren't stupid enough to expect anyone to come save you, not when Birdy's life hung in the balance. There was never a doubt about who was more valued on the team, despite your skills you'd never be able to contend with Birdy's spot on the team.
It wasn't about who was better, it was about who was loved.
And nobody in the 141 loved you more than they loved Birdy.
No one.
Your lips trembled and you fury rose like a volcanic eruption from within your chest. You would not die crying. You would not die without dignity.
"I'll be leaving to retrieve my package," Valeria sighed, sheathing her knife. "Once the handover is made, my men will put you down."
You grinned.
"After all we've been through," you feigned hurt. "I thought you'd want to do the honors, gorgeous."
But Valeria didn't bite. She didn't laugh nor did she retaliate, the woman only watched you with an unreadable expression.
"We are the same, me and you, Sunshine." The drug lord stood tall, "Deberías haber sido valorado. Morir con orgullo."
You blinked dumbly. "I don't know what the fuck you said but I'm going to assume you think I'm hot and that you regret not sleeping with me before I die."
Valeria rolled her eyes and turned away.
"You act tough, Sol. Don't die thinking this is anything but a betrayal."
Betrayal.
You offered nothing but a snort, laughing the chill of her words off your spine.
The woman left the room and immediately the silence was overwhelming. There was no one to lie to now, no one to throw your facade at. You found yourself almost asking her to stay as she closed the door behind her, biting your tongue to reserve your dignity. But, you didn't want to be alone, not when the end was approaching so quickly.
Though, you guess you'd done this to yourself.
Always good, but never enough. König was your best friend, but you knew he'd leave you in a heartbeat to save the sniper he truly loved- you couldn't ask any differently from him.
After all, if it had been between him and Ghost, you were sure you'd make the same decision.
A pathetic tragedy in itself considering the feeling wasn't mutual.
Simon Riley loved Birdy, just as the rest of them did.
You would never compare, you'd never come close, not with your ambitious demeanor- not with your shitty attitude. You'd never allowed yourself to view them as family and when they'd tried to include you, you hadn't let them in.
If your own family had wronged you, your own flesh and blood, what would the 141 do any differently?
By the looks of the situation: nothing.
No one was coming to save you.
The burning beneath your lids became so aggressive you wanted to tear the skin from your face. You wanted to gouge out your eyes, just so that the only thing dripping would be blood- not tears.
Never tears.
You were not Birdy, you did not cry.
You were not Birdy.
You'd never be Birdy.
The pressure in your chest grew and swelled and suffocated, extinguishing the fire you'd kept burning for years. Through everything, you'd held strong. Through hellfire and brimstone, you'd crawled your way across death and misfortune to emerge from the ashes stronger.
You did not break. Not until now.
A scream ripped from your chest, unrecognizable. It wasn't you who wailed, it was the child inside who mourned their life. It was the adult who'd never been loved the way they'd prayed for in the dead of the night.
Never enough.
Never enough for König, the man who always found himself by Birdy's side, chasing for the crumbs of their attention.
Never enough for Simon Riley, who'd taken your heart and crushed it every time he watched you with distaste- with disappointment.
You were never the priority.
Never his priority.
You'd never be anything to Ghost, not the way Birdy was.
But you were not Birdy and you'd not die wishing that you were.
You pulled at your restraints, thrashing in your chair with renewed energy. While you knew it was unlikely you'd escape, at least you'd be put down fighting.
"Hey!" One of Valeria's henchmen shouted.
You struggled harder, the skin of your wrists ripping from beneath the ties. Fresh blood trailed down your fingers and you smeared it wherever you could reach, wetting the braided rope until it was slick with crimson rage.
Your heart jumped as your hands slipped through the restraints, the gory lubrication helping you pull your crumpled fingers free.
"Stop!" The cool metal of a barrel pressed against your forehead, putting an instant halt on your plans.
You glared up at the man before you, his eyes were hard but his hand trembled, the weapon jittering against your skull.
"I will fucking paint this room with your brains," he hissed, the cigarette in his mouth jolting with each word. "Try me, I dare you."
"If the 141 comes with the package and I'm dead, Valeria will butcher your entire family, cabrón." You were careful as you spoke, enunciating each word as clearly as you could muster.
The butt of his weapon struck your cheek hard enough to send stars skittering across your vision.
"I speak," the man hissed, "not you."
"I'm trying to warn you-"
He hit you again, this time harder. You felt your teeth dislodge from in your mouth and panic gripped your heart as they slid down your throat.
"I said don't speak!" He shouted, the words warbled as your vision spun. Your head lolled to the side, gagging as you choked on your own bones. Bile speared through your chest as a combination of blood and stomach acid hit the floor weakly. Your teeth clattered across the ground, like dice rolling across the board.
"Ricky!" The man called over his shoulder. "Alguna palabra sobre el paquete?
"Aún nada, hermano."
"Mierda! ¿Por qué tarda tanto?"
The conversation fell on deaf ears as you fought to keep yourself conscious. Your hands were freed but now the element of surprise was lost and there was a barrel pressed against your face.
"I should kill you right now," the man spat in English. "You fucking murdered my brothers like a coward."
"They should learn to duck," you shrugged weakly.
This time when he hit you, it threw your seat backward. You hadn't been able to move your hands in time before the weight of your body and the steel spines of the chair slammed against your forearms.
A sickening crunch reverberated through the room, echoing like the toll of a church bell and while that was loud, your scream was deafening.
"Let's be honest with ourselves, Sunshine," the man laughed, watching you as you writhed and sobbed. "Nobody is coming to save you."
He cocked the weapon slowly, leaning down to press the barrel against your forehead once again. You couldn't even keep your eyes open as you struggled for breath, choking on your own spit and blood as you shrieked. You wanted to watch him, you wanted to go down with defiance- but fear gripped your throat so tightly you were choking on it.
You weren't going to die fighting.
You were going to die suffering.
When the gunshot came, your body recoiled so hard that your head smashed the concrete beneath you. In that horrible moment of silence that followed, you wondered if there was no peace even in death. Agony ripped through your nervous system, every inch of your body screamed for relief.
If this was death, then you were in hell.
"Think again, cunt."
The distinct cockney accent had your spine straightening and your eyes snapping open.
The gun clattered beside your head, unfired.
You weren't dead.
"Sunshine!"
You were being saved.
"Talk to me, Sunshine!"
The voice was so far away, he was too far away, he wasn't going to make it. You weren't going to make it. The man on the floor next to you must have sat back up because you could feel his hands gripping your shoulders, the gun rattling in your ears.
Fingers gripped your face, jostling you from your semi-conscious state. Your vision was blurred by your own blood and tears, the figure before you a mess of shadows. You screamed, trying to pull your broken arms from beneath the chair to defend yourself until help got to you.
Searing hot pain ran up the lengths of your arms and stabbed into your neck. You gagged, a low bellow wrenching from your throat as you heaved.
"Stop! Stop! Don't move!"
"Get away from me!" You wailed, voice shrill and unhinged. You tugged again and this time his hands came down on your shoulders.
"SUNSHINE!"
The roar of your name made your entire body freeze, clutching you by the throat with the desperation behind the callsign. You closed your eyes, a whimper falling from your lips to taint your dignity.
"Jesus." He sounded like Ghost. It couldn't have been him but, God, you wished it was. "Come on, Sweetheart. Look at me."
"I can't see," you wept.
His thumbs swept over your face, gloves wiping the blood from where it had settled on your lids and lashes. You tried again, blinking the crimson liquid from your eyes as best you could. You imagined that you looked a sight, the whites of your eyes a deep red, stained with evidence of your injuries. Finally, your vision settled.
Simon stared back at you, eyes wide.
You gasped.
"Simon?" You slurred, his name broken on your lips.
"Yeah, Sunshine. S'me." He murmured distractedly. His fingers were twitching on your neck, scanning the rest of your body for injuries.
Your heart was beating against your ribs, sudden anxiety flooding your being. If he was here it meant that they'd brought the package to you rather than to Birdy.
That meant…
"No, no, no," you whispered as the Lieutenant lifted the chair with one hand, pulling your broken hands from behind your back. "No, no, Simon, what're you doing here?"
Ghost recoiled slightly, a frown overtaking his features. "The fuck do you mean?"
"Birdy," you rasped, a sob building in your chest. "You need to get Birdy. What about Birdy?"
"Birdy's-"
You fought to stand up, pushing him out of the way as you stumbled to your feet. Your body swayed side to side as your vision swam, but you weren't going down- not again.
"Need a gat. Need Birdy- we can't lose Birdy. Everybody needs Birdy-"
"Sunshine."
"I can't lose Birdy!" You snapped, reeling on your superior with a broken gaze.
For a moment, he stood frozen, speechless. You'd never recover if they killed the other sniper, no one would. Everyone would blame you, it'd be your fault.
"König's got Birdy," Ghost said slowly, straightening to stand to his full height. "I've got you, Sunshine."
You gawked at him as though you hadn't understood a single word he'd said. Realistically, you truly hadn't. They'd come for you, knowing that it would put everyone at risk.
Simon had come for you, leaving Birdy to a man that he hated with every ounce of his being.
Simon had come for you, not Birdy.
"You're here?" You whispered and although it sounded fucking stupid, Ghost only nodded. He knew what you were really asking.
"Of course," he said. "Of course, I am."
"You came for me?" Your voice broke.
The soldier shuffled on his feet, shaking his head as though he thought it was obvious.
"I'd follow you anywhere. We both know it," he huffed, that dark gaze pinning your soul to your chest.
You rocked forward at the words, knees buckling from beneath you. Simon shot forward instantly, his arms looping around your waist and hauling you upward. His hand came to grip your chin, fingers slapping your cheek lightly as your eyes rolled backward.
"Come on, Sweetheart. Stay with it, it's nothin'," he growled, jostling your body to keep you conscious. Your head fell forward to rest against his shoulder, ears ringing and your mind shattered. "Sunshine, stay awake for me."
You couldn't any longer, you couldn't listen to him. He should have been used to it by now, you'd always been the troublesome one for him. Never directly disobeying him but never doing it the way he asked, always driving him bat-shit fucking crazy- always under his skin.
