Tentacle! König, who's immortal, being an eldritch abomination and no mortals could ever comprehend how he looks so he cannot fill in the blanks on how you perceive his face. So it's an ever shifting mass of muscles and organs; as if it's trying to form a face but it does not know the kind of look his face would settle for
Until he grew fond of you who's already by their lonesome and has no relatives to go back to. You who didn't like being perceived because you don't think there's anything good about yourself that's worth remembering
And throughout your life, König chose to stay and develops this weird symbiotic relationship between the two of you. You were able to live long because of said relationship with König and when the inevitable death comes, König copies your face (oh my god, I'm gonna write him consuming you as an act of love or something) and it's not because he might forget your looks. Noâbeings like him never forgets.
He just did it because he wants people to remember you. You are the good that he would want the people to remember, and people will. Everytime they encounter König, they'll perceive him in the shape of you
Or something, I swear. I gotta stop being busy and write
Every soldier had to come to terms with death. It was part of the job. Something they had to become pretty intimate with.
It brought squads together, broke others apart. The 141 weren't immune to it either. They had seen it more than they could count by now. From fresh recruits ripped away from the world to young to veterans no one thought would fall.
But the 141, contrary to other squads, had to deal with something far worse than death.
Immortality
And by God was it even worse when it came in the shape of you. You hadn't been with the team long, but they had grown so fond of you already. Which made it all the more horrible the first time it happened.
A clean head shot. Sniper. One no one could have seen coming. Dead on impact. Your brain matter scattering on the wall behind them. Your lifeless body hitting the ground as they moved into position, searching for the threat.
That part they were used to, even if it still hurt them deeply. What they weren't used to was the gasp that came out from your corpse a few seconds later. How your body started moving again, like a puppet getting its strings suddenly pulled thought. Your movements were jerky as you picked your gun back up and started moving in formation with them.
They didn't react at first, not in the middle of a firefight, but the moment things had calmed down? The freak-out was instantaneous.
Price was barking in his coms for immediate extraction while Gaz was already on you, trying to stabilize you, talking about miracles and survival chances, only to complete freeze when he saw the bone of your skull snap back into place and your skin slowly knitting itself back together as you left out what could only be described as a low, painful gurgling noise.
Ghost barely had the time to pull up his mask as he vomited at the sight alone. Soap started praying, something he hadn't done in a long time.
To say this had been a traumatizing experience was quite the understatement.
They learned pretty quickly not to talk about it to anyone else. Hell, they barely talked about it amongst themselves at the beginning.
It's not like you were trying to get yourself killed. You never were reckless, never put yourself in direct danger. But God did you seem to have shit luck.
They learned pretty quickly that your apparent immortality didn't mean you couldn't die; it meant you couldn't stay dead.
You still bled, still felt the pain, still carried the trauma of every death, even if you healed at an inhuman speed.
They never got used to it, not really, but they learned to delay their reaction to after the op, once everyone was back at base, or at whatever safe house they were staying at.
And they developed a little ritual to deal with the trauma over time. Without fail, after every op that resulted into one or more of your deaths, the moment they got back to base, they had one of the communal shower rooms cleared.
They would file in one by one, no matter who was on the op or not, and pull you in with them before locking the door behind them.
Someone, most often Ghost, would start up the showers, steaming up the room, while either Soap or Gaz would pilled your gear and clothes off piece by piece, a med kit laying at the ready on a nearby bench.
It didn't matter how quickly your body could regenerate, they had learned, the hard way, and pretty early on, that your healing factor did not always expel every foreign objet from your body, that you couldn't always feel it and that you could very much still get infections from it.
So they checked. Every time, every wound. Pulled out bullets and shrapnel when need be, forced broken bones back in the right position when they didn't move by themselves, and made regular appointments for blood work and radio imaging just to be sure.
Then they would pull you under the water to clean your still recovering form. Four sets of hands on you, cleaning, scrubbing, reminding themselves you were alive, here, breathing.
It wasn't sexual, never had been, despite the many slow, tender kisses that had been exchanged a couple of times. It was soft, grounding. A way to say everything is okay now, without the actual words.
Yes, they felt better huddled close together under the warm water, but they were still dreading the day you wouldnât get back up.
âwhy do some fanfic writers write non-con fics when itâs for the sake of smut and is romanticized?â
some victims and survivors use dark fiction to cope and heal from their trauma, because in their fics, they are in control of what happens. they can turn the table and turn what happens into something thatâs not traumatizing. and they can do that because they donât owe you anything.
itâs a kink to some people, even though they were never victims. people can enjoy it and find it hot because at the end of the day itâs just a fantasy. itâs not real. they donât owe you anything.
itâs cathartic and/or therapeutic to some to see their favorite fictional characters suffer. thatâs why whump is such a popular trope; people love putting their fictional little guys through hell. non-con is a part of whump. and these people donât owe you anything.
fanfic writers can write whatever they want, however they want. they donât owe you anything.
I also suggest that you look up cnc kink and why so many couples are into it.
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There are no photos of Ghost, of course. But there used to be photos of Simon Riley. Before he joined up, maybe one from his teenage years. Probably being a dirtbag with an old acquaintance from school. Ghost assumes that whatever was left behind of his old life (whatever he couldnât shred) has long since been thrown out. That Simon Riley has been forgotten. But somewhere in Manchester thereâs an old junk drawer that holds a bit of him.
(Bet you didnât see that one coming đ I was just feeling down lately and writing about Kethâraal always brings me joy đ missed you guys, hope you enjoy this one and canât wait for your comments as always đ€)
You could feel his eyes on your back as you hurried around the kitchen, trying to throw together something quick. Kethâraal leaned against the wall nearby, massive arms crossed over his chest as he silently watched you move from counter to counter.
Your stomach had growled so loudly a few moments ago that you had practically launched yourself off the bed in embarrassment, rushing to the kitchen before he could start questioning the strange noises humans apparently made when starving.
âAre you hungry?â you asked, glancing over your shoulder to catch his relaxed posture as he studied you cooking.
âIâm okay.â The mechanical rasp of his vocoder answered.
You hummed softly, rinsing the lettuce one last time before chopping through it quickly.
âLetâs say you were hungry,â you continued, âcould you even eat human food?â
âNot really. Some fruits are acceptable.â He paused briefly, the translator crackling for half a second before continuing. âThe rest taste⊠off.â
That last word came delayed and you frowned slightly, unsure whether the vocoder had malfunctioned or if he had simply hesitated.
âWhat kind of fruit?â you asked, reaching for a tomato.
But you completely missed the shift behind you.
Kethâraal had gone perfectly still.
Three crimson targeting dots slid silently across the kitchen floor, settling over the tiny shape creeping near the cabinets. Before you could even notice, his form shimmered and vanished beneath his cloak.
Meanwhile, you remained entirely oblivious, still focused on your dinner.
âKethâraal?â you called after a moment, turning around with a confused blink.
He was suddenly back where he had been before, leaning against the wall again, though his head remained tilted slightly toward the floor as if he had been watching something there moments earlier. Then his gaze snapped back to you.
âWhat kind of fruit?â you repeated, smiling before returning to your cutting board.
âMelons. Star fruitsââ
âHave you tried grapes?â you interrupted quickly.
You crossed the kitchen in a hurry, opening the fridge before plucking a grape from one of the containers. Then you walked straight back to him, stopping close enough to feel the cold radiating from his armour.
He looked down at the grape between your fingers before slowly shaking his head, his thick dreadlocks shifting over his shoulders with the movement.
âCan you try one?â you asked, suddenly unsure whether feeding him random human food counted as a terrible scientific decision.
