Man idk the rampant misogyny and objectification of women in the cod fandom is turning me off sm from interacting with all of it
I won't say I don't like dark stuff because I literally write yandere fics in my main acc but like. Doesn't it get tiring? To read and write about women being at the mercy of those men, about being coerced into a relationship or about romanticizing abuse, to be called "a thing", to be compared to animals and what not.
I get it, it's a fetish. I know. But god, consuming JUST this type of content cant be good for you. Much less for all those minor girls I see at the tags.
There are so many great writers in this fandom, so many people I genuinely admire, but I hate how their stuff is drowned under the thousandth post about Price being a mean dom sugar daddy.
Idk I'm just ranting. I haven't even written anything in a long while lmao
i just have to say thank u for the self indulgent poly 141 x neurodivergent reader its so healing and makes me feel so so joyful
Thank you so much!!! It's healing to me too and it makes me really happy that some people are finding comfort in them! I rlly wish we all find our own big guard dogs someday, even if they're just our own selves
Johnny who lived his whole life being a good instrument for his master, being a proper weapon in otherâs hands.
Johnny whose training strips his words from him, his dignity, his honour. Dogs donât have honour after all.
Dogs hear âbiteâ and they bite. Dogs hear ârunâ and they run.
Dogs return to their owners no matter how cruel the hand feeding them is. Because thatâs what dogs do. Thatâs how it works.
Johnny who gets his knee injured badly and suddenly after years of servitude and being a good weapon heâs useless. Heâs broken. No one needs a dog that canât run. No one needs a dog that canât hunt for its master.
They drop him off somewhere in the wilderness, not letting him keep even his sword, the weapon that became part of him, the weapon hilt of which is soaked in his blood and sweat and tears.
Itâs his bloody sword! Itâs his weapon! He earned it! Why canât he keep it? Why isnât he allowed to keep at least this much?
Why isnât he allowed to keep anything?
But heâs dropped off in the woods and he doesnât even know where the fuck he is. He doesnât know what to do â shame and humiliation choking him out, pain in his knee agonising whenever he tries to hobble somewhere.
Dogs in the wild either die or become feral. Johnny isnât sure what is better for him. He doesnât have anything left in him to fight more.
He doesnât have a reason to. Nobody tells him to bite or to run or to break himself piece by piece.
Heâs feverish from pain and heâs hungry, god heâs so fucking hungry.
He hasnât been so hungry since he was a wee thing and his mum couldnât feed them more than once per day.
Family too big in a place thatâs too cold and too barren to feed them properly. Family without men other than him.
Johnny closes his eyes, looking up at the sky, lips chapped and dry.
He doesnât really mind dying. But he doesnât want to be hungry. God he doesnât want to die hungry, he let people break him to fit in the dog hide so he doesnât die hungry.
And at the brink of it all. You find him.
You smell like herbs and something citrus-y, sweet and homey scent. Warm scent. Delicious scent.
Johnny tilts his head, not sure whether it not you are another hallucination of his feverish mind. Maybe you are. Well, at least thatâs something.
Small mercies for a useless dog like him.
You say something, brows furrowed and eyes wary but Johnny doesnât have any more energy to attack. Thereâs no fight left in him.
But you tug on him for some reason, you make him drink something â sweet and tangy, his empty stomach clenching with renewed hunger.
âLook at the state of you. Come on, knight, itâs no place to die. Come on, you need to get upâ, you hiss at him, forcing him up and make him drink a little more of whatever you have in the flask of yours.
It dulls his pain a little, it sobers him up, his jaws clacking together, almost biting the tip of his own tongue.
Itâs humiliating. Heâs been his masterâs best dog, the leanest hound, the favourite fucking weapon and now heâs just a broken toy that reeks of sweat and blood and infection, knee throbbing.
You should just leave him here. You should let him die.
But you donât.
You force him to walk, hissing back when he clacks his jaws at you â his leg making the hobble a right bloody adventure but you are relentless. Pouring your drink down his throat, pulling him further in the woods.
Johnny thinks he blacked out for a while because the next time heâs out of delirium heâs lying on the bed, fire cracking in the heath.
His armour propped on the chair next to the bed.
You didnât take it away. Why didnât you take it away? He doesnât deserve it. Heâs a bad dog, a weak dog, a useless dog.
Canât you see his knee? Donât you know that he wonât be a good weapon for you, witch? Whatâs use to save him if heâs not useful?
But you donât allow him to wallow in his own misery, spoon feeding him your weird fucking medicine, making him eat and pushing out of the house so he sits on the fallen tree.
âSome fresh air will do you goodâ, you hum matter-of-factly and he snarls at you, but itâs half-hearted at best. More for the show and you know it so well itâs infuriating.
You thrust watering can in his hands when heâs out of the woods and no longer risking to fall when he stands up too fast. Johnny looks at it, bewildered and looks back at you, earning himself an exasperated sigh and âwater plants around yourself, you big oaf. Yeah, these ones near the log you sit onâ.
Johnny feels fucking ridiculous sitting on the bloody log and watering plants around himself. Who the fuck is he? A garden gnome?
Johnny who doesnât know what use he is to you but you come up with tasks for him and even if he finds them ridiculousâŠheâs not gonna turn his nose away from work.
You feed him, you house him, you patch up his clothing and make a polish for his armour. You save him for some unknown reason so if you say âwater the rosemary, oafâ heâs going to water the rosemary.
His knee slowly gets better but the damage unfortunately is irreversible. He doesnât lose his leg entirely but you quietly announce that heâs not gonna be able to run again.
Johnny nods, swallowing down his anger and bitterness, back of his throat hurting and spasming, bile rising up.
Itâs not fair. He was a good dog, he was the best dog. Itâs not fair that he wonât run again.
But you still push him to move, lending your shoulder when he awkwardly stumbles and limps, making ointments for his knee, teaching him how to bandage the thing properly.
He lives through the whole summer with you â sleeping in your bed, eating food you grow, watching you silently.
Itâs not until first snow he starts speaking again, the first time scaring the living day out of you â his voice a raspy and wrong thing.
He havenât used it in 20 years.
But he does now. Starts with clipped âyeahâ and ânaeâ, building up to âthank youâ and âmorningâ. He doesnât talk much but he does talk and thatâs already more than before.
More than he was allowed.
You teach him proper sheep shearing and with your combined efforts he gets himself a warm winter cloak. Then a sweater. Then another one.
Itâs foreign and the clothes are warm, keeping him from shivering in winds that grow colder when he cleans the pathway to your house from snow.
You keep him warm.
The thought is a sharp thorn that grows in his mind, poking from inside, something long forgotten inside of him watching you with new intensity.
He still sleeps in your bed with you taking a small cot in the kitchen which wasnât an issue during summer but winters are cold and when he notices the slight shiver that goes through youâŠ
You keep him warm. Itâs only fair if he repays the favour.
You wake up warm and fuzzy from sleep, mind hazy, eyes bleary and you arenât sure why are you so warm, kitchen cools off during the night. Usually you are shivering when you wake up.
Someoneâs breathing tickles your ear and you freeze, turning your head â Johnnyâs impossibly blue eyes staring right back at you. Watching you with the same intensity hounds do when they lock in on the target.
With the same quiet obsession stray dogs that adore their owners have.
âWhat are you doing?â, you murmur quietly, voice husky from sleep, eyes squinting at him.
âNothingâ
Johnny isnât sure what to do with the hot shiver he feels at the sound of your voice, so he just nudges you back under the blanket and to his absolute delight you comply.
Face pressing into his chest, dozing off in a matter of seconds.
Johnny wraps his arms tighter around you, warm and comfortable. You are soft in his hands, his fingers sinking in the softer parts of your body and god, you still smell good.
Herbs and dried citrus. Homey. Delicious.
Johnny guards you while you sleep, starting to move only when you stir awake. You got your rest. Wonderful.
Johnny nuzzles in your neck, lips mouthing at soft skin and heâs not sure what heâs doing or where he needs to go from there. But you make a soft breathy sound when he licks a wet stripe on your skin and he growls in appreciation.
Maybe it wouldâve been better if you were like his previous master. Maybe it wouldâve been better if you told him to bite or to run.
Maybe it wouldâve been better if you chose his new purpose for him.
But you didnât. So he chooses it himself.
Johnnyâs palms slide under the thin fabric of your shirt, his body nudging your legs open so he can settle in between â slowly sliding under the blankets.
Yeah, he chose alright. Maybe his pretty witch doesnât need a weapon. Or a dog. Or an instrument to use.
But he needs you.
Johnny rumbles out âbonnieâ when he looks back up at you, eyes heavy and hungry.
Didnât you know that hounds sink their teeth into their prey and donât let go? Shouldâve known better.
sfw + nsfw. this is just an amalgamation of all my ideas
könig has never been one for putting his face on social media. even before the scars that pull at the skin of his cheek, reshaping his expression in ways heâs never fully grown used to, the idea of being seen, really seen, has never sat right with him. thereâs a certain comfort in anonymity, in keeping the world at armâs length. easier that way. safer.
that unease, paired with what some might consider his more nerdy interests, means he gravitates toward spaces like discord rather than the highly curated feeds of Instagram or facebook. there, he doesnât have to worry about photos or videosâ just a username, and a presence in text.
his handle is simple: king đ. a nod to the name heâs carried for so long, stripped of rank, stripped of weight.
even in the server where heâs most active, he keeps things vague, blending into discussions about games, military history, or whatever niche interest has caught his attention that week.
every now and then, heâll let something slipâ a mention of deployment, an offhand comment about disappearing for months at a time, only to return with a sudden burst of activity. some put the pieces together. most donât. and könig prefers it that way. itâs easier to let them think heâs just another guy with spotty internet.
your first interaction is rather simple in retrospect.
heâs back after weeks of recon, shaking off the mission like dirt from his boots, easing into the familiarity of a gaming server heâs called home for years.
itâs not a small server, so new people come and go. he does his usual routineâ an automated, slightly impersonal welcome but what he doesnât expect is the sheer enthusiasm in return.
âhi!!!!â
he stares at the message for a second, counting the exclamation marks. three. four. five? a small smile tugs at his lips before he even realizes it.
it doesnât take long before youâre at his metaphorical side, sending a friend request before the conversation even shifts from your college courses.
the older members tease him. something about his last deployment scrambling his head enough to take a newbie under his wing. he lets them talk. he doesnât mind.
soon enough, youâre in his private messages, dramatically lamenting your latest loss in a game heâs only vaguely familiar with. könig listensâ well, readsâ as you rant, words spilling out at a rapid-fire pace, interspersed with keyboard smashing and increasingly incoherent frustration.
heâs not much for new releases, preferring to sink his teeth into a single game for months on end, grinding away until mastery is muscle memory. still-
one evening, without preamble, he sends you a link. his profile. in your game.
the response is immediate. âking!!! đ„șâ you type, followed by an onslaught of keyboard mashing that takes up half his screen.
he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. he wonders if you know how easy it is to make him grin like an idiot.
the calls are⊠an unexpected development.
könig doesnât make a habit of join server calls. ever. itâs not even about anxiety, not really, just preference. too many voices, too much noise. he never expected to be comfortable enough with anyone to want to be in a call, let alone initiate one.
but when you start gaming together, it becomes a necessity. typing mid-match isnât exactly efficient, and youâre the first to point that out.
âokay, listen, king, i am not about to lose another ranked match just because you take five years to type âbehind you.ââ he huffs, amused, but relents.
soon enough, calls become second natureâ no longer tied to gaming, no longer requiring an excuse. you always ask first, polite thing that you are, and könig always agrees. sometimes itâs an unspoken invitation, a simple âcall?â sent in the quiet hours of the night. sometimes he beats you to it, pressing the button before he can think too hard about it.
one time, itâs you who calls. he answers on the first ring.
âare you- wait.â you pause, listening. thereâs a distinct, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the background. not footsteps, but something heavier, more controlled. âare you on a treadmill?â
âmm.â his voice is steady, unaffected. a quiet confirmation.
you gasp, and he can practically hear the amusement brewing in your tone. âoh my god! you actually work out? i thought you were lying.â
he snorts, breath hitching slightly as he adjusts his pace. âwhy would i lie about that?â
âi donât know! you just- i mean, you sit at your desk all day, playing the same game for hours, and youâre always online at weird times-â
âyou are describing yourself,â he points out.
âshut up.â
thereâs a pause, and then, with the kind of mischief that only comes from knowing exactly how to push his buttons, you add, âprove it.â
he slows to a walk, swiping open his phone. a moment later, you receive a picture. him, flexing. the lighting is dim, but you can still make out the cut of his forearm, the solid shape of his bicep. just to humor you, he throws up a peace sign.
