So I finally watched Fallout. Really cool. Loved the main characters a lot. Totally going to be normal about it all 🫠 Also, if you're still taking requests, what about #10 "Spread your legs wider" with The Ghoul but in two different contexts? One where he's (begrudgingly) teaching reader how to shoot and another that's spicy.
ooh hi anon, I love this idea! 👀💖 these were such fun scenarios to explore together, I hope you like this! thank you so much for sending it in!
— on target
cooper howard / the ghoul x f!reader
rated e - 1.8k
Tags: weapon practice, pining, flirting, big dick cooper howard, parters-with-benefits, mutual mast, rough PiV
Two times the Ghoul tells you to spread your legs, and two times that you listen.
"Again."
You frown, a sideways glance from over your shoulder, "But I hit it."
A neat mark pierces clean through in the outlined target. Low and to the left, but still within the boundaries. A win in your book, compared to the mess where you started.
"That'd just slow a fella down, not kill 'em." The Ghoul snaps, "If you were aimin' for a head, you'd have missed. Again."
You sigh, as you peer down the sights. Somewhere along the way, your desire to learn became a desire to prove him wrong.
That you could be - would be - good at this.
Enough time spent watching him - drawing and firing before you can even blink - to know, out of anyone in the Mojave Wasteland, that you wanted it to be him to teach you.
But the Ghoul had been reluctant to show you how to shoot. Seemed content enough to handle things himself, when shit went down. A sneering curl of his lip, when you had asked.
"Shoot your own damn foot off, sweetheart," He scoffed, "Then were'd we be?"
You had pushed. Never begging, you wouldn't stoop to that. Just needling - a reminder of how much use you could be to him if you could truly have his back.
He had laughed. Hadn't needed someone in two-hundred years to do that. Doesn't know why he'd start to worry about someone watching his back now.
But, he relented. A small pistol pressed in your hand, with a spinning chamber and everything.
The next shot you take is closer, but still too low.
With a grunt, he's manhandling you. A hand at your waist, at the small of your back - moving you into position. His knee pressing to yours, a heavy boot nudging your own.
"Spread your legs wider, now." His voice is low in your ear, making you shiver, "Center your gravity."
Your body is slow to respond. Caught up in how close he is, how his touch feels electric - even through the layers.
"You listenin’, vaultie?" The sharp tone snaps you back, as you do as he says. Thighs inching wider, the curve of your ass pressing against his front.
"Good girl." He hums - the syllables drawing out - and it shoots straight through you.
A heat pounding in your cheeks as his hands still rest at your waist. Solid and unyielding, as he always was.
It takes a real effort to raise your arms and aim again. Inhaling a breath, and holding it.
His voice rough, as he rasps in your ear.
"Now, take the shot."
This time when you fire -
Your bullet hits dead center.
“Well, come on.” The Ghoul’s fingers pinch into your skin, “This was your idea, now.”
As if he was no more than an innocent bystander. As if he doesn’t need this as much as you do, with the way he shifted into your wandering palm.
Your back arches, where it presses against the bedroll. Bare knees clamp against his waist. A boot lost to the wastes in your urge to rid yourself of clothing - pants and underwear in a twist around one of your shins.
Torn down after all that pent-up pressure finally came bubbling over.
“Spread ‘em wider, sweetheart.” There’s a tap against your thigh, a command in the low rasp of his voice. “Show me.”
Your heart thunders in your chest as you obey. Legs butterflying as they spread, dipping down as you open yourself up for him.
For once - instead of that laser focus on you, with that distrustful nature of his - those eyes dip down.
There’s a shark intake of breath. His fingers flex when he sees you - damp and glistening, as few things are out in the wasteland. The pretty gleam of your arousal as it drips from you.
Almost as if he means to touch. Sink two fingers deep, bury himself in you until you forget everything else.
Instead, they pinch against your hips. Slipping back up to work open that thick belt buckle. The sun glinting off ancient, yellowed resin as his layers loosen. Fingers closing around himself instead, easing the hard length free.
He’s thick, bigger than you thought. Your pulse spiking at the way his fingers, bigger than yours, just make it around. Ruined and red like the rest of him - though it doesn’t stifle the urge to part your lips and stick out your tongue.
The Ghoul’s chin dips down, when those eyes fix on yours again. A breath passes before realize what he wants - your own hand drifting. Your moan soft as the tips of your fingers press down, slowly sliding to your clit.
Teeth clenching down as your circle, aware of the sounds you make. Not just the hitch of your breath, but the loud, slick swirl of your fingers.
A betrayal, showing how much you need this - aching even before that first brush of his hands, guiding you into position.
His attentions transfixes you enough that you almost miss it. How his fist moves in tandem with yours, copying your rhythm.
It has your hips bucking into your touch, fingers rubbing just a little faster. Your lips parting with a harsh breath - torn between watching him get off to you, and wanting to see the look in his eyes doing it.
The decision makes itself - your eyes lifting until they’re dixing on each other, held until he makes a rough sound.
“Never seen you want somethin’ like this before,” He rasps, “You gonna ask nicely for this, too?”
His fingers tighten with the emphasis, squeezing. The tip gleaming with a pearl of precum, before it dribbles down to smear against his swollen tip.
Reminding you how you had needled at him to teach you, until he had barked a “fine, fuckin’ fine already-”. But this time, you can already feel that strung-tight wire inside you.
An innate knowledge that yes, it would be pleasurable to come with the heat of his gaze upon you - but to have his length buried deep, to come around his cock as he fucks you -
It would be incomparable.
“I need you,” You hear yourself beg.
“You need me to what?” His brow lifts, “Seems like you’re doin’ a fine job yourself.”
Your teeth grit, swallowing down your pride. The pace of your fingers just barely slowing - drawing it out, in the hopes he gives you what you need.
“Please,” The syllables draw out as you keen, “I need your cock, need you to fuck me-”
His eyes glitter in the afternoon sun, the cat that caught the canary.
“Where was this before, hm?” The Ghoul rasps, a twitch at the edge of his lips, “Could’ve gotten what you wanted a lot sooner, darlin’.”
Your answer comes out strangled, his hips moving just as your lips part. Fingers wrapped around his base to angle the tip. Nudging himself just inside the tight clench of your pussy - parting you open - before there’s the sharp forward punch of his hips.
It’s immediately too much.
The moan breaks, the air stolen from your lungs. Going from aching and empty to full in a second, all of your muscles going tight.
“Fuck, sweetheart.” He breathes - jaw gritting the same way when he had looked at you, on that last day of practice, “Gonna snap it clean off if you don’t relax.”
That hunger etched so clearly across your face, his hands still resting on your hips. Tired of the teasing. The flit of his hands and the shift of his hips into yours. The rock of his thigh against your core, just as you were about to fire.
“Don’t start somethin’ you can’t finish, sweetheart.” It had been rough in your ear, a warning and a challenge.
But if you could handle his gun - you could handle him, too.
With your own little snarl and a tilt of your head, you had kissed him. It feels like a dream, now, even though it was only a few moments ago.
And it’s only been a breath since you’ve been full of him, but each second lengthens. Your sounds bleeding into a whine as he starts to move - hands grasping at your hips, the thrusts starting shallow and turning longer.
“Not my fault.” You huff, that sharp sting easing into a syrupy warmth as he starts to move, “Didn’t tell me you were packing a-, a sarsaparilla bottle down there.”
“Is that right?” Lips wide stretch over stained teeth, “Can’t say I’ve heard that before.”
Your strangled laugh becomes a groan, as your start fingers swirl again. This is how it should be, you think - stuffed to the brim with him, as you bring yourself to the brink.
Eclipsing your quiet fumbling in the dark, the bitten-back hiss of pleasure. No more than a relief of tension and a way to sleep. Now, it’s so much more than that. The pleasure mounting, clicking upward - a geiger counter in the wastes.
Only for your cunt to tighten around him - a new wash of desire crashing over you - when the Ghoul inches his thighs wider. Arcing over you - his eyes narrowing when yours go wide, lips parting with a breathless gasp.
You wonder if he’s had as much practice with this, as he has with that gun of his. This new tilt of his hips sends him against a sensitive spot inside you, the tip nudging against it again and again.
He must, with the way he bares his teeth - the rough chuckle at the “oh fuck” that loosens from your throat.
The sound is like the sharp scrape of steel against flint to your ears. It would be startling if you didn’t know him the way you do.
“D-Don’t stop.” You beg again - the heel of a foot hitching to dig into his back, keeping him close, “Oh, you’re gonna make me come.”
“That’s the idea, sweetheart.” He growls - but for once he listens. That pace staying steady, his own chest heaving as you writhe beneath him.
Hips bucking to meet the sharp slap of his. Your touch too harsh, too needy. Pulling you to the edge with the realization that he wants to feel you come around him.
Just like he wanted to see you hit that target.
It’s that flicker of knowledge that sends you over.
The grin he gives you is near feral. Your head tilting back as the pleasure floods through you, sending your nerves endings alight.
Barely able to hear the soft echo of his words before.
“Good girl.”
thanks so much for reading! I have a few more requests I am working on, can’t wait to share them when I am done! 💖
Ahsoka paused with the cheese stick halfway to her mouth and cocked her head. "The what?"
Rex fished out his holotags from under the neck of his blacks. Something shiny hung next to the small ID discs, something pointy and metal and-
Ahsoka gulped. Her akul tooth. The one she'd removed from her headdress and left in Rex's bunk in his office , when she was too cowardly to say goodbye face-to-face. She lowered her eyes and tapped a few commands into the almost-forgotten datapad. "You found it, then," she managed after a few seconds of silence.
Inspired by this incredible anon - I loved the idea of trying an Alfred POV + mini-prequel, for part of Penny For Your Thoughts (posted a year ago yesterday!) 💕
follows part i with a brief reference to part iii
It wasn’t anything more than chance - the briefest meeting of eyes from across the room. And yes, he’s thought about that moment, wondering. But never thinking they’d meet again - that those thoughts of “what if” might actually be based in some truth.
He had noticed her.
Of course he had.