For a second he simply stared at you and then nodded.
His fingers hooked beneath the edge of his mask, slowly lifting it just enough for his mouth to show, his mandibles spreading open for you.
You blinked at the sight of him opening his mouth.
And somehow, even more unexpected than that, was the fact you were about to feed him. As if this was something normal between you. Something that had always been waiting to happen.
You had fought together. Bled together. Nearly died together.
But you had never shared something as simple as food.
You took a small breath, suddenly aware of how close you were standing to him. As if sensing your hesitation, his hand rose and wrapped gently around your wrist, guiding your hand closer to his mouth. Your fingers slipped carefully between his parted mandibles as he opened them wider for you, and then his mouth opened too, revealing that serpent-like tongue.
No matter how many times you had seen his anatomy, studied it, worked around it as an extraterrestrial biologist, it still fascinated you beyond reason.
But this was different from the lab.
Back then, Kethâraal had been wounded, restrained, unconscious half the time.
Now he was letting you see him.
Letting you touch him.
You slowly pushed the grape between his teeth before his mouth closed around it. Your fingers began retreating carefully, but halfway through, you changed your mind.
Instead, your hand settled lightly beneath his mandibles, fingertips resting against his chin. Your thumb brushed once, twice, over the cold texture of his skin before you finally pulled away completely.
A low sound rumbled through his chest as he chewed, soft and deep, almost like a hum.
Your eyes lit up instantly.
You recognised that sound.
Approval.
âGood?â you asked with a grin.
He pulled his mask back down immediately afterward, tilting his head at you.
âWas it good?â you repeated.
He stared at you for a second before nodding once.
âItâs tolerable.â
You burst into a quiet laugh, almost certain he had probably tried grapes before and disliked them, but couldnât bring himself to refuse you.
âYou donât have to try things if you donât want toâ you said, turning back toward the stove.
âI want to.â
Even through the distortion of the mask, the sincerity in his voice was unmistakable.
You were humming a soft melody now, a song you didnât even recognise and you felt truly at ease. The safety of your home wrapped around you, becoming warmer by Kethâraalâs presence nearby.
Then his voice broke the silence.
âWhy here?â He asked, still watching you as you moved around the kitchen.
You let out a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. âThatâs a good question, but I might disappoint you.â The memory felt strangely distant, even though it had only been two years. âAfter we escaped the lab, I ran straight to the airport. I didnât even have clothes with me, just the ones on my back. The first flight on the board was this one, so I took it. No real plan. I just needed to get as far away from that place as possible.â
âItâs quiet here,â he said, voice low through the vocoder. âIt suits you better.â
âI kind of miss the chaos of the city sometimes,â you admitted with a small shrug.
âI can take you there,â he offered without hesitation.
You clicked your tongue in gentle refusal. âIâm not going back.â You smiled, but there was no humor in it.
You really meant every word. You would never return to that life. Not while this quiet, remote island kept you safe from the world that had once tried to destroy you both.
This place, far from everything, had become your sanctuary.
You would only step back into noise and crowds again if it was for his safety.
âYou need help with that?â
His voice came from behind the mask as you shook your head immediately, still struggling with the can in your hands.
You had learned to adjust to little things like this over the years. Since your left hand never healed properly, you couldnât fully close it anymore, so even simple tasks sometimes turned awkward and frustrating.
But Kethâraal hadnât questioned it once.
Not a single pitying look. Not even curiosity.
As if he didnât see it as weakness at all.
Only an injury earned surviving beside him.
He had offered to help once and when you refused, he respected it without pressing further.
âIt didnât heal all the way,â you said casually, still working at the can. âI canât fully close it anymore, but honestly? Thatâs a pretty small price considering your injuries.â
His posture shifted slightly against the wall.
âDid it hurt?â
The question caught you so off guard you almost laughed.
An alien built like a tank, with battle scars all over his body, asking about your pain.
âLike hell,â you scoffed softly, finally managing to open the can before reaching for another grape and tossing it into your mouth.
âBut I couldnât stand the thought of you bleeding to death. I meanââ you gestured vaguely with one hand, almost laughing at yourself. âAre you kidding me? Iâd go through that pain again if it meant you survived.â
Silence followed for a second.
âYou are too selfless.â
The vocoder sounded unusually serious this time. Lower somehow. Heavier than before.
You shook your head quickly.
âI donât feel selfless. I just acted on instinct.â You glanced back at him with a small smile. âYou would have done the same for me.â
You turned back toward the stove, completely unaware of how deeply that smile settled into him.
âYou were ready to get captured again if it meant not leaving me behind,â you murmured after a moment, quieter now as the memories resurfaced. âTalking about selfless.â
âI was selfish back then,â he corrected immediately. âI did not listen to you. I was stubborn.â
A soft laugh escaped you.
âI was stubborn too.â
Your movements slowed as the memory hit harder this time. The final shove forcing him out of the lab while you trapped yourself behind instead.
âYou were.â
His voice came closer now.
Closer than before.
But you didnât turn around.
âAre you mad at me?â you asked quietly.
And honestly, you werenât even sure what you meant anymore.
Mad because you forced him to leave?
Mad because you never found him afterward?
Or because fear had kept you frozen for far too long?
You didnât even know yourself.
âI was.â
His voice came from right behind you now.
You felt the change in the air before you felt him, the coldness of his body somehow making the space around you warmer instead, charged like live wires stretched too tightly.
âFor the first hour.â
His longer dreadlocks slipped over your shoulders as his head lowered, resting carefully against the crook of your neck.
Heavy. Helmeted. And somehow still careful, touching you with just enough weight to remind you he was there without ever truly pressing down on you.
Maybe everything about Kethâraal was softer than he wanted the universe to believe.
Or maybe you simply could not see him any other way anymore.
âWhat happened after the first hour?â you asked quietly, remaining perfectly still beneath him.
You barely even breathed.
One wrong movement and the moment might break apart completely. He might retreat again, hide behind silence the way he always did when he felt you hesitating.
A low sound rumbled from deep inside his chest, thoughtful and rough, something instinctive in his language before the translator could catch up.
âI wasâŠâ another growl-like hum vibrated against your shoulder, ââŠdevastated.â
This time you heard the word beneath the vocoder too, his real voice slipping through the helmet from how close he was. Deep. Guttural. Honest enough to make your chest ache.
His hands settled on the counter beside yours, caging you, his chest pressed carefully against your back as if he was still learning how much of his weight you could carry.
And when you finally breathed again after holding it for far too long, you felt him exhale too.
The tension slowly left his body, his shoulders easing as he let himself lean against you properly now, almost like exhaustion had finally caught up to him the second he realised you were truly here.
His breath warmed the space near your ear.
One of his hands flexed against the counter before relaxing again, restless fingers curling as though he wanted to touch you, hold you, make sure you were real.
âKethâŠâ His name left your mouth softer than you intended.
You wanted to say something else.
Anything else.
But the words dissolved before reaching your tongue.
His hand made of metal and artificial flesh rose first, gripping the edge of his helmet before slowly pushing it upward just enough to expose his mouth. His mandibles spread open in silence and your eyes fluttered shut instantly, nervously.
You felt the brush of his mandibles against the crook of your neck.
Your head tilted slightly, giving him more room without even thinking about it.
The moment you felt a talon hook beneath the collar of your shirt, dragging the fabric lower to expose your shoulder, a shiver ran violently down your spine.
Cotton gave way beneath the sharp edge of his claw with a soft rip.
He didnât stop until your shoulder was fully bare beneath him, exposed, sensitive.
And then nothing.