ânot stolen from pinterest.â
you burst into laughter so sudden and bright that he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.
you learn what it means to miss könig pretty early on.
it happens suddenly. one day, heâs there, active as usual, sending the occasional meme, idling in voice chat even if heâs not talking. the next? radio silence. not even a âtypingâŠâ indicator.
at first, you donât think much of it. maybe heâs sleeping in. maybe heâs busy. time zones are weird. itâs fine.
but then a whole day passes. then another. you check his statusâ nothing. not offline, not do not disturb, just⊠gone.
curiosity turns into concern, and before you can think better of it, you ask in the server.
âhey, anyone heard from king?â
the response is casual. unbothered. âoh, dudeâs probably deployed again.â
you blink. reread the message. âdeployed?â
âyeah, kingâs military.â
thereâs no warning for the way that statement knocks the air from your lungs.
military? as in, real-life combat? as in, war zones and danger and actual life-or-death situations?
you stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure what to even say to that.
he doesnât resurface for weeks.
you donât realize how much youâve come to rely on his presence until itâs gone. his absence is loud in the quiet moments of your day, in the spaces where a message from him would normally be.
you check the server out of habit, catching yourself before you can search his username. itâs stupid, you think. you barely know him. heâs just some guy from a discord server.
but the worry lingers.
and then, one day, just like thatâ heâs back.
his return is as unceremonious as his disappearance.
no dramatic entrance, no fanfare. just a simple âhello.â
you see it the moment he sends it. your stomach flips.
before you can stop yourself, you send a private message. âyouâre alive.â
a moment passes. thenâ âyes.â
you frown. âyou were gone for weeks.â
âi know.â
frustration bubbles up. âyou couldâve said something.â
âi couldnât.â
you hesitate, fingers tightening around your phone. you donât know what you were expecting. an explanation? reassurance? but itâs clear youâre not getting one.
but then, a follow-up message. one that feels heavier, more careful. âiâm sorry.â
and just like that, the irritation dissolves.
itâs strange, the way things slip back into place after that.
he doesnât talk about it, and you donât ask. but something shifts. after that deployment, könig starts telling you when heâll be gone. nothing in detail, really. just a simple, âiâll be away for a bit.â
(it means everything.)
slowly, you get used to it. the rhythm of his presence and absence, the way your conversations pick up right where they left off, as if no time has passed at all.
it goes on for months. this⊠thing between the two of you. könig doesnât hesitate to call it friendship, though he knows, knows, itâs something else entirely. something with edges softer than companionship, something that lingers in the pauses between conversation, in the way you say his name like it means something more than just a username on a screen.
he doesnât rush to name it. doesnât push. he lets it simmer, slow and steady, until it feels inevitable.
in the end, itâs you who breaks first. technically. not that heâs keeping score. not that he would ever rub it in your face, especially when he was a mere day away from asking the very same thing.
it starts with a message. no preamble, no buildup. just a simple: hey, what are we?
könig sees it and reacts before thinking. presses the call button so fast his thumb practically smashes the screen. it rings once, twiceâ
âyou didnât even ask.â your voice comes through, half exasperated, half amused.
âdidnât want to give you time to unsend.â his own voice is steady, but his heart is anything but.
you huff. âbold assumption.â
ânot really.â
a pause. he hears you shift, fabric rustling, the sound of you settling in. something warm and slow uncoils in his chest at the familiarity of it.
âso,â you start, hesitant. âwhatâs your answer?â
könig exhales, tipping his head back against his pillow. âdo you want the truth?â
âobviously.â
he hums, considering. in reality, heâs known the truth for a while now. probably before you even realized it yourself.
âi like you,â he says, simple, sure. then, because he knows you, because he knows your deflections, your habit of teasing when you get nervous, he adds, âand iâm very aware you like me back.â
you sputter. âthatâs a bold assumption-â
ânot really,â he repeats, smug this time.
you groan, but youâre laughing, and it sends something bright flickering through him.
könig doesnât ask for nudes. not once. he flirts, he teases, but never pushes. he knows your boundaries, respects them, never even hints at wanting more. if anything, heâs careful. too careful, sometimes. like heâs afraid of crossing a line you havenât even drawn.
so when you finally send something, itâs your choice.
the first picture is tame. barely anything. it's a shot of your thighs, soft and warm in the low light of your room. nothing scandalous. nothing too revealing. but the second you hit send, your stomach twists with nerves.
könig sees it immediately. you watch the typing bubble appear, disappear, then appear again. and thenâ âfuck.â
you grin. âgood?â
âyou have no idea.â
it only escalates from there.
könig never requests more. but when you send it, when you want to send it, his reaction is worth it. he worships you through the screen, tells you how beautiful you are, how much he wishes he could touch you.
âpretty,â he texts once, attached to a voice message.
you press play. his breath is ragged, like heâs just run a mile. âpretty thing,â he repeats, voice tinged with something almost reverent. âyouâre going to ruin me, love.â
the first time he sends you something, it takes him forever to work up to it.
you donât ask for it. wouldnât dream of pushing him into something heâs not comfortable with. könig isnât shy, necessarily, but heâs private. you know that by now.
so when, out of nowhere, a picture pops up on your screen, your brain short-circuits.
itâs cropped carefully, but thereâs no mistaking what youâre looking atâ bare skin, broad shoulders, his stomach flexed just slightly.
âyou like?â he texts after a minute.
you swallow hard. âyes.â
âgood.â and thenâ âmore?â
you bite your lip. âplease.â
könig gets bolder after that.
he sends more. never too much, always teasing, always just enough to leave you wanting. sometimes itâs his hands, sometimes itâs his abs, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the waistband of his sweatpants hanging just low enough to make your mouth water.
one night, he sends a voice message instead. you press play.
at first, all you hear is his breathing. then, slowly, softlyâ your name, whispered through a noise that makes heat bloom low in your stomach.
âwish you were here,â he murmurs. âwish you could see what you do to me.â
the actual nudes donât take long. not ar all. youâre both desperate. buzzing. königâs the one who caves first.
it starts with your text. 10 p.m., the hour where inhibitions slip through grasping fingers like sand.
âwanna see your cock so bad, königâŠâ you murmur to your propped phone, cheek pressed to your pillow, another one stuffed against your chest like it might replace the hollow ache between your ribs. a distraction. a poor substitute.
on the other side of the screen, he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. fingers tensing, then flexing, like he needs something to hold onto. âlove-â your whine cuts through before he can even think. instinctive. needy. his stomach clenches. âokay, okay. as long as you're sure.â
his heart pounds as he opens his photos. he doesnât exactly collect dick pics, but there are a few kept locked away, private albums, a passcode he suddenly fumbles to enter.
three minutes. thatâs how long it takes to choose the best one. the right angle. the right lighting. enough to make your breath hitch when you see it.
he hits send before he can overthink it, then leans back, phone balanced on his thigh, bottom lip caught between his teeth.
your phone buzzes. the photo pops up. you blink, breath hitching sharp in your throat.
âoh my god.â the words spill out of you before you can even think to stop them. âkönigâŠâ you stare at the screen, gaze locked on the thick, heavy length of him. the way it curves slightly, resting against his thigh like itâs too much, like itâs weighed down by its own sheer mass. your breath stutters.
âyou're so fucking big.â it barely registers that you've said it aloud.
âyeah? you like it?
âlike it?â you shoot back. âi want it inside me.â
his breath leaves him in one harsh exhale. he shifts, hips rolling involuntarily like he can feel your words on his skin.
âcan i see you too?â he sounds so polite. and then, as if that wasnât enough to twist the knife deeperâ âplease?â
your stomach flips. you bite your lip, already reaching for your phone camera, the need to show him everything burning through you like wildfire.
your breath comes shallow as you slip your hand lower, phone steady in the other. the need is a pulse under your skin, throbbing, insistent. you pull the covers back just enough, the cool air prickling against the heat between your thighs.
the camera catches everything. your slightly parted thighs, your swollen clit, the wetness gushing out of your hole. it feels like baring a secret youâve never told anyone. you hesitate for half a second, heart racing, then hit send.
the second the message disappears from your screen, it hits youâ you just sent that to him.
on his end, könig freezes. the photo loads slow, torturous, and when it finally pops up, he feels his whole body tense, blood rushing south so fast itâs dizzying. âf-fuck, i need to be inside of you-â
sex with könig, if you can even call it that, at first, sneaks up on you. you never thought youâd be the kind of person who got into this. sending texts that made your face burn, leaving voice messages you could barely listen back to without cringing. but with him, itâs different. easier. less embarrassing because itâs him.
it starts slow. not even intentional. just little things, comments that start landing differently as the months pass.
âgonna sleep,â könig texts you once, attached to a blurry photo of his bed.
âalone?â you send back, teasing.
the typing bubble appears. then disappears. thenâ âobviously.â
you grin at your phone, satisfied. but thenâ âbut i could use some company.â
you stare at the message longer than youâd like to admit.
you want to give each of you a chance to settle in the relationship so you donât tell him how many times youâve dreamt of him, of his hands pinning you down, his mouth at your throat.
donât tell him that youâve woken up panting, arousal between your thighs, königâs name on your lips. donât tell him that youâve touched yourself to the sound of his voice, to his laugh, to the quiet, wrecked groans he sometimes lets out when he stretches after a workout.
but you want to.
and tonight, you will.
the conversation turns slow. lazy. heavy with something unspoken.
âyou sound tired,â könig murmurs, voice warm. heâs always like this late at night. soft, unhurried, like heâs sinking into the sound of you.
you swallow hard. your skin feels too hot, too tight. âiâm not.â
a pause. then, lowerâ âwhat is it, love?â
you hesitate, pressing your lips together. itâs too much. too embarrassing. but he knows something is different.
âtalk to me. tell me what youâre thinking.â
you let out a shaky breath. âi had a dream about you.â
the silence stretches.
you can hear him inhale. you bite your lip. force yourself to continue. âi think about you. when i-â you stop. you canât say it. canât admit it.
könig exhales through his nose, like heâs trying to steady himself. âwhen you what?â
your stomach is a knot of nerves. but you want this. want him. so you take a breath, close your eyes. âwhen i touch myself.â
his breath stutters.
âfuck.â the word is almost a groan. your pulse hammers, blood rushing through your ear as heat pools in your stomach.
âkönig,â you whisper.
he exhales, whispers his next words like a beg, âsay it again.â
you swallow. âi touch myself to you.â
âi do too.â
your stomach flips. âwhat?â
âi-â he cuts himself off with a quiet curse, like he's frustrated with himself for hesitating. âi touch myself to you too.â
your breath catches. heat blooms in your chest, spreading down your spine. âkönig-â
âall the time.â his voice is lower now, raw, like he's aching with it. âwhen i can't sleep. when you're on call with me, laughing, teasing me. when i wake up hard in the middle of the night and canât stop thinking about stuffing you full.â
your body is burning again, despite the aftershocks still rolling through you. you're about to choke out a reply when you hear itâ the rustle of fabric, the faint creak of bedsprings, the wet slide of skin on skin.
âare you-â
a sharp inhale. âyes.â
âlet me hear you,â you whisper, thinking about his pretty, pretty cock. uncut, soft skin stretched over the flushed head, the way it would slide back when heâs fully hard, revealing the deep pink of his leaking tip. the veins that wind down the length, standing out against the pale skin
there's a pause, a hitch in his breath. then, slowlyâ âokay.â
there's a small rustle, könig adjusting himself on the bed. the faint sound of him pumping lotion on his hand. a quiet sigh. and then, a low grunt as the warmth of his palm wraps around his cock.
könig looks down at his hand, eyes half-lidded, hips bucking up in small thrusts. he imagines your pussy instead of his fist, hot and tight and so fucking warm, fluttering around his length as he pushes in, spearing you open with a cock too big for your little cunny. he knows youâd cry for him, little gasps and hiccupped moans, squirming beneath him as he bullies his cock deeper, past that tight ring of muscle into the slick, warm clutch of your cunt.
âa-ah- fuck, ah-â
your breath stutters at the sounds, hips grinding against your palm. âwish i could see you.â
âon cam?â
you groan, squeezing your thighs around the pillow in-between your legs, grinding your clit against the material softly. âyes, please..â
OKAY LISTEN I gobbled up "Come quietly" in one sitting and I'm OBSESSED with your König, he's perfect, literally- shsndndmdmdhbdn
Aww ily! Hereâs a lil part 2 for you:
(Part 1 here)
âWhat is your name?â
âUhâŠâ you hesitate, withdrawing your hand from his and glancing towards your door, with the definite urge to disappear behind it.
You fucked this guy. You did gross things in the dark with this guy, and now he knows it was you. If youâre sure about one thing, itâs that he cannot find out your name.