But, if Simon couldn't save you, you'd die happy knowing that he'd even tried.
You'd die happy knowing that somebody loved you.
—
When you thought of dying, you always had such a visceral image of what would happen. You'd be the last one on your line, and the rest of your unit would be shot down; you'd make a stand on a hill and wipe out the enemy until you were out of ammo. Then, you would fight until you were overwhelmed.
That was the death you'd imagined.
Not abandoned and left alone in a warehouse in a sick game of "pick the sniper you like more."
"They'll fully recover physically," someone sighed from above your head. "Mentally, though…"
"They'll be right," Simon finished.
"That's what they said about Birdy," the doctor muttered. "We all know how that ended."
"Doc-"
"Saint."
Simon cleared his throat.
"Saint," the callsign foreign on his tongue, "Sunshine's not Birdy."
To hear it from Simon Riley himself was all the validation you needed.
You stirred in the bed and immediately all conversation fell quiet, the both of them waiting for you to fully awaken.
You knew you were in the hospital before your eyes opened. You recognised the doctor who was talking, a medic who had yelled at you often for ‘being reckless.’ The smell of antiseptic was near seared into your memory and the sound of the monitor beeping was too familiar.
However, the room was brighter than you’d anticipated and you cringed into your pillow with a moan. The overhead light stung your eyes, searing your retinas and making it near impossible for you to think.
“Get the lights,” Saint ordered, realizing what the issue was.
The room fell dim, enough for you to finally pry your lids open and have a look around. Your jaw felt heavy like there was cotton in your mouth. As you probed with your tongue, you realised with a pitted stomach that there actually was something stuffed between your teeth.
You moaned, reaching upward to pull it out.
It was as though you’d set off a bomb with the movement. Both Simon and Saint immediately shot forward, hands on your arms to rest them by your side gently. They stood on either side of your bed, like two sentries, one dark and one light.
“Gonna need you to just relax a second for me, spitfire,” Saint chuckled.
You huffed, fighting the urge to gag on the material in your mouth. Your tongue ran over it, moving to dislodge it from where it had been wedged between your teeth.
“Now,” the doctor leaned over to adjust your drip. “Do you remember your name and what happened?”
Rather than respond, you opted to slowly let the gauze fall out of your mouth and onto your chest. Saint watched you with a deadpan expression as you fought with your facial injuries to perform this feat.
At the end of it, you offered a weak smile.
A long moment of silence ensued before the doctor sighed, staring at the lumps of bloody fabric sitting on the gown.
“I’m gonna go grab some shit,” they said. “Maybe a fuckin’ whiskey.”
They disappeared from the room swiftly, leaving you alone with the Grim Reaper himself. With a harsh sigh through his nose, the Lieutenant reached over and scooped up the gauze, dropping them into the bin.
“You couldn’t just answer the question?” He muttered, moving to crouch by your head. He wore only his balaclava, his hoodie down for once.
“Not with that in my mouth,” you rasped, words thick and sickly.
Simon snorted softly but he said nothing, opting to watch you instead. His gaze ran from your hair to your neck, over and over as if he were committing you to memory. His expression was gentle but there was something hidden that made you think that, at that moment, he was extremely vulnerable.
Anything you said from this point on would determine the relationship between you both. You remembered what he’d confessed when he found you beaten and bloody on the floor. It was clear as day and imprinted on your brain as though it had been branded on the inside of your skull.
“I would follow you anywhere. We both know it.”
You’d both reached the point of no return, no more smoke and mirrors, no more half-truths. Neither of you could get away with hiding your feelings behind hatred anymore.
Not after he’d chosen you.
“You came for me,” you whispered. A statement, not a question this time.
“Of course,” he said again, just as he had before.
You hadn’t realised you were crying until his hand cupped your cheek, his thumb wiping the tears from your cheeks ever so gently. As much as you hated it, as much as you wanted to stop, you couldn’t hold them back.
The relief was palpable, the understanding that you were valued was freeing.
Simon Riley knew the kind of person you were, right at your very core, and he still chose to love you. He still chose to hold your hand and dry your tears with nothing but pure reverence in his gaze.
You realized then and there, that you were valued.
warnings: NSFW CONTENT ; 18+ ONLY. [oral sex-male receiving, overstimulation, degradation, use of a sex toy, use of 'puppy' i know I'm sorry, i'm sick in the head].
“This slutty pussy just won’t stop cumming, will it?”
He rubs your overstimulated cunt harshly as you collapse from another orgasm. Your pained moans only grow in intensity when he thrusts two fingers back inside, spreading your ass cheeks to watch them pound in and out of you.
“I don’t know why you’re crying, you asked for this.”
He uses his bent knee between your legs to push them further apart so that you’re forced deeper into an arch.
“Practically begged me to. Woke me up for it and everything. Shit!”
He slaps your ass, forcing his fingers into you as far as possible as you squirt around him for what must be the tenth time.
“Like a bitch in heat, huh?”
He grabs you by the back of the neck and pulls you to the edge of the bed, pushing your face into where you had soaked the mattress.
“Is that what you are? Just a bitch in heat? Just need something shoved up your pussy so you’ll fucking behave?”
He slaps your ass again, running his palm over it in-between hits.
“Isn’t that right?”
He grabs a fistful of hair and uses the leverage to nod your head for you, mocking you, before pushing you back down.
“Poor puppy,” he says. You feel his weight leave the bed, and then him going through his bedside drawer. “All she wants is a cock in her pussy. I know love, I know.”
Ghost comes back to the bed, and runs a hand down your spine.
“I got you something,” he said. “I was gonna give it to you next deployment, but since you’re gonna be such a fucking whore,”—he shrugs”—guess Valentines came early this year.”
He rolls you over, so that you’re laying on your back with your knees bent. He flashes you a cheshire grin and shows you the hot pink dildo in his hand. It’s thick, like his is, but not as long—still, the sight of it makes your stomach flip. Ghost leans over you, using one arm to prop himself up.
“Thought this could keep you full when I’m not around.”
He lays the toy atop your stomach, the tip brushing below your navel. He hums to himself.
“But since you’re so desperate for cock,”—his dark eyes flit up to meet yours, shining with a predatory curiosity, “—we’re gonna play with it right now.”
He thumbs at your bikini line and you whimper, closing your eyes in anticipation.
“Eyes on me.”
His voice is a deep timber as he separates your folds. You’re wet—sticky and creamy from his earlier ministrations.
“I’m gonna shove this dildo inside your slutty pussy, and then I’m going to fuck your face,” he says, rubbing your clit with the tip. “And if you push this out, I’m making you sleep with it inside you. Understand?”
You’re shaking now, completely enthralled by him. “Yes,” you whisper.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, sir.”
Ghost lets out a pleased sigh. He leans down to brush your lips with his. “Good girl,” he breathes out, before forcing the dildo into you.
He swallows your gasp with a branding kiss, only pulling away to rock his wrist back and forth with the dildo still buried deep inside you. He watches the fucked-out expression on your face with a sadistic smirk, kissing your neck and mocking your moans each time he changes pace or depth.
“This is what you wanted, puppy,” he says, pounding the toy into you so hard you lose your breath.
“You wanted to get your pussy fucked, didn’t you?”
His erection is digging into your stomach, the bulge painfully present beneath his sweatpants.
“And I always give you what you want. Isn’t that right love?”
He groans at the way your chest pushes up against him, just like it always does when you’re about to cum.
“Tell me thank you,” he says.
“Thank you!” you moan. “Thank you!”
He clicks his tone against his teeth, shaking his head.
“No, puppy.” He shoves the dildo in as far as it can possibly go, slapping the hilt a few times as he stands up. “Thank me like you really mean it.”
He pulls his cock out of his sweatpants, and you immediately fall to your knees, trying not to think about the way your pussy is spasming around the toy inside you. You take him in your hands, immediately suckling at the red tip.
Ghost groans, his head falling back and his hands coming to gather your hair.
“Fuck you’re pretty,” he says, watching the way you take more and more of him down your throat. You hum your appreciation at the praise, and Ghost hisses through his teeth.
“You like that, don’t you? Like knowing that you’re the prettiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen?”
He closes his eyes when you lick him from base to tip.
“You know I—” he chokes, getting close to his peak, “I would do anything for you. You’re just so fucking pretty”—you take him to the back of your throat, and he winces, “—and so fucking good at that.”
His hands flex in your hair as he tries to keep from fucking into you mercilessly. It’s a losing battle though, as he notices the way your hips are twitching—a jarred, grinding movement.
He chokes on a laugh. “Feels good inside you?”
You move to push off him, but Ghost holds your head and keeps you on his cock.
“I bet you like having two cocks inside you, don’t you puppy? Desperate bitch.”
You relax your throat and he pushes in further, fucking your mouth steadily.
“You know,” he grunts, “if I were a worse man, I’d want Johnny here. Or maybe Price.”
Ghost starts thrusting faster, biting his bottom lip as tears start to gather in your eyes.
“Want them to see what I come home to every time. Why I fight so fucking hard.”
He groans. “And if I didn’t have to kill them for it, I’d want them to know how good you feel.”
You moan around him, and he chuckles.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you love?” he sneers. “Having three cocks inside you, filling you up?”
He’s moving faster now, painfully fast, but you endure.
“Maybe you’d finally be satisfied,” he says. “Having all three of us fucking you?”
He’s nearly there.
“Breeding your slutty pussy?”
“Yeah,” he says, looking down at you, “you’d love that.”
He holds you on his cock, your nose pressed into the trail of hair below his navel, while he cums down your throat. Slowly, he relaxes, guiding you off him with a wet ‘pop’.
“Show me,” he breathes out.
You open your mouth and stick out your tongue.
He pats your cheek affectionately. “Always so good for me.”
His eyes flit down to where you’re still grinding on the silicone toy.
“Do you want more?” he asks, crouching down to reach for your clit.
“No, no,” you whimper, too overstimulated. You practically fall into him. He chuckles and steadies you, wrapping his arms around you.
“Okay sweetheart,” he rubs your arms. “Let’s get ready for bed.”