No sudden movement.
No aggression.
Just the feeling of his unmasked face resting there against your skin.
Cold skin brushing yours carefully.
Feeling you.
You heard him inhale deeply against your shoulder, the sound dragging straight through your nervous system.
Your jaw clenched immediately, forcing yourself silent before any sound escaped that you wouldnât be able to explain afterward.
His hand settled on the counter beside yours, close enough that the heat of his palm traveled over your skin. His mouth hovered just above the curve of your neck, breath ghosting warm across flushed skin. Even though his body ran cooler than a humanâs, the sheer presence of him wrapped around you like a furnace. Or perhaps it was only your own temperature rising, blood rushing hot beneath your skin in a dizzying fever.
You couldnât see him. That alone made the moment feel like one of the half-remembered dreams that had haunted you for two years.
His voice, his touch, the solid wall of his chest at your back, but never his face. The image of him had blurred with time. Yet this was real. He was here, his claws shredding the front of your shirt open, inhaling your scent like a predator savoring prey he had no intention of harming.
You tried to turn, desperate to look at him, to convince yourself he wasnât another cruel dream.
But his bionic hand rose swiftly, the synthetic skin warm and startlingly lifelike as it covered your eyes. You shivered and obeyed, lashes fluttering shut and with your sight stolen, every other sense sharpened. The slow rise and fall of his chest, the faint metallic scent of his armor, the low thrum of his breathing through the vocoder.
âIf you look at me with those eyesâŠâ the vocoder murmured softly, âI do not know what I will do.â
Your breath faltered.
Only then did you realise he must have lowered the mask again just enough to tell you that himself. Not through distance. Not safely hidden away in his native language.
Close enough for you to understand he was struggling to get the words out.
âWhat do you want to do?â you whispered, barely audible.
His free hand slid over yours on the counter, claws barely grazing your skin while the artificial hand continued shielding your eyes.
A low sound vibrated in his chest before the translator finally caught up. âNo language I know can describe it.â
Beneath the translatorâs flat tone, you caught the real sound of him, rich, guttural, layered with clicks and that rough accent that made your stomach flutter. You almost smiled.
âYour voice has changed,â you murmured.
âYou sound⊠older.â
âI am older,â he answered, matter-of-fact, yet the low rumble of it felt almost suggestive against your ear.
You swallowed. âWhat did two years change for you?â
Instead of answering immediately, he lifted your hand from the counter and guided it upward. Your fingertips brushed the thick, rubbery dreadlocks that framed his head. You caught one gently between your fingers, stroking the strange, smooth texture.
âWhat didnât change,â he said, voice dropping lower, âis how desperately I wanted to see you again.â
Your smile faltered. Heat flooded your cheeks, a deep, embarrassed flush that spread down your throat and across your chest. You took a small, shaky step backward, pressing yourself fully against the hard plane of his torso, letting his slow breaths guide your own breathing. His hand remained over your eyes, protective, possessive and just a little teasing as his thumb brushed lightly over your temple.
How could he admit something like that so easily? After two whole years apart, how could he lay his heart bare without a trace of reluctance?
Then again⊠this was Kethâraal. He wasnât just a tease. He was the most brutally honest being you had ever known. Once something took root in his mind, he pursued it with the focus of a hunter who had already marked his prey. Unapologetic. Assertive. When he wanted something, he claimed it.
âYouâre here now,â you breathed, voice small and trembling.
His bionic palm slowly lifted from your eyes. You wondered what he would do next, but you never expected what actually came.
His hand slid down, talons grazing over your throat before his fingers wrapped around it with soft pressure. His thumb settled over the front of your throat, right where your pulse beat wildly.
âSay that again,â he whispered, voice rough and low. The translator barely masked the desperate click beneath it, the begging tone of his voice. And when you stayed silent a second too long, his thumb pressed a little firmer, coaxing.
âNaâkai.â
You swallowed against his palm. âYouâre⊠here now.â
The moment the words left you, his thumb stroked slowly over your throat, savoring the vibration of your voice against his skin. A deep, rolling purr rumbled from his chest, followed by a series of soft, satisfied clicks right beside your ear.
âKethâraal,â you whispered, your own hand drifting up to cover his. Your fingers traced over his knuckles, then higher, until they found the cool steel of his mask. Your nails dragged down the metal with a slow, scraping screech that made his grip tighten for a second.
âAgain,â he demanded softly, hips moving forward in a slow, impulsive roll against your back. The movement pressed you more firmly between his body and the counter, an invisible and undeniable pull drawing you together.
You closed your eyes on purpose this time, surrendering completely to sensation. His heavy breath hissed through the mask. His dreadlocks brushed and tickled across your bare shoulders. The heat of his torso burned against your back and the firm press of his hips made your thoughts scatter. You said his name again, slower, letting the vibration of your throat caress his palm like a secret you had decided to share only with him.
You could feel the war inside him, the desire to keep you trapped like this, safe between his chest and the counter, your voice singing against his hand forever. His thumb brushed one last time along your throat before he finally released you, claws trailing lightly down your collarbone.
But beneath the heat of the moment lingered a heavier tension, one you werenât ready to face. Not yet.
What could possibly exist between a human and a Yautja? Was something like sex even possible? How would your bodies fit? And if you tried, how would heâ
A loud crack from the living room stopped your spiraling thoughts.
Kethâraalâs shoulder cannon was already tracking the sound, red lasers cutting through the darkness. He didnât speak. He simply stood there, ready and lethal as always.
You turned back to the kitchen counter, heart hammering against your ribs. The ghost of his body still clung to you, his solid chest at your back, the low click of his mandibles, the possessive weight of his hand wrapped around your throat as he drank in every vibration of your voice.
Swallowing hard, you picked up the knife and tried to focus on the vegetables, but your hands wouldnât stop shaking.
His heavy footsteps moved away, giving you space. You heard him lean against the far wall, arms folded across his broad chest as he watched you again.
âWhat is that thing wandering around your home?â The vocoder made his voice sound dry, almost skeptical.
You kept your eyes on the cutting board.
âWhat thing?â
âThat black thing.â He lifted a clawed hand, pointing toward the shadows in the living room.
âThatâs Keââ
The word died in your throat before you turned back toward the counter and resumed mutilating the poor lettuce for what had to be the tenth time.
âKe?â Kethâraal echoed, the single syllable low and curious.
âKelly!â you blurted, forcing a bright, fake laugh. âHer name is Kelly.â
You could feel his gaze burning into you and you knewâknewâthat damn biomask was feeding him every spike in your heart rate, every degree of the blush crawling across your skin.
You prayed he wouldnât connect the dots.
âWhat is Kelly?â his voice asked through the vocoder.
And somehow, despite your spiraling panic over almost revealing you had named your cat after him (well, after âKethâ) the innocent question caught you so off guard your panic subdued immediately.
A laugh escaped you for real this time.
âSheâs a cat,â you said, finally turning to face him with a shy smile. âA small Earth mammal. She lives with me.â
And you didnât notice.
How could you? Your back was turned as you finished plating your food, completely unaware of the way Kethâraalâs clawed fist rose and struck his own chest once, hard, as if trying to punish his heart for pounding too fiercely against his ribs. The smile you had given him had hit his insides harder than any blade he had ever faced. He would remember that moment long after you forgot it.
âAnd why do you keep the mammal around?â he asked as you carried your plate to the table. âDoes it protect you?â
âNo,â you replied softly, setting the plate down. âSheâs just for company. Humans get lonely quickly.â
âYou were lonely?â Kethâraal asked as you sat down at the table.