âLook,â you explain, when youâve been stalling too long, and a confused expression settles over his face, âit doesnât really matter. Iâm out of here in a few hours, and you probably donât even live here, right? Letâs just make it simple, and leave it at that.â
Konig adjusts his shoulders in the crutches, now seeming less bewildered and more adamant, judging by the way his jaw is set.
âThanks for washing them,â you tell him brightly, indicating your leggings. âAnd for not killing me and stuff. I guess Iâll see youââ
âYou have eaten?â he cuts in.
âOh, um. No, not yet.â
âI am hungry also. Come.â
He jerks his head in the direction of the cafeteria, and starts to maneuver his crutches to turn.
You hesitate for a moment, because you really do need to escape this continued embarrassment, but curiosity gets the best of you. You catch up to him in a few steps. âI thought you already went to dinner.â
âI did. But I have⊠funny feelings⊠so I came back.â He glances over to you as you walk beside him, sees the overly inquisitive gaze you quickly rip away from his face. âFunny feelings are very important to me.â
You suppose they would be. He needs instincts like he needs water, when it comes to the work he does. You just wish his instincts werenât quite so good.
âYou still will not tell me your name?â He asks when you reach the cafeteria doors, touching the button to open them automatically.
Your fingers fidget with the leggings youâre holding â why are you still holding them? You should have tossed them into your room â and you try to come up with a better excuse. But the reality is, you are being unreasonably stubborn.
Nothing would be ruined if you told him your name. As you said, it doesnât even matter. Youâre going to go your separate ways in a couple of hours, and thereâll be no difference if he knows you as Jane Doe, or your real name, or something you just pull out of your ass. At the end of the day, you mean nothing to him.
âIâm sorry,â you say lamely, looking down at your slut souvenir.
You can feel his eyes on you, even when he has to touch the button again because youâve been standing here too long. You feel inexplicably like there are nude photos of you getting passed around, and heâs here asking for one with face. Sure, the damage has been done already, but itâs still slightly anonymous, and youâre clinging to that.
Konig doesnât pry again, just follows you through the doors when you step beyond the little bubble of humiliation youâve created for yourself in the hallway. He buys your food. Doesn't take no for an answer, so you earn it at least a little by carrying both meals to the table for him. Maybe heâll want to do more eating and less questioning.
He does eat, at first. He leans his crutches against the fake-wood table and takes a few bites, giving you a moment of privacy from his too-sharp eyes.
âSarah,â he says after a while, tapping his fork thoughtfully inside his bowl.
You have to blink a few times before you realize heâs trying to guess your name. âNo.â
âYour parents are Christian? Rebecca.â
âSir, you really donât need to do this.â
âKonig,â he corrects you quietly, then takes another bite, watching you while he chews. âI am thinking of American names. Debbie.â
That makes a smile twitch to your mouth, which you quickly hide with a drink of water.
âCleveland. Brittany Spears.â
âBrittany Spears?â you canât help but burst out laughing at the absolute ridiculousness of his guesses, which stretches an answering smile across his face.
Finally you shake your head and return to your food, more determined than ever not to crack. He seems nice, and funny, and thatâs even worse.
âYou are embarrassed⊠Or afraid.â His voice drops a little, sounding remorseful in a way you werenât expecting. âI⊠did not want to give you that feeling. I am sorry.â
You sigh, and finally meet his eyes. His cute, soft eyes. Dammit.
His frank gaze lingers on your face for a moment, but then something over your shoulder gets his attention. He locks eyes with it and perceptibly shakes his head.
You twist your head around, just to see someone else in military pants turning and walking away, with a paper file in hand. Is he missing something important?
âYou have a private room?â Konig asks, pulling your attention back to your game of evasion.
You narrow your eyes suspiciously. âIâm not going to fuck you, Konig.â
He doesnât quite roll his eyes at you, but his long suffering look-away definitely conveys the same thing. âLittle girl, I am not trying to fuck you.â
âThen what do you want?â you demand defensively.
âI wish to talk to you about what happened.â
Oh shit, thatâs even worse. He must be feeling extra guilty, if heâs offering you a fucking therapy session for his own closure. Thereâs no way in hell youâre willing to take that punishment. He can sit in his own âfunny feelingsâ and go on his merry way.
You glance at your phone, relieved that another half hour has passed. âIâm not sure I have time, but thanks for the offer.â
Youâre braced for his anger, his frustration at being dismissed so openly, but it never comes. He just lets out a breath and says, âAlright,â before turning back to his food.
There. Problem solved.
You do feel a little bad, on the off chance that he is actually concerned about you, and not trying to use you in some way. But really, what are the odds of that? He had to protect himself that night by frisking you, and you have to protect yourself right now by cutting ties. You tell yourself that thereâs nothing he has that you want, and you dutifully finish your food so he at least got his money's worth.
Konig walks you back to your room afterwards, almost definitely thinking about other things - perhaps about the person he shook his head at, and his responsibilities there. You try not to watch the fascinating ripples in his arms when he uses the crutches, try to just keep your face forward and your heart silent.
This sadness doesnât matter. You arenât supposed to be together, and the crushing weight of saying goodbye right now is just your own foolishness manifesting in some fucked up, stalkery kind of nonsense. Goodbye, Konig. See you never. See? Easy.
Except itâs not easy, when you finally come to a stop at your door. You stare up at him, and he looks down at you, and your fingers are suddenly itchy to touch. You almost wish he would talk some more, remove this heavy silence that somehow mirrors the silence between you a few days ago, when he had you naked and wet for him. Your body remembers it now, in a misplaced rush of longing.
You never got to kiss him, and now, as your eyes float down to his lips, you realize you want to. You want that little therapy session, now that youâre sure heâs not being controlling about it. Now that you have the choice, because he hasnât tried to manipulate you with his reaction, itâs like the option has become so much more attractive.
âWould you like to come in and talk for a little bit?â you ask, placing your hand on the knob.
The relief that crosses his face is just so adorable, you canât help but smile at him.
And thatâs how you end up draped across his chest twenty minutes later, as he lays stretched out in your little bed, slowly kissing away all your worries.
Pairing: König/Fem Reader
Content Warnings: Intense situation (fear of SA), nonconsensual frisking, hand over mouth gag, blood/wound dressing, forced proximity, brief thoughts of suicide, dubious consent (under duress), stranger sex, vaginal fingering, PIV sex, she/her reader
Word Count: 8.7k
This shouldn't be happening.
You curl tighter in on yourself in the darkness, flinching with every muffled rat-tat-tat coming from somewhere outside.Â
This isn't some goddamned war zone, this is a normal fucking city, with a functional police force and Apple Watches and Chipotle. Armed militants don't just drop out of the sky and fight each other, thatâs not how this works.Â
The boom of an explosion outside has you mashing your forehead into your kneecaps, hugging your legs so tight that the tendons in your arms ache. With any luck, no one will notice your little hidey hole. Itâs more or less tucked into the rafters, above the lights of this warehouse, and the average person would have to do a lot of looking up and squinting to even know it exists.Â
But maybe mercenaries are used to looking up, for like⊠snipers, or drones or something. Maybe this is the worst place you could have gone, maybe you should have hidden more in plain sight, found a locker in the staff shower area or something. Â
Thereâs a heavy shift of metal-on-metal when the solid, industrial outer door gets wrenched open somewhere below you. You ration your breaths, making sure youâre absolutely motionless as several heavy footsteps wander through the place. Male laughter trickles up to your ears, and you hate it. The innate cruelty of someone enjoying whatâs happening right now, terrorizing people in the middle of the night, makes your blood boil. You hope they all trip and fall in this dim, off-hours lighting, and impale themselves on something sharp.
Youâre very aware of who you are, what you are, in the face of those quiet laughs and the click and shuffle of guns and gear moving. Youâre nobody to them. Youâve got no phone, no shoes, not even a fucking bra, because this all happened so quickly that there wasnât time to do anything but stumble out of bed and run.Â
The pounding of your pulse almost makes it difficult to concentrate on those retreating footsteps. You hope theyâre gone for good, leaving you with your sore arm - you scratched it on something sharp while climbing up here - your racing thoughts, and your mouth thatâs fucking parched from your scramble to safety. Itâs useless to swallow but you do it anyway, as if the motion will somehow manufacture more spit, and keep your throat from going all cracked and itchy. Coughing is not an option. Coughing will get you killed.
The footsteps are definitely gone, but a different noise begins to make itself known to you. Itâs a slow, steady, huff, huff. You narrow your focus to that sound, subconsciously scouring your memories for a possible match. Itâs not quite fabric shifting, not quite panting. Itâs getting closer, though, almost like itâs floating in the air towards yâ
A bulky black shadow moves, rising up over the edge of your hiding place, right past where your feet lay. It huffs quietly, halting for a few seconds to catch its breath, before heaving itself up over the edge of your one safe place.
Your ears are ringing with how terrified you are. Even though youâre lying down, blood somehow manages to rush from your face, and all you have the presence of mind to do is silently tuck your feet in as tight as theyâll go, holding your breath and just praying this monster will fall to his death, or somehow not notice you, orâ
The shadowâs knee finds purchase on the surface where youâre lying, and his arm is so long that when he reaches out to haul himself the rest of the way up, his hand makes contact with the front of your shin.Â
How anyone can move that fast, you have no idea. One moment youâre barely suppressing your whimper of terror, and the next heâs got hold of your ankle, using your body weight to assist him to vault the rest of the way onto the platform, directly on top of you.Â
Suddenly you canât breathe. Thereâs something scratchy and heavy and sticky covering your mouth and nose, effectively preventing the scream that rises in your throat while this thing crouches on his knees above you. Youâre so unprepared for your oxygen to be cut off like this that you freeze in panic, not even registering for a few seconds that this bruteâs other hand is on your body.Â
Squeezing, feeling, groping, the lumbering shadow doesnât hesitate to violate you. You choke on that faint smell of blood and gunpowder in his suffocating glove while he runs his hand over you, under your arms, over your breasts, tucking his fingers into the band of your leggings and rushing them across to the other side of your hip. Itâs not until he starts squeezing your thighs and running his hand down to your ankles that you actually realize what heâs doing. With a small wave of relief, you register that heâs not trying to cop a feel, heâs frisking you for weapons.Â
 The hand over your mouth finally shifts low enough that you can force in some air through your nose. You do so greedily, not even caring that much that heâs palming your ass and lower back in a final inspection for objects. Apparently satisfied at your helplessness, the shadowâs searching hand slows, comes around to splay out across your stomach and keep you in place while he stays there straddling your hips.
Huff, huff.Â
Heâs thinking.Â
This is the most dangerous moment of all, as he catches his breath and decides what to do with you. Heâs found a helpless rabbit curled up in his chosen hiding spot, and the only question now is if he sees you as something inconvenient and disposable, or as something for eating.Â
Heâs covered in gear, you felt that much when he was pressed on top of you for a bit. Heâs probably got all kinds of body armor and maybe a bullet proof helmet, but if you could get your hand on a pistol⊠He probably has one strapped somewhere to his leg, as a backup if his rifle gets jammed. Maybe you could find a way to pull it free, and slide it into an exposed portion of his neck. Or if thatâs not an option, you could always shoot yourself. End it that way, before something worse can happen.Â
The hand on your stomach vanishes, and thereâs a rustling sound of fabric. You feel the flinch in his fingers on your mouth when the rip of velcro disturbs the quiet air. You want his hand gone, but you donât dare move, not yet. Let him have no information about your capabilities. Save up your physical exertion for when you might need it most. Throwing yourself off this fucking platform wouldnât be too difficult, if you took him by surprise. Maybe you could even take him down with you.Â
The monsterâs knee shifts against the wood below him, and then he grabs for your wrist. Your muscles are so locked up in terror that he has to force your arm to extend, has to put a good deal of effort into dragging your hand towards the darkness where his crotch is. Your eyes squeeze closed tightly, sobbing dry air through your nose as your hand makes contact with something warm and wet.
Wait, thatâs his thigh. He presses your hand to it, hard, like heâs trying to make you understand. Pressure, he wants you to put pressure on his leg. His wet, bloody leg.Â
Itâs difficult to do from the position youâre in, but youâre so relieved that this is just a medical task, you do what heâs asking. His giant hand vanishes from the top of yours, and you put as much force on his wound as you can. You swear the oppressive weight of his glove over your mouth even softens a fraction, while he reaches for something else on his belt.
A wad of fabric gets forced into your palm, and again he wordlessly shows you to apply pressure. It feels like it could be blood clotting gauze, so you search for his wound with your fingers, and then use your thumb to fucking pack that sucker in. Thereâs a soft grunt of pain above you, but he doesnât do anything to show that your knowledge of the field dressing is unwelcome.Â
A thought flashes through your head, that maybe heâll spare you from something inhuman if youâre extra useful. But your life experience quickly smashes that hope, because you know it might actually be the opposite.