Eyes drawn to the form sitting at the bar, soon after they had stepped inside. No more than an idle glance until there was a turn of her head - until he recognized her profile.
The woman from the gala.
It had been months ago. Spring, then. The weather was just beginning to warm, flowers pushing through the earth to bloom in the sun as the days grew longer. He remembers the night well - a charity ball for the hospital.
Recalling how he had to wheedle Bruce into accepting the invitation - weeks had passed since he had last gone out, and there were reputations to be upheld.
Somehow getting himself dragged along, as well.
He had been half-listening when he felt the weight. One he had come to know during his time as an intelligence agent - the feeling of being watched.
Eyes sliding to Bruce first, who wasn't listening at all. Dulled eyes unseeing as they stood trapped together in a conversation with a pair of financial advisors from Wanye Enterprises.
Alfred's well-timed hums of agreement enough to carry the conversation, for now. His gaze wandered through the crowd at the cocktail hour, his own glass flute cool between his fingers, all but untouched.
There was a shift in the groups, a party splitting into two. A gap formed between them, when he saw her.
A woman - one he found stunning. Standing with her arm curled around her waist, the fingers of the other pressed against her lips.
They parted, when their gaze had met. She blinked at him with wide eyes - caught. Head ducking as she shifted back toward the companion she was with, the briefest glance back his way before she jumped back into the conversation.
For a wild second, he had thought she had been looking at him. A stirring in his chest he had not felt for ages, for years.
But, surely not.
The feeling twisting into something else, something he didn't wish to examine, as his eyes had flicked toward Bruce.
Towards the subject of her certain fascination. He supposed the thought was pleasant - he'd been trying to convince Bruce to go out, make friends - date - for years.
Anything to get him out of the Tower, to see him smile again.
Maybe even drop this new-formed interest in vigilantism.
This was certainly something to consider.
A rich bell rang out, then. A slow transition into the seated dinner as conversations wound down - each name carefully grouped on the thick, creamy-white seating chart. A gold charm around the stem of each of their glasses, the number stamped on the disc as a reminder.
Unable to help glancing for the woman again, as he moved towards his seat. Finding her - seeing her split from her friend, heading to a table alone.
An idea had swiftly formed. He knew the organizers of the fundraiser - the Wayne family still had close contact with the Hospital, their upper staff.
Excusing himself from Bruce’s side, though he wasn’t not paying attention - eyes glued down to his phone. Scanning through live traffic videos, itching to be out and anywhere but here.
It’s had been an easy thing, to switch his own seat with hers. An escort sent to gently divert her, claiming a mistake in the glass she received.
Her frown had been sweet - the briefest hesitance before she was guided to his old spot. Seated next to Bruce, while Alfred sat four tables away - trying not to watch.
Congratulating himself on playing matchmaker, though he doesn’t feel as pleased as he thought he would have.
Fitting in easily enough - had been acquaintances with a couple at this new spot. Conversation flowing over the appetizers, unable to help as his eyes drifted.
To Bruce, who sullenly picked at his food. Angled slightly away from his pretty dinner partner - Alfred was already shaking his head, his tongue trapped between his teeth.
God, help him.
Stealing the briefest glimpse to the side. Where he met her eyes, again. They lingered this time, for a moment - until her lips curved in a shy smile, until her gaze dropped again.
He allowed himself another moment.
Wondering, but not too much - not sure if he wanted to understand. It’d been too long since he felt a flutter in his chest like this, that wasn’t linked to worry or fear.
He didn’t know how to take it.
It’s hard to remember the rest of dinner. He knows he rushed through it - anticipating that Bruce would not linger, that he’d want to leave as soon as socially appropriate.
Excusing himself politely, as Bruce had stood. Allowed one last look at the girl he wouldn’t see again - just a small, stolen moment.
Before he had made for the door, holding it open for the younger man to pass through. Giving the slip to the valet, as they stood together in the chilly evening, the sun just settling below the horizon.
“Thanks for ditching me.” There was ice to Bruce’s words, a blade-sharp edge, “Should I even ask what that was all about?”
If they weren’t spoken in that tone, he might have been touched. There had been weeks where Bruce hadn’t wanted to be in the same room as him.
“Thought you might prefer a more interesting partner this evening.” Alfred replied smoothly. The next question coming unconsciously, not even meaning to ask it, “Did you catch her name?”
He could feel the eyes on him, but kept his own facing forward as he looked for the valet. Hands slipped into the pockets of his trousers, determined to continue the charade.
There was a low scoff.
“Maybe we should have traded seats, instead.”
Christ.
In this moment he had rued how perceptive Bruce could be. How over time, they had learned to read bits about each other.
A long moment, as the car pulled around. The valet exiting, rounding the front of the car before Bruce had taken pity on him.
His voice knowing as he finally told him her name.
Alfred had tried it out himself - later that night when he was alone. Rolling sweet on his tongue, before he locked it away.
No use dwelling on it, he had told himself. He was busy enough as it - a whole Tower to keep running, a young man to keep alive.
In a city as big as Gotham, another meeting would be unlikely. It would be be better for him to rid her - of any possible connection - from his mind.
And he had, as an old memory that sprung to the surface. One from the summer of his youth - fingers reaching out towards a painting at the Fitzwilliam Museum. An urge to feel the layered brushstrokes for himself.
Pausing, then drawing back. Knowing that it was not meant for that - his touch. That it would never be his. That beauty like this was best appreciated from afar.
And with that - the memory of her was locked away.
He moved on.
And now, despite those odds he had wondered about, despite the way he told himself he’d forget…
He finds they’ve been brought together, again.
Bruce has already split from his side, that honed, laser-focus taking over - leading him deep into the lounge. Leaving him in the doorway, jacket and cane in hand.
Firmly rooted to the floor, as something sweet blooms in his chest. A moment, before he can move again.
Of all nights to see her. Not that he was complaining, it was not at all an unwelcome surprise. But of course it comes on a night when Bruce is in one of his moods.
Hell-bent on a fight that Alfred knew he could never win.
He can’t bear to approach her. It would be impolite, and surely unwanted. She certainly had not dwelled on that night as he had.
And seeing her now, a vision - even from across the room - made him feel more foolish than ever.
But, he finds his feet unstuck. Taking him over to the bar. The urge to still stay close, in a place like this.
His eyes purposely finding Bruce so that they would not stray. Watching the stiff, uneasy gait of his walk as he approached the arch along the back wall.
Almost missing the scrape of a stool, a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye.
How she moves to be closer to him.
“Mr. Pennyworth.”
She says his name, and it’s the prettiest thing he’s heard.
A hand extended, and without thought he’s taking it eagerly. Unable to resist the slight squeeze - pressing his hand firmly against hers as he tries out her name for himself.
“Always a pleasure to see you, miss.”
For the moment, her attention is on him. Something he had not anticipated, unable to help a quick look over his shoulder. Finding Bruce again - where he’s talking to the two men, heads bowed.
Surely, he could afford a short conversation?
His eyes turn back, finding hers.
Where she’s watching him, head cocked, “I didn’t expect to see you here. This doesn’t seem to be your usual spot.”
The fact that she thinks she might know his usual spots at all thrills him. Enough that he’s returning her smile.
“Just here on business, miss.” He answers kindly but evasively - his guard still up, when it came to Bruce’s excursions.
Unable to help asking in return, “What about yourself?“
“Same.” She smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners, “Though I’ve already done my rounds. I’ve been waiting for the traffic to die down so I can grab a cab.”
A soft, silent moment. The drink lifted to her lips, head tilting back. His eyes sweeping over the exposed column of her neck as she swallows.
A subtle dip lower - admiring, appreciating. The pretty shade of her dress, how it compliments her form. How for a moment, he imagines he was here, with her - an intentional date.
In another life. In another time - when he was ten, twenty years younger. Without the burdens of grief and the scars he still carries.
He’d ask her to dinner. Somewhere beyond his means, most likely. Unable to help it, wanting to sweep her off her feet, treat her to the very best.
Romance her. Bring her roses. Walk her to the door, after. Leaving with the anticipation of next time - and if he was lucky, knowing the feeling of her lips pressed against his
“Too bad you’re not here for fun, instead.”
Her sudden words feel like an electric shock, bringing him instantly back. A wistful, coy lilt to her voice, as she sets the drink down.
Bright eyes finally finding his, her words pointed, “That would’ve been even more interesting.”
Oh.
For a second he thinks she teasing, and what a cruel thing it is. But then he sees her expression, the pieces of the puzzle that he’s been avoiding fitting neatly into place.
Lips parting with an sharp inhale, eyes blinking. Scrambling to find words - because he still can’t bring himself to believe.
That she would actually be interested in him. Not when she was so pretty, so young - not when she could surely have anyone of her choosing.
“You flatter me.” He finds his voice, after a moment. The words almost rueful, “But I think I am far too old for that sort of thing.”
She laughs then, shaking her head, “That’s ridiculous.”
An elbow propped on the bar top, her chin resting in the palm of her hand. A slow lean forward, invading his space.
Close enough that he can smell her perfume - the faded scent of soft vanilla and amber against her skin.
Her voice going low, gaze fixed firmly on his, “Maybe you haven’t met the right girl yet.”
It’s been so long that he doesn’t know how to take it. Defenses rising up instead, deflecting the attention.
Self-sabotaging.
“Ah.” He breathes, watching as her eyes slowly drop to his mouth. Swallowing, before he hears himself adding, “Perhaps someone more like Master Wayne…”
Trying to circle back to before. His poor attempt from the gala - directing attention from himself, again.
Those clever eyes dart back up to his, as she laughs. The glint of the low lights off her hair as her head shakes, “I am certain Mr. Wayne is not interested, nor am I-”
He feels his presence then, the shadow with a weight that he would know anywhere. The silent steps, an appearance at his shoulder.
Alfred’s eyes linger, for just one more moment. Knowing their meeting is about to come to and end. A second of greed, clinging to that thin point of connection for just one more breath.
And then his head is turning, the spell breaking. Seeing the frustration that pulls at Bruce’s face, the downward turn of his lips.