He takes care of you—cleans the toy and draws a bath and washes your hair. He massages your scalp, hands lathered in the floral notes of the shampoo he bought special for you. He’s quiet as he works—methodical and delicate and attentive.
“I meant what I said, by the way.” Ghost turns on the shower head, cupping the water so it doesn’t run into your eyes. “About you being the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
You blush, and tilt your head back to look at him. You share a shy smile before he turns your head to face forward again.
“Do Soap and Price know?” you ask.
Ghost stills, turning off the water and reaching for the conditioner.
“Know what?”
You bite your lip to hold back a laugh at his faux-nonchalance.
“That the infamous litenaunt is such a romantic?”
Ghost scoffs, playfully shoving your head. He takes the conditioner in his palm, working it into the ends of your hair with a tenderness unbecoming of his size.
“I’ll waterboard you,” he says, but his rough baritone can’t conceal the smile in his voice.
warnings: NSFW CONTENT ; 18+ ONLY. [p in v sex, overstimulation, praise kink]. unsafe sex practices [no established relationship/boundaries/safe-words].
“That cock looks good in you, doesn’t it?”
He snaps his hips harder, pushing you down further into the mattress.
“Admit it.”
He presses down on your lower back, digging his thumbs in so deep your hips will be branded with his handprints.
“Like your pussy was made for it. Right?”
He leans in, laying more of his weight on top of you. He’s heavy—all muscle and sinew and tattoos on sun-tanned skin.
“Say it.” He’s right by your ear now, his voice a low thrum that crackles through your chest. “Fucking say it.”
His movements have slowed to a stuttered roll, his cock reaching further inside you than you thought possible. One arm holds himself up, but the other bends at the elbow to grab your neck. He holds you there.
“I’m not going to ask again.”
“I don’t know!” you sob.
Ghost pauses, and then there’s the slow, deliberate roll of his hips that rips a gasp from you. He readjusts his grip on your neck, holding you at the jaw. He stretches his lithe body further, so his breath tickles your ear. He smells like cigarette smoke and peppermint tea.
“You don’t know?” he asks, and you can tell it’s a trick by his dulcet tone—can hear the sinister smile in his voice—but you still cry out once more.
“I don’t know!”
He huffs, an amused sound, and presses his thumbs into your jaw thoughtfully.
“Poor girl can’t even think straight.”
He groans in pleasure, pulling himself up to his knees and you along with him.
“Too busy getting her brains fucked out, huh?”
He glides his free hand down your body, stopping to feel where your body opens for him. He touches you there, circling back and forth between rubbing your clit and where he enters you.
“That’s okay, pet,” he grunts, his hands flexing as you tighten around him. “I’ll take care of you. Don’t worry your pretty little head.”
He squishes your cheeks together, fingers digging into your jaw.
“You just be good, and let me fuck you, okay?”
Ghost’s breathing is growing ragged—his movements more desperate, more primal.
“Just let me ruin this pretty pussy, yeah?”
He chuckles to himself, and drops his hand down to squeeze your throat. He’s intense, putting enough pressure on the sides that your vision grows a little hazy.
“It’s my pussy to ruin now, isn’t it? You’ll never find anyone as good as me, right love?”
He shoves you—ass up and face down.
“Whose fucking pussy is this?!” he shouts, slapping your ass without slowing his strokes. His voice is mean—the husky, rough tone he must use out in the field. “Whose?!” he demands.
“Yours!” you cry. “It’s for you. Only for you.”
Ghost pushes your hair off the side of your face, and laughs at the tears that line your lashes. His hand stays hooked on the back of your neck, pushing you into the mattress below him.
“That’s right,” he says in between gasps. “Only I can make you feel this good.”
You nod your head desperately, unable to stop from crying as he continues to pound into you.
“I know love,” he pants. “I know.”
He looks up at the ceiling, breathing deeply, adjusting his grip on your hip and grabbing a fistful of hair. When he looks down at you again, there’s a cruel, obsidian gleam in his eye. He stares at you, mouth just a little open, brows furrowed.
“I’m gonna cum,” he says. “And you’re gonna watch me when I do it.”
You nod your head. He does too, licking his lips.
“And when I cum, you’re gonna cum too.”
The thought of another orgasm makes you start to choke on a sob, but Ghost talks over you.
“Yeah pet, you are.” He’s being patronizing with it, talking to you like you’re beneath him. “You’re gonna cum with me one last time, and if you don’t, I’m going to fuck you until you pass out, and when you wake up, we’ll do it all over again.”
You’re truly crying now—it’s all just so much in the best possible way. He watches as you whimper and pant and squirm.
“You look so pretty when you cry,” he says. He looks up at the ceiling again and reaches down to play with your clit. The moment his calloused fingers brush the swollen organ, you gasp and his attention immediately snaps back to you. He rubs circles into you, watching intensely as you tighten up and moan desperately.
“That’s it, love,” he coos. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”
He works your body with a focus and intensity unreplicable for anyone other than him—truly, he is the only one who can make you feel this good. When he finally gets you over the edge, and your orgasm feels so painfully raw and blazingly euphoric that you understand why Icarus kissed the sun, he compliments you throughout all of his own release.
“So good, sweetheart,” he says, gathering your hair to lay it between your shoulders. “Such a good pet.”
He runs his hand down the whole length of your spine.
“You made me feel so good.”
He grips your shoulder to force you even deeper onto his cock.
“I just want to make you feel good too,” he confesses. “Want you to feel good all the time.”
Your stomach flutters at his words, and he chokes from the way you’re twitching.
“Deserve it,” he says, frantically chasing his high. “You deserve it.”
When he catches his own peak, releasing inside the condom, he moves slowly. He’s slow to pull out, hissing from the overstimulation; slow to walk away, nipping your earlobe to say he’ll be right back; slow to return to bed, watching you from across the room as he tidies himself up.
When he does come back, it’s with water and damp washcloths. He cleans you—doesn’t even ask, he just does it. He lets you watch him with your curious eyes—unguarded. He lets you see him as he is—unmasked, disheveled hair and battle scars and boyish confidence.
“You did good sweetheart.” His gaze finally meets your own. He drags an affectionate hand through your tangled hair, smoothing it back from your temples. His eyes are softer now, eyeing the curves of your body with a honeyed admiration. He brings his hand down, fingernails brushing your cheekbones and his thumb brushing against your swollen lips.
“So good.” He’s staring at your mouth and you see it—the briefest flash of mischief in his gaze as he remembers what you had done. His eyes flit up to yours, devilish and charming, a smirk slowly spreading across his face. He has a cheshire grin—one that exudes confidence, hubris even. It is a grin full of knowingness—of being privy to such salacious secrets; of knowing what your moans sound like before they’re swallowed up by his lips, of knowing that you scrunch close your eyes when you climax, and that there’s a spot on your shoulder that makes you shiver when he touches it, and that you love his hands in yours more than you love them wrapped around your throat, and that now that he’s tasted you, he doesn’t think he could ever give you up.
“Good girl,” he says to himself, decidedly so. He stands and he gently prods you to get out of bed. He gives you simple orders to follow: pee so you don’t get a UTI, take this pill, drink some water, no, I don’t have any fruit—yes, I will order us some.
When you get back into bed, slipping under the newly-replaced sheets, dressed in one of Ghost’s hoodies, you curl yourself up in one corner and close your eyes. You keep them scrunched shut, even when you feel the weight of the bed dip and strong arms pull you closer. Ghost tucks you into his side, wrapping an arm around you.
“I don’t know how to DoorDash,” he tells you and you can’t help but laugh, opening up your eyes to see his worried expression.
“You okay?” He rubs at your arm absentmindedly with his thumb. “I shouldn’t have been that rough for a first time.”
“I’m okay,” you say. “Really.”
“We don’t ever have to do any of that again, you know.”
“I’m really, really okay,” you promise, wiggling around to lay on your stomach so you can look at him. “It felt good—amazing, actually. I got to like, turn my brain off. Like I could just give it all over to you. And you’d take care of it.”
Ghost hums, eyes flitting all over your face. He pauses for a minute.
“Okay,” he finally decides. He cups your head in his hand and guides you to lay your head on his chest. You relax into him, and feel his own muscles soften.
“I’m the kind of guy that you can always give it over to me, just so you know,” he says. “And I’ll take care of it. I’m good at that kind of thing.” He fiddles with his phone. “If you want,” he adds.
Your smile presses into his white t-shirt. “Okay,” you say.
“Okay,” he agrees, nodding to himself.
He clears his throat. “I really don’t know how to DoorDash though.”
You have a cold. Ghost brings you some medicine and provides a little more comfort than just Nyquil.
Tags: 18+ Smut, Cunnilingus, Unprotected sex, Rough sex, Porn with minor plot
When you answer the door, it could have been Jesus himself risen from the grave and it would not have impressed you. Instead, it’s Simon “Ghost” Riley, who is a close second to Jesus in terms of unlikely candidates knocking at the door in the middle of the night. You know the cold has gotten to you bad when all you do is stare. The blanket you have draped around your shoulders slips a little.
In Ghost’s hand is a little convenience store baggy with the typical smiley face on it. It crinkles, unceremoniously.
Ghost x f!reader (reader has tiny main character vibes)
Also found on Ao3
“Take it,” he growls, his mask half shoved up, his eyes dark and heavy on you.
–
Porn with very little plot; you fell in a river during a mission in the middle of winter and now Ghost has to keep you warm. Guess how he keeps you warm. Just guess.
Tags: 18+ Smut Minors DNI, huddling for warmth, voice kink, power play (you’re naked x he’s not), belly bulge, outdoor sex, use suspension of disbelief with this one, because it’s a real random situation I just wanted to write it
The undercurrent of the water was yanking you below, into the wet darkness. You were tumbling, rolling against the river rocks, smashing into them while the fast water ripped you downstream, further and further. One solid thwak against your head and you thought for sure, finally, you were dead. Finally. Could have been worse. They said drowning was a lot more peaceful than other deaths.
Then you were being pulled in the opposite direction. The water clung to you greedily, sucked at you, trying to claim you for its own, not let you be pulled to safety. But there was only one man stronger than the actual force of nature, and he’d been designated your walking fucking body guard. You were gasping, torrents of the water pouring from your mouth onto the soggy ground underneath you. Soil, more rocks and you could barely see it, but felt it under your hands.