The already-torn shirt he had ripped open earlier slipped further, exposing the curve of your shoulder and the top of your chest. You yanked the fabric back into place quickly, but Kethâraalâs gaze never left you.
You risked a quick glance at him before dropping your eyes to your plate again.
âWere you?â you asked, voice barely above a whisper. âLonely?â
He gave a small nod, his dreadlocks barely shifting with the motion.
Your stomach twisted into a tight knot.
You pushed the plate away and stood, drifting toward the couch in the living room. You didnât need to ask him to follow, his footsteps were already right behind you, obedient and inevitable.
He surprised you by sinking to his knees in front of the couch, bringing the two of you eye to eye. At this height, he didnât feel quite so overwhelming.
âHow did you manage?â you asked quietly.
âI didnât,â he admitted, voice low and steady through the mask. âI simply kept moving. Fighting whatever stood between me and returning to you.â
Your chest ached at the sincerity. You reached out, fingers threading gently into his thick, rubbery dreadlocks, pulling him a little closer. He leaned into your touch without resistance, a soft purr rumbling in his throat.
âAre you in trouble?â you asked, concern painting your words.
Another quiet purr.
Yes.
âI wonât bring trouble to your door,â he promised.
âI donât care if you do,â you answered quickly. Your hand slid down to his chin, gently lifting his masked face so you could look straight into the dark voids of his mask. âI donât care⊠as long as youâre here.â
The moment stretched, fragile, tender, until your stomach gave a loud, embarrassing growl.
Kethâraal tilted his head. Without a word, he rose to his full height, retrieved your plate from the table and returned. He knelt once more, offering it to you with a small nod, silently urging you to eat.
He was adorable in ways no one would ever believe, naive in his curiosity, yet impossibly sharp. Lethal beyond measure and still so gently protective. Kethâraal was a walking paradox and you wouldnât have him any other way.
He watched you eat, head tilting one way every time you lifted the fork to your mouth, then the other when you swallowed. You didnât tell him to stop staring, even though the weight of his gaze made your cheeks warm. You understood that look. He was studying you the same way you loved studying him, trying to memorize every small habit, every tiny detail.
âHow did you find your way back home?â you asked after swallowing another bite, your eyes lifting from your plate to meet the steady glow of his mask. This was the question you had carried for two long years.
Kethâraal gave a slow nod, silently encouraging you to keep eating as he answered. âAfter I recovered my ship. Its last recorded destination was my planet. I was meant to return there, right before the humans captured me.â
Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. A heavy wave of grief and guilt settled over your shoulders, pressing down on your chest. It wasnât you who had taken him. You had been just as much of a prisoner in that lab as he was. Still, in this moment, you felt the full weight of humanityâs sins resting on you alone.
âWhy didnât they accept you back home?â you asked, your voice dropping softer on the next question. âWhat about your brothers?â
You werenât sure if you were allowed to ask about his family. You wanted to respect whatever invisible boundaries existed, even if he had never drawn any.
Kethâraal remained silent for a long moment. The vocoder crackled once and then fell quiet.
âMy homeworld was eradicated,â he finally said. âA new King has seized control of our planets. Iââ
The translator cut off. You blinked, realizing he had hesitated.
âItâs okay,â you said quickly, setting your plate aside. âYou donât have to talk about itââ
âIf there is any being in this universe I wish to speak with,â he interrupted, âitâs you.â
Then, slowly, he lowered his head until it rested on your lap. Your eyes widened in shock. This was the first time you had ever seen Kethâraal look truly exhausted.
Not when you had fought xenomorphs together. Not when his arm had been severed. Not even when both of you had been bleeding out, clinging to life. None of those moments had left him bare like this.
But now, kneeling before you with his head heavy in your lap, the weight of years of loneliness and loss seemed to crash down on him all at once. His broad shoulders sagged. A deep, tired exhale left him, mandibles clicking faintly beneath the mask.
You placed your hands on his head without thinking, fingers sinking gently into his thick locks. You brushed through them slowly, until you found the nape of his neck. Your warm fingertips pressed against the cool skin there, right along the faint blue line you remembered from your time in the lab. You rubbed slow, soothing circles against the sensitive spot.
âI have no family left,â Kethâraal continued, voice quiet. âAnd those who survived no longer consider me one of their own. I wasnât there to fight beside them. I was still trapped in that lab while my world burned.â
âIâm sorryâŠâ The words left you in a broken whisper. The guilt settled heavy on your shoulders, humans had stolen his last chance to defend his home.
His head lifted slowly from your lap, dreadlocks sliding off your knees as he tilted his masked face toward you.
âIt was never your faultââ
âBut humans did this to you,â you insisted.
âYou helped me escape. You saved my life, Naâkai.â His large hand rose, cold fingertips brushing your cheek, tracing the honored mark he had once given you. âYou are not like the ones who captured me. You were as trapped as I was.â
Your throat tightened. âBut now you have no home to return toâŠâ
âI will find a new one.â The mechanical voice sounded softer somehow, almost tender.
âHalf of my memories from those years are gone anyway. What remains⊠is mostly you.â
You glanced at him, then quickly looked down at your fidgeting hands. âHow? We didnât even know each other for that long.â
âI knew you,â he said quietly, echoing the confession he had made back in the lab. âI remember the hours you spent examining me. Talking to yourself. Taking samples. I was sedated, but not fully unconscious.â
You had been fascinated by him, his alien physiology, the striking power of his body, the silent strength in his eyes even when weakened.
Every day you had whispered apologies while drawing blood and tissue, watching him grow frailer under your hands.
Seeing him now, vibrant, powerful, muscles full and skin glowing with health, filled you with relief.
âI couldnât understand your words,â he continued, âbut you were always gentle. I never thanked you for that.â
âDonât,â you breathed, shaking your head. âI spent every session apologizing for what I was doing to you. Thereâs nothing to thank me for.â
âRemember the days you werenât assigned to me?â he asked. âBecause I do. No one else was gentle. Only you.â
âKethâraalâŠâ His name left your lips like a plea.
âWe are both here because of you,â he said firmly. His hand moved to your shoulder, pressing it gently until you finally met his gaze. âAnd I am grateful for that.â
You nodded, even though the guilt still sat like lead in your chest. No matter what he said, you werenât sure you would ever fully forgive yourself for what you had done to him in that lab.
Kethâraal lowered himself back to the floor, kneeling in front of you once more. His large hand came to rest on your knee, feeling warm despite the coolness of his skin. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence was comfortable, natural. You let out a long, slow breath and allowed your body to relax into the quiet you had dreamed about for two years, his presence beside you, his gentle nature no longer just a memory.
His fingers began to tap a slow, rhythmic pattern against your knee. You had no idea he was matching the beat of your heart, but he did. He always knew how to calm you down since the beginning.
âSo⊠you didnât have anyone back home?â you asked, avoiding his gaze by pretending your half-eaten salad was suddenly fascinating.
âYou mean a mate?â he replied without hesitation, his masked eyes fixed on you, never letting you dodge.
You nodded, fidgeting with your fork.
âIs that what you mean, Naâkai?â he pressed, a clear tease in his tone.
âWhy do you want me to say it if you already know?â you groaned, reaching out to push his face away in embarrassment.
âBecause you react like this,â he said simply. âAnd I like it when the blood rises to your cheeks.â
Even without sweet words, the honesty made your heart jump inside your chest. He enjoyed your shyness. After years of survival and violence, your softness must have been something entirely new to him and it did make you feel special.
âDid you have a mate or not?â you asked, faking an exaggerated sigh before stuffing another bite of salad into your mouth.