“Just missed them. They’re at the other-”, Bruce all but growls - before his eyes are shifting, finally landing on her. Finally realizing that they’re not home and it’s not just the two of them, anymore.
His words are severed, as she smiles. A tight politeness to the curve of her lips that doesn’t meet her eyes.
Bruce’s head turns sharply, cutting her out of the conversation.
“I have to go. I’ll be home later.”
If he wasn’t in such company Alfred’s fingers would be pinching the bridge of his nose - always forgetting how little manners Bruce could have when he irritated.
The younger man almost recovers, offering a half-hearted bow of his head in her direction. Sweeping out the front door a moment later, as Alfred exhales a long-held breath.
“My apologies,” He manages - his own smile strung tight. Not the way he had thought this conversation would go, “It appears my business has been concluded.”
“Seem like.” She smiles then, small and wistful. A softness in her farewell, “It was really nice seeing you.”
A thousand things swirl thought his mind during the second that her gaze holds his. His keen memory calling back to her words before.
“-waiting for the traffic to die down so I can grab a cab.”
An idea forming to prolong this meeting for just a few moments longer. Not that he shouldn’t offer this anyways - it might be rude to leave her here alone without at least offering.
“Allow me to offer you a ride home. I believe you’re on the way, and it’s the least I can do.”
He has no idea if it’s true, but he’d drive her anywhere in Gotham.
She takes the offered crook of her arm. Fingers pressing into the meat of his forearm - his knuckles curled tightly around the cane, as he savors the contact.
“Thank you. That would be lovely.”
A step as she moves in closer - tucking her body close to his, as they make their way to the door, together.
———
She does live close - her address carefully recited, as he mentally charts the best route to Gotham Village. A little pleased she lives somewhere safe - still in the Downtown-area, but not in places where Bruce visits often.
Soft idle chatter dissolves into a comfortable silence - with as much rain they have, you can only talk about it for so long - as he cranks the heat against the fall chill. Concentrating on the slick road ahead as he weaves through the streets.
Unable to help the occasional side-glance her way. So strange to have her in a place as intimate as this - only a hands-breadth or so away.
Wondering if her perfume will linger later, like a ghost.
His mind soon splitting, as it always did. Glancing up towards the sky - looking for the beacon. The summons he dreaded, only because it meant something had happened that was bad enough that they needed Bruce.
A summons that always brought him back to the Tower, to worry and wait.
But so far, the skies have only birthed the sheets of rain and dark, sweeping clouds.
The trip ends much too soon, as she gestures towards the row of brick apartments. Parking comes second nature - easily sliding his Bentley into one of the open spots outside the door.
Painted a pretty shade of green, like spring. Like when he had first saw her.
“Thank you for the ride, Alfred,” She tells him, his name sounding just as sweet as before. A hand coming to rest on the door handle, before she hesitates.
Her next words floor him.
“Would you come up if I asked you?”
His hands clench around the wheel, as he finds himself frozen in place. There’s not a lot of things that surprise him anymore. Not after what he’s seen, that he’s been through.
But this. This, was certainly unexpected.
“Oh.” He manages, this tongue feeling thick in his mouth. Catching the slow movement as she shifts - starting to lean toward him instead, an elbow resting between them. Her head cocked, eyes watching him so carefully.
Full of nervous hope.
There’s a hammering in his chest, a warmth that blooms across his cheeks and ears at the thought. At her offer - one he wishes so desperately to take. To reach out, sink his teeth into.
But does she know what she’s asking?
Does she really want him? And would she still, when she’s seen all of him?
“It’s uh, been a while.” He manages, to buy a few more moments to think. Even with her sweet teasing, he hadn’t thought they’d end up here.
Far too long since he’s been pursued. He’s forgotten all the steps, his feet feeling out of sync with this dance.
But she’s unfettered - the slowest shift as she moves closer. A soft inhale of breath as a hand reaches out. Her full intent shown as her fingers unfurl to rest against his knee.
Something sparking with her touch, coursing through him.
“I don’t mind if you’re nervous,” She confesses - a hitch of her breath. A small, encouraging smile sent his way, “I’m a little nervous too.”
At her words, something unlocks. The pressure of the want oozing up, seeping through the cracks of the wall he’s built so sturdily.
Unable to help the small, rough laugh just as her fingers inch up, towards his thigh.
To think that she was nervous. As if his rejection would come from a lack of desire, and not years of duty. Compounded into his skin, down to his bones.
He could assuage her. He could do that much.
Moving with a speed that matches her, his own head tilting slowing. Just until his nose almost brushes hers, until he’s close enough to see the fan of her lashes above heavy-lidded eyes.
“That’s not what I said, dove.” His words come out low, rasping. The endearment coming easily, as he watches how his tone effects her - the subtle shift in her seat.
The small gasp that has her eyes closing - those pretty lips parting.
For him. Waiting, just for him.
He moves.
Eyes finally closing as his lips brush against hers. Unable to help leaning in, the urge to touch - a hand reaching to cup her face, hold her close as a soft moan thrums in her throat.
A heady throb coursing through his chest when there’s the touch of her tongue against his lip. As he opens eagerly for her and she clings to him, pressing herself closer as she deepens their kiss.
His tongue passes over his lower lip when they finally part - still tasting her sweet mouth as she leans back. Shooting him a look that goes straight to his cock - heavy-lidded and wanting.
“Come inside,” She all but begs.
Robbing him of his breath, again.
His mind running wild at the offer and innuendo. Unable to help another small laugh, strangled in his throat.
I’d like to. He thinks, as his jaw tightens. Would love to see you come, darling. At least twice. A third time, if I can hold out. If that’s what you want.
Would it be so wrong, to have one night of selfishness?
His head shakes, ridding himself of the doubt.
Making a decision.
His fingers twist the keys, turning off the ignition.
Giving in to what he wants - at last.
“Alright.”
———
She is nervous, he can see it in the way she fumbles with the lock, missing it with her keys.
Though she has no reason to be. He’s hers now, and will be until she no longer wants him.
Hands coming without thought - one against the curve of her lower back, steadying her. Another wrapping around her smaller hand, easing the key in.
Unlocking the door.
“Bedroom?” She asking, a glance over her shoulder as he takes in her apartment - the details that make up her life.
Ready to take a step forward - but he’s not quite done kissing her yet, now that he’s no longer confined to the interior of a car.
His hand still wrapped around her wrist - using it to tug her back against him. Carefully turning them until her back presses into the door.
Her head tilting up as he leans into her space - hands sliding up his chest to grip onto his shoulders for balance.
Fingers finding the soft fabric at her hips at her lips meet his, rucking up the hem. Wanting to make her feel good, too - as her hips press into his. Fitting a strong thigh between hers as she clings to him, already grinding down on his offer.
Already wanting to taste her again, hands roaming up to cup her jaw. Tongue stroking the seam of her lips until she’s parting them with a groan. The sound high-pitched and wanting, as his own moan joins her.
Her fingers unfurl from his shoulders. A hand ghosting down to cup where he’s thickening in his trousers with each rock of her hips. Squeezing him, gently.
Fuck.
His groan deepens, grows louder. His hips jerking into her touch as their kiss breaks - as she grins.
The last bit of that worry and self-consciousness that clung to him like a second skin, fading away at her touch.
He wants her. He can admit that now.
“Bedroom.” He husks, a hand gripping onto her hip as he moves away, as the heels of her shoes drop down. Loathe to leave their connection - a hand still lingering at her jaw.
One that she catches, entwining with her own as she leads him further inside. To her sanctuary - where he lingers for a moment in the doorway, as she sits down on the edge of the bed.
Leaning forward, to reach her shoes - though that’s something he’d be glad to do, for her.
“Allow me.” He kneels, ignoring the ache in his thigh as she extends her leg.
His palm cupping the soft skin of her calf - the other hand deftly working the tiny buckle, slipping her foot free. A soft sigh as he rids her of the other - an easy practice to his movements.
Fingers brushing over skin, the soft sweep of a thumb against an ankle.
Old habits sinking in as he takes the briefest moment to line both of her shoes up next to her nightstand.
Lingering for a moment there, between her knees. Eyes lifting when her legs part further - spreading themselves open for him.
Traveling up the expanse of bare skin - from foot, to ankle, to calf.
Knee, to thigh, to-
Oh.
His breath is low, harsh. The word no more than a rough gasp.
“Stunning.”
This sight of her, right now. The smallest mark of worry between her brows, a bit lip mixing with the dark look in her eyes.
The shadow of her dress not quite disguising the scrap of fabric between her thighs. Darkened and soaked through. Wet, for him.
His hands move on their own. Sliding over soft skin, over the curve of her knee. Watching as she hikes her dress up a little more - but he wants to see everything.
Pushing the fabric up himself - to her hips, as he rises. Fitting his waist between her knees, as his fingers grip at her waist. Taking in every detail - each curve and inch of skin. The heave of her chest, the mounting hunger in her eyes.
The lips that part, begging for him.
“Please, sir.”
Christ, she was going to ruin him.
It’s not a title that was new, not exactly. But time had made him forget. Not wanting to deny her of anything - taking this scrap of what she might like, might want, and storing it deep within his chest.
If she really wanted it, she could have it. But tonight… all he wanted was to take care of her.
The smallest shake of his head as he bends, the curve of his nose brushing over her stomach. The brush of his mouth against her skin as he moves downward.
“Not sir.” He grits out - reaching the waistband of her underwear. A pretty little lace thing, just barely keeping him from what he wants.
Her voice comes again - the syllables light on her sweet tongue, “Mr. Pennyworth?”
That is a pretty sound, and oh so tempting. His eyes flicking up - dark and glittering as he considers it for just a moment.
But then, the smallest shake of his head.
“No, not that either. Just-“
Just Alfred. Just you and me tonight, dove.
“Alfred,” she coos, and he thinks she’s read his mind. Before he’s catching the sky look in her eye as her hip cant upward, “If you wanted me to call you daddy, all you had to do was ask.”
He can’t deny the effect it has on him - the desire that drips off each word. Filthy, in a way he had not been expecting.
Fingers pinching into her hips - unable to bite back the groan as he presses his hard cock into the side of the mattress. A desperate attempt at relief.