You gear was waterlogged, making you sink to the ground. You couldn’t move, couldn’t get up. Could barely even open your eyes.
He was saying your name, rolling you over. Firm hands on your chest did a few compressions, Ghost’s lips on yours filling your lungs with air and forcing out more water. You sputtered, shoving weakly at him, like a drowned kitten as you turned your head and more water poured from your mouth.
warnings: ADULT CONTENT MINORS DNI (fingering, oral m receiving, blood kink kinda, mxf intercourse, kinda dom frank/ edging? hes a sweetie in my eyes so even when hes rough hes nice) canon typical violence, mentions of death, graphic description of blood and injuries, general gross shit
a/n: this is a lil darker than I usually go so idk how good it is but i could not control myself, IDK BYE
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Another sniper shot whizzes past your head and you hear the crack of a skull as it finds its target. You see the victim fall to his knees, blood pouring from the bullet hole where his eye used to be.
Fucking Frank.
He’d been on your trail for weeks now, interrupting your little revenge stunt, and he was impossible to shake. Of the four meetings you have had with The Punisher, he had won two, and you had won two.
When you say won, it wasn’t really a victory, both of you bloody and barley breathing in the aftermath, but one of you always ends up on top. You dont know why he didn’t kill you last time, he was all threats and close shots, but as soon as he held you down, forcing you to stare down the barrel of his pistol, he didn’t take the shot.
You think its probably the same reason you didn’t tear his throat out after he ruined your entire mission, blowing up the factory you were meant to break into, destroying all the information you were so desperate for. You couldn’t help the little burn in your stomach when he held you down, and even though you spat at him, and he swung his fists and hurled insults at you, neither of you made a move to end it.
Right now, though, you think you could fucking kill him.
Shoving the dead weight of another corpse off your legs, you roll to cover, loading up your pistol and firing a couple of warning shots. You would not miss this chance again, not when the man you were after was so close. You hear a door open downstairs, and you take a quick look over your shoulder, not seeing the tiny reflector of Franks sniper. He’s moving, which meant you were already behind.
Cursing, you smash through the exit door on the roof, taking the stairs three at a time. Four guys wearing matching red jackets burst through a door below you, and the gear is practically a target on their backs.
That jacket was your red herring, and you dont even blink before firing, three of the four going down before they even see you. Dropping down a floor and landing on the railing of the stair well, you swing your legs and wrap them around the last guy and use your entire body weight to yank him to the side. You feel the crack of his neck under your thighs, jumping off him and continuing down the stairs, and when see his lifeless body drop down the stairwell, your eyes follow it and you spot him.
⟶ WARNINGS: 18+ SMUT; P-in-V sex; female reader, female gendered anatomy; gratuitous use of kid; slight body worship; established history/relationship; canon-compliant, takes place after Sin City; minor game spoilers; mentions of death (canon-compliant); war; fluff - this is honestly just gratuitous smut and my awful attempt at fluff
⟶ WORD COUNT: 9,7k
⟶ SUMMARY: you want to see him break.
⟶ NOTES: my first foray into Keegan! this took a bit of time since i wanted to include so much, and it ended up growing a little out of hand. i might expand on this/make it into a series potentially (just small drabbles). Keegan was so fun to write for!
Keegan looks good like this. Laid out, bare; skin stained with the bites of your nails, the nips of your teeth, nestled evenly amid the smattering of battle wounds and blemishes that colour him in a rich history wrought with gunfire and calamity.
(You often tell him that the two of you are kismet.
He says Momus just has a sick sense of humour.)
The milky white expanse of his torso is littered with scars, and you map them with your greedy eyes, drinking each bloom of imperfection that stains his ivory skin. Finding new ones that weren't there before.
Blades, bullets, burns, pockmarks—many from weapons you can't even begin to name, to know—all etched into sinew. Into bone.
They mar him in a brutal smear of varicoloured hurt. A mosaic of near–death laid out like Orion, curved like the tail of Sagittarius. It's spooled, knotted, in a way that makes you think of Lyra. Of the stars you can see so clearly now without any light pollution around to smog the indigo sky above.
The scars are healed in uneven patches; some darker, uglier than others. Raised welts, bumps. Deep indents in his skin, cutting through muscle and tissue.
There is no sense of structure in the gashes that line his body—silver, to red, to purple, to black—and you know they were collected over time. Over years, decades, before you ever met him. Knew him.
(The only one that looks familiar is the jagged hole on his shoulder where he stepped, stupidly, in front of a bullet for you.
Stupid, because no one, especially him, should risk themselves for you.)
They sit, carved in flesh, as a testament to his nomadic lifestyle, one drenched in danger, death, and calamity. Shadows moulded into man. Into ruined skin and jagged bone. Deadly forces of nature hidden in the craters where the earth split into twos, threes. Triplicated ravines clogged with the rubble of was once life. Peace. Home, maybe.
A tenuous fallacy, now.
But they risk everything—even themselves—for it, and the proof of their commitment, the dedication to the cause, is smattered across his torso for you to see.
The exploratory tips of your fingers, dripping reverence and featherlight, ghost over his flesh, over the blemishes that decorate his body, taking them in, feeling them.
Some are baby–hair soft, silky sateen; they sit in thick, raised welts of scar tissue clotted over each other. Others are rougher than sandpaper, gritty like stripped lath. They feel like tree bark under your fingers. Scabs. Fresh, new.
You wonder if he remembers each one of them—how they happened, where, by who; which ones hurt the most, and which ones took longer to heal. He might, you think.
(It's him, after all.)
Catalogued pain organised and filed away. Locked in a safe box inside the enigma of his head, and kept there for safekeeping.
But it's not gone, not put away.
(It's always within reach.)
Phantoms congeal in the corners of his eyes sometimes when you happen to touch one, to reach out and grab him by the arm, or the hand, the wrist, and you see the brief flash of recognition in cut slate. A distant fog simmers up from the depths; veiled blue. A past you're barred from touching, knowing.
It's not pretty, kid, is what he told you when you asked. Not like you. No sense ruining something like you with all that ugly.
It was the end of the conversation. Locked away for good, and brassbound with a warning sign, rusted and aged, that read: do not enter.
So, you don't.
But sometimes, like now, you like to take them in. To see the contrast between your blemishless skin in comparison to his. Worlds apart. A cosmic chasm of experience and life needles between you, and yet—
You brush your fingers against the marks, and have never felt closer to him, despite everything inside that tells you you're wrong.
You place your hand flat over a cut over his breastplate, right where his heart thuds against your palm, and wonder what near–miss he escaped from that caused this. The other slides to his stomach, his muscles flexing, rippling, under your touch, and you brush your thumb over a circular hole under his solar plexus.
You think, then, of the years you spent underground, running through the barren safehouses that dotted the landscape, only to come away with minor cuts, abrasions. The worst of them all is a small scar near your wrist where you burned your skin with cooking oil.
You've never met the end of the blade—not until him.
"What are you thinking about, kid?"
His hand lifts—skin littered with small knicks and cuts, a burn on the back of his hand that almost matches yours except his was caused by a Molotov cocktail and not youthful ignorance (a world of difference, a chasm)—fingers sliding over the curve of your cheek. His slate–blue gaze is fixed, unmoving, on you.
It was those eyes—cenote blue—that drew you to him in the first place. Teal in tenebrous. They haunted you for months. Wordlessly following your every move, drinking in the expressions that flitted over your face. Taking stock of you. Measuring you. Your accomplishments. Your worth. Assets.
Survivability.
("Pretty low," Merrick says, plain and brutal, and the rawness of it rumbled through the hollow crevasse you found yourself in. Low. Lower than low. So low it was almost a miracle you survived as long as you had.)
Keegan said nothing at the time. He stood back, hand gripping the butt of the rifle, eyes fixed on you, unwavering. Unforgiving.
It was easy to take his silence as cold. Distant. Bundled up in thick layers of muskeg, in icy separation.
You did—at first.
An active war zone was not a place for a civilian. Merrick told you as much when he found you, taking refuge in a dilapidated home split in two, and welding only a metal bat you'd grabbed on your travels. Your only protection against an enemy that has no qualms in murdering innocents. That uses guns and heavy artillery to decimate the soldiers, the allies who jumped oceans to fight alongside the troops.
You lit a lantern one night after settling down in a broken home, and woke up to the barrel of a gun pressed to your temple.
It was Ajax who saved you.
"Hey, uh. You're American, right? What are you doing in a place like this?"
You didn't trust them.
Didn't trust anyone.
You'd spent too long cutting through the thickets of the surrounding overgrowth, hopping from one ramshackle house to another to lay low, to hide from the people who wandered past, looking for survivors, hostages, to give into that part of yourself that longed for people. For normalcy. The road jaded you a little. Isolated you.
It was safer.
The people you stumbled across either tried to pick you bare, taking the meagre belongings you scrounged together until there was nothing left but the thin skin covering your body, and your will to live.
Or they tried to kill you. To use you.
Hostages. Civilians used against the threadbare resistance. Their safe return in exchange for more land, for surrender.
So, you hid. Got good at it, too.
("Too fuckin' good," Merrick hissed, shaking his head.
The only one who was ever able to spot you was Riley. Keegan, sometimes, through the lens of his rifle.)
When they found you, you tried to run, to fight. Enemies. All of them.
It was Ajax who stopped you, who talked you off the ledge.
"Come on, we're not gonna hurt you."
"Heard those words before."
"How long you been out here for, anyway?"
"When did ODIN destroy New York?"
"Jesus, kid."
"Stupid," Merrick said. "That's what you are, Cali. Stupid as hell."
And Keegan—
Said nothing. Nothing.
He doesn't like you, was your first thought when it all added up, stacked together. The avoidance, the distance. He wasn't cold, but he didn't try to get close to you, to get to know you. He just—
Watched. Waiting, you thought, a touch bitter, for you to die. Like they all expected you to when you said you weren't going to the safe zone. That you were staying, and you were looking for them—your brother, your father.