Fawn, itâs got to be a fawn response that has you holding the gauze perfectly in place for this horrible stranger. You can feel him wrapping something around his leg, trying to tie it one handed, which is ridiculous because itâs way too short. You can tell that much when you reach a hand over to assist. His thigh is fucking massive, and thereâs no way to properly secure whatever it is youâve got the end of.Â
Heâs going to make you lay here for an hour, putting pressure on that damn gauze if you canât think of something else. Heâs going to bleed unnecessarily if you canât come up with a solution.Â
Despising yourself, you do the worst thing you can possibly imagine doing. You move his hand in place for pressure, and then peel off your own leggings to get his injury taken care of.Â
The hateful thing stays there on his knees, breathing heavily with one hand on his leg and the other wrapped around the bottom of your face. You work your own goddamn clothing off, stripping yourself down to underwear, and wrap those stretchy leggings twice around his thigh before tying them as tight as you can. You set your teeth and yank the knot roughly into place, and you hope it hurts like a bitch.Â
There. Youâre officially suicidal, you fucking idiot. And those were your second favorite leggings.Â
You drop your arms back to the floor and wait for the consequences of your stupid actions. Youâre not relaxed, not by a long shot. Thereâs adrenaline racing through your veins, and youâre braced to shoulder him off the edge like a linebacker. Maybe if you can get your feet past his hips, you could just kangaroo this motherfucker into thin air.Â
That sickening weight on your mouth finally drops away. The soldier hesitates with his fingertips on your cheek, waiting to see if youâll scream.Â
No? Okay, then.
He draws his hand back and fiddles with something near his hip. Thereâs a faint sound of sliding aluminum, and then he grabs the back of your neck, tilting your head forward. You instinctively fight that push, until you feel something cold and metal press against your mouth. The rim of a canteen.Â
Greedily you grab hold of his wrist and take a few swallows of lukewarm water, uncaring that it has that slight chemical taste, like a plastic water bottle thatâs been sitting in the sun. Youâre so dehydrated that you donât even comprehend the significance of the peace offering, until heâs dragging it away to ration the rest of the water for himself.Â
You could down an entire fishbowl right now, but you suppose two drinks of water isnât the worst thing he could have given you. It shows that he sees you as human, at least. Your leggings, in exchange for a little water. Fair.Â
The soldierâs hand slips under your lower back, and to your absolute horror, he turns you towards himself as he settles down to the floor.
Dammit. Of course you ended up here. Thereâs not room for both of you side-by-side on this ledge, but he really does need to lie down with that injury. So now you get to play Titanic and get draped across this murdererâs chest on this little platform which probably only exists to access the electrical system. Full body contact. Great.
Theoretically he must know that your legs are bare, but maybe he forgot. Maybe heâs so tunnel-visioned in on the battle and getting shot, that those little details havenât really clicked into place in his head. Maybe he didnât notice you werenât wearing a bra, when he squished your tits earlier. Maybe heâs lost too much blood, and youâll be able to slip away to safety once he passes out. Maybe that should have been the goal from the start, and you shouldnât have dressed his wound quite so well.Â
A gloved hand unexpectedly makes contact with your forehead, and you immediately flinch away from it. Thereâs a soft, understanding kind of rumble that vibrates through the man for a second, and then a sound of Velcro, and fabric shifting.Â
Youâre prepared enough this time that you donât react when bare, human fingers find your temple. You merely squeeze your eyes shut and wait for it to stop, wanting nothing to do with some horrible soldierâs hand on your face. You donât dare wrench your head away, but you lock your muscles tight and hope thatâs enough for him to change his mind.
Nope. Fingers brush over your skin, smoothing your hair off your forehead. He hesitates, then you feel the purposeful press of a rough palm against your chin, curving his hand around your jaw.Â
Thanks to that drink of water, youâre able to work your tongue and prepare a decent glob of spit to launch at him if he even tries to kiss you. But his hand shifts again, running upwards.Â
Heâs mapping out your face, you think. A little stroke of his thumb over the middle of your cheek, running down the side of your nose. He pushes your hair back again before feeling the pads of his fingers over your eyebrow, and then down the curve of your cheekbone, delicately disturbing your lashes.Â
Heâs being gentle at least, slowly taking stock of your features in the darkness. To what end, youâre not sure. Maybe heâs so much of a prick that he has to decide if youâre pretty enough to assault. Maybe heâs racist, and heâs trying to figure out from your bone structure if youâre white enough. Maybe heâs some twisted serial killer who gets off on lulling his victims into a false sense of security before he tortures them to death.Â
The tip of your nose gets an exploratory press between his fingers, and then his thumb drops down and carefully finds your mouth. Youâre completely unprepared for that warm flood of tingles, starting in your lower lip and then washing out across your neck. You make a surprised inhale against the pad of his thumb, almost a gasp, at how sensitive your skin is there.Â
As if you startled him, that searching touch instantly disappears.Â
His thumb is gone, but for some reason your lips hold onto the lingering ghost of the sensation. It just stays there, nearly vibrating inside your skin, as if he accidentally discovered a vulnerable piece of your nervous system and somehow managed to touch it just right. It gives you that bizarre feeling of something being missing inside you, something being a little bit out of place all of a sudden, even though youâre quite whole and uninjured.
He doesnât come back to your mouth, but his hand does find your skin again. He shifts it down to your neck, curling around your nape and letting his fingers trace up into your hair. He cups the back of your skull like that for a moment, exploring the feel of your head in his hand, and you subtly shift your fingers to explore any possible weapons on his vest.Â
Youâre not sure what youâre feeling for. A grenade and a spare magazine would probably feel about the same to you in the blackness like this. Youâre about as likely to get yourself accidentally killed as you are to find a handgun, but you do it anyway, brushing your fingers across his gear as if youâre being flirty. Youâre too concentrated on survival to let yourself feel sick about it.Â
Thereâs a noise from somewhere below, and the solder goes taut beneath you, quickly muzzling you with his palm. His other hand wraps around the back of your head to keep you completely immobilized while those hateful footsteps walk through the place again. There are sirens going faintly outside, but thereâs a worrisome lack of urgency in the movements of the pack of men in the warehouse. Theyâre far too comfortable being here.Â
Itâs impossible to tell what theyâre saying to each other, so instead you focus on how your head is currently being held in the jaws of a predator. Itâs unnervingly close to the position you see over and over on TV, right before someone gets their neck snapped.Â
He could do it, you think. Any time he wants, he could wrench your head around and end your life without a single noise. You wonder if heâs thinking that, too, from the way his fingers shift and tighten on the back of your skull. Twist, snap, done. Problem solved for big dumb gorilla man.Â
Heart pounding, you do the only thing you can for survival, and reach for the hand thatâs over your mouth, finding the back of it with your fingers. Itâs bare now, so you can feel the soft bits of hair scattered from his wrist, the width of his knuckles and the engaged tendons connecting them. You trace your fingers lightly down the backs of his, in what you hope is a soothing motion.Â
Youâre harmless, see? Youâre relaxed and unarmed, and also quite pantsless at the moment. Youâre just a soft thing who canât do shit to him, and you donât want those guys shooting at your hiding spot any more than he does. Killing you would be more trouble than itâs worth, surely.
He waits a while to release you, way past the time when the last of the footsteps are gone. You just keep petting his hand with your fingertips, and eventually, reluctantly, he peels it off your face. Again you congratulate yourself for surviving.
He lets you put your head back down on his shoulder, and his arm moves again to wrap around your waist and keep you in place. You can feel his gloved fingers shifting there, settling into a comfortable position on your bare skin, right where your shirt has ridden halfway up your back. Youâre thankful for that glove, because maybe he wonât notice your glaring lack of clothes.
His gloveless hand had settled on your shoulder, but now it brushes across to your neck. You half expect him to slide his fingers into your hair again, but he doesnât. He lets his thumb drift down the front of your throat, and though the logical part of your brain sees it as the threat it is, the sensitive skin of your neck wakes up. Like your lips, those nerves respond to his touch, feeding you a skittering sort of warmth which you loathe.Â
Damn you for letting yourself get this touch starved. You should have fucked that guy from the bar last Saturday. What was his name? J-something. Maybe if youâd been a little more careless with your pussy, your skin wouldnât be this hungry for a strangerâs rough hand. Itâs not arousal lighting up your nerves, but itâs definitely interest. Itâs an internal purr of longing, of enjoying this male hand on your vulnerable skin, despite the circumstances.Â
Heâs so large that the sweeping motion of that thumb encompasses the entire length of your throat, all the way down to the join of your collarbones. The careful way heâs touching you is dangerous, because it makes you feel noticed. Itâs strangely humanizing, having his fingers curl gently around the back of your neck, the side of his thumb lingering for a moment on the steady beat of your pulse.Â
He sees you as something human, and soft, and interesting. An anomaly in the midst of gunfire and death. Itâs almost worshipful, the way he traces his bare fingertips across that little bit of skin behind your ear. It makes you draw some conclusions about the person he is, which are almost definitely untrue, and most likely the effect of Stockholm syndrome.Â
In the dark like this, in a moment of madness, you imagine that heâs just some guy. That the gear and the weaponry donât define him, that heâs got a mother or a sister somewhere, and now heâs hurt and focusing on your soft skin instead of the throbbing pain in his leg. Try as you might, you canât picture him as a monster anymore. Heâs just as human as you are, finding the same hiding spot as if the self preservation instinct in both of your brains destined it to happen.Â
You shudder against him when his fingers find their way to your ear. A cascade of pleasure follows that gentle touch, this time with a definite undertone of arousal. Your pussy likes the way he strokes the shell of your ear, runs your earlobe through his fingertips. Itâs confusing in the way that itâs not an inherently sexual action. Itâs just fingers and an ear, brushing a slow path up and down, but it sends lazy heat through your belly.Â
You stay relaxed and let it happen, angling your chin up just a fraction so he doesnât have to reach as far. Itâs just fucking nice, the way his attention is narrowed on you. In your delusional state, you feel strangely safe in it. Those slow traces of his fingertips feel like a little bit of control in an otherwise lawless circumstance.Â
Two fingers find your lips again, soft as a feather, and this time you let yourself like it. You accept that tingling flood of sensation, and close your eyes to focus on it. The stranger painstakingly studies the outer edge of your lips, pausing every time you swallow or move at all. And then he finds the inner part, caressing across your soft bottom lip in a way that sends blood rushing between your legs.Â
Patient, this guy is so fucking patient. It makes your imagination go to embarrassing places, thinking about how his fingers might feel elsewhere. Thereâs just something inherently sexy about this slow perusal, and your pussy recognizes it. It knows instinctively how it would feel to receive this kind of unhurried attention. How nice it would be to have those long fingers lazily circling your clit, touching you for his sensory pleasure, just like this.Â
This kind of curious touch could get you to do humiliating things, keep you wet and desperate and wipe your brain of anything but the need to please him. Youâd chase his approval even to the point of not getting your own satisfaction, if he did anything like this to the rest of your body.Â
Belatedly you realize how dangerous it is to follow this train of thought. Why the fuck are you fantasizing right now? Why are you allowing yourself to feel this way, while getting fondled by some dirty soldier in a warehouse? Who cares if heâs patient, heâs probably just extra dumb or something.Â
The man subtly tilts his face, and his lungs fill with a quiet inhale against your hair. He likes the way you smell, you can tell by the curl of his fingers against your lower back. His chin nudges forward a little, almost like a kiss, and his hand returns to your ear.
Your belly dips so hard that your abs tighten automatically, and you shudder against him again. Itâs like mind control, those neglected erogenous zones heâs finding. Itâs turning you needy and willing, partly for the physical stimulation and partly just because youâre attracted to the kind of person who would even know to do this. Someone who would take the time to turn you on in this indirect way, allowing you to retain your dignity, but giving you a taste of how nice and gentle his fingers are.Â
The next exhale that leaves you is almost verbal. Your voice faintly pokes through, with your self control crumbling the way it is. It makes him pause, pulling his hand away from you. Surely he doesnât think he hurt you. The noise you made was all pleasure, the little slut on his chest unable to keep herself quiet for this intimate touching session.Â
The manâs shoulder twitches, like an aborted movement that he thought better of. And then his hand comes back to your face, squishing both of your cheeks together while he forces your head up and down in a nodding motion. Then without pausing, he moves it a few times in a back and forth shake.Â
The meaning is obvious to you â yes or no, do you want this?
Dammit.Â
You know exactly what âthisâ is. You were kind of hoping you wouldnât have to ask for it directly, that heâd just decide you were compliant enough to be consenting. But now apparently youâre going to have to beg.