Dear god.
Her eyebrow is lifting, lips rounding on a soft and knowing little “oh” of interest.
His own face growing stern, the slightest edge to his voice, “That mouth, darling, is going to get you into trouble.”
If she keeps it up - the flirtation, the teasing, the just being her - then he will surely disappoint her.
Catching her sweetly off guard as his head dips. Flattening his tongue against the spot that is damp for him. A breath through his nose, inhaling her scent before he’s pressing close. Her hips jerking as she cries out, his own hands coming to cup her ass - keeping her pressed snug against his mouth.
Unable to help the low groan, sounding loud in the small room. The fabric darkening under his tongue as he presses into her wet center.
Again, and then again. Already able taste her through the fabric. Still unable to resist tugging the scrap to the side, so he can do this properly.
He takes his time. Tracing every inch with the point of his tongue. Parting slick, puffy folds as he groans, as his cock throbs in its tight confinement.
Leaning back, after a moment.
Needing more.
“Oh,” he rasps. A rough groan pushing from his chest as his fingers curl around the delicate fabric. Peeling them down her thighs, baring her pretty cunt to him.
Eyes flipping up, catching hers - how she’s strung-tight with anticipation.
“I could eat you all day.”
And he would - if it meant that she kept making all those sweet sounds for him.
Leaning forward then, to press his mouth to her. Thighs pressing into his shoulders as he explores with soft kisses and the flick of his tongue.
Listening to what makes her whine. What makes her go silent, breath hitching. What has her lips parting as she moans. As she moves with him, the unconscious rock of her hips as he fucks her with his tongue.
She wriggles above him. Her pussy pressing against his tongue as her ass lifts, so she can tug the fabric of her dress up, and then off. Letting it drop over the edge of the bed, lost in her eagerness.
Baring herself to him, as his eyes drag down. Past shoulders and to the lacy bra that matches the panties he tugged off her. The sweet curve of her breasts, confined in the fine fabric.
He cannot take it any longer. A request, one of the few he will make, slides from his lips. Breathed out against the soft skin of her thigh.
“Can I touch you, dove?”
Working quickly and efficiently - removing his prized golden cufflinks. Tucking them away safely within his trouser pocket, along with his wrist watch. Rolling up one of the sleeves of his shirt over strong forearms, as she watches.
“Yes.” She begs, as the fabric of the other sleeve pushes up to his elbow.
He can’t help the low growl, as his hands move back into place. Flattening against soft skin, dragging down until he’s stroking her sensitive inner thigh. Achingly careful as a finger glides across her clit, watching how she clenches for him.
Wanting to fill that pretty, greedy hole. Fingertips gathering her arousal, tracing the tight opening - before pressing a finger inside.
Sinking deep into the heat as she jolts, a heady moan as he begins to thrust.
Achingly tight as he fits another in, his eyes fixed on where he takes him. Unable to help thinking about how she’ll feel wrapped around his cock. A throb as she whimpers at the stretch - though in the same breath she’s pushing herself up on her elbows to watch.
Where his forearms flex, the noisy thrust of his fingers that come back slick and shining.
“Gorgeous.” He purrs, dipping his head to press a kiss right against her swollen clit. Tongue flattening to swipe over it next, as her thighs trembling, grasping at her bedding.
Pressing his fingers knuckle-deep, as far as he can reach. The techniques coming back to him - even after all this time - as the tips curl, press, drag.
He’s watching as she cries out with pleasure, greedy eyes taking every detail in. Doing it again so he can watch her lips part with a long moan. An unconscious and needy flex of her hips, pressing her soaked cunt closer to his mouth.
“Again.” She whines - as he tugs the plea from deep in her chest.
Unable to keep the edges of his lips from curling as his lips wrap around the sensitive bud. A soft suck as he steadily finds the soft with his fingers again, and then again.
Each of her breathes coming in a short staccato as she gasps, whimpers. Head tilted back - pretty, unfiltered thoughts pouring from her lips.
Begging, for him.
“Fuck me, oh god, please-”
Clenching down around his fingers that refuse to slow. That won’t stop until he feels her pretty little cunt come around them.
Wholly enraptured by her pleading - his voice going soft with want and emotion, “I will, darling. Anything you want.”
Because right now, he would. For tonight, this moment, he is hers.
“But I need you to come for me first. Can you do that for daddy?”
He does it, for her. Returning the favor - as his finger plunge and curl.
Wanting, needing - to bring her over that edge first. Ignoring the throb of his cock, the tightness in his trousers in favor of her mounting pleasure.
He sees how his words effect her. The clench as she bears down around him, a kiss-swollen lip trapped between teeth as she gazes at him with half-lidded eyes. The short jerk of a nod, lips parting to breathe out the word, “Yes.”
Just before she comes undone for him. Her cunt tightening around his fingers as she moans, head tilted back against the pillows. His tongue pressed against her swollen little clit, feeling how she throbs for him.
Each breath a high-pitched pant, soft sounds as her thighs tighten around him. His fingers still moving - drawing out the pleasure, pressing against that spot that had her sobbing. It’s perfection, in every sense of the word.
And, if all he has is this.
This night.
The memory, and her smile, and the taste of her on his tongue -
He thinks that would be enough.
Please excuse the self-indulgence, just feeling a little sentimental. Thank you so so much for reading 💖💕
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: ½
Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games)
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Relationships: Simon “Ghost” Riley/Reader
Characters: Simon “Ghost” Riley, John “Soap” MacTavish
Additional Tags: reader is given military background, Smut, these two motherfuckers are so obsessed w each other and they don’t even realize it, mutual respect, soap thinks he’s a good wingman, american author- I apologize for any mistakes in writing dialogue from Ghost n soap, also I spent way too long researching emergency helicopter landings, no beta -my hubris knows no bounds
Summary:
Whatever this was, it went beyond trust. Of course you trusted each other, that went without saying. He’d put his life in your hands and you knew you’d do the same.
Can I have a female reader and Brahms Heelshire with praise kink (and maybe mommy kink but if not that's okay!)
WINKS WITH BOTH EYES
(includes masturbation, oral, praise kink, overstimulation, and then brahms railing the reader into next week)
---
Your favorite necklace is missing.
Or, rather, you know exactly where it's gone, but the fact remains that it isn't in its box, safely tucked away in your dresser; you know for a fact you've told Brahms many times that anything in there is off limits to him. He's loosely permitted to play small pranks on you, moving things around, insisting you've misplaced them. This, though, is a bit too much after the day you've had.
You briskly walk into his room where the doll is propped up against the headboard, glassy eyes looking at you as though to say, 'Is something the matter?'
"Brahms," you say, crisply as a schoolmarm. "Come out."
At first, there's only silence and the usual creaks and moans of an old house. Then, you hear a muffled shuffling from behind the wall, and the soft groan of a wood panel giving way. From behind it, Brahms peers out, eyes wide through the holes of his mask. He doesn't move any further, just enough to look at you while also having enough room to retreat.
"Yes, miss?" he says in his child voice. It's so goddamn saccharine that it nearly makes your blood boil.
You've rarely lost your temper with him, but your damn close now. Instead, you cross your arms over your chest, leveling him with a Look-with-a-capital-L. "Come here, Brahms," you command.
It's still a wonder to see him approach you like this. He has nearly a head over your height, yet he carries himself like a scolded schoolboy. His shoulders droop, head lowered, feet shuffling in a way that you ought to chastise him for. He walks toward you, but stops just out of arms' reach. When he looks up at you from under that ridiculous fringe of hair, it's all doe-eyed and innocent, a sweet little boy who would never do you wrong.
You shut that down right away. "What did I say about going into my dresser?"
He doesn't move, but you see his eyes flicker back and forth briefly. "I'm not to do it," he replies—not in a child's voice, but in his voice, just soft and subdued.
"And did you do it anyway?"
Another flicker. You can practically feel the lie before he says it. "No, miss."
"Brahms."
He draws his hands in close to his stomach, laying the child voice on thick as jam. "I haven't, miss," he replies.
You stare at him, tapping your foot expectantly on the carpet. He knows that you know he's lying, but you decide to egg him on a little more, bring him to the point that he has no choice but to broker some kind of punishment from you. "Then do you know where my diamond necklace is?"
"No."
"No...?"
He shudders, and you only know it because you're looking for it. "No, miss," he corrects. "I don't know where your necklace is."
"Mhmm. Well, if I don't find it soon, I may spend all evening looking for it, and then our usual schedule will be interrupted," you say, brisk and cold. "That's a pity."
His head snaps up, eyes wide and panicked, and it takes every bit of your self control not to smirk. "Wait!" he says, not even bothering to obscure his voice. "Wait, I might— Maybe I know where it might be."
And he's off, disappearing behind the panel and not bothering to close it behind him. You wait, knowing that it will only be a moment before he miraculously reappears with it, claiming that oh, miss, I found it here and acting like he's never done a bad thing in his life.
Sure enough, the mantle clock hasn't chimed yet before he comes out from behind the panel, diamonds dripping from his fingers as he gingerly holds the necklace out to you. Again, his voice goes back to a child's, overly sweet, "I found it, miss. It was in the—"
You take it from him, carefully avoiding touching his fingers as you know he craves any contact between you. You see him wince when he notices, then watch his eyes fix on you as you untangle the chain and clip the necklace in place around your neck. The diamond pendant falls just so, low enough to grace the top of your cleavage where the dip of your shirt leaves plenty to Brahms' imagination.
"I'm sure you found it," you say, then cross your arms again, physically putting distance between the two of you.
Even with the mask on, he manages to look wounded, like you outright struck him. He lowers his head and fidgets, calloused fingers twitching and tugging loose threads on the cuffs of his sweater. "I..." he starts, but you put one hand up to silence him.
"I don't want to hear excuses, Brahms. You know we don't do that in this house," you say, but as you do, heat begins to pool between your legs at the thought of what's to come. "I don't want to punish you, but I think I might need to."
Oh, that does it for him. He looks at you, a strange wild animal look in his eyes. You see his chest start to rise and fall with heavy breaths. Again, his voice is a scrape of sound, low and hot, "Yes, miss," he mutters.