âI donât remember,â he answered. âBut I wasnât blooded when I was captured, so I assume notâ
âAnd what about those two years you were travellingââ
âSurviving,â he corrected.
âRight, sorry. Surviving.â You set your fork down, food completely forgotten now.
âWhat about those years?â he asked, even though you were almost certain he already knew exactly what you were asking.
You kept your eyes fixed stubbornly on your plate. âDid you meet anyone?â
A soft clicking sound came from beneath the mask, almost amused.
âI did not have time to bond with anyone.â
âOh.â
âNor did I want to.â
Your fingers tightened around your fork.
âOh,â you repeated quieter this time.
Kethâraalâs mask tilted. âWhere is your mate, then?â He made a show of looking around the room before his maskâs eyes returned to you.
One of the maskâs lenses flashed white for a second, almost like a wink.
You stared at him. âDid you just wink at me?â
âNo.â
âYou absolutely did.â
âI am asking a question.â
You snorted despite yourself, shaking your head before mumbling, âRelationships are complicated these days. Who has time for that?â
But he clearly wasnât satisfied with your answer.
âSo you didnât bond with any humans?â he pressed.
âI went on a couple of dates, butââ
âDates?â He rose from the floor in one fluid motion and settled onto the couch beside you.
âYeah, itâs when two people go out to see if they matchââ
âDid you match with any of them?â His voice dropped lower as he tugged you toward him. Your torn shirt slipped again under the pull of his hand.
âThey were⊠niceââ you started, but the words vanished as his fingers caught the edge of the ripped fabric and lifted it higher.
âNice?â he echoed, the single word sounding dangerously unimpressed. Before you could protest, he pulled you smoothly onto his lap, your legs curling against your chest as his massive arms caged you against him.
âYeah, they were okay,â you shrugged, fingers
finding one of his dreadlocks and rubbing the thick, rubbery tip. âBut they didnât have⊠that something I was looking for.â
A low rumble started in his chest before he quickly silenced it, pretending nothing had happened. But you noticed. The way his body tensed beneath you, the subtle change in his breathing. And you were surprised by how much you enjoyed this side of him.
âThey werenât tall enough,â you added.
Kethâraal tilted his head. âBut youâre rather smallââ
âI like them massively tall, okay?â you interrupted, faking annoyance even as a smile tugged at your lips. He still wasnât catching the very obvious hint.
âAnd they were too⊠soft.â
âSoft?â He sounded genuinely confused. âAre you not all soft? Youâre huââ
Realization hit him mid-sentence. The vocoder couldnât hide the knowing click that followed.
âYou like them rough-skinned,â he murmured, tilting his head to press the side of his mask against your cheek. You burst into quiet giggles as he continued, âAnd tall.â His fingers pressed lightly into your ribs, making you squirm. âMaybe even green?â
A deep, thrumming purr rolled through his chest, the Yautja equivalent of a chuckle. In one smooth motion he dropped you onto the couch, your back hitting the cushions as he climbed over you. The furniture groaned under his weight. He caged you between his powerful forearms, dreadlocks falling around your face like a dark waterfall.
You nodded, biting your lip to hold back a grin.
âHmmâŠâ The low sound vibrated through him as he stared down at you. âWhere are you going to find a mate like that?â he teased. âI donât see anyone on Earth who matches your⊠specific preferences.â
âI donât mind if theyâre not from Earth,â you said, smiling up at him sweetly.
âYou are a very open-minded human,â he replied, nodding slowly. His clawed hand rose to cradle your cheek, a talon grazing your skin.
âDo you have anyone in mind you could introduce me to?â you smirked, tugging on two of his dreadlocks.
Kethâraal lowered his body instantly, pressing you deeper into the cushions. His mask hovered inches from your face.
âYou shouldnât play with a Yautjaâs locks,â he warned, voice dropping into a rougher tone.
âWhy not?â you asked, surprising yourself with your boldness.
âBecause,â he murmured, bumping his mask gently against your forehead, âI can feel everything.â
Your hands froze.
You knew his dreadlocks were sensitive, but you hadnât fully understood until now. The way his breathing grew heavier above you, rougher, more strained, made the realization sink in. Every touch had affected him far more than he let on.
You released his locks immediately. He exhaled sharply, as if you had been holding his very life in your palms.
Slowly, his forehead dropped to your shoulder, his massive body enveloping you completely. His arms and legs caged you on the couch, yet instead of feeling trapped, you felt safe. Exactly where you wanted to be.
âWhere is your hair ring?â you asked softly, remembering the single ornate bead he used to wear on one of his locks.
He lifted his head, bringing you eye to eye with the dark voids of his mask. âI took it off after my clan rejected me. But I keep it safe.â
âIt was your only memento,â you murmured. In the back of your mind, a quiet thought started forming. Maybe I could give him a new one. Something to come back to. Someone to belong to.
He didnât belong on Earth⊠but perhaps he could belong with you.
The thought made your heart miss a beat. What are you even thinking?
âCan IâŠ?â you whispered, hands rising hesitantly toward his mask. Your fingers curled around the edges. The lenses flashed red for a brief second , startled, before you gently lifted it away.
The mask dropped to the floor with a heavy thud.
Without it, his mandibles flexed and parted, the vibrant green of his eyes finding you. They were stunning up close, intense and strangely vulnerable as they searched yours. You whispered his name and his eyes fluttered shut. A soft series of clicks escaped him as he pressed his forehead to yours.
âDaâto thwei,â he rumbled in his native tongue, the words low and intimate. His hands cradled the back of your head, talons carefully threading through your hair as he rubbed his forehead gently against yours.
He seemed lighter without the mask. Freer. As if speaking without the translatorâs barrier allowed him to finally breathe. His body relaxed fully against yours, native clicks and rumbles leaving him effortlessly.
âIf youâre saying you missed meâŠâ you murmured, unaware of the true weight of his words, âI missed you too.â
In his language, however, he had already claimed you. Completely.
âCan you stay longer?â you whispered. âThereâs so much I want to tell you.â
But Kethâraal was already reaching for his mask.
âNo, wait, please.â You caught his wrist. âI donât have the courage to say this while you can understand me . I⊠I want you to stay. I want you to come back to me after every hunt. I want to be yourââ
His hand moved quickly, pressing two fingers gently against your lips, silencing you. He slipped the helmet back on and shook his head, the red glow of his lenses steady on you.
âYouâre not going to tell me what you just said, are you?â
âNo,â you breathed, a small, shy smirk tugging at your lips. âNot yet.â
âAre you going to tell me what you whispered in Yautja earlier?â you continued.
âNo.â He pulled you up from the couch with, your hands resting in his open palms.
âThen weâre even.â You smiled brightly up at him. His head tilted at the sight, as if wanting to commit this moment to his memory.
âYou will tell me eventually,â he said, his thumb brushing beneath the scar on your cheek.
âYouâll have to come back to me if you want to find out.â
âIs that so, cunning human?â A deep chuckle rumbled through his chest.
You shrugged playfully, âdonât underestimate me. Humans evolved by outsmarting bigger predators like you.â
âSo youâre tricking me into coming back?â
âExactly.â
Kethâraal let out another amused click. âI would return even if you didnât want me here. I need to check on the soft humanââ
âOw!â He feigned pain when you slapped his arm, rubbing the spot dramatically.
âDonât talk down to a blooded warrior, Kethâraal.â
âMy apologies,â he replied, the translator somehow making the words sound anything but sorry.
You plopped back onto the couch, crossing your legs and folding your arms.