Then—
Stay behind me, always, kid. You got that?
If you can't see my back, you wandered too far.
Eat. You need it more than I do.
Watch your step. You'll fall into a crevasse if you're not careful, kid.
The second: he likes you too much.
And now—
Your hips flex. A slow, teasing roll against his pelvis, and it's that indelible sight of sky blue eyes shuttering out of view when his lids lower, lashes fluttering, that nearly sets you on fire.
The press of his cock makes your nails dig into the constellation of scars on his chest, clinging to him as licks of pleasure flicker up your spine. Nerves smouldering at the stretch, the feel of him seated so deeply within you.
"Thinking about you," you murmur, breathless. Raw.
You wonder if he remembers the rainy days in San Francisco, the sunrise in Los Angeles, huddled under the waterlogged crater of what once was Pacific Avenue and Venice Boulevard with the same touch of halcyon fondness as you do.
You think, then, of the fusillade following you in the ruined husks of the streets, enemies on every corner, of the six-day hike between the cities to reconvene with the others, lost somewhere in the decimated coast.
A little part of you still hopes he does despite the stress, the tension, the danger; the separation, the distance, that cracks between you, louder than a thunderclap.
That he thinks back on that time when it was just you and him, and no food, no shelter, and feels something more than the gritty reality of everything falling apart around you.
Of death, and the stench of rot, and decay, and the overgrowth of vegetation that sometimes felt like it was trying to reclaim you along with its land. The vines that curled around your ankles when you idled, or slept—shackles that refused to let go. Gunshots in the night. Predators roaming wild and free in what once was a metropolis.
Then, softer, you add:
"Always."
You speak it reverently, as if the word, the sincerity in your voice alone was enough to somehow shade the gossamer of calamity and horror you faced together into something pink, something roseate. Something fond, and wonderful, and good despite all of the ugly and the bad that stacks up, deeper than the hole punched through San Diego.
(Down so deep you sometimes think you can see the eerie glow of molten rock below.)
Keegan says nothing, gives nothing away, but you catch something in his gaze shift, relent.
Another inch off the thick veneer that keeps him from falling into you fully, that keeps him from letting you in.
It's the slow erosion of his defences, the ones that make him say, yeah, kid, whatever you say when you bring up the smouldering ruins of Death Valley, when you slipped your finger in the cut of his mask, and tugged it down below his chin. Your nail caught on the bridge of his nose, but he didn't flinch at the thin white line you left behind, the sting. He didn't move. Didn't blink.
Didn't push you away.
He let you. Let you press your sun-chapped lips to his for the first time with nothing more than an easy, kid—don't start something you can't finish before he gives in. Kissed you against the grainy sand that scorched your skin.
You used to think he was cold. Unfeeling.
But now—
Shadows dance over his face when the clouds drift over the milky moon hung in the indigo aether, but you catch the rubicund smear over the bridge of his nose when they part. Pretty pink dusted in soot. An ethereal chiaroscuro etched into his flesh.
You feel his chest shudder, expanding with his rippling inhale.
—You know that, sometimes, he just feels too much.
You hitch your hips again just to watch him flinch beneath you. The breath stutters out of his chest, lips parting on a grunt when you grind over him. The pinched knot between his brow is stained with bliss, and deep like the crevasses ripped through the earth.
The hand on your cheek jerks, tenses. His fingers curl around the back of your skull as his eyes crack open once more when you settle. Heavy lidded, stained the residuum of soot and grease paint the lukewarm water wasn't able to scour off.
You meet his cobalt stare, and feel the breath catch in your throat.
Keegan looks good like this. Laid out, bare; skin stained with the bites of your nails, the nips of your teeth, nestled evenly amid the smattering of battle wounds and blemishes that colour him in a rich history wrought with gunfire and calamity.
When you whisper this to him, his hips jerk again, flexing, under yours.
"Fuck, kid. Don't go starting something you can't finish."
His words nudge something inside of you, and the slow simmer of competition roils through your chest.
"Can't finish, huh?" You murmur, and keep your eyes fixed on his as you lift your hips. The drag of his hardened cock sliding against your walls has pleasure liquifying your core.
When it's just the tip you clench around, you pause, a small smirk curling over your lips. You'll make him break. Make him eat those words.
But Keegan can read you like an open book.
His hand lifts from your hip bone, sliding up the flesh of your torso until his fingers are perched in the gaps between your ribs, holding you steady.
"Easy now, kid," he whispers the words low, voice breathless, humid. "Don't bite off more than you chew."
In response, you sink down an inch.
It makes him choke a little. A wet noise spills out from his mouth, teeth flashing when they burrow into the plush give of his full, pink lips. The tendons in his neck strain, pulse throbbing in tandem with your heartbeat. Linked, you think, a little delirious, even like this.
(You often tell him that the two of you are kismet.
He says Momus just has a sick sense of humour.)
His fingers tighten on your ribs. The other hand falls, palm swallowing your breast, fingers digging into the flesh once before sliding down, pinching your nipple between his calloused thumb and forefinger. It sends shocks of pleasure ricocheting down your spine, and you arch into his grasp, eyes dropping.
"That feels good—"
"Yeah?" He husks, lips curling into a rare smile, a grin. "Like that, huh, kid?"
The raw timbre of his voice coils over your flesh, and you shudder at the liquor-rich sound, eyes blinking open to drink him in.
The spark of pleasure that glimmers over his expression, eyes dark, eclipsed, and saturated in bliss, makes something coil low inside of your belly. A molten heat that leaks into your bloodstream until it bubbles, froths.
Keegan is a slow burn. A steady crescendo of pleasure that builds and builds in evenly spaced increments until your head is molasses-thick from the endorphins that saturate your synapses.
Keegan is always so giving, so quiet with his affection; picturesque stoicism even when he has you bent over, battering his cock into you as you lose it amid the unrelenting waves of euphoria that bloom inside of you, singing hymns in his name, and only just lucid enough to round the vowels out. He rides you through it all without cracking. Without rupturing from the pleasure that thickens the air between you until it's syrupy and heady with the scent of sex.
And it's good. Always.
You love the way he handles you; love the way he splits you apart atom by atom until you're an impending explosion, leaking bliss into the warmth of his mouth when you breathe his name. Raw, exposed. Bare and flayed by his scorching hands, and hungry lips.
Keegan touches you with the same delicacy as he does the rifles in his arsenal. A finely tuned weapon, honed and perfected in his hands. He drags only the best out of you, and knows where to press, to nip. He knows your body like he knows the inner workings of each gun he carries.
He's adroit in combat, and it bleeds over into the soft, plush give of your body beneath him.
It's often thoughtless—done purely on muscle memory, and instinct alone. A primal switch in the back of his head he commands at will, one now grounded and circuited into making you tremble, gasp, and moan his name the way you know he likes best.
Keegan leeches his own release from the aftershocks of your pleasure, pounding desperately into you as you clench around him, back arched and toes curled. He fucks you through the remnants of your climax until his own takes hold, and spits his bliss into your body, groaning low in your ear.
But everything—everything—is for you.
He takes where he can as he fractures you into pieces, into fragments of yourself. Crumbling in ecstasy under his touch. Broken, shattered. Rendered into a trembling mess of pulp beneath the bulk of his body.
He's a lesson in patience, in tenacity.
Usually.
But now—
You set the pace. Control the motions.
(And you want to see him break in the same splintered pieces he leaves you in.)
"Just sit back, and let me make you feel good."
He draws a sharp breath, eyes fluttering, widening slightly at your base command.
Something gnarls over his exposed face, a frisson of affection, and softer than anything you'd ever seen before.
It's rare you get to see him so bare, so open.
"You do," he rasps, words sticking between his teeth. "More than you know."
He swallows thick, eyes skirting away from you as if to gather himself together, to calm the racing of his pulse that beats against the pale skin of his throat.
Comfort is taken in composure, in distance, and you can see him grasp for it, reaching for that same phlegmatic control even now.
You don't let him find it. Won't.
You take a quick breath to steady yourself, fingers sliding down his damp chest, nestling in the messy smear of hair that sticks to his skin, grainy and gritty from salt and dirt, and then you drop.
The blunt head of his cock bludgeons into a fleshy spot behind your navel that has your ears ringing, head tipping back in pleasure. It's good—so, so good—and you can't stop the whine of his name, broken and fraying at the edges, when you sink down to the base, swallowing him whole in the right clutch of your cunt.
White noise, static, flashes behind your eyelids, catching in the pale moonlight. A slurry of soporific pleasure spools inside your head, saturated with bliss, and edging into that indelible equinox of pleasure and pain when his head kisses the seal of your womb. It flexes against your mettle, pushing the limits of what you can reasonably take, but you grit your teeth against the strain, and breathe.
You won't break first.
Not when his eyes roll back a little as you shift in his lap, brow furrowed into a deep ruck of pleasure at the feel of you around.
The overwhelming feel of him buried deep behind your navel notches into too much, and the ache of it pulses like a heartbeat in your sternum, knocking the breath from your lungs, but you hold steady amid the waves that crash over you, that threaten to consume you. To drag you under.
White-hot pleasure lashes at your spine. Congealing inside the pit of your lower belly. A molten puddle of nirvana that steadily thickens into a coiled knot, gnarling within you. A spool of bliss, slowly unravelling under the stretch of him, the grind of his pelvis against your throbbing clit..
It thrums in your veins, your bones. Madness bleeds in at the edges; blurred lines of so good and too much too full and you find the equilibrium, the perfect zenith, when he groans your moniker, Cali, out between gnashing teeth.
The brassy rasp of his voice centres you. Grounds you. You inhale the tang of him until your lungs begin to burn, to ache. You feel them pressed taut to your ribs where his fingers sit, nestled between the gaps of your bones. Firm, steady.
You exhale in slow, measured increments, feeling the way he throbs against your walls, in your throat. You take it all in, all of it. Him. The firm press of his body beneath yours, thighs spread to fit him in the seam, makes you relax, ease into the press of him. The fill.
Keegan's hands twitch. His hips lift slightly, an unconscious movement. An accidental proxysm. His ironclad resolve, the honed stillness of an expert sniper in perfect control, command, of every limb, every muscle, every movement, and breath, crumbles like papier-mache with the tight clench of your pussy around him.