You don't make a single sign that you're turned on at the thought. Instead, you turn on heel and walk out of his room in neat, precise steps, head held high as he slinks behind you like a shamed dog. You walk to the study, then find your favorite chair—high-backed, plush with claret-colored velvet. It's a bitch to clean, but worth it for moments like this. You take a seat, then gesture for him to kneel between your spread knees. He does so without hesitation, dropping down so quickly that it almost startles you. He looks up at you with something like hunger, some unspoken feeling unspooling between you.
Fortunately, you had the forethought not to wear nylons today, and so all you need to do is reach up under your skirt and hook your thumbs into your panties, tugging them down to your knees. He watches you do this with enormous interest, his breathing getting heavier, sweat starting to shine on the skin of his chest. Were you any less in control of your sex drive, you'd like to fold yourself into his arms, run your tongue over the divot between his collar bones, your fingers brushing over the fine black hairs there. You would ride him until you're both exhausted, until he begs you to stop.
But you're better than that. And you're in complete control right now.
You slide your panties down to your ankles, stepping out with one leg, and letting the fabric dangle from your left ankle. You bring it close to Brahms' face, and you see his fingers twitch with the urge to snatch them up. (And how many pairs have you lost over the months? How many has he hidden away for himself to touch and smell?)
"Take this, but set it aside. Don't touch it again," you order.
He gives a low, wounded whine, clearly frustrated that he's not allowed to do what he wants. He does what you say, though, obediently taking your panties and setting them off to his left, only allowing his fingers to linger on them for just a second longer than he should. Then he places his hands in his lap, looking up at your face eagerly.
You hike up your skirt to your hips, exposing your sex to him. Gently, teasingly, you run your index finger up and down your slit, letting him see the faint shine of your arousal gathering on your fingertip. You watch as his fidgeting gets worse, body language conveying that he doesn't know what you're going to ask him to do, only that he's ready to do it.
"I'm going to touch myself," you tell him. "And you're only going to watch. You're not allowed to touch."
The speed at which he looks up at you in surprise and sheer unhappiness is incredible. For a moment, he raises his hands like he means to completely disobey you, but you fix him with the coldest look in your arsenal.
"Don't you dare," you snap. "And don't touch yourself at all. If you do, I will be very cross with you, Brahms."
Another whine. This one isn't childish so much as it's animalistic, a wounded animal crying out. It resounds strangely in his mask, and you take some pleasure in the thought that he's only making that sound because of you. He wants you so badly that it pains him. What an ego trip.
You work yourself open with your fingers at the thought, spreading yourself wide enough for him to see. You're already soaked, yet you work your clit a little more, circling your finger around it until you feel that dull heat in your cunt warm up to a steady flame. You lean your head back against the chair, watching Brahms through your half-lidded eyes as you play with yourself, running your fingers up and down between your clit and your opening. The friction is electric, and though you won't say it to him, the only way it would be better is if he were doing it to you.
When you finally push your fingers inside, you see him almost give in, sitting up on his knees with wide eyes and a dark flush painting his skin. You moan loudly—honestly, louder than you need to—just to make sure he knows what he's missing.
"You... you could be doing this, Brahms," you pant, rocking your hips up against your hand. "But you were so naughty."
"I'm sorry," he whispers. He says it again and again, a rapid mantra.
You ignore him, curling your fingers inside yourself, brushing them against all the sensitive spots you know. As you do, you rub your clit with the fingers of your other hand, sending hot sparks of pleasure throughout your whole body. You wish you could take off your shirt and bra so you could touch yourself all over, but you want this to be a punishment for Brahms, not a reward.
Your eyes roll back as your orgasm starts to slowly mount up inside of you. You gasp, fucking yourself on your fingers, the whole feeling enhanced by the miserable noises Brahms makes. He's seen you do this in your room, watching you through the holes in the walls. You've always pretended that you don't know he's there, moaning his name and gripping the sheets as your pleasure comes to a crescendo. This time, though, you're right within his grasp, so close, so accessible—yet he can't do a thing if he doesn't want to be punished further. No amount of nights without dinner or taking his toys away will ever be worse than this for him.
When you come, it's a slow wave rolling through you. You catch its crest, riding it through and tossing your head while you moan. He watches you, and if he makes a noise, you can't hear it through the roar of your own blood in your ears.
And when you finally come down from that height, you see him practically folded in on himself, yanking hard on his sweater's loose threads, his erection prominent and already leaking through the thin fabric of his sweatpants.
Catching your breath, you maneuver yourself into a good position, allowing enough time for the oversensitivity to pass before you clear your throat to get his attention.
"Brahms," you say, proud that your voice doesn't tremble in post-orgasm bliss. "Can you be a good boy?"
He nods rapidly, not even looking at you anymore. "Yes, yes, yesyesyes," he whispers, rocking back and forth on his knees. "Please. I can be so good."
You lean back, the creak of the chair making him finally look back up at you. You gesture to your cunt, rubbing it again with your hand so he knows what you want him to do.
Brahms has taken off his mask for you many times now, but the thrill of the sight hasn't waned yet. You're beyond worrying over the burn marks and scars, and you're certainly not appalled by them. On the contrary, if he were less eccentric and strange, people would probably find him charming, handsome even. Still, you smile at the sight of him removing it, setting it carefully on the rug far away from him to reduce the risk of shattering it.
Lust is writ all over his face, cheeks burning dark with it. His bottom lip is swollen from where he's clearly been biting down. But he looks at you so worshipfully, adoration heavy with need.
And he wastes no time finding his place between your legs. He's practiced at this now, the act of eating you out. His tongue finds sensitive places, ones that still ache beautifully from your last orgasm. He is relentless, of course, practically devouring you as you moan and grasp his hair with your free hand (the one not locked like a vise on the arm of the chair), pulling him closer.
"Yes, oh my god, Brahms. Yes, like that," you gasp, shivering as he fucks you with his tongue, fingers joining up to rub your clit at the same time.
The praise thrills him, especially after what was apparently a brutal punishment. He redoubles his efforts, pushing his face so close to your sex that you're sure he can't breathe. The wet sounds of his mouth on you drive you half mad.
"Ohhh, oh, fuck." You shudder at the assault of sensations he's heaping onto you, and all you can think to ask for is more. "Yes, yes, you're such a good boy, Brahms. So good."
He's voracious, and his free hand keeps your hips still so you can't get away. Pleasure rockets through your entire body, and this orgasm isn't slow. It's lightning captured on your spine, shocking its way down every single nerve until you're alive with it, screaming Brahms' name as he pushes you over the edge and further. You come on his face, and you feel him trace his tongue up your slit as he gathers up your spend in his mouth.
He doesn't let you come down gently. That's never how Brahms does things. He pushes you far beyond the brink, until you cry out and weakly shove his head away from your dripping cunt.
Everything appears blurry, your eyes watery from the overstimulation. But you see the shine on Brahms' mouth, the way it drips down his chin, and the look on his face, like you're a meal laid out for him.
He waits, body tense, hands resting on your knees, fingers starting to dig into your skin.
Waiting for permission.
You shiver again, then you reach out and stroke his hair. "Good boy, Brahms," you say softly, fingers trailing down to the burnt skin of his cheek. "You did so good."
He leans his cheek against your skin, yet his eyes remain so fixed on you that it makes your nerves tingle appreciatively.
"You deserve a reward," you say. "What would you like?"
He stands up, reaching out to grasp your arm and tugging you to your feet, even though your knees threaten to give out. Wordlessly, he maneuvers you toward the large desk, covered in fine, old things that would be very expensive to replace if broken. He's not gentle when he shoves you face-down on the desk, bending you over and pushing your skirt up high so you're completely exposed to him. Then he leans over you.
"I want to fuck you so hard," he growls. "I want you to scream."
This is the Brahms you love. Not the child-voiced, petulant brat you're often faced with. This one—the man, all hormonal and hungry for you.
"Yes," you breathe out, already trying to claw for a place to grip onto, knowing he's not going to let up once he starts. "Yes. God, fucking do it."
That's all the encouragement he needs.
You only just hear the soft rustle of fabric before he's pressed into you, your slick making it easy for him to push deep inside. Not in increments, not slowly. All the way in as quick as he can. You gasp at the sensation, the white-hot prickle of pleasure and pain from the rapid entrance causing you to shudder.
Brahms starts off at a punishing pace, leading you to feel like you were the naughty child here, tempting him like you were. When you first started having sex with him, he didn't last long, deprived of touch like he was. Since then, he's worked up to a respectable stamina, his thrusts deep and powerful, knowing how you want it, how you like it.
The study is soon full of the sounds of his skin slapping into yours, his grunts, your moans and whimpers. Before long, you've shoved most of the papers off the desk, half-crawling across it just to hang on while he rams into you. He moans your name over and over, enough for you to know he's not angry at you so much as that he wants you. He always does, insatiable as he is.
Your praises and encouragements turn to gibberish, the pleasure too much for your brain to work through with any semblance of sense. It doesn't matter. He knows you want him like this, and all that praise is just fuel to a forest fire.
And you do scream, just like he wants. You scream his name, then wail when he fucks you at just the right angle. You don't have it in you to be embarrassed at what you look at sound like, practically in shambles beneath him as he fucks you like an animal. You know you tense up around him when you're about to come, but it's such a blur of pleasure that the only way you really know is when his voice cuts through the haze in your head.
"Yes, come for me," he growls.
God, do you ever.
Your cunt clenches on him and you truly scream. Everything beyond him, beyond the desk, beyond the study—none of it exists now. Your mind seems to short out, caught in a feedback loop of Brahms, Brahms, Brahms as he fucks you through it.
When he finally comes with a snarl, you're boneless beneath him. You weakly moan when he releases inside you, his seed hot against your overtaxed flesh. He pulls out, his spend dripping down your legs, onto the carpet that is also a bitch to clean. But honestly, you really don't care.
You don't know how long it actually takes for you to catch your breath again, to remember how to be a whole human. Then, you feel his hand on your back, stroking up and down your spine in a way that only comes across the ticker tape of your brain as lovingly.