âSo youâre a marine biologist now?â Kethâraal asked, settling on the floor across from you. He mirrored your posture, head tilting slightly to the left in that familiar, curious way.
âHow do you know?â You raised your eyebrows in mock surprise. âWere you stalking me?â
He didnât miss a beat. âYour robe has it written on it.â He smoothly avoided answering the stalking question.
You glanced at the white lab coat draped over the chair and muttered, âRightâŠâ
Something hot erupted in your chest at the thought that he might have been watching over you these past two years, keeping his distance for your safety.
âIâm just a junior researcher,â you continued, âbut I like it. Itâs quieter. Safer.â
He nodded slowly, absorbing every word.
âI mostly work with marine mammals right now. Orcas, specifically.â You shifted on the couch, stretching your legs out with a soft sigh and leaning back against the armrest. The tension in your shoulders finally began to ease.
Kethâraal rose from the floor without a word. The couch creaked in protest as he sat at the far end, his big frame taking up most of the space. You started to pull your legs back to give him room, but his hand caught your ankle gently, tugging you toward him until your legs rested across his lap.
Your breath caught.
His large hand settled warmly on top of your thigh, his thumb brushing slow, absent circles against the fabric of your pants. You froze for only a moment before scooting closer. When his arm lifted in a quiet invitation, you leaned into his side, resting against the cold wall of his torso.
It felt almost too natural.
You knew Yautja werenât like humans. They werenât supposed to crave gentle touch or closeness the same way. And yet here he was, initiating the touch, pulling you closer, offering the exact comfort you hadnât realized you had been starving for.
Or maybe⊠he needed it too.
He had always been proud, sometimes even arrogant about his strength and skill. But this was different. This wasnât pride. This was quiet certainty. He knew you wanted to be closer. He could read every racing heartbeat, every change in your breathing and he gave you exactly what you needed without hesitation.
It was pure confidence.
And it made your stomach twist with something like pleasure. You bit the inside of your cheek hard, fighting the sudden, overwhelming urge to ask him to claim you the way only a Yautja could.
Your time in the lab had taught you far more about Yautja than most humans would ever know, their traditions, their rigid hierarchy, even the brutal reality of how they reproduced. That last part still made you nervous.
Yautja mating wasnât simple or gentle. It was a ritual. The strongest were chosen and the much larger, more dominant females left scars on their mates, breaking their spines before carrying their children. Kethâraal had quietly admitted earlier that he had never been claimed. Never gone through that rite. Which meantâŠ
He was untouched.
The realization sent a fresh wave of heat rushing to your face. The arrogant, reckless young hunter you had met in the lab had been all bluster and show. But this version of him, calmer, quieter, radiating confidence, felt entirely different. He wasnât showing off anymore. He simply knew his worth. He knew what he wanted.
And he knew he could have you.
Kethâraalâs finger curled, the cool tip gently brushing your flushed cheek. His head tilted in silent question: Why are you blushing again?
You let out a nervous laugh and quickly changed the subject.
âYou know, when I started here, I never expected to end up studying orcas,â you said, eyes fixed on your fidgeting fingers. âIt felt like the universe was pulling a prank on me.â
His thumb kept tracing circles over your knee as he listened.
âOrcas are the apex predators of the ocean,â you continued.
His head tilted further. âYou have a favorite?â
You blinked.
That was his question? Out of all questions?
âWhat if I do?â you asked, fighting back a grin.
âTell me where this orca isââ
âIâm joking, Kethâraal,â you laughed, pressing your lips together to keep from bursting out. His masked gaze stayed locked on you, clearly expecting a real answer.
You reached out, resting your left hand on his broad chest. âI canât communicate with them the same way I do with you,â you murmured, rubbing gentle circles over the hard plating as if trying to calm the heart you could feel beating faster beneath your palm.
You were fighting a losing battle with yourself, the urge to tease him just a little more, to push until you drew out those frustrated growls from under his mask.
You wanted to see the beast he kept so carefully leashed.
He stayed silent after that, still, as you continued rubbing your hand over his chest.
Yet his arm slid around your shoulders, his large hand stroking protectively down your arm while he searched for words.
âI have some books on orcas I could show youââ You started to pull away, but his grip on your arm tightened instantly, tugging you back against him.
You yelped, the sound quickly turning into a suppressed laugh as your lips twitched with a smile.
âKethâraalâŠâ you called softly.
No response. Not a tilt of his head, not a single click. He kept his gaze lowered, arm still wrapped around you like a steel band.
You whispered his name again, tapping his chest. When that earned you nothing, you decided to make a bolder attempt to get his attention. Lifting your legs from his lap, you turned and straddled him fully, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his massive thighs.
His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides, as if he didnât know whether he was allowed to touch you or not.
Your hands settled on his broad chest. Only then did the full weight of your compromising position hit you, sitting on his lap, straddling him like this, with nothing but thin fabric between you.
A nervous chuckle escaped you as you tried to climb off, terrified by your impulsiveness.
But before you could, his bionic hand caught your thigh, squeezing once, making you gasp.
âI thoughtââ
âDonât leave,â he said, voice rough through the mask. His hand slid from your thigh to your lower back, claws grazing lightly over your clothes. Your already torn shirt slipped further down your shoulder and you quickly tugged it back up.
âYour face,â he murmured, his knuckles brushing your burning cheek. âItâs all red again.â
âItâs just⊠hot in here,â you exhaled, fanning yourself weakly.
âHow do humans usually cool their skin?â he asked, sounding genuinely curious, though the way his other hand joined the first at your lower back, locking around you, felt far from innocent.
âSweat⊠or by taking a shower,â you answered, slowly allowing yourself to sit fully on his lap despite the burn under your skin.
âHow do you produce sweat quickly?â His thumbs stroked up and down your back, sending shivers across your spine.
âExercise, mostly. If we move fast and long enough⊠we sweat.â
âRightâŠâ he rumbled. âIâll keep that in mind.â
Then he finally lifted his head and looked straight at you.
And for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.
Your eyes stayed locked on the dark voids of his mask, every sense heightened to the point of a meltdown. You were somehow still straddling his lap, your thighs spread wide and your backside pressed against his crotch. His body was solid and cool beneath you, pulling you in like a moth to freezing flame.
You couldnât help yourself but imagine his arms locking around you, holding you while your mouth found the exposed skin of his neck, tongue tracing lines as he fought not to make a sound. Your heart hammered wildly in your chest, loud enough that you knew he could hear every beat. He could read you so easily, it was almost unfair.
You drew in a shaky breath and forced yourself to climb off his lap.
This is insane. Heâs a Yautja. You donât belong with him. A bond like this isnât even possible⊠right?
He let you go without resistance this time. His hands slipped from your waist, leaving your skin colder than before. Only then did his chest begin to move again, as if he had been holding his breath the entire time you were pressed against him.
âWant to know why I chose marine biology?â you asked softly, offering him a small smile. You crawled a little closer and pressed a quick, shy kiss to his bicep before pulling back.
Kethâraal glanced down at the spot you had kissed, then lifted his head to stare at you.
âIt was the closest thing to alien biology I could find,â you admitted, eyes dropping to his lap. âSomething that⊠reminded me of you.â
A long second of silence passed, as if registering your words before he spoke.
âI kept your voice in my helmetâs audio log.â
Your mouth fell open, the sudden confession hitting you harder than anything you had just admitted. You stared at him, stunned into silence.
He kept recordings of me?
A series of soft, uncertain clicks escaped him. He looked down at his lap, almost⊠shyly.
You tried to speak, but no sound came out. Your mouth simply stayed parted, heart racing as the weight of his words settled over you.
He had kept your voice with him? This whole time?