It edges into delirium, into that burning sense of conquest when he grunts, and rubs a spot inside of you that feels like heaven itself is nestled behind your belly button.
(A fissure. A crack.)
The steadying breath he takes draws your attention back to him, to the sheen of sweat drenching his brow, the smear of charcoal he couldn't scrub away. It stains his skin permanently, now. A tattoo of battle grease, war paint, that he can't be rid of.
(You tell yourself it isn't jealousy that congeals at the base of your throat when you see the blemish on his skin, and wish, so desperately, that you could brand him the same way. Mark him, too.
To crawl inside the brackets between his ribs, and suffuse your atoms to his until every pump of his heart sends blood roaring through your veins.
It sits there, bitter and acrid, when you try to swallow it down, refusing to budge.
Stupid. Stupid—)
You take it all in. The racing of his pulse, the slow, deep inhales, and the way he reaches out, struggling to control the impulse, the instinct, the want, to greedily take more and more from you.
"Keegan," his name falls between your teeth, breaking in the middle when you roll your hips, and catch the flash of gritted teeth.
The thin strands of sangfroid he managed to snag in his grasp are released when your voice crests over his name, cracked open and wanting, and desperate.
It tastes of victory when he groans yours in return—not kid, not Cali, but the one you whispered to him that first night he found you in a desolate husk of what was once someone's home—and bucks into you in a stutter.
You meet him again, pelvis kissing his until it suctions the air from your heaving lungs, and you can feel him pulsing in your sternum. A red-hot blade snug against your jugular.
The thin skin of his eyelids crinkle when he squeezes them shut against the feeling, the overwhelming pleasure, of being buried balls deep inside of you.
Your ribs ache. His fingers burrow into the flesh that separates each rung, clinging to you, and keeping you perched on his lap as he struggles to catch his breath.
It rips open something inside of you—something deeper and fuller than sex, than shattering his ironclad resolve—and the sight of him, chest heaving, eyes heavy and black with desire, and the soft way he crumbles in your hands, makes you think of the morning rays of the sun brushing over the broken landscape. The moments of peace in the midst of war.
You think of him, and the tick in his jaw, the gleam in his eyes, the same shade as crushed bluebonnets, and think of kismet once more as you pant out his name.
"Ah, fuck—," sweat drips down his brow, and you follow the droplet until it falls, soaking the jaundiced pillow below. "You keep that up, kid, and you'll be tapping out soon enough."
It drags a huff from your chest. "It was once. And you made me run through San Diego for hours before, and—"
"It was fifteen minutes. We ran a block," his hand falls from your breast, palm swallowing the side of your thigh. "You lasted five minutes on top before you begged me fuck you instead. Said you were tired."
"I was," you whine, muscles flexing when you lift off of him again. You feel the ache in your muscles already, the burn of exertion from sitting atop of him like this, knees wrenched apart to accommodate his bulk between them. "But I wanna make you feel good, Keegan."
The sharp sting of his nails catching your flesh makes you gasp. "C'mon, kid. Easy now."
The low commands roll off of his tongue with practised ease, and you slip a little further into that inky madness that smells of fir boughs, sticky spruce sap, and ripened satsumas. You breathe him in and taste dusty pomander balls, and pinyon in the back of your throat.
"Keegan—"
His hips lift, pushing into the soft, wet clench of your cunt. "That's it. Nice and steady."
He guides you along—a maestro stroking the keys of a piano as he plays his grand requiem. You struggle to keep up with his pace, the way he pistons into you, notching his cock into that soft, sensitive place inside that makes your eyes brim with unshed tears of bliss.
Each deep thrust makes the head of his cock kiss the plug of your womb—just a brush, just a tease—but the burning sensation of blistering pleasure and wisps pain, of too much and too full, have you spiralling down the precipice faster than you expected.
It's a dizzying descent, but you match his tempo as best as you can, determined to ride the torrent of ecstasy that runs down your spine in a thick, dulcified rivulet.
Still. Still. You can't help but bask in the way he melts in your hand, rendered into malleable polymer with just a twist of your hips, a clench of your cunt. It's electrifying. Addicting.
The high of it all brims deep in your head, blooming like a sickness that clots along the seam, noxious and heady.
You can't stop the satisfied curl of your lips from growing, slowly and languid, when you bear down on him, taking him to the root.
His grunt reverberates through his chest with enough of a punch to rattle your bones.
Seeing him desperate is intoxicating.
"What happened to your composure, Keegan?" you mewl, heading rolling back. "My big, quiet soldier is so talkative now—"
Rough palms sear the flesh of your hips when he grabs you tight in his unyielding hold, keeping you fixed on him.
You try to move, but he tightens his grasp, refusing to let you budge.
Frustration curls inside of your chest, and you glower down at him through glassy eyes brimming with tears. "Keegan, I wanna—"
Your words dissolve into a low keen when his hips lift again, battering into your cunt in an unrelenting wave of thrusts that force the protests from your lips.
"Talkative, huh?" He grinds the words out from between clenched molars. "That was your goal, eh, kid? Break me?"
He punctuates each word with a brutal cant that feels like a battering ram to your skull until the weakened bone splinters, shatters, and he punches through.
"Kee–ah, ah, fuck—!"
"That's it," he husks, tone liquid. His fingers spear into your flesh, tight enough to bruise your bone. "Just like that, kid. You wanna see me break? Lose control?"
Heart in your throat, all you can do is whimper around the pulse in your esophagus, and struggle to find purchase under his unrelenting onslaught.
His hand lifts, falls to your shoulder when he stills, keeping you locked tight to his pelvis, cock jerking inside of you. His fingers curl over the ledge, gripping bone, and then he tugs, pulls.
You fold easily in his grasp, lowering your chest until it rests over his, sweat-slicked and warm. The scrape of your sensitive nipples over his coarse, damp chest hair makes you moan, clenching desperately around him at the sparks of pleasure roiling through you.
When you settle over him, his hand moves, slides to the back of your skull, and wrenches you even closer to him, until your forehead meets his, and the soft bump of your nose catches on the bridge of his, right over the thin line you left on his skin. Healed, now, but you wonder if this is intentional. If it's—
Keegan breathes heavily through his open mouth, breath mixing together with yours, a humid coagulation against your lips where condensation gathers on the dip of your chin.
He says nothing, just stares. Bare-faced, naked. Still smeared in the residuum of his battle grease, the armour he wears to keep himself hidden from the Federation, from discovery, and the freckles of black on his ivory skin look like an inverted night; the endless yawn of the heavens above. You wonder if you can map a new constellation in the dirt left behind, but the notion is pushed down, dissolved, when your gaze lifts, finding his own.
He hasn’t looked away from you at all, and the intensity of his gaze makes you dizzy, breathless. Too many emotions ripple through the mercury depths for you to grasp, but they're soft. Tender. Your heart thuds when you see the endless flicker of them hidden inside, tightly sealed under a rusted lock without a key.
"Keegan—"
He doesn't let you finish. His chin lifts, mouth hooking on yours in a blistering kiss. His tongue slides between the gap of your parted lips, stealing the words that spool behind your teeth.
Keegan kisses you with a deep, almost methodical precision. It's a contrast you can't keep up with; an ebb and flow. He starts fast, harsh. A demanding press of his mouth to yours, unrelenting and eager. It's all tongue, lips, the clash of teeth until yours are stinging and bruised, and then he pulls away until his are just a brush. A ghost of a touch, a whisper.
He holds it there, teasing, taunting, until your lips bloom in a soft pout, eyes turning downward.
"Keegan, please," you whimper into the firm seal of his mouth, so close and yet, so far away. Out of reach. Held there until whatever he wants, whatever he seeks, flashes in the glossy puddles of your eyes.
And then, he gives.
Gives, gives. His mouth devours yours with a steady ferocity like the howling winds echoing through the wizened fir boughs in the desolate forest. He holds you close, a hand fisted against your skull while the other plinths your jaw, thumb stroking the bubble of your cheek.
The pressure of his hold, of his hands, oscillates between firm, unyielding, and keeping you afloat, soothing you.
You need it, you think, when he kisses you like the sudden approach of an avalanche ripping through the thicket, and barrelling down the vertiginous mountain he keeps you locked on.
An ebb and flow.
When your head swims, dizzy with hypoxia that inks across your vision like a Rorschach, he pulls away. Peppers small kisses, nips, over your stringing, swollen flesh, and soothes the ache he left behind.
"I know," is all he says to you before he starts to move. “I know, kid.”
Keegan keeps you locked to his chest, one hand bracketing your skull, kissing you in tandem with each roll of his hips. His other hand settles against the swell of your ass, holding you steady as he bucks into you, bludgeoning his cock into your cunt.
Your hands drop to the pillow under his head to stabilise yourself, pushing firmly into the mattress in a futile effort to keep the brunt of your weight from pressing against him, but he notices.
Always.
His grunt of displeasure is barely heard over the roaring in your ear, the lewd slap of his wet skin on yours, the grind of his cock into your cunt, but you feel it rumble through his chest, reverberating over your lips.
His hand trails up from the curve of your ass, and over your spine.
"C'mon, kid," he murmurs, teeth scraping over your stinging bottom lip. "You're not gonna break me."
His sly words make you huff, and you clench your muscles around him in retribution. There is something blisteringly intoxicating in the low groan that leaves his chest, the pinch between his brow, the flutter of his lashes, lids cresting in pleasure.
It's a small win, a minuscule victory despite losing the war. But it is a double-edged sword that leaves you just as breathless, just as aching, as he is.
You acquiesce to his insistent prods, and slowly, hesitantly, melt into him. With your full weight settling on top of him, Keegan breathes in deep, and murmurs a quiet, hushed: that's it into your lips.
His hands are on you, tugging and pulling until you're flush on his body with a muted groan.
Your arms bend at the elbow, hands moving to cup his jaw in your palms, feeling the scratch of his rough stubble over your life line.
Kismet, you think, and taste salt on your tongue, a humid breeze on your skin. It reminds you of Los Angeles, of the hole you sunk into with him. When you decided in the ramshackle remnants of what once was that, despite everything, all of it, you would follow him anywhere, everywhere.