"Good girl," you hear him say teasingly.
You grin against the desk, and don't give much of a fight when he gently scoops you up into an embrace. You turn your face into his neck, letting out a sigh when he kisses you. Then, you feel his fingers trace over the sensitive skin of your neck before finding the clasp of your necklace.
Click.
And it's gone, disappearing into his sweater pocket as he grins.
Insatiable, your Brahms is. And you can't help but kiss him again.
simon ghost riley x f!reader (reader!helen)
wordcount: 5.3k (i have zero self-control)
summary: he never wanted to get married. he’s not sure when you became the exception. an: mention of loss, blood. smut. emotions. angst. fluff (usual jo-shit)
simon ghost riley masterlist
++
He never wanted to get married.
Marriage meant paperwork. Paperwork meant leads. Leads led to death.
Not just for him, but for the poor soul he’d chain to him. The one who he’d rather not have than know their life was ended because of him. Because he’s supposed to be dead.
He’s not sure when you became the exception.
Unsure when you buried yourself so deep into his veins he needs you more than blood, oxygen and bullets.
++
Shit hit the fan.
Some missions were worse than others. Some leave more than scars and nightmares.
Today was bad. Even he knew that.
Alpha 0-3 lay on the floor, unconscious proof of it.
Half the soldiers they’d gone with—dead, KIA.
His jaw is tight, almost cracking as he stares at Johnny—unsure how they’ve walked away from it. How they’re both here, surrounded by silence as the few who have survived try to process.
He almost says something, spits it out. But then he hears it—your orders.
They’re piercing and direct. Coming over the radio as the blades overhead slow, guiding them down to the ground. He feels it—the itch to get to you. To bury his hands in your hair and pull your face to him.
Ghost makes do with meeting your eyes when the rear opens, your eyes scanning him, the briefest mist of relief over your lips, cheeks and eyes before you nod.
“Later?”
Later.
He responds in the same silence, puncturing it with a nod.
The two of you had your own spoken language—something he’d mastered quicker than he had any other language. But then, speaking Helen had more pros than cons. More benefits than listening to enemies talk shit about him and his mask.
All he could do was watch as you followed the carried body.
Unsure what version of you he’d find later—what fragments of you he’d have to scoop up. If there would even be pieces left where they were supposed to be.
Secretly, and selfishly, he just hopes the pieces of him match with the pieces of you. Praying they slot together until the two of you can both return to some semblance of a whole.
It’s then he has to remind himself it’s a luxury having you. War takes so much—the darkness takes so much more.
It’s a reward to pull you close to him after a shit show like this; it’ll be a gift to feel your breath on his chest. Even more so for your fingers to draw those bloody shapes on his side—dancing over healed scars and your needle stitching.
“C’mon, Johnny,” he snaps, filling the air with something other than failings, disappointment and held breath. “Briefing. Now.”
+
You crumble.
Lost it. Lost them.
Losing is part of the war, part of the battle. But, it doesn’t sting any less, doesn’t make it easier to swallow.
Call it.
But—
I said call it.
Your gloved hands clenching and unclenching. Desperately clinging, digging your toes into your boots as you try to not unravel. You could do it alone. When they’d left. When the room was emptied and there was only you and your failure on the table.
They moved to leave. Quickly. Announcing they’d check the others—the ones who had wounds but still had air in their lungs. Your eyes blinking, the machines turning off, their boots squeaking before the door to the theatre squeals.
That’s when you look at their backs, firing a quick, but soft thank you. Something those above you didn’t do when you were in their position—when you were them, head hung down, feeling the weight of another loss.
Both of them meet your eyes, and you reward them with a smile, one which tells them it’s not on them—a smile which says you can’t win them all. Something you don’t believe, have never believed but can understand why it’s a comfort.
They nod, and they leave.
Not knowing you’re ticking, that you’re a bomb. Emotions bubbling, fizzing and hissing. Time ticks as you wait. For what you’re unsure.
Silence? The moment to snap?
It would have needed a miracle. The damage was extensive—you knew that, you’d already calculated it before you’d begun. A life, was a life. A person had people.
You stare at the corpse—the one which had a beating heart minutes ago, the one which had the slimmest chance, but a chance all the same.
You could feel it crushing you. The weight of loss. The failure pecking at your bones—good soldiers lost. Gone.
Because your fucking hands weren’t quick enough.
++
You’re not in your office.
Not in the infirmary or the utility cupboard you often hide in.
The one he’s somehow crammed himself into when you’ve needed a minute—hands grasping at his belt buckle.
He’d counted the bodies hooked up to machines.
Realised quickly, but not quickly enough. The soles of his feet hammer down, and it dawns on him how shit shit was.
He’d felt the thrum in his chest earlier. The knot of something undoing—his gut telling, screaming and kicking that something was wrong. Now he knows what.
Because he knows you. It’s why he cuts down corridors and passes soldiers who almost flatten themselves to the wall as he passes.
Doing so until he finds you, and finds you he does.
If someone told him he grasped his chest at the sight of you, he’d have crushed their windpipe with his palm. But, as he stepped through his open door, spotting you pressed into the corner of his room, he unclenches his hand from his jacket.
You’ve been broken. A shattered raft out at sea, lost and delirious in grief.
But this is worse.
His foot closes the door, waiting for a reaction—finding none. Nothing. Not an arch of your brow, not a snort.
Your knees remain bent, elbows hanging over them. There’s a distant, empty look in your eyes. Both of them almost glazed over, like the light in them has been snuffed out.
Exactly how Johnny had described them to him when he’d come looking for him, having passed you…
But, it’s that plus the fact your bloody apron is still on, your blue gloves crumbled before you—boots removed, white sock-covered feet flat on his floor.
The only way he can even tell you’re alive and awake is from the slow rise and fall of your chest—the occasional blink here and there.
He knows how often you’ve taken care of him. You’ve stitched him. Stapled him.
You’ve listened and you’ve sat as he had shouted.
Most of all, you have looked for him—found him. You’ve saved him from falling into a hole. Even going as far as to find him behind the mess, cold ebbing at him as your fingers snake under his mask—not to remove it, but to touch the back of his neck.
I’ve got you. Ghost, I have you.
Simon.
Simon, I’ve got you. I’ll always have you.
Your eyes staring into his, saying those words over and over until he can blink a little easier—he can move your hand under the mask to his lips so he can kiss them.
And he knows it’s his turn now.
He crouches, sliding a glove from his hand, brushing his finger over your cheek, watching your eyes flicker—registering him, acknowledging.
“Helen.”
Your lips twitch.
The name usually does that. The one he uses more than your own. At this point, he’s unsure if you truly hate it or just hate that you love it. He prefers it, personally. Not because he dislikes your name, but because he’s the only one who calls you this. The only one who gets that glint in your eye, that twitch of your lips.
His fingers trace down your cheek, running to clutch your chin. You’re cold, so impossibly cold, watching your teeth nip at your lip, watching for the tremble, the quiver he knows is due to come. Not taking his eyes from you as they stare back at him, all sunken and sad, but still somehow more beautiful than any fucking sunrise he’s ever seen.
He whispers your name—your real name, stroking the skin under your chin as he feels you swallow against his little finger.
“Y’know why Price likes you?”
He wraps his other hand around your arm, feeling you move with him—allowing him to lift you to your feet. Your plastic apron is crinkling, feet shuffling until he can lift you with ease.
“Cause I’m cheap for saying I’m good with a scalpel and a PC?”
Ghost shakes his head, wanting to chastise you—but he assumes you’re doing that enough to yourself for the two of them.
Instead, he forces his fingers to lift your chin. “Because you give a shit, Helen.”
“I don’t want to.”
“I know.”
Your hands gently clutching his mask-covered cheeks, staring into his eyes as you silently stare. Not saying anything with your lips, but plenty with your eyes.
“What do you want, hmm?”
You. I want you.
His hands take your wrists, holding you, not letting go.
“I don’t want to think. Just… make me forget, help me not give a shit, Simon.”
And he knows what you need, what you’re too afraid to ask for. Fuck me like a whore, Ghost. Fuck me until I'm whimpering and begging cause I can't take anymore.
You have said those words once. Albeit drunk, confidence propped up with vodka and fruit juice. But, if you had that same confidence now, he imagines it’s what you’d ask for. And who is he to say no? How could he?
You’ve looked up at him from your place between his thighs, knees on stone and dirt as your hand wrapped around the base of him. Let your tongue swirl over his tip, tasting him, hollowing your cheek, sucking, teeth grazing down his shaft when he needed it the most. When he needed something so similar.
Some drink to forget the bad days.
The two of you fuck until your raw, till you’re both full of something other than regret and sadness.
He’s aware he shouldn’t, not this time.
Ghost should hold your cheeks, stare into those pretty eyes he’d happily burn the world for, and take you for a shower, washing the day from your skin and bones. Because you’re crumbling, the parts of your confidence withering—hoping and needing to feel good, to be good.
And he can prove that to you without fucking you senseless. He can name an infinite amount of fucking things that prove you’re good, that you’re kind, and that you can do what you can do.
Because you’re you.
You've wormed your way inside of him, flooded the darkest parts of him with light and made a slither of him think he deserved you.
Your hand presses to his chest, cold and timidly. All of sudden so aware of how delicate and thin your fingers are, how small and delicate it is next to his scarred, worn skin.
“Please, Simon.”
And he hooks his fingers into the elastic of your scrubs at the whisper of his name—feeling you hold his shoulders as you kick them into some distant corner.
You silently thank him when he rips the disposable apron, balling it before tossing it. Letting your fingers, those soft, slightly calloused, healing fingers slide under his top—run over his skin, over the places you’ve stitched.
He doesn’t move, even if he wants to. Letting you brush over the hair on his stomach, run your nails over the lines of his muscles. Letting you read him as if his scars are Braille, allowing yourself the reminder of the times you’ve saved and healed.
And then he pulls your chin up.
++
“‘You sure you want this?”
Ghost is rarely gentle, but Simon sometimes is.
The man you have in front of you is some hybrid of the two—masked up, but with the eyes of Simon. All blue, like the ocean, willing to drag you down.