Kethâraal drew in a deep breath, exhaling roughly through his mask. âWe use recordings like that to lure prey,â he admitted, almost to himself. âBut I kept yours. I listened to it⊠sometimes.â
He didnât elaborate further. He didnât need to really. The honesty behind the words was enough to steal the air from your lungs. You had a thousand questions, when had he recorded you? How often did he listen? Why did he listen⊠but you didnât push. Not tonight.
âIt gets lonely,â he continued, his voice quieter âwhen the whole galaxy is hunting you.â His arm slid behind your back, fingers splaying possessively over your waist as he pulled you closer.
âCan I hear it?â you asked, settling against him.
He let out a short, rough sound, almost a scoff, clearly amused and shook his head.
âMaybe some other time.â
âSo there will be another time,â you teased, tilting your head. âWhat is this? Are you trying to convince me to see you again?â
âAs if I need to convince you.â He lowered his head until his masked forehead rested against yours. âI still have things to settle on your planet.â
âMmm? Like what?â you murmured, hands instinctively rising to cradle the sides of his head, pressing your forehead firmly to his.
âMuch more⊠urgent things.â His actual voice bled through the mask, rough and strained.
He pushed you back slowly until your spine met the couch cushions for the second time tonight, his massive frame hovering over you. His hands captured your wrists, pinning them above your head.
Well⊠that was a first.
His dominance was smooth yet quiet, making you melt under him.
âSo you missed me so much,â he rumbled, amusement clear even through the translator, âthat you started studying something that reminded you of me?â
âRoughly,â you countered, biting back a smile. âNothing compares to real alien biology. Itâs one of a kind.â
A deep chuckle vibrated through his chest. âWe are one of a kind.â
âYou think youâre special?â you challenged, tugging at your wrists just to be difficult.
He held them firmly above your head with one hand, pressing you deeper into the couch. âAm I not?â
âYouâre more arrogant than I remember,â you huffed.
âOr maybe I simply know what I mean to you now.â His voice dropped lower, with that calm, unshakable confidence.
âYou canât possibly know,â you protested. âIâve never told you.â
âEven without the translator, I would still know how you feel about me.â
Your heart pounded hard once before it went back to normal. âAnd how do you feel about me?â
Kethâraalâs head dipped closer, his masked face hovering just above yours. As he leaned in, the braided necklace around his neck slipped free from the edge of his armor. The emerald green stone swung gently between you, catching the lamplight and gleaming with a soft, inner glow. It looked strangely⊠earthly. You werenât sure if it actually was, but the color and polish made you curious.
He didnât bother tucking it back. Both his hands were occupied pinning your wrists and he clearly had no intention of letting you go.
His broad chest pressed heavier against yours as he let out a slow breath, the cool stone now brushing lightly against your sternum with every small movement.
This was it.
After two years of waiting, of wondering, of aching, this was the moment you had been waiting for.
How do you feel about me?
But then his gauntlet shattered the moment with a loud, insistent beep.
You gasped before you realised, Kethâraal was already on his feet, lifting you with him as though you weighed nothing. His arms wrapped around you, crushing you against his chest in a needy embrace. He rested his helmeted head atop yours, whispering a low apology that vibrated through you.
Before you could speak, he lifted his mask just enough to expose his mandibles. He guided your hand upward, pressing your palm between them. His hot breath ghosted over your skin as he inhaled your scent deeply.
The intimacy of it had you staring because this wasnât just a gesture. It felt like a kiss. An actual one. The one you would read on old fairytales where the knight presses his lips to a royaltyâs hand to show his devotion.
Your skin burned where he breathed you in and just as quickly, he lowered the mask again. His hands rose to cradle your face, thumbs stroking tenderly beneath your eyes as if memorizing every detail. You didnât need to ask if he had to leave. It was written in every urgent movement, every silent apology.
Your eyes stung, your throat tightened as you desperately tried to hold onto the moment, the way he felt, the faint tremble in his hands as he fought not to hold you too hard, the rough exhale that sounded like it physically hurt him to let you go.
âKeep this for me,â he said quietly.
He reached behind his neck and tore off the braided cord with a single sudden tug. The emerald stone dangled from it and when you opened your palm, he didnât drop it there. Instead, he pressed his closed fist against your chest, right over your heart. Only then did he slowly open his fingers, letting the necklace settle against you.
It didnât feel like a simple gift. It was heavier than that. Deeper. More like a promise. A piece of him he was leaving behind for you to guard.
You covered his fist with your hand, holding it there against your heart.
And then he was gone.
Months passed before you saw him again.
And when he finally returned⊠it felt like the last time you ever would.
a/n: itâs always so lovely coming back to you guys, hope this one compensates for my absence đ Iâd love to hear your thoughts on this cute little chapter! Also Kethâraal acting all jealous wasnât in my plans but I just love imagining him all grumpy and bothered because of his feelings đł and the way he held mcâs throat to hear the vibrations of their voice??? still not over đ«Ł)
Hear me out on single mother Reader x obsessed+in love at first sight butcher Simon
You don't know him, you think, not really.
You've seen him a couple times behind the counter - large man in an apron, blond hair buzzed too short to his skull, surgical mask on his face and in the cool air of the butchery, it almost feels like you are the meat on his counter.
Stupid thought, really, probably because you haven't been resting much lately and maybe, because running from your child's father across the country is draining you of energy, money and hours of sleep.
'What can I get you?' He asks, voice vibrating through the space between the two of you invisible strings getting stroked because you have to crane your neck to look up at him, because his eyes don't blink at you as he stares, because you don't know how to ask for what you want and what do you even need-
You shake your head, stepping to the side, pretending you are still looking at the display, letting the impatient man behind you step forward so that the line can finally get moving and butcher's head tilts to the side.
Not even surprised, for some reason.
Your pride and joy sleeps on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your neck - little boy with your eyes and your nose, his hair tickling your nose when you turn your head to breathe him in, trying to calm down.
His gp has already told you that he needs to eat more meat, but apple never falls far away from the tree - a picky eater has another picky eater, because your chid positively despises red meat, refuses any duck or lamb, spits out ground meat, whining about texture and doesn't take to fish kindly either.
And money's tight this month, you chew on your lower lip, fingers wooden with anxiety coarsing through your body like electrical current.
Buzzes in your arms, already aching because your 3-year old is a growing boy, and maybe you aren't getting stronger to hold him up for hours like before when he was an infant and you could pretend you can still carry him under your heart. Keeping him safe.
"What can I get you, luv?" The low voice slithers through your stupor, so you'd look up from the display and see that the large man from before is bracing his arms on the counter, leaning forward. "Been starin' for a while. What's the plan for dinner?" He asks, and you don't know how to push down the animal's urge to back off from him immediately.
The butcher's eyes are dark and round, almost soft when his gazse is anything but.
'Cow's eyes', you think, swallowing a smile because you don't need no trouble and don't want to smile at another man to give him some bloody reason to get closer. 'If cow was a butcher, that is.'
"I'm not...sure." You say quietly, keeping your voice low and he hums, apparently not planning to pull back. "He uh...doesn't like meat much. But I need him to eat a little of it, something...just- just don't know what to try." Your lower lip wobbles and fuck, this is humiliating. But the month have been so rough and so long and you are so so tired.
"Okay." The man nods slowly, tilting his head to the right shoulder, eyes the bottomless well that you cannot get out of, thick stone of it muffling any screams. "Lad eat anythin' from meat or nothin' at all?" He clarifies, keeping his voice quiet and gratitude blooms in your chest for this small consideration.