His hand is still on your face, so he feels you move your head in a nod. Yes, youâre a slut. Yes, this stranger can fuck you. Youâre on the pill, so yes, youâll go ahead and have unprotected sex on the dirty floor, because apparently your self worth is low enough for that.Â
He wraps his hands around your hips to turn you, rolling you onto your back with your head resting on the upper part of his chest. You keep your knees elevated because with the change of perspective, you canât remember which of his legs is injured, and you donât want to put your foot down on it. Right leg before, which means⊠No, left leg before, soâ
Fuck, whatever. You canât spare the brainpower to figure it out, so you choose the slutty option instead, spreading your legs and letting your feet drop to the floor on either side of his thighs. Itâs not like youâre fooling anyone at this point. Your heart is pounding and your pussy feels a little wet, so you might as well just keep your knees open for whatever he decides to do.Â
One of his hands collects the bottom hem of your shirt, but he pauses halfway through dragging it up your stomach. He wraps his gloved hand around your face again, waiting.
You close your eyes and nod pathetically, unable to bear the time it takes before he gets his hands on you again.Â
It doesnât take long. Your shirt gets tucked up around your chin, and then that large hand cups your exposed breast, and the slight brush on your nipple makes you nearly moan.Â
He doesnât like that. His gloved hand tightens on your face, reaching from ear to ear to muffle you with his palm.Â
There. Now youâre ready to be touched properly.Â
Your eyes roll back a little with that first, soft fingering of your nipple, finding it impossibly sensitive and hungry for him. You must have some kind of bondage kink, because hearing your own pitiful breathing huffed against the tactical leather of his glove turns you on. You like that youâre already so aroused, he has to keep you quiet. You like that heâs so willing to put his hands on you, making sure youâre being good while he exploits your responsive body.Â
How you could have possibly thought he was dumb earlier, you canât fathom. The way heâs touching you right now screams experience. Itâs methodical and possessive, inhaling the scent of your shampoo again while he brushes his fingertips in a teasing circle over the point of your breast.Â
Your pussy gets jealous so quickly, itâs humiliating. You can only be grateful that heâs ignoring those little lifts of your hips, taking his time thumbing your nipples and sampling the feel of your breasts in his hand. Suddenly the gag of his glove is quite necessary, with all the moans and whimpers that want to escape. Youâre addicted to the way they sound, coming out in stuttered breaths through your nose. Soft, pathetic begging noises which youâre really not trying too hard to suppress.Â
Bad. He cranks your chin up a little to get your attention, then brings his mouth to your ear and breathes a firm, âShh.â
The way that one word simultaneously shuts you up and makes your clit throb tells you a lot about why youâre in this position in the first place.Â
Youâll be good for him now. Youâll try really hard not to make noises, just keep yourself relaxed like this with your knees open, and let him touch your pussy when heâs ready. Shame on you, really, for trying to speed up the process. He knows whatâs good for you. If he decides that what you need is to get riled up like this without ever finding out what his fingers feel like on your clit, then maybe thatâs all you deserve.Â
You close your eyes and turn your cheek into his vest, focusing on being quiet like he asked. Your thighs are still flexing and your pussy is still clenching, but he hasnât asked you to stop being aroused. He can hardly expect that of you, when heâs being like this.Â
Finally his hand wanders down your stomach, finding the edge of your underwear. Apparently convinced of your desperation, he pushes it down without even asking. You bring your legs together, lift your feet into the air so he can drag your panties all the way off, because you need to earn his approval again.
Good girl, his thumb says, stroking down the side of your cheek. What a helpful little thing you are, spreading your knees again so he doesnât have anything in the way as he brings his fingers down the inside of your thigh to touch you.Â
Oh, youâre screwed. The first contact of his finger on your clit tells you everything you need to know about how hard heâs going to make you cum. That teasing brush has your pussy spasming a few times around nothing, even as you keep your legs spread open and your noises carefully locked down.
Thatâs your job, to be quiet and still while he touches you. Maybe you should be thinking more about survival, or concentrating on whatâs happening outside the warehouse, but you donât. All you care about is the path of that finger gathering up your wetness and softly spreading it around your clit, because youâre a good girl. Heâs getting you acclimated to how his fingers feel on your most sensitive part, because heâs decided that youâve earned it.Â
Thereâs nothing better than this. The stranger presses what you think might be a kiss to your temple, but you donât feel lips against your skin, you feel fabric. His thumb moves in another caress against your cheek, and he painstakingly strokes your clit for you, making sure itâs wet and soft and torturously delicious.Â
Hazy with arousal, you lift your hand to his face behind you, your fingers indeed meeting cloth. Thereâs something draped over his face, but you can still feel the firm line of his jaw through it. When your fingertips wander over the center where his mouth should be, you swear his chin tips up to press a kiss to them through the material.Â
Oh, heâs a sweet one. You smile against his glove, which turns into a shudder when he finds a motion thatâs really, really good. A little rumble happens in his chest when you melt back against him, relaxing your knees wide and cuddling your cheek against his vest.Â
Your pussy is doing these intermittent pulses, trying to catch up to how quickly youâre getting turned on, and practicing the orgasm heâs going to give you. Heâs coaxing it out of you instead of forcing it, keeping his touches on the edge of teasing, and paced just fast enough to have you getting wetter and wetter.Â
Heâs making your pussy open up and offer itself to his hand, and youâre in the perfect mental state to appreciate the withholding. You accept it as a natural part of this encounter, because itâs not your job to decide what kind of orgasm you get. You just get to take what heâs giving you, and cum in whatever way he thinks is best.Â
Youâre just settling into that blissful realization when his fingers stop moving. They slide downwards a fraction, tracing the slick outline of your entrance and hesitating there.Â
Maybe you should give him a nod, but something compels you to bring your hand down to show him what you want, instead. You settle your fingers over the tops of his, appreciating those warm, hard knuckles, and help press his two middle fingers into your pussy. Itâs not difficult. He makes no move to fight your direction, sinking them in deep, and curling them against your g-spot even after you release him.Â
Oh, heâs so nice. His fingers are strong and able to get wonderfully far inside you, sliding against all those sensitive nerves with deliberate rolls of his wrist. Heâs done teasing you, apparently. His hand tightens on your face, and he fucks you on his fingers, hard and generous. Your thighs automatically twitch while you take it, flexing your head back a little and beginning to pant through your nose. This is what you fucking needed. He knew it, even if you didnât.Â
Those invisible waves of heat begin to drift through your thighs, all the way down to your toes. Itâs your body promising something you shouldnât want right now, but you do. You do want to cum on your strangerâs fingers. You do want him to feel those pulses, and know for sure how much youâve enjoyed your time with him. You want him to experience the way you canât help but orgasm when he touches you.Â
When it happens, youâre ready. Youâre impossibly wet for how dehydrated you are, and every nerve in your body is alert with arousal. You lock your jaw shut and groan into his hand while you cum, your hips flexing up in an unconscious effort to keep that lightning coursing through your veins.Â
A few words get muttered against your ear while you tremble through it, a soft, encouraging, "Sehr brav," that your mind registers as praise. Your stranger presses his palm to your clit while he rocks his fingers into you, making white flash through your vision with a fresh wave of pleasure.Â
Heâs pleased, you can tell. Heâs breathing hard, letting you control the last dregs of it with lifts of your hips. He likes what you just did. He likes you.
Almost regretfully, you relax your legs again and let him slide his fingers out of your pussy. You donât want it to be over. He may have got his fill of you, but you still donât know shit about him. You want to map out his face, want to feel his hidden anatomy finding completion in your hands.Â
Surely heâs going to fuck you. Surely he wants to.Â
That gloved hand leaves your face, now damp with your own humid breathing. He helps you turn back onto your belly, and wraps his arm once again around your waist to keep you secure.Â
Maybe he lost too much blood, and he canât get an erection. Maybe heâs afraid of getting you pregnant, or thinks heâs too sweaty and gross for a blowjob. You have to know, so you subtly shift your knee over his crotch.Â
Oh, heâs hard. Heâs bricked as fuck in his pants, and youâre going to do something about it.Â
He flinches slightly when you reach up to cup his masked cheek. Not gonna hurt you, your thumb tells him, stroking softly while your other hand drops to palm his erection.Â
He goes stiff beneath you, hardly even breathing for a moment. When he doesnât seem to understand what you want, you grab his chin and do a quick nod motion and then a shake.Â
You smile to yourself when his face does a frantic nod under your hand. Thatâs a âhell yesâ if you ever felt one. He doesnât even wait for you to figure out his belt, just shoves your hand out of the way and does it himself, pushing his pants down just enough to expose everything.
The clink of metal and rustle of fabric sounds louder than it is, now that most of the explosions outside have stopped. Surely heâll have someone looking for him, some kind of extraction he needs to get to. You should probably speed this up, just to be sure.Â
You have a conveniently bare and drippy pussy, which he assists you to line up to where he needs it, by way of two big hands on your hips. His cock is hot against your inner thigh, and hopefully not quite as big as it feels like he is.Â
Nope, heâs definitely a giant. You wince a little when you lower yourself past the first few inches, putting your hands on his chest for support. Oh god, this is dire. This is bigger than anything youâve ever had, and even though youâre a pretty stubborn person, youâre still pausing halfway down, trying to find the will to continue breaking yourself on it.Â
One of his hands finds the top of yours, and all of a sudden you remember who he is. Heâs someone gentle and considerate, running his fingertips over the back of your hand in a soothing motion.Â
You suck in a steadying breath and drag your pussy back up him, trying not to cherish too much the relief of getting away from his cock. Down again, and youâre only able to get about as far as last time before an overwhelmed whimper leaves your throat. You want to do this, but you canât. You canât do this, itâs too much.Â
His hand leaves yours, and thereâs a recognizable sound of hollow aluminum again. He cups your chin, makes you stop moving to bring his canteen up to your mouth. You sit halfway down that soldierâs cock and obediently keep your head tipped back, swallowing down the last of his water. Itâs your treat for being a good girl, you suppose. A little bit of hydration so your pussy can be wet and comfortable while you fuck him.Â
The rim of metal disappears, and once youâve finished swallowing, something else gets pressed to your lips. Itâs fabric, and it doesnât smell too bad, but youâre still confused for a second until he pries your jaw open and shoves it past your teeth.Â
You let out a complainy breath around the gag, sacrificing a hand that you have braced on his chest to feel it with your fingers for a second, and then you realize what it is. Itâs your own fucking panties that he just utilized to shut you up.Â
God, youâre gonna fall in love at this rate.Â
At least you know where all your remaining clothes are. One is rucked up above your bare breasts, one wrapped around this guyâs leg, and one muffling your little gasps while you work to take the rest of him into your body.Â
It takes some time, but you manage to do it. A tremble runs down your legs while you kneel there with your ass flush to his hips, trying to adjust to the foreign sensation that you have a cock shoved up in your lungs. Okay, maybe thatâs a bit dramatic, but it feels like that, and youâre not used to it.
His hands settle on you, one on your hip, and the gloveless one cupping your breast. A little connection, a little reassurance. Everything is fine, youâre not in pain, and youâre doing a good job. Now itâs time to be a good girl and give him his treat.
The soldierâs next breath is almost a groan, when you start to drag your pussy up and down him. You adore the way he drops his hand to your thigh, like heâs having to hold on for dear life. Thatâs exactly the way you want him right now, and it wakes up the impish part of your brain that wants to make him suffer through the same arousal that you did.Â
You can be patient, see? You can bounce nice and slow on his cock, letting him feel every inch of drag, every sticky drop of your hips. Isnât this nice, sir? Do you like the way this feels? Does it help you not think about your leg quite so much?
If youâre being honest, you like it, too. Now that youâre comfortably stretched, you can appreciate the way he effortlessly presses against all your internal sweet spots. Every movement is good in some way, and even the fingers tightening on your thigh feel like pleasure. They feel delicious and strong, reminding you that heâs allowing this to happen. Youâre on top, but he could change that if he wanted. He wants you where you are right now, his little hidey hole girl giving him what you know he needs.Â
His hands suddenly clamp onto your hips, keeping you down and unable to move. You almost make a confused sound around your gag, until you hear the footsteps again, the male voices. Fuck off, you miserable bastards.Â
Wait. Are they actively looking for him?Â
You breathe as quietly as you can through your nose, considering for the first time that this might not be some random foot soldier youâre in the middle of fucking. Oh, shit. You fucked up, didnât you?
Your manâs hands move, one caressing your stomach, encouraging you to stay quiet and still, and the other one reaches down to your pussy to find your clit.Â
Your next breath is stuttered, taking that spike of arousal because thereâs no other option for you. You have to stay here motionless, full of cock, and let him play with your clit while you wait out the mercenaries below. And the pathetic thing is, you love it.