Sometimes they’re like the water you’d expect to be licking a sandy beach, and sometimes they’re so dark you’d fear what breathed under the watery depths.
Sometimes, it’s hard to breathe when he looks at you. When his eyes—all swirls of blue surrounded by charcoal black—curl into you. He’s big, broad and tall, and so much more than you could have ever known you’d have.
He makes heat pool between your legs with one look, and makes you feel safe by just being close. Even if he doesn’t see it—doesn’t fathom it at all—you’d throw away all your values and beliefs of saving people, and rip them apart with your hands to get to him.
You feel his thumb flutter over your scar, the one on your hip from a bullet meant for him. He hates it, and yet always strokes it. A memory forever embedded into your skin he can’t help but press play on, even if he knows how it ends.
You shouldn’ have done that, Helen.
I’d do it again.
Stupid, woman. You’re a fuckin’ idiot.
Only for you, Ghost. Only for you.
Your hands move to his belt, undoing it—the clang of metal piercing the air.
“Helen?”
You look at him, meet him in those beautiful blue eyes. Don’t ask me to talk, Simon. Your lungs are tightening, aching, as if each emotion you’re holding in is made from molten ash.
You crack his belt like a whip with the speed of releasing it from his hooks, eyes holding his more firmly, blinking away the weakness—the emotions, the fucking audacity of the day.
“Be my reason,” you say.
To breathe. To keep fighting. To get up.
++
For his sins, he’s gentle.
Both in the way he lays your naked frame on his bed and the way he runs his fingers over the inside of your thigh.
He wants to devour you, plunge his tongue into your cunt and taste everything you’ll give him. He almost does—instead he breathes over you, watching your hips try to wiggle, his other hand holding you in place.
He lifts his head, watching, earning the sights he’s about to behold as he eases two fingers inside of you. You’re wet, warm—but it’s the way your lips fall that makes his hip roll against his mattress.
With each movement, he watches for your reaction. Like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen, and you are.
You whimper. You moan. Your eyelashes flutter, and your mouth falls open. And it’s all for him.
With each rise of your chest, breath hitches, and he runs his mask down your abdomen. Feeling how slick you are against his fingers, how you whimper, both pleading and breathless. Even through the mask, he can smell your arousal, how you want him to take you apart—practically taste it all in the air.
He curls his fingers, watching as your hand grasps his forearm. More, Simon. More. Your other knotting his sheets in between your fingers, a root, something to grip until space, time and life crashes into you and makes your throat sore as you moan his name around his room.
He wants it too. He wants to earn his name, coax it from your beautiful pink, swollen lips and wear it with pride.
But, Ghost also wants something else.
Normally, he’d give you everything you want, and more. From the feral look in your eye, you want to be turned away from him, for him to be rough—and normally, fuck he’d want that too.
He’d want to split you apart, know that you’ll be thinking—feeling—him for the next fucking three days.
He admittedly also likes the sight.
Something about getting to see your arse while holding your tits, and having the ability to suck red and purple welts on your neck. The best, though, is when you try to wiggle to see him—catch sight of him. Your eyes pressed into the corner of your sockets, hands gripping nothing as he takes you apart with his cock.
Ghost likes fucking you like that—likes fucking you when you have nowhere to go. Pinning you. Locking you in place.
Not that you ever want to go, he knows you don’t.
You’re so fucking big, Simon.
You clench around him like you never want him to stop filling you. A vice on him that he never wants to rid of either.
Because Helen likes to be pinned, to be smothered by his body. You like him looming over you, dwarfing you; like him lifting you and fucking you against walls, doors and even fucking windows.
He suspects it’s because you like to surrender control, like for it to be taken from her. So used to being in control, needing to be, and people depending on it. to be taken away from her.
Your thighs quiver, soft protests as he slides another finger inside of you. Stretching you.
“Fuck… Simon, fuck.”
“I know, sweetheart, I know.”
He doesn’t lessen, listening to each whimper and moan, lifting his mask so he can kiss your skin—teeth grazing as he curls his fingers, thumb swiping over your swollen clit as your hips try to cant against his hand.
The sensation of your fingers in his hair, makes him groan as he captures your lips. All teeth, tongue and messy, both pushing your legs wider and pulling your hips to him all in one movement.
Needy. Desperate. Hungry.
And then you're clenching, hips tensing before a hand grips his mask—and then you come, hips spasming, thighs shaking.
++
Often, you let him leave the mask on—partly.
You like to kiss him, like to bury your moans against his mouth. You’ve seen him, know him. You know the shape of his cheekbones and the silver scars.
“Your eyes are enough for me. Never take them from me.”
“Never.”
He's being a tease.
Sliding inch by inch of himself into you. His tongue in your mouth, your focus on the fiery stretch he provides as he buried himself to the hilt.
He rears his hips back until he fills you all over again, faster, sharper, more purposeful. And it’s sinful. It’s fucking bliss and a high you don’t even deserve. Not as you begin to meet his thrusts with a squeeze, a clench. Hearing his hiss, watching him place his mask-covered forehead against yours.
Because he’s deep. So fucking deep.
Sheathed inside of you at an angle you’ve not known before. Almost unsure what your body has had to adjust to accommodate him. Not that you care, you never fucking care.
You want him to claim you, mould himself inside of you. Because the sting passes, the size of him is something you never prepare for. Your nails are in the back of his hair, your lips almost meeting him as he ruts into you. Your eyes gazing down, watching where the two of you meet, and you’re not sure you’ll ever tire of it—of him.
You imagine each muscle of his, tightening and flexing—especially as he rocks into you at alternating speeds, your eyelashes fluttering, feeling beads of sweat build at your brow.
He’s everything.
He’s fucking fire and ice, both dusk and dawn and everything in between. Your eyes blink open, seeing his own truth—seeing it as he grunts and his hand tightens on your hip as he seats himself deeply into you.
The words are like licks of fire up your spine, mixing and blending with searing pleasure.
I love you. I love you.
You know.
Fuck you know.
Your lips crash and swallow the words he hasn’t yet said. Feeling him shake, as your toes curl, red-hot pleasure desperate to smother every inch of you and spread along every single nerve.
His hips losing their rhythm, hammering the head of his cock against that spot which makes the sound of him filling you so damn deplorable.
You whine for him.
Biting down on his lip as it slams into you, snapping you, tears spilling down your eyes as his name storms past your lips as he holds you in place.
Fucking you through it.
Holding you, pinning you—until he fills you, his hips shuddering, fingers bruising until they slowly unclench from your hip.
++
If someone cracked his head open, they’d see that one of his favourite things is holding you.
He won’t admit it.
Not even under the worst of tortures.
But it is. It’s simple. Homely. Something he knows he doesn’t fucking deserve, and yet, has all the same.
“You wanna talk?”
“No.”
You’re quick. The short, sharp no filling the small space between his face and yours. Mask gone, the lamp on his desk smothering the room in soft light.
But he knows you do want to talk. So he gives it a minute.
He lets his fingers draw shapes on your ribs, waiting, letting you settle against him, hearing your mind begin to turn and churn.
And then you talk, as he suspects you will.
Because he knows it’s what you need. Even if you beg him to fuck you into his mattress, even if you tell him to fuck off, you need to talk. The thoughts building otherwise, stealing your confidence, your belief, your fucking hope.
He needs silence, and sometimes needs to be alone. Sometimes, he needs both.
You need to be touched, to be rooted, and to talk it out. Let the thoughts run from your tongue and meet the air—even if you repeat yourself, even if the same thought comes up time and time again. He will just listen.
You’re rambling, talking about the clinical-ness before you move into how there was nothing you could do. So much blood. Too many bullets. You’re good. Not that good. You lost one, and then the other.
On another day it can be more, your hands not good enough today, but will they be tomorrow?
“Simon…”
He doesn’t breathe. Feeling, watching your eyes lift up from your place on his chest, scorching into his. “…They didn’t have a person, Simon. Not one. No Ghost. No Helen. Not this… Not that we’re each other's person. Not like how I mean.”
“How do y’mean?”
Your eyes tilt down, and he wonders if you can hear his pulse.
“I have no one to alert that they’re dead. Not a wife. Not a husband. No children. A parent, yes. But… not a person. They died without…”
You lift up, his fingers falling to your chin, feeling your lip quiver. Tears in your eyes, making them shimmer—a single tear hanging from your lash, dangling, waiting to drop.
“It’ll be the same when I die… no one to legally inform. No one to...”
Then it drops. The tear.
Falling and cascading down your cheek before it lands on his chest. It bleeds out, mixing with the dried sweat and forgotten kisses you’d left before.
And then, like all downpours, more follow suit. Dancing down your skin, too many for him to catch even if he tries.
He’s ashamed it takes him a minute.
Wondering what the hell you even mean until he realises—no one knows. Not officially. Not even fucking unofficially. A secret, one which flickers inside of him and inside of you. Something shared in quick looks and private moments, but never where else.
You shake your head, lifting up from your position on his chest, wiping your cheeks as you try to put on a smile. “I’m… ignore me. Just being daft.”
You’re not.
But he doesn’t say that.
He says nothing, eyes falling to his vest in the corner before landing back on you, watching you shimmy and shift to the end of his bed.
“I should shower,” you mumble, hand brushing hair from your face as you stand.
His hand wants to lift, to take your wrist and pull you back to him—to kiss you, to tell you so many things. But his throat goes dry, silence filling the space his voice should be.
++
It’s odd, what the two of you have.
Far more than a situation, and way more than convenience.
It’s trouble, difficult—often the hardest thing you could have chosen to do, and you stitch wounded soldiers for a living.
But it makes sense.
He didn’t seduce you. Wasn’t the best out of a bad situation.
He was dry and dark humour and had beautiful fucking eyes that you’d suspected were meant to strike some fear in you, but you’d weathered worse storms than him. You’d first kissed him because you had to—a niggling feeling inside of you that had to know if his lips were soft or whether they just looked it. You’d kissed him again because he stopped you from thinking, from crumbling.
Simon made you feel like you were falling, happily.