"Uh, yeah, he..." you nod quickly, wiping tears on your shoulder hastily. "Likes chicken nuggets sometimes. In the shape of dinosaurs." You explain and the man makes a sound only adjacent to chuckle.
"Got decent chicken fillet this mornin'. Fresh." He proposes, nodding at the neatly arranged pale pink of chicken on your left. "Can coat breadcrumbs and bake 'em in the oven till golden. Should taste like nuggets."
It is so simple, so bloody easy but you have no energy to feel embarassed that you did not think of it yourself.
"I'll take two." You swallow the small shudder, because you cannot allow it while your boy's asleep. Can't risk waking him up.
"Four quid." The man nods, starting to move immediately, picking out the meat to wrap up for you and you fumble for your wallet, trying to get it out of the pocket without needing to set your child down.
The butcher huffs out air, but when you glance up at him, he is looking down on the meat he is packing for you. The only give away of his mood - eyes crinkled in the corners.
Is he smiling?
"Here you go, luv." He takes the money from you and passes you the wrapped up meat. "Let me know how it goes with the chicken." The butcher adds, not requesting but telling and you nod automatically, too glad to get it over with.
He is weird, you think. Weird, but he was nice and that's much more than you were getting in the last couple months.
Only back at your apartment when you get dinner ready, you realise something. The butcher didn't pack you two fillets. He packed four.
When you step into his shop few days later, your toddler, holding onto the bag of groceries you have in hand. "Helpin', mum" as he said to you, determined to do just that.
The bell dings above your head and the butcher emerges out of the backroom, his whole massive frame moving too quietly for someone of his size.
When he sees you and your boy, something changes in his eyes, almost eager. Anticipatory of something, when he gives you a short nod and circles the counter, leaning on it again, this time by the register, so he can see you proper.
So there is no glass between you two.
You open your mouth to greet him, only to pause realising that you don't know his name. Bloody hell, you didn't even ask it last time.
"Simon." He chimes in helpfully, eyes crinkling when you quickly nod. He is definitely smiling.
"Thank you for the last time, Simon." You smile, wide and relieved, reaching for your wallet. "But you've given us more accidentally. How much do I owe you for the extra two fillets we got last time?"
He makes a low humming sound, something satisfied passing through his eyes when he turns his head from side to side, slowly shaking it.
"Not accidental. On the house, luv." He says, glancing down at your toddler, tilting his head to the other shoulder when your son just stares up at him back. "Y'like the chicken?" Simon asks, casual and curious, not moving any closer but your baby quickly nods. Stands on his tippy toes to reach for the counter.
Breathes out 'thank u', a little shy in the face of a new person met and when you glance at Simon, his heavy shoulders sag down, dark eyes warm in a way you didn't expect.
"No problem." He says back to your son and glances back at you. "Same today, luv?"
"Uh...yeah, yeah, please." You snap out of your daze quickly and he nods, pushing himself up, suddenly towering over you. "Seems like we hit out jackpot with oven-baked chicken."
Fuck, you did not realise he will be even bigger up close.
"Breast's better today." Simon announces casually, not even looking up at you as he packs it for you just as quickly as the last time. "Same price as last time."
You are pretty sure that it should not be the same, but the big butcher sends you one glance and you promtly shut your jaws closed.
You will still be paying for the meat, so maybe it's okay if he wants to be kind to someone.
"Thank you, Simon." You tilt your head, mirroring his usual gesture without even realising when you take chicken from him. "Love, tell Simon 'bye-bye', we are leaving." You glance down at your child, currently watching Simon with rapt attention, clearly not planning to leave.
Simon huffs out 'g'bye', very obviously amused and says that he will see you later.
You don't question it. Not until you run into him in the grocery store. Then at the bakery.
Simon tilts his big head to the shoulder every time, large and tall, thick thighs wrapped in jeans that should be bursting at the seams by the looks of it.
Simon huffs 'hey, lad' at your son and breathes out 'mornin', love.", purrs 'evenin', luv' and practically savours the surprise on your face when you run into him in your apartment building when he tilts his head at you in the elevator and hold it so you can get in.
Smiles behind his surgical mask when you glance up at him and your throat bobs.
Not good for you and your kid to be all on your own. He could fix it for you, you know.
Simon nods goodbyes to you, says 'see you soon' instead of simple 'bye' and has the pleasure to watch the jump of your pulse at the base of your neck, breathing hitching.
Yeah, perhaps he should. Simon checked, there is no one with you and the laddie you haul on your hip everywhere.
You could use a hand and won't you look at that, Simon had two.
cuddling positions with the 141 and könig, go go go! (comes from an ask and a conversation with @konigswaifu and a server friend which tumblr name i have forgotten)
with Price itâs either laying on his lap while he works away at whatever it is heâs doing, which could be working on a laptop and using your back like a little table, or reading a book, putting his trash tray on your back, anything that pertains you as a lil object and you comfortably enjoying the company and the noises he makes while tapping away or writing OR holds you down on bed and drapes himself over you like a bear, one leg heavy over your legs and pinning your body down to his
Ghost is either back to the wall, smothering your face in his tits and enjoying your presence, and also so he can hold you while also keeping an eye on the whole room OR heâs the one smothering himself in your chest, pushing himself as close as he can be so he can hear your heartbeat, yknow, to eases his anxiety
Soap probably doesnât have a favorite position, that man will be content as long as he has skin to skin contact with you, which also means he ends up manhandling you into whatever position suits his anxious dog brain and lets him rest, heâs definitely keen on just tangling your legs together, likes the closeness of it OR the classic head in lap, turned towards your stomach and nuzzling into your soft tummy and warmth
Gaz back to chest, with you in his lap, why? so you both can enjoy your own thing but also share it if you so desire, sometimes heâll just end up looking over your shoulder at whatever youâre doing, soothes him to have you in his arms and also kind of thinks of your body as a little protective layer from the world, like a lil human meat shield he can cuddle, OR just in general any position that will have you two facing each other in the most comfortable way possible, looking deep in your eyes and talking about whatever passes through your minds, one hand gently stroking your cheek
König either keeps you between his thighs, like, not on top of his lap, no literally manspreads so wide that youâre stuck in there while sitting, heavy arms draped over your shoulders and chest, head weighing down over yours as he leans his chin over the top of your skull, enjoying your warmth and softness in his hold, OR consider this man feeling vulnerable and begging you to please be his big spoon, holding him in your arms and letting him feel safe, enjoying the feeling of your legs wrapped around his waist from behind while you kiss his head and pet his hair
craving milk, so he unbuckles his pants and pulls out his cock in front of her face. She hungrily laps at the precum dripping from his tip. Her tongue licks up and down his length but returns to sucking the head. She keeps swirling it roughly under and all around the surface. His body tenses and jerks in overstimulation, clutching his fists tight to hold still. As she purrs, the vibrations travel down his dick. Eventually, she starts pawing at his balls too.
Simon canât handle the stimulation, and he comes with a loud groan, hand firmly but carefully grasping her head. As his dick shoots spurt after spurt, she swallows around it, milking even lore from his already heavy load.
vs
Big, scary Simon Riley being desperately submissive to his tinier wife needing her to spray him to mark her territory. He begs her to sit on his face, then heâll pull her weight all the way down. He eats pussy like a man parched and starving. He makes her cum over and over. Squirming, she canât hold it anymore, so he slips his fingers inside and crooks them in rough, quick thrusts till sheâs showering him in golden liquid. The second she practically falls off, sheâs met with the grin of a drenched but sated man. Crazy bastard has a twinkle in his eyes as he licks his lips to get some more of the taste.