A confession in the shambles of normalcy, where the cracked Macy's sigh hung suspended on wires, and reinforced by nature. Thick webs of wisteria kept the relic from a bygone era arched over the collapsed ruins of the Beverly Centre. A macabre chandelier: a poignant piece of what is now history. Gone. Erased. Decimated by a weapon meant to protect.
The rest was felled into a deep cavern, karst, destroyed by the beams of inert energy that spliced the world you knew in half. Water leaked in—from the burst pipes, the broken aquifer at the bottom, rainwater, the ocean, and, you think, from when they razed the smouldering husk of the cities on fire with a deluge of water, back when everyone still clung to the belief that everything was going to be okay. It pools at the bottom, a murky abyss of cracked rock, steel beams, and dead wires.
On the surface, something floated past. A bag, maybe. Waterlogged and aged. You fish it out despite the soft rumble from Keegan to stay away from the cenote.
"Currents might sweep you under. Not a place you wanna fall in, kid."
When you dragged it to the linoleum ledge you sat on, the broken logo made you snort.
"Never could afford designer," you muttered and tossed the Balenciaga bag aside.
It doesn't matter. Not anymore. Not here.
You know it doesn't, feel it deep in your polluted bones, and yet—
You stared at the shattered heap of luxury, and couldn't help thinking about those days in the past when you'd wake up after a long trip on the road with your dad, your brother, and the world would feel so massive, so empty. It felt like you were the only ones left. The only survivors.
It eats at you now.
You cried that night. Broke for the first time in months, years. Sobbed into the corner of what was once Macy's or Gucci or some other relic you used to scorn in your youth, and the whole time, Keegan said nothing. Nothing at all.
He just held you when you stumbled into him. Kept you tight to his body as your sobs echoed through the chamber.
Through it all, it was Keegan who kept you grounded. Who stood in front of you, sniper ready, whenever the bushes around you rustled, or the ground trembled with the aftershocks of the lingering explosion that decimated your home. Your world. He was there, his hand on the small of your back, eyes sharp, wary. Kept you alive, fed. Safe.
Safe.
You can only sleep when he’s around. Even when they left you in the safe zone you clawed out of, you couldn’t sleep. Nothing quelled the anxious needling in the back of your head but his presence—solid and steady. An unshakeable rock. Your foundation amid a shattered sense of security.
You turned to him, then, when the moon drifted over the open crater punched through the earth, and whispered the words he refused to return.
Even now.
But it doesn’t matter. None of it does.
Not anymore.
“Thinkin’ too much,” he husks, nails leaving trails of white when he scrapes them over your skin. “What happened to breaking me, kid? Give up already?”
There is no way for him to know you taste algae in the back of your throat from when he pushed you deeper into the cenote as you ran from the Federation soldiers. When they closed the gap, he shoved you into the murky blue of the grotto below, too quick for you to close your mouth, to not panic when you hit the pool with a splash that echoed on the slick, mossy walls. You breathed in the stagnant water filled with bioluminescent algae, and as gunshots bounced off the jagged limestone, and you drifted down below the buried rubble, you wondered if you’d glow so bright he could find you at the bottom of polluted blue.
(He did. Always.)
Still. You swallow down the tang of salt, and breathe him in, saturating yourself in the loam scent of him—thick musk; burning lignin and scorched evergreen—and let it sit in your throat until all you can taste is him when you swallow.
“Thinking about you,” you say.
He says nothing, but you catch the shudder in his chest, the tremble in his hands, when he slides them over your flesh. Reverent. Halting. The fingerprints he leaves on your skin are stained in chiaroscuro.
He grabs you tight enough to bruise sometimes; holds you so close that you often think he’s trying to absorb you into him. To keep you safe and secure in the bulk of his body where nothing can hurt you, touch you.
Not even him.
So, he pulls away. It’s not distance that pitches itself in the recess of his piercing gaze, but something close to it. Kin. Fear, maybe.
Of this, of you.
The fear started when Ajax went missing, but it was Keegan who held you together.
("It's gonna be okay, kid. We'll get him back.”
Empty promises. Broken pinky fingers.)
You broke when they brought Ajax home and laid him to rest as best as they could, and the marker that signified his resting place—a coded message only they would ever know—was all that remained of the man he fought beside, the man who made a pinky promise to never leave you in a the empty shell of a Walmart parking lot when you told him about the camping trips.
A scrap of fabric. A blood-drenched mask.
You held Keegan as he whispered sorry, kid. Sorry. We tried. We—
Gone. Gone. You think of rubble and the scent of rock dust. The crushing weight of cinder blocks and beams, and what it feels like to stumble when the earth breaks into pieces beneath your feet.
Elias.
And now—
All he has left is Merrick. Hesh. Riley.
Logan—
(“Missing,” the radio crackled a few days ago. “Gone.”)
—and you.
He holds you at arm's length, even now, after coming back to you, after finding you again, because what you offer is different, more dangerous, than theirs.
And despite what they say, Keegan isn’t a man who feels nothing at all.
No.
He’s a man who feels too much.
And he knows this. Knows it like he knows the world is in shambles, knows what the Federation is capable of.
What you're capable of.
You wonder if he's thinking of that now, as the shadows leak back in. They flood the corners of his eyes when he gazes through you, lost in those lour thoughts that rush by in quick succession. Too fast for him to cling to any.
They cut into the crease. The ones that make you think he’s somehow omnipotent, all-knowing. That he can chisel inside of your head, and read the want, the greed, that festers in the rucked divots.
And he isn't sure how to handle it. What to do with the bold, bare-faced sincerity of what you offer him. What you want from him.
Before, Keegan would get so lost inside the maze of his mind that you didn't know how to bring him back. He'd speak only when necessary—just short, clipped words, commands (over there, inside, stop, eat)—and the silence would grate at you. Somehow quieter than he usually was; oppressive.
It lasted for days, sometimes.
It never sullied his ability to aim, to shoot. Survive. Protect.
It was just—
An introspective silence. A storm cloud over blue.
He was thinking too much, and wasn't sure which option to pick, which outcome was best.
You never knew what to say to bring him back. To ground him. All you could do was wait it out until the gyre would fade from his eyes, and he'd turn to you again, clear blue.
Now—
“—You’re thinking too much,” you murmur, mouth trailing loose kisses over his stubbled jaw.
“Just waiting for you to come back to me,” he volleys back, eyes cresting. A tendril of that unknowable something snakes through the gloom of blue, and you reach for it with curious, wanting fingers.
“I’d never leave you.”
Keegan swallows, and you trace the bob of his Adam's apple. A part of you expects it to retreat, to flee back to the safety of its bivouac where nothing can get too close. Nothing can hurt.
But it doesn’t.
He huffs, and the soft expel of his breath, the sinking of his chest, feels a little bit like victory.
“Wouldn’t survive without me.”
It’s as close to a confession as he’ll offer, and you take it with eager, greedy hands, cupping it in the plinth of your palm where it sits, safe from harm, from the world that crumbles around you.
“Neither would you.”
It’s a lie, of course. Keegan is dampening his own chances at survival by keeping you close to him instead of doing what everyone said he ought to, what he tried to do: leaving you behind.
He pushed you away once. You wonder if he thinks of the separation. The distance etched between the two of you. Slowly relearning each other in broken husks that were once homes.
"Drop Cali off at a safe zone, and then come find us, Keegan."
The intention, you know, was to leave you behind permanently. To keep you locked in the safe confines of a safe zone in Oregon, where they pitched tents in an expansive field, and lived off of pipe dreams. Where they pretended they couldn't fear the gunfire in the distance, or smell artillery smoke in the air.
Direct orders passed down through the chain of command, from Elias himself, and yet—
He came back.
("Just gonna do whatever you want, kid. We're headed the same way, anyway.")
“That so?”
"It is."
Keegan swallows. Something yields, breaks.
His palms are balmy on your skin, firebrands. You stare into his eyes, counting the deep ravines of inky black cutting through sapphire blue, and the gyre of those hidden things, locked away and kept at a distance, seem to tremble. Wobble. The edges blur.
A frisson passes over his face, illuminated only by the milky light spilling in from the tattered curtains, and something cracks. Splinters. The fracture makes him flinch, makes him heave under you, chest expanding with the deep drawl of his breath.
With another sigh, his hand slides down the heated flesh of your back, spreading over the swell of your ass. Before you can say anything in response, his middle finger dips into the valley between each cheek, brushing over the skin of your perineum before dipping lower, brushing over the wetness gathered there.
He drags his finger higher, brushing over the soft skin of your ass. The feeling of it, the red-hot heat of his flesh, makes you keen, tightening around him.
He huffs into your neck, lashes fluttering over the soft skin of your throat when he blinks. "Like that, huh? Want me here, too, kid?"
You gasp when he presses against the rim. "K–Keegan—"
"Not ready yet," he murmurs, and you try to stifle a whimper when he pulls away, heart thudding in your chest at the thought alone.
He catches it, anyway.
"Fuck, kid—," it's a jagged husk; ripped up and shredded under barbed wire. Raw, wanting, and dark. You'd never heard his voice so low, so gritty. When you peer down at him, all you see is the endless ocean in the blanket of night. Midnight blue. It makes you shiver.
You feel feverish when he groans again, when he rasps your name in a way that sounds like it was wrenched up from the recesses of his chest. Buried under soot and ash.
"Gonna take you there," he pants, and you know him. You know Keegan. It's not a suggestion. It's a promise. "Soon."
The thought of it makes something ugly gnarl inside your chest. A possessive thing, out of place in such a moment. Between you and him, and this awful, awful world, greed has no room to grow. To burrow its roots in deep, and yet—
Yet.
You crave him in ways that are unattainable. That belongs to a world that no longer exists in the land you roam.
His fingers pull away, and settle on the tight flesh of your raw cunt stretched around the thick of him. His thumb brushes over your chafed, red skin, eyes softening as he coos at you. A gentle tut when he feels how wrecked, swollen you are from the brutal pounding he's giving you.