Itâs fucking hot that this guy enjoys your body this much, that he keeps finding ways to ground you and keep you mentally connected with him. He circles his thumb over your slick clit, and you close your eyes and shudder through it, working your tongue around the dry fabric in your mouth.Â
Good girl, he gloved hand says, smoothing up and down your waist. Just like that, stay quiet and let yourself feel good.
Yeah, okay. At least you know he trusts you a little bit, because heâs letting you make the choice to keep the gag in your mouth, even with soldiers so close by. Maybe youâve earned his trust a little, somehow. The rubs on your clit feel nice, and assurance does, too.Â
Those idiots linger so long, youâre afraid youâre going to cum. You actually have to reach down and pull his hand away from your pussy just to make sure you donât. He keeps your hand in his, intwines your fingers and squeezes comfortingly. Surely he can feel the way your pussy keeps clamping down on him, desperate for what youâve just denied yourself. It fucking sucks.Â
He lets you know when you can move again, once the coast is clear. He puts both hands on your waist and effortlessly lifts you up a few inches, seeming just as desperate as you are to keep going.Â
With a thoughtless whimper, you drag his hand back around to show him that you want to cum now. Youâre a little afraid that heâll get offended at the pushiness, but he doesnât. He rubs your clit for you while you ride him, and it takes no time at all before youâre cumming again.Â
Deep, wet spasms wrap around him, and despite your best efforts, you gasp around your panties. The sweetest orgasm youâve ever had crashes over you, stealing your breath with wave after wave of gooey pleasure. It cascades across your scalp, down your spine. It diffuses through your limbs and has you desperately grinding your hips against him, because you canât keep up the motion of fucking any longer.Â
Youâre vaguely aware of that warning flex inside you, and then all of a sudden his fingers tighten on your waist, and he drags you completely off his cock. Shocked, still stuck in the tail end of your pleasure, you donât really comprehend the reason for his boot shifting against the floor, the muffled, restrained grunt from his throat while he jerks himself off the rest of the way.Â
You hover there, catching your breath while the wet sound of his hand begins to slow below your hips. His breathing turns long and heavy, his body slowly relaxing and coming down from the orgasm.Â
He pulled out for you, you think. He could have just cum inside you, but he didnât.Â
You like him. Officially, you have a hard crush.Â
His gloved hand gives your thigh an affectionate pat, and then he works to pull his pants back into place and close his belt up.Â
There are more sirens outside now, and you can hear the low buzz of a few radios as well. No gunshots is a good thing, right? You survived, you both did.Â
You donât even have time to pull your underwear out of your mouth before the metal door opens again, and quick, deliberate footsteps shuffle through.Â
That gets your manâs attention. He sits up instantly, shifting you to the corner of the hiding place so he can kneel at the edge and peer over.Â
He shouts something down at them that you think might be German, and then thereâs a cheerful roar of several male voices answering back. Apparently theyâre his people, happy to see him alive. You pull your panties out of your mouth and wonder if you should try to go with him.
Your soldier hesitates for just a second, reaches back to squeeze your arm. He says something to you that sounds like just one word, and you have no fucking clue what it is, but the intention is clear: you need to stay here.Â
You hold your damp underwear in your fingers and watch him leave the way he came, gingerly climbing down the scaffolding to meet his party. Thereâs a strange sense of sadness in your chest, which you try not to think about. He doesnât owe you anything. It was your own stupid fantasies that imagined he was anything but cordial. Itâs your own fault that youâre clinging to the idea of an anonymous hookup, you fucking idiot.Â
It takes a long time later, before you feel safe enough to come down from your hiding place. A policeman finds you, and gets you some water. You refuse to go to the hospital, because you arenât hurt. Youâre just sad.Â
----------------------------
His name is Konig.Â
You know this, because thereâs only one massive dude in the hospital with a wounded thigh.Â
You also know this, because in your initial investigations, you happened to see a recognizable piece of black clothing, folded neatly and resting on his side table.
Yeah. He kept your second favorite pair of leggings like some fucking sex souvenir, and it pisses you off.Â
Days after the fact, youâre here for a far more embarrassing reason than a gun wound. That arm you scratched while climbing to safety? Yeah, that got infected. You kept waiting for it to get better on its own, but by the time your boss made you get it checked out, you had to be hospitalized and get a fun little IV.Â
For the third time today, you take your two second window of walking by Konigâs bed in order to observe your anonymous hookup in your peripheral vision.Â
You wouldnât exactly call him cute. Heâs somewhat plain, somewhat rough around the edges. Itâs really those eyes that do it for you. The first time you passed him in the hall, while he was limping by on crutches, you made eye contact. It was just for a split second before his gaze flicked away, but you felt a little breathless by how sharply those blue eyes pierced yours.Â
Your only comfort is that heâs even taller than you expected, and your errant stares and shifty eyes arenât all that uncommon around him. It must be hell to be perceived so continuously like that. To have everyoneâs gaze automatically latch onto you, before they remember pleasantries enough to quickly look away. Your hyper awareness of everything he does is easily hidden among the others, so you begin to make a plan.Â
You have roughly three hours left before you get discharged. Itâs almost dinner time, and heâs been somewhat active, so surely heâll go to the cafeteria for food at some point. The trick is to be at the right location at the right time, and catch him when heâs gone, without making yourself suspicious with surveillance.Â
You wait until a typical dinner time, and then do a casual walk-by. To your delight, your leggings are sitting there completely unguarded. Unfortunately thereâs a few hospital staff lingering in the area, and you have to kill five precious minutes waiting for your opportunity.
You take it when it comes. Quickly you push aside the curtain and scoop up your leggings, holding them to your chest as you get out as fast as you can manage, without being suspicious. There, now everything is right in the world again. He got some wartime pussy, and you got all of your clothes back. Fair.
Except when you turn the next corner, a familiar shape with dark hair and crutches becomes visible, heading in your direction from the other end of the hallway.Â
Be cool, be cool. He doesnât know who you are. He hasnât been looking at you the same way youâve been studying him, so heâs uninterested and suspects nothing. All you have to do is hide your leggings discreetly behind your back, and casually make your way back to the safety of your room. Easy.Â
Itâs not until youâre within sight of your door that you let out a relieved breath, glancing down at the prize in your hands. Take that, super soldier. Outsmarted by an idiot girl, how do you like them apples? Youâre smiling to yourself as you grab the handle of your door and begin to turn it, pulling it open.
Except a massive hand suddenly plants itself on the door right in front of your face, shoving it closed again and wrenching the handle out of your grasp.Â
You squeak in fright, whipping your head around to meet those dark blue eyes being leveled down at you.Â
Both of your gazes drop to the object clutched in your fingers, and then he looks back up at your face. Fuck. That wasnât a sex souvenir, that was bait.
âI knew it was you,â he says with a thick accent.
You scowl up at him. âNo, you didn't.â
A warm smile crawls across his face. âYou are right, I did not.â He inclines his head towards your bandaged arm. âI did this to you?â
âWhat?â You lift your arm, staring at it stupidly. âOh, no. It was a nail or something.â
He nods, looking you over speculatively. He shifts on his crutch, leaning on it to offer out his hand. âIâm Konig.â
You slide your palm into that fucking paw of a hand, and give him a smile while you squeeze it. âI know.âÂ
Summary: You didn't know hate until Johnny MacTavish. (Or a really big build-up to cuddles and smut).
Warnings: near death experience, hypothermia, cuddling for medical reasons, implied medically-related stripping, implied anxiety disorder/depressive disorder, self-isolation, language, incredibly shitty communication and social competence.
It was supposed to be a two-shot.
The cold burned.
Once the sun set, the weather front moved in, and the temperature plunged. Snow fell thick and fast, just short of a whiteout. Your feet sank to the ankle, then to the shin, and your aching trudge became a slow-motion nightmare. It was about that time you realized â you were in real danger.
It was a two-mile walk â uphill, through old snow and frozen sludge â from your stranded vehicle. Home was closer than town, so you put your head down, buried your mittened hands in your armpits, and threw your emergency blanket from the car over your head as a bright orange cloak. And you set out.
It really took you too long to leave the car, but it was a life and death decision, and you waffled between shit options. On a busier road, youâd stay in the car. But this kind of snowfall would keep people home for a day or two. More than enough time to freeze to death, curled up in the driverâs seat.
If you lived, youâd make a better emergency kit for your ride.
In the meantime, the path demanded all of your attention. Even under fresh snow, it was easy to follow the road. Thick forest covered this stretch, and there was nowhere to go but forward. Hopefully you wouldnât miss your drive. Should luck bless you for the first time in a decade, youâd see your neighborsâ lights in the dark.
But you had miles to go, yet. And the footing was terrible.
Old snow, half-melted and refrozen, threatened to turn your ankle with every step. Staying upright took work. Every muscle joined the battle, from your toes to your shoulders. Your abs clenched, and your thighs soon shook from exertion. As cold as you were, sweat stuck your hair to your face. Your neck.
The wind turned the moisture to ice.
Pins and needles prickled under your clothes.
Worse, and worse, and worse.
But there was no choice, so you moved on. No one was coming, so you would go. Keep calm and carry on and all that noise.
You had tea at home. An electric heating blanket under heavy quilts. Dry clothes and fuzzy socks.
So, you walked.
One foot in front of the other. Wobbling. Trying to find safe footing.
You crashed to your knees, bracing for pain that didnât come.
Fuck.
You were losing sensation in your extremities.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
The fresh layer of snow swallowed your hands where youâd braced to catch yourself. It didnât look right from your perspective. You hadnât punched holes into the drift. Youâd joined it. Flesh flowed into freeze, and it sucked the heat from your body. Hungry. Careless.
Physically shaking the image from your head, you rose. You pushed on. Slow and unsteady as your thoughts lost traction on the creeping ice.
It never seemed right that such an oppressive season made the world so bright. Even on a moonless night, the snow practically glowed. When you first moved to the mountain, youâd look out the window and marvel at how clearly you could see the world you couldnât explore. The endless white always looked so inviting, but it kept you locked away, isolated.
Snow ate the color out of the world. That was why it sparkled so brightly in the sun, full of ingested prisms stolen from kinder seasons.
What colors, you wondered, would it digest out of you.
Once you were buried.
Lost to the white void falling without. Swelling within.
Everything felt damp. Warm. Your muscles went syrupy. You were your own personal swamp, and you panted, dropping your blanket. It was too heavy, too waterlogged anyway. You couldnât carry that weight forever. It fell easily. All you had to do was let go.
Your feet turned, and you began to ascend. Uphill. That was correct, somehow.
Fuck.
You were on fire.
The snow was up to your knees and still falling. Maybe, if you just took a nap, youâd wait it out. Better to travel in the daylight, right?
No. Not quite right.
One arm hung out of your coat, and you couldnât shake the second free. It clung to your wrist like a needy child, and you just wanted rid of it. Wanted to be free and finished and home.
Lights blazed, and it felt like dawn. Had you walked all night, or did you just look up?
The path split. Or you thought it did. The snow covered the way, but your instinct sniffed out the divide.
You wanted to be closer to the lights. Lights were good. Even though they hurt your head. They looked so pretty, flushing the snow gold. You imagined theyâd paint you gold, too. A Midas-touched statue â pretty, lifeless, and cold. Â
Snow always looked so soft. Youâd felt cheated as a child when you discovered it was nothing like the fluffy duvet you imagined. But in a pinch, it was wonderful.
It held you, gathering you up as you sank. The flakes landing on your cheek didnât melt anymore, and frigid works of art gathered on your eyelashes, slowly eating the lighthouse youâd followed home from the bright white dark.
-------------------------
âFucking hell.â
Death had a British accent. Not bad. A shame you somehow disappointed him.
âJohnny! Get some towels. Clean shirt and sweats.â
You blinked up at Death, swimming through waves of unfamiliar sensations to get a glimpse of the end.
Really, youâd hoped for Death to wear a kinder shape â like in Sandman â but the grinning skull seemed appropriate. It was the rare case where the destination mattered more than the journey. Or the escort.
Being dead was exhausting. As curious as you were about Deathâs face, the quiet void already had a deposit on your soul. Resting limp in the psychopompâs arms, somehow you relaxed further. He was so much more solid. More real. Soon youâd melt between his fingers and rain into the underworld.
âShe isnât shivering.â
Dreams ate your mind. Time rose and faded like steam as strange hands prepared you for burial. Your grave was warm. The soil packed tight, wrapping around you as the first gnawing sense of dread woke with the agony in your hands. Roots squeezed around you, tightening as you writhed against the sting in your feet.
You did not rest in peace.
Youâd fallen into hell. Your skin burned, your muscles seized, and a sharp scream of a moan shrieked through clenched teeth.
âEasy, easy.â
A broad palm pressed over your heart, hauling you back to a second pulse. Someone elseâs words rustled over your hair. Someone elseâs breath pushed someone elseâs chest flush against your back. Their smell and shape surrounded you.