You think he might be lenient. Merciful. Might let you pretend you have control again. But when you lift your gaze to his, eyes blurry and lachrymose, all you see is a deep, unrelenting satisfaction cut into deep slate. His pupils ripple. Deep puddles trembling in pleasure.
"Fuck, kid."
He punctuates his words with a slow, full roll of his hips. Slick drenches the tips of his fingers as he feeds you the thick of his cock, feeling the way you swallow him down to the base. To the root.
"Takin' me so good."
His words are slurred, drunk off the spread of you in his lap, taking him into your willing cunt. Eyes flashing with something that prickles across your skin. It should be a warning to you, a siren. You know him enough to tell what those little flickers in his eyes mean, the shadows hidden in the canyons of blue, but he moves before the thought can take root inside the syrupy haze that clots over your thoughts.
His legs slide up, knees bending, spreading, as he plants his feet firmly into the mattress.
"Hold on."
It's all he gives before he pushes up into you, cock sliding in deeper than before.
You gasp, eyes snapping shut when he cudgels against something inside of you that has pleasure blooming in your lower belly.
The angle is different, deeper and fuller than anything you'd ever taken before. Even riding him, sitting flush against his hips, it didn't hit that soft bundle of nerves that has fire licking at the base of your spine.
You moan his name again, low and broken, and Keegan responds with a sloppy snap of his hips that makes your back arch in his hold, toes curling as batters into that place that makes Nirvana bleed over your synapses.
Keegan's hand settles on your thigh, holding you steady as he bucks into you. His other hand tangles in your hair, cupped on the nape of your neck. He tugs, his nose pressing into yours.
"You feel so good, kid," he breathes, sliding his hand down to cup your jaw in his palm. "Squeezing me so tight. Missed your pretty pussy—"
"—Feels so good, Keegan, feels so—"
His lips steal over yours in a searing kiss. Biting, blistering. He devours you whole until nothing remains but the taste of him on your tongue, in the back of your throat. It clogs all of your senses—a brutal assault of Keegan: rich, earthy.
Like this, locked to his chest as he pistons into you, you have very little choice but to take everything he gives you. All of it.
The sounds your bodies make when he's seated in deep, the slap of his pelvis, the wet squelch of your pussy, make you dizzy. Make you keen. Whine. Your mouth drops. Toes curl. Eyes roll into the back of your head.
The cacophony of him fucking into you over and over again fills the empty space around you, sticking to the walls, and the moss-covered floor. It bounces against the lining of your head until it throbs, pulses, and threatens to split you in two. To halve you down the middle where Keegan presses taut to the seal of your womb.
All you can do is cling to him, hands sliding to grasp his thick, rippling forearms as he batters into you. It's sloppy, unrefined, and you've never seen him lose it like this before.
It edges into that precipice of pleasure and pain, both admixing into a heady cocktail of bliss that roils through you.
He trails kisses across your blistering cheek, down your neck. His breath is warm over your skin. The flash of teeth makes you gasp.
"You're gonna cum."
It's not a demand, or a request. It isn't a plea, a bargain. He says the words like he's relaying the time, coordinates, his position. He isn't unaffected—his voice crumbles a little over the vowels, wobbles on the syllables—but this isn't him asking you. He's telling you.
Keegan knows your body like he knows the intricacies of his rifles, his weapons, and he knows, knows, you're going to cum around his cock soon. Can feel it in the way your nails find purchase in the firm muscles of his shoulders, the way you tighten around him like a vice. The sound of your voice when you get closer to that looming precipice he holds you over.
He knows.
You moan his name as liquid pleasure leaks into your marrow, and that vertiginous edge grows closer and closer. You want to warn, to tell him, but Keegan knows.
He hushes you, mouth moulding to yours, and devouring the whimpers that seep out. His hands tighten, holding you steady as he fucks you through it, slowing his pace to the easy grind of his cock against the seal of your womb, dragging over that soft spot inside of you that makes your head spin, and eyes cloud over with bliss.
You moan weakly into the kiss when he slides his hand back, fingers pressing once more against the taut flesh stretched around him. It's too much—the added pressure, the feeling of him bucking into you, brushing over the seam where you swallow him down—and you tilt your head back with a whimper of his name.
"I know, kid," he grunts, teeth catching on your chin. "Gonna cum for me, yeah?"
You can't speak, can't talk over the rush in your head, the thick spool of pleasure clotting inside your head, behind your eyelids, in your veins. Molten, liquid. You fall into him as the world around you shatters once more, erupting into white noise, static.
Everything that isn't him—the solid press of his body, unyielding and supine under you; the weight of his hands on your flesh; the painful crescent of his nails sinking into your skin; the stretch of his cock wrenching you open, and filling you deep, deeper than you'd thought possible; the burning heat, white-hot and balmy, that soaks your being from base to empty, empty skull—is sucked out through the broken shell, and into the vacuum of nothingness where it dissolves into embers, ashes.
All you can think, feel, is Keegan.
He works you through it, hand still pressed against the rim of your spasming cunt, feeling the way you pulse around him.
He moans low in his throat, the noise cutting through the gossamer of pleasure liquifying your joints into sticky molasses, and you know he's close, too.
You push back into him, into the sloppy cants of his hips as he leaches the lingering aftershocks of your climax for his own taking, his own rapture.
His chest shudders. Fingers tremble when they run along your skin, grasping, clenching. Keeping you tight to his body where you fit like a puzzle, and he, in turn, fills all of the empty, barren cavities inside of you, leaving no crevasse, no fibril, untouched by him.
You want to give him everything. Everything.
You buck into his thrusts, meeting him in the middle where he sinks home with a grunt that echoes through the hollow spaces of your ribs, and you tremble with him. Satiate yourself on his scent, his taste, the noises he makes, the feeling of his body on yours. Sweat-slicked and fever hot. You douse the burn heat of his in the inferno of your own; incandescent with the molten press of him everywhere.
Your head drops, nose pressed to his cheekbone as you breathe in him in greedy gulps that make your lungs quiver. Filled to the brim with him. Gorged on his taste. Saturated in his scent.
It's good. You're delirious. Mad with it. Drunk on the elixir of his briny skin, and the way he leaks into your pores, into your being.
You push yourself tighter against him until you feel his heartbeat pulsing inside of your ribcage.
His name is ripped from your throat in needy gasps drenched in the potency of your devotion. Shrill hymns that fans over his skin until it prickles, dampening with the humidity of your breath. Stained, then, with you.
"God, Keegan, you feel so good inside of me—"
Slurred words tumble from your sore lips, dipped in euphoria, in bliss, as he batters clumsily into you.
You'll ache tomorrow—already feel like one massive, liquified contusion. He might have to carry you from Yosemite to Coarsegold where Merrick and Hesh are waiting.
They'll know, of course, when you can't stand properly without feeling the stretch of him anew. When your knees wobble and your legs shake.
(But a part of you wants them to.)
"Gonna cum for me, Keegan?" You mewl, nails scratching at his shoulders when he grunts your name like it's salvation. Purpose. "Want you to, baby, want you to—"
His cock jerks, twitching within you, and with a choked, guttural moan, he cums inside of your fluttering pussy. Saturates you in his release that spits, plumes of warmth, against the battered, bruised seal of your womb.
He rumbles your name again, a shattered husk of vowels, consonants, and the ecstasy that paints his timbre sends you spiralling down into an abyss of endless blue.
Keegan's stomach flutters. The skin pulling taut as his muscles clench, seize. You feel the drag of his flesh over your quivering belly; the constellation of scars rubbing over your slick skin. Your hand falls to his shoulder, pressing against the bullet wound left behind when he perched himself in front of death for you. For you.
His eyes slide open slowly, heavy-lidded and bone weary with the shuddering tremors of euphoria that dance between the rucked
The tip of your nose slides over the bridge of his, and when his skin wrinkles at the featherlight touches, it feels a little bit like the scar over his heart.
"Fuck, kid," he rasps, eyes misty and lidded. Heavy pools of mercury you could fall into if you tried hard enough. "You have no idea what you do to me."
He grabs your hand, fingers lacing through the empty brackets until every part of you is filled with him.
Your nail catches the burn mark—a molotov cocktail when the world wasn't in shambles. His thumb brushes over yours—hot oil, perogies, back when your dad took you around America on grand adventures every weekend, and your brother would sneakily eat your fries from the McDonald's bag.
The other snakes up your spine, tangling in your messy hair, and then his lips are on yours. Messy, wet. He gasps into your open mouth as you rock against him, working him through his undoing, his breaking.
You hold his shattered pieces in your hands, clutched tight against your sternum, and wonder, once again, if this is what they mean when they talk about kismet.
"Never gonna leave you again," he rasps, the words clawing up his throat.
The raw, pulpy mess of them sits heavy between you. A promise. Promises. Broken, flayed. A crumpled heap of everything you once were in shambles.
You think of the anger you felt before, when the heels of his palms dug into your shoulder, and he pushed. Pushed you out, away. The bitter resentment, the festering rage.
The agony. The sorrow.
You missed him. His stupid face. His stupid voice. Stupid hands. Stupid humour—soft, witty, and drier than Death Valley. His stupid touch, his kisses. Him.
The loneliness carved a hole inside of you, a crater where only he could fit.
(You sleep better when he's beside you, anyway.)
"I won't let you."
Your lips crook into a small smile, a dawning blitz over a ruined landscape, and you lean down, pressing your lips to his pulse, sliding up until you catch his lobe between the seam.
"Still broke you," you murmur, skimming your teeth over the downy soft hairs that cover the shell of his ear. "Still won—"
His hand moves, braces against the back of your skull, the base of your spine, and then he flexes his hips beneath you. It's quick. A fluid motion. Keegan bucks you off, and rolls you under the bulk of his body within a blink. You barely have time to choke on your gasp when he's already nestled above you, eyes shining in the milky light spilling in from the moth-eaten curtains.
"What—?"
His hips jerk into yours, cock sticky, tacky against your skin, but you feel him thicken with each slow roll he makes into you.
He leans down, bracing his forearm on the flat pillow above your crown, eyes burning embers that spark in the dim light bleeding between the wisps of broken fog that shroud the moon.