A someone. A living someone.
That finally reminded you of the need to wake.
To rise from death.
Every inch you climbed towards consciousness scorched you, and reality came in bursts of pain. Your fingertips felt like youâd clutched red-hot iron, and shivers wracked you like private earthquakes. Everything wanted to tear itself apart, escape the pain radiating from every other piece. If the stranger wasnât holding you together, youâd shatter like your poor, ugly mug.
You had a body but no control.
The stranger shushed you, a second hand settling over the top of your head. Locking you in. Keeping you in your flesh. You thought he might stroke your hair like a catâs fur, but nothing moved between you besides the heat seeping from his palm to your scalp.
If you had a choice, youâd go back to sleep, but you were too aware. Pain dared you to relax, running knives along the underside of your skin, threatening to stab you inside out with the next shudder.
And you didnât know where you were â or who was cuddling you back to life.
Helpless as you were, you knew to be afraid.
âJohnny,â the chest behind you rumbled, âsheâs coming to.â
Wrath caught on the name. It bit the hook and followed the line to the light so your eyes could flutter open. They were painfully dry, and the gathering tears offered some relief, but you recognized the mohawk over broad shoulders leaning through the doorway through the blur. Your restrained whimpers turned into a growl.
âThink she recognizes ya.â
âAye.â Johnny approached, kneeling by the bed you found yourself in. His pretty face was all bent out of shape with apprehension. âHow you feeling, hen?â
You wanted to shout at him. Or slap him. Both at once and more. Instead, your shaking tongue fumbled the words, and your arm flopped weakly under the quilt, thudding into the branch-like arm caging your chest.
Which meant â
Wait.
If Johnny was in front of you, you must be in his house. He lived alone. Except for a hulking giant in a skull mask.
Like he could read the fresh stiffness beneath your shivering, Ghost said, âSpotted you from the window. Had to get you dry and warm, but youâre safe. Body heatâs best at this stage. Weâre both dressed, and if you canât stand it, Iâll trade out for a fleet of hot water bottles.â
You struggled to pick up his words and put them in order. They bobbed through the snowmelt in your brain like so much flotsam, a murky sea you already worried would drown you. But you did it. You got it all. But it was a lot.
He was barely more than a stranger, and you found yourself in bed with him.
But a man so hesitant to show his face wouldnât be eager to show more skin than necessary, and while it was hard to tell what fabric was clothing and what was bedding, nothing but cloth touched you. Except for the hand on your head. Which was fine, actually. It could be better than fine if you thought about it much longer.
How much did it cost such a reserved person to get so close? You were no better than a stranger to him, too.
He saw you in trouble and moved to help. Everything he said was practical. Reasonable. Heâd probably saved your life.
You felt you understood Ghost. Maybe it was the confusion or the onset of a fever, but you got him. And he was so, so warm. You wanted to crack open that giant chest and burrow inside him like a tauntaun.
When you felt better, youâd make it up to him. Youâd apologize for being a burden and make your imposition right. In the meantime, you didnât want him to leave you alone with some shitty substitute.
You wriggled, trying to put your hand over his, but something was over your fingers, and you had to guesstimate. Maybe you patted his knuckles. Maybe you smacked his wrist. Hard to know. But you felt you made your point.
âSâfine.â
He shifted in response, settling in for the long-haul. âGood.â
You tried forcing yourself calm. Everything had a mind of its own, though, and you curled up tight, trying to preserve heat even when it was given freely. Ghost supported your new position, bending his knees to keep contact, spooning with purpose.
How far had your temperature dropped for you to be this miserable? Very. Dangerously. Fucking shit.
Johnny cleared his throat. âI could join? Help get you toasty?â
Though you were still in gods damned agony, you wouldnât let Johnny Fucking MacTavish join you under the covers if he was the last thing between you and death. Youâd already touched the door to Hades that evening, and he hadnât been the one to bring you back.
You lashed out the only way you could.
âNo.â
The first word you managed to say clearly. You sent it off with a scowl, daring the Scotsman to try you.
He practically jumped back from the bed, anxious expression washed clean in shock. Youâd never told him no. Never drawn a boundary. Never shared your anger or hurt.
Well, youâd finally learned your lesson.
Fuck that man.
He wouldnât be getting anything from you ever again, not even a clear conscience.
Ghost hummed, his thumb stroking over your temple. âGot you right pissed off, has he? Whatâs he done? He the reason you got caught in the storm?â
Nodding was easier than speaking. Youâd said the most important part.
âThought as much. Youâre too well prepared. When you feel up to it, you can tell me what Johnny needs to set right, yeah? Heâll clean up his mess.â
Across the room, where heâd stumbled after your rejection, the man in question blanched. âI didnât â I couldnât â What did⊠Ah, Christ. âM so sorry, hen.â
âPlenty of time to talk later,â Ghost said, still fully felt and entirely invisible at your back. âLet her rest. When Iâm confident she wonât choke, you can make us something warm to drink.â
Johnny accepted, nodding with big eyes. His shoulders rose to his ears as he turned on his heel and marched away, fists squeezed tight.
Heâd only been out of the room for a minute when you heard something crash, and you jumped.
Ghost just hugged you tighter and sighed.
Eventually, you did sleep. It was a night for achieving the impossible, apparently. Ghost kept one hand on your chest, waking or sleeping, and as the daylight slowly burned away the icy mist in your head, you realized he was monitoring your heartbeat. Keeping his arm around your chest was better for your recovery, and you might not have reacted so calmly to a hand on your neck.
You still felt like shit.
âHow bad was it?â you whispered.
Asking was a struggle, and not just because your lips cracked and burned around your voice. Staring doom in the face only scared you if you recognized it, and you were afraid to hear how close your choices had brought you to the point of no return. Words could hurt. Knowledge could hurt.
âShouldâa taken you to a hospital,â Ghost murmured. âNo way to get there in this weather.â
You closed your eyes, burying your face in the pillow. You did it in defiance of the windburn over your nose and cheeks. In defiance of your chapped lips. Dead people couldnât feel pain, and it was hardly the worst youâd suffered through the night.
âYour shiveringâs manageable now. Think you could drink something?â
Could and should.
âYeah.â
âIâll go tell Johnny. Stay here.â
You didnât answer, but you swam all the way under the heavy quilts as his solid heat left you. With only your eyes peering over the blankets, you watched him â probably cold in his thin t-shirt and worn sweats â breeze across the room, quiet as his namesake. He had a lot of tattoos, a whole sleeve. You couldnât catch all the shapes as he moved farther and farther away, but deathly themes curled like gun smoke and curses up from his wrist, towards his heart.
Once you were alone, you examined yourself under the covers. There were socks over your hands, impromptu mittens. Youâd worry about any horror beneath them later. You wore a loose tee youâd seen on Johnny when he was resting up, staying comfortable as he nursed his cold. The gym shorts theyâd dressed you in were bunched up where the drawstring fought to draw them into a smaller size, and the fabric would fall to your knees if you stood. Maybe farther.
Theyâd dressed you in a piece of each manâs wardrobe, and the embarrassed heat creeping up your neck was almost as warm as Ghost.
But you wouldnât read between the lines. There were no lines. Theyâd saved your life and carefully explained their actions. It didnât mean anything else.
Honestly, you don't need dating advice save for "just be yourself". If a guy isn't seduced by your extensive lecture about coealacanths, or a girl isn't impressed by you gaming the McDonald's systems to finesse yourself 30 free chicken nuggets, you're on a date with the wrong person. Not a bad person, but one that isn't the right match for you, and the way you want to live.
The two of you are in a local bookstore, the shop having caught your eye while out on a stroll together, each of you going to your respective shelves to find your preferred genres.
Simon grabs the first novel he thinks sounds interesting, quickly snatching the book by its spine so that he can cross the few steps back to your side.
His eyebrows furrow when he notices how closely youâre holding a book up to your face, your own eyes squinting at the back cover.
âHavinâ trouble there, love?â He asks as he approaches.
âCanât believe I let myself run out of contact lenses.â You reply, trying your best to decipher the blur of black ink on the pages.
âCouldâve worn your glasses.â He retorts, something heâd already suggested more than once since you ran out of your contacts and had to order new ones.
âYou know I only like wearing them at home.â
âBut youâre so cute in âem.â
âYeah well, youâre the only one who thinks so.â You mumble under your breath, though Simon hears it of course, the crease in his brow deepening.
âWhaâs that supposed to mean?â He gruffs out.
âI just got teased a bit in school was all Si, typical kid stuff. Just stuck with me I guess, but itâs fine, I have my contact lenses.â You explain to him.
Simon considers your words for a moment, the gears evidently turning in his head, muscular arms crossed over his large chest.
âAnd do we know where these fuckinâ tossers are at now?â
âOh my god Simon, donât-â
âHave we got any names to work with?â
âThat is not-â
âAny addresses?â
âYou are not about to-â
âPictures?â
âI was like ten years old-â
âSâalright lovie, weâll dig up your yearbooks when we get home.â He simply says, plucking your book from your hands and heading towards the register to pay.
brooding men who cannot communicate their feelings if their life depended on it are only hot when they're fictional. if i have to deal with one in real life i will curse him and pray for his downfall every night before i go to bed
It's because the writer communicates their feelings for them. If people wanna pull that off in real life they need to hire a guy to walk around behind them narrating.
âSince youâre always stealing my water bottle, I got you your own. Look, even got it in your favourite colour!â You announce proudly, setting his new bottle down on the counter.
âSânot my favouriteâŠâ he murmurs barely loud enough for you to hear, almost like he doesnât realize heâs saying it aloud.
âWhatâs that, Si?â
âBlackâs not my favourite colour.â He replies more steadily this time, surprising you with his answer.
âOh. Really?â You clarify, to which he gives you a single curt nod. âI just thought- I mean everything you wear is black.â
âSâtrue.â He agrees, tilting his head to one side, as though heâs considering this for the first time himself. âNever really thought âbout it, but suppose it was, âtil recently.â
âWhy? Whatâs your favourite colour now?â You ask, curious to know what changed for him to have a new favourite colour all of a sudden.
Simon comes around closer to where youâre standing, leaning down enough to be face to face, gazing straight into your eyes as he holds a single finger up and points towards your eyes saying:
âThose right there, love. Most beautiful colour there is.â
âAlso Iâm probably still jusâ gonna drink from your bottle.â
MDNI. Soap is nasty; madly in love with you and with whatever gets you going. Inspired by @notquitecanon 's fanfic.
It wasn't like it had been on purpose.
Soap had only seen you leave your office with your cheeks flushed and breathing heavily, hurriedly walking towards the bathroom.
You looked so pretty when you looked disheveled.
He just wanted to know what had happened. If you were okay. Were you ill? Feverish? Horny?
It was only natural that he would make his merry way inside your office. Concerned colleague and all that. Right?
Soap had plenty of qualities. Smart, handsome, strong, tall, funny. He could say his god had blessed him with plenty and more. One little extra that made good use in the battlefield, however, was his nose - trained on gunpowder and blood and C4 solvents.
And when he entered your office, his nose tickled, but due to a very different reason.
Cum.
He groaned, hands rubbing down on his face as his eyes rolled back. He could already feel his cock chubbing up inside his pants at the mere though of you getting wet all on your own inside your office â so, oh so close to him. If only he knew you were needing to get some edge off, bonnie, he would kneel in front of you and beg you to let him help, however you wanted.
But alas.
Soap trudged slowly towards your desk â your open notebook taunting him with its dim, flashing light. He knew very well what would be playing in your browser, and he readied his phone to take a picture of the link. He knew you wouldn't take that much longer in the bathroom, but he needed to know what made you tick; which tags you chose.
He tried so hard keep himself from sniffing and licking your chair like some mutt in heat, but he could see the faint glimmer of your wetness on your seat and who was he to waste a meal when it was right in front of him? And you were better than honey.
His eyes barely processed the page, snapping a photo of the tab and quickly making his way out of your office unnoticed (and painfully hard).
Soap hurried to his quarters, locking himself inside his room and kicking his boots and clothes off in lightning speed. His heart thumped loudly and fast inside his ribcage; a shot of adrenaline in his veins he didn't even feel during missions. His cheeks were flushed, mirroring yours when you ran away from your own mess, and he felt like a teenager with a crush all over again.
A bit pathetic, truthfully, but it also made him feel alive; he remembered what was like to be human, to be a man, to be smitten - to have other feelings beside anger, fear and anxiety. Your little escapade made him feel like himself again.
Yes. Maybe he could excuse himself from invading your privacy if he kept on thinking about it.
But it wasn't time. His cock was hard and his curiosity was killing him.
Soap scanned the link on his photo and opened a tab on his phone, eagerly putting in his headphones and grabbing an old (and expired) bottle of lube as he waited for the page to load.
Once the page was fully loaded, however, Soap could only blink as his brain slowly processed the image in front of him.
He inhaled shakily, thumb pressing play while he finally made sense of the setting in front of him.
A bulky, hairy man (he noted with plenty of satisfaction) sat on a chair, cargo pants open and drenched in lube and cum and sweat, almost turning to a different color entirely. His cock slapped against his stomach with every twitch of his body.
The man was tied up on the chair with flimsy pink ribbons he could probably rip off with ease, if he truly wanted to. On his stomach, five full comdoms were tied to one of the loops of the ribbon. His cock was painfully red and leaking and he moaned like a fucking cumbrained slut and Johnny could swear he was genuinely about to burst.
So this was the type of thing that got you going, huh?, he thought, eyes wide and mouth agape - almost drooling.
The woman on the screen barely appeared â the focus was the man and the sugar pain of the torture she was inflicting upon him. Her long, black nails contrasting against the pink of the man's dick, as she languidly kept stroking his cock - the amount of lube she was using on his dick making obscene, wet noises that, alone, could make Johnny go insane.
If it wasn't for her voice.
Johnny could clearly picture your pretty lips uttering the same words as he closed his eyes; his own hands following the same pace she had set. In his mind, he could imagine you torturing him like that â his sweet little bird being so cruel as she milked him dry with her pretty hands and soft voice.
"Come on, baby. Won't you cum for me one more time?"
As many times as you want. Until he dehydrated, bonnie. He could die like that for you if you want.
"Just one more. You know my favorite number is six, hm? Give me just one more."
He would give you thirty six if you asked. Do you want it? He could put it all in a box and place it on your office's desk.
"You sound so cute, baby. Come on. Give me one more."
Fuck fuck fuck. Johnny fucked his fist, hips stuttering against his hand as his phone plopped on the bed. Only the sound of your her voice and her hands pumping the man's length guiding him to his orgasm.
He felt his balls tightening and his cock twitching in his hand and he knew he was getting close. Fuck, so that's what you liked, huh? Him being a whore for you, moaning loudly as you did whatever you wanted with his body, huh? He could do that, bonnie. He had been fucked before, just ask his friends. He had never been fucked, however, by a pretty little thing like you.
Do you wanna use a strap? Or do you wanna use just your fingers first? Or maybe you just wanna tie him down and milk him dry. He's okay with anything, lass. All he asks is to let him eat you out once you're done. As a reward, right? He'd deserve a good reward for all his little deaths.
"That's it, let it go, baby" you the actress whispered and Johnny thrusted into his hand one last time, thick ropes of cum shooting up as his balls tightened. The hairs on his chest got covered with his spent, his peak coming onto him with way more force than he thought it would. It left him floaty, lightheaded â drunk.
"Good boy, that's my baby. That's my good boy. So good to me."
Johnny moaned loudly at those words, licking the salty pearl of his own cum that landed on his lips and his beard. Yes, bonnie. He can be your good boy. He can even be your lap dog. He can wear a collar and all and brand your name into his skin. Anything, anything, if it's for you.
After a few minutes, his breathing evened out and he blinked away the tears he didn't even know he had shed. Coming down from his high, Soap groaned at the mess he had made. He was covered in his thick load and by a thin layer of sweat.
He pouted, fully absorbed into his role of your dainty sub who desperately needs aftercare. Where were you to take care of him when he needed you so? He thought, as he grabbed wet wipes and began cleaning himself before making his way to the common bathroom. The irony of him mirroring your own steps wasn't lost on him.
That's okay. His precious new discovery was just the beginning.
And now, onto trying to convince you to fulfill your little femdom fantasies with him.
You always try so hard to hide when something's bothering you. You're so careful not to let your phone unlocked and out in the open, you try not to let your eyes unfocus as you think about whatever's bothering you; you work so hard to keep being productive despite your sorrows.
But they know you better than yourself, doll.
They see how your shoulders tense up whenever you leave Price's office and how you're always so wary of your surroundings, looking this and that way, waiting behind walls to avoid certain people. You can't hide your fears from them. Not from them. Not from the ones who were placed in this godforsaken world to protect you no matter what.
Figuring things out is easy. There's a reason they're a special task force. Swooping your phone from you is as easy as stealing candy from a little kid, and so is unlocking your phone (you need to be more careful about your passwords, love. Really? Your childhood's dog birthday? That's like basic information for them).
And when you come back to the room, flustered, fretting over your phone, it's there: on Price's desk, as if it was untouched. They hide the anger caused by their discoveries behind clenched jaws and hardened eyes and wait until you leave to begin discussing their plan of action (it's cute how you still look at each one of them to make sure they didn't see a thing).
Love, why didn't you tell them? Why did they have to search through your messages to find the reason behind your sadness? Don't you trust them? They're your guard dogs, doll, why don't you just order them to maul and gnaw and rip to shreds whenever you need?
It took them breaking into your phone to find out about the Sergeant who's been messaging you. They could read the suspicion behind your words as you accused him of pranking you after he asked you out.
Pranking you? Pranking?
They read the following messages, where he admitted to his lies â it was a bet, he said. Some friends had bet a good amount of money that he wouldn't be courageous enough to ask you out and then stand you up. He then had the gall to thank you for believing his words and going to the date. For dressing up "weirdly" and being delusional enough to think someone like him would be interested in you.
"just an advice: putting lipstick on a pig doesn't work lmao thanks for guaranteeing me the money tho" he had said.
Seeing red wasn't enough to describe how they felt.
Soap could barely stay still. He leaned his weight on one foot and then the other, itching to run as fast as he could until he found the bastards that dared to insult his bonnie. He needed to feel their bones giving out as he punched them into a bloody pulp. He needed to scream, to let you know that you were too good for all of those scumbags, that he and his mates were the only ones who could appreciate you, touch you with the reverence and devotion that you deserved.
Gaz felt like he failed you. The sourness of his anger mingled with the bitterness of his sorrow. He swore he could taste his emotions on his tongue. He always makes sure to tell how beautiful he thinks you are, how lovely your uniqueness is to him â his little porcelain doll he wished he could place on a shelf. To think some random man managed to hurt you and disrespect you under his watch... it was unbelievable. He would spend a lifetime spoiling you until you forgot about it. After he sunk his teeth into those men throats and ripped them apart, of course.
Ghost was the other side of Soap's coin. But while the Scotsman wanted to seek and destroy as quickly as they do in action, Ghost wanted cruelty. He wanted to take it slow, deliberate. One fingernail for every tear they made you shed. One bone snapped in half for every second you suffered due to their disrespect. If it depended on him, they would only live up until the clouds that covered your sun cleared up. There would be no surrendering, no mercy. You deserve thorough revenge, lovie. And only the muzzle that Price puts on his rabid snout can hold Ghost back.
Price wondered why you didn't tell them about this... incident. Why? Are you trying to defend those poor excuses for men despite how terribly they disrespected you? No, that can't be it. You're their angel, but he knows you aren't some punching bag. Are you afraid they'd agree with those bastards? At that, Price has to laugh. You're so smart, love, but so so blind. You still can't see how they could sell their soul to you, if you became a devil. You still can't see how they'd kneel down on nails and pray to you if you became a saint. After Price pulls a few strings and manages to get that scum dishonorably discharged, he and his muppets would have to work really hard on making sure you know you're the only thing that matters.
cw: Ghost lowkey being a creep, brief illusion to Ghost's backstory, death, blood, spit
Before Simon could trust you enough to pull up his mask, his kisses were always through the damn mask. It didnât matter if the material scratched your skin or felt uncomfortable against your lips; nor did it matter if it leaves a dark damp spot around where his lips would be. He liked it even, leaving his mask on just to wear the smell of you like a cologne. Â
He huffed like a quiet silent laugh when you pointed it out, said he was being weird.
He shrugged.
There was something strangely intimate yet frustrating in the way heâd insist on kissing you through the mask at every opportunity he got. To your surprise, he does, in fact, love kissing, maybe even too much.
Sometimes he would open his jaw before he kisses you, holding your chin in place so you can see the way the wool stretches opened, his eyes are half-lidded but theyâre focused on you.
Like a beast showing his fangs, except you donât see them.
You feel them.
It pulls against the fabric, itching and struggle to fight against the barrier of the mask, sharp pointy surfaces dragged along your skin. He unhinges his jaw far enough to devour your lips whole, love it when you gasp and tried to pull away, only for him to grip your neck, palm squeezing your waist like a silent warning.
He growls and rumbled deep in his chest, the vibration sending shivers down your spine, he makes sure you feel it, pressing his body close to you, and he drags his head up and down across your face, huffing and nibbling your skin, leaving a wet trail behind.Â
Like a satiated wolf.
The day he finally lifted the mask to kiss you properly, you almost laughed from disbelief. For all the secrecy, for all the teasing his friendsâthe rowdy military bunch, his family, had thrown your way about the horrors his mask might conceal, his face was almost... ordinary. He looked like a regular bloke from Manchester, the kind youâd pass on the street without a second glance, often the ones who had the stare that makes your hair stand up. Sure, there were faint scarsâa thin line across the bridge of his nose, a small nick on his foreheadâbut nothing like the grotesque imagery youâd imagined. His chin carried a hint of scruff, spiky and coarse, the kind that scratched against your skin when the angle was just a bit off. You stared at him, insulted by the simplicity of his appearance, and he gave you one of those smirk, the corners of his eyes crinkling as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.
âDisappointed, darlinâ?â
When Simon kissed you after months away on deployment, it was as if heâd been wandering a desert, parched and hopeless, finally stumbling upon an oasis, a fresh pond of sweet nectar. You don't get a warning before his lips crashed into yours with a force that bordered on desperation, his hands slipping through your hair, tugging and pulling gently as if to tether himself to reality. All groans and grunt, all growls and bites, pulling away, watching the strings of saliva connecting them. He kissed like the world might end the second he pulled away.
It would. Something in his head said. Voices buzzing, repeating, leaking out his ears, the syllabus tightening around his neck, mumbling something like they'll end up like you, like your mother, you're pulling them into death, always ruining the lives of othersâ
When he had his fill, when the adrenaline, the noises in his head quiet down enough, he leans down and lays a gentle peck on your forehead, purring something like an apology.
Indeed, there are other times when his kisses were featherlight, tentative, as though afraid he might break you, that he was handling a precious glass sculpture that was you. It was this maddening duality that made you dizzyâthe gentleness of a man whoâd seen too much pain, juxtaposed with the raw hunger of someone whoâd been starved of touch, of sweet things like you.Â
Then there was the peculiar way Simon fixated on your lower lip. Youâll know it when he pauses a few second too long, eyes blown out and his breath are slow and deep, heavy. Heâd tug it gently into his mouth, rolling the soft flesh between his lips lazily. Heâd hold your jaw, drifting his bare rough palm down the side of your jugular, squeezing, holding you still, guiding you into the position he wanted, breaking into a mean smile when you protest weakly and writhe around. Sometimes heâd suck on it like a pacifier, his tongue tracing its contour, making you squirm under his touch. Inevitably, saliva would gather and trickle down your jaw, but Simon never seemed to mind.Â
âMakinâ a mess fâ me, hm?â He grumbled, like he didnât spit on your lips just seconds ago, mixing your taste with his, slobbering, sticky and disgusting.Â
Bastard, you think of him, the way he found a quiet kind of joy in this indulgence. Perhaps it was the way your lower lip would puff up, rosy and swollen, making you look extra pouty. Or maybe it was how your nose would scrunch in mild annoyance, your cheeks flushing under his teasing smirk. He loved riling you up, alternating between gently pulling your lip and giving it a playful bite, pulling it like a puppy with its favourite bone. His teeth would graze the tender flesh, leaving the faintest sting, just enough to make you gasp. Heâd laugh at your reaction, his voice low and gravelly with a teasing lilt in his tone. For shits and giggles, heâd let you feel the faint scrape of his canines, murmuring something cheeky about marking you.
âMy favourite chew toy.â he coos when you whined, clicking his tongue and tutting lowly, shaking his head before he goes back to biting your lips.
You try not to remember the feral glint in his eyes when he tasted copper one time, how he let out a guttural moan, licking away the red slowly, only stopping when you nudged him away.
You catch the same stare sometimes when he sunk his canine just a tad bit deeper, watching your reaction, as if waiting for your permission for him to draw blood again.
Hello there, first off I just wanted to say thank you for reblogging my first Ghost fic...(the kisses one) however I decided to delete that post and reupload it in my new blog (downinginseaofstars), sorry for the trouble but would you be able to delete the reblog on the previous account (reachformystars)? ...thank you again!
Of course!!!!! Sorry it took me a little bit to see this ask