His hand taps on your door, clicking your pen as you look up at him. He’s all casual, a sight to fucking behold. Dark grey joggers and a long-sleeve tee—and from the look in his eyes he’s on his way to training which only sparks more sinful thoughts in your hectic mind.
Initially, way back when, it had been about sex.
About providing to yourself you could take him, having felt him, having felt how heavy, thick and long he fucking was. Then, it wasn’t.
Now it’s something big—bigger than his cock. It’s feelings and need, it’s desperation and imissyous wrapped in something you’re not sure you can live without. Now it’s about everything else, it’s about the small things and the fact you can feel yourself wanting to smile just because he’s here.
“Lieutenant, what a surprise! How can I help you?”
You wonder how often he smiles behind the mask.
His reputation of being cold, difficult and sometimes an arsehole—depending on who you ask—is widely known. But you know a different person. One who washes your hair when you’re too tired to stand, one who brings you the milkiest tea on cold mornings, ‘Because you’re fuckin’ bitch without a tea in y’, Helen.”
It still surprises you when he holds it up. It shimmers, sparkles and gleams between a bare thumb and his index finger.
“For this situation, I think you should be callin’ me Simon.”
You narrow your eyes, even if your heart is already pounding. Panic. Dread. Your mind racing, unsure what you’ve done—half-worrying if you’d lost one, even if you never wear jewellery. Not here. Not on base. Suddenly questioning whether you’d drunkenly told Soap to buy you something again, a dare gone wrong.
You hum.
Hiding as best as you can that you’re lost, and confused.
“Are you going to call me by my name?”
“No.”
Snorting, you fold your arms. “Didn’t think so. You going to explain why you’re holding a ring?”
“I think you know.”
“Humour me.”
Because my brain is running away from me.
He’s not romantic in terms of red roses and sweeping you off your feet. He’s romantic in ways like tapping your arm twice, letting you know he’s missed you. Letting his eyes land on you across briefing rooms, nodding—you got this, Helen. You can do this.
Ghost is sweet in ways others don’t see. His hand on your lower back when he can tell you want to leave somewhere, a silent offering to walk you back; bringing you a thicker pair of socks when snow is landing on the sill of your office, knowing you hate being cold.
So, this… him standing holding a ring, could mean many things.
“C’mon, Helen.”
You pull a face, shrugging.
“Be my person.”
Your brows furrow, eyes frowning.
Your mind explodes with a sea of things, darting, trying to remember, thinking of that exact phrasing. It takes a second, and then…
His eyes have that shimmer, that fucking obnoxious twinkle. Likely having watched you come to the same realisation—letting you take your time, proudly standing in your smile and glittering eyes.
“You want me… to be your person, person?”
“Be the one they tell. Yeah.”
It would be easy to get ahead of yourself.
It could be a formality, something small. A gesture but not the actual question.
“I know you liked what I did with my tongue last night, but I didn’t know I was that good at giving head—“
“Helen.”
It comes out warningly.
It makes your lips clamp shut, looking down before meeting his gaze—his fiery, intense fucking stare.
“Look, I know I was upset, but you didn’t need to go steal a ring for me.”
“I didn’t steal it. I had it made.”
“What?”
He shrugs.
He fucking shrugs.
“When?”
It comes out high-pitched. The tone surprises you. So much so, you clear your throat. Repeating it, in a more normal and appropriate volume as you stand, gesturing to close the door behind him as you look at him.
“Does it matter?”
“I think it fucking does.”
“Last time I went home, home.”
You glare.
Wishing you could see his smirk, already imagining it there all the same.
Your fingers take it from him, looking over it as you admire it, feeling how warm it is. He’s been holding it, likely pressed into his palm on the walk over here. Your fingers turn it, feeling the ridges of it.
Mostly, you’re trying to recall when he went home.
The last time, you two had both been released home at the same time. Having half-joked that you’d combust without his cock, that he’d have to visit you, come ruin the countryside with you—only for him to offer to come with you. Come home. See your place—ensure you didn’t die from lack of being fucked senseless.
Your fingers won’t do shit, Helen. Not now, anyway.
You’re a cocky shit, Riley.
And you’re a whore for my cock.
His hands are buried in his jogger's pockets, questioningly staring at him as you hold it. This little thing, that means something big.
“It’s made from a bullet. One you took out of me.”
Your lips part.
“Not sure if you remember? You told me to keep it as a reminder of what good hands feel like.”
“I remember…” you lick your lips, unable to stifle the way your heart hammers into your ribs—pretty sure he can hear it, the entire base for that fact. “I also remember you showing me how good yours were.”
“Enough.”
You silently apologise, looking at it again before meeting his eyes. “You’ve really had this the whole time?”
“In my vest.”
He says it so plainly like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
As if your mouth shouldn’t be falling open in surprise again, that you shouldn’t be staring up at him in the way you are.
“I don’t know why you’re so surprised. It’s you and me, Helen. Sometimes we’re the only thing that makes any fuckin’ sense.”
“You know what giving me this means, right?”
He nods—fucking formally at that.
“Ghost—“
“Simon.”
You smile, lips tight. “Simon. Does this mean what I think it means?”
“If you think it means that it needs to go on your finger on your left hand, then yes.”
He’s looking at you, pleadingly.
“I think you should ask.”
“I just fuckin’ did!”
You laugh, watching his large chest rise and fall in annoyance.
“Fuckin’ hell, you’re a pain in my arse—“
You say your name.
Sharp, but sweet. Watching the parts of the mask around his nose flex in and out as he snarls and sighs.
“Simon… out there, I’m Helen, I know. But, here… holding this, I think you should say my name too,” you whisper, more fragile, quieter than he’s likely known you to be for a while.
And then he nods.
Taking the ring from your palm, sliding it over your fingernail, on that hand, on that finger—hovering it close to the knuckle.
And he asks—using your name. Will you be my person?
Summary: Being partnered with Ghost was never easy. However, when you find him bleeding out on the kitchen floor and delirious from blood loss, you make a discovery. The L.T loves to talk.
Requested by Anon:
#57 You're shaking.
A/N: Some Sunshine to feed you while I work on Anything III.
Category: Mutual Pining
Warnings: Description of injury || Graphic language
You weren't a medic by any means.
There was the combat first aid course that you were all forced to do during basic training, but that had been a century ago. You'd handled your own injuries when an enemy sniper would get a lucky shot. Again, there's not much to do there other than put some pressure on it.
Otherwise, you were fairly inexperienced when it came to handling injured team members. There were shortfalls to being a sniper, hand-to-hand combat wasn't as relevant and having to provide first aid was rare.
You call them shortfalls because now, in a situation where those skills are required, you're fucking struggling.
You'd opened the door to the safe house with a sigh, frowning when you couldn't see Ghost through the windows. You'd assumed he'd be waiting for you to arrive from your nest but clearly, he didn't give enough of a fuck to wait around.
You could have died en route and he'd be sleeping.
For some reason, the thought hurt.
You could think of a million things that he probably thought more important than you; staring at a wall being high on the list. What you hadn’t expected, was to find him collapsed on the kitchen floor.
“Ghost,” you rasped, choking on his name. His eyes flickered open at the sound of your voice, the relief palpable in his gaze. He groaned and let his head fall back against the wall with a strangled noise. You were frozen. You’d never seen him injured and honestly, you thought that you never would.
You’d even told Soap that Ghost was probably just a bootleg Robo-Cop beneath the mask.
But, the blood soaking through his uniform said otherwise.
“You gonna give me hand or not?” His voice was low and rough. It had no edge, though. There was no bite behind his words like there usually was and it scared you. The man hated your guts and if he was too injured to convey that then he was definitely dying.
“Oh God,” you breathed, leaning your rifle against the wall slowly. Your eyes never left his crumpled form and his eyes never left your face. “Oh God.”
You slid to your knees, rushing to his side with frantic curses. You couldn’t see the extent of the wound from beneath his armour and he clearly didn’t have enough strength to take it off himself.
“Stab wound,” Ghost offered the cause of injury through gritted teeth. “Got me good.”
“This shit needs to come off,” you tugged at his armour, reaching for the quick-release cord. The man groaned but he didn’t object. One hard tug of the plastic ligature had the vest falling apart at every seam, the line now loose in your hand.
“Fuck,” the man gave a startled chuckle, taking a large breath with his chest free from pressure. “Feel better already.”
You didn’t reply, eyes narrowed on the wound beneath his ribs. You pulled up his shirt, tucking it beneath his arms as you scanned over the injury. It was clean cut, a clear entry wound that was steadily leaking a shit tonne of blood.
No sounds of air sucking in through the jagged flesh and you thanked whoever was listening that it wasn’t a punctured lung. You didn’t have any seals on you and you didn’t want to slap him with some duct tape instead. He’d never let you live that down.
“How’s it lookin’, Sunshine?” Ghost asked, breathing heavily.
“Unfortunately,” you began, pressing the cotton padding from your kit against the wound, “if you apply pressure, you’ll live.”
“Unfortunately?” He coughed, the sound strained and you could tell he immediately regretted the movement.
“Very fucking unfortunate,” you confirmed with faux seriousness.
You stuck a gauze pad to the wound once you had finished packing it, reaching into your med pouch for a bandage. You’d wrap it around his midriff to keep pressure on the wound, you decided.
“A ray of Sunshine you are, as per fuckin’ usual.”
You clenched your jaw, reminding yourself that he was injured and that you couldn’t stick a finger knuckle-deep in his wound as retaliation. At the very least, he was back to hating you. Meant he wasn’t dying any time soon.
You frowned at the bandage in your hands, desperately trying to remove the plastic wrapping. You couldn’t think straight and your body felt jittery as the adrenline began to settle. You couldn’t believe how vulnerable he was, unable to gather the strength to take off his own body armour.
You hated it.
Why the fuck couldn’t you open this wrapping?
You pulled harder on the plastic, trying to bring your heart rate down. Why were you breathing so hard?
A gloved hand fell over your own.
Your frantic tugging came to an immediate halt and your eyes snapped up to meet his, startled. Ghost's gaze was half lidded but just as intense as always, grazing over your features. Heat flushed through your body at his drunken stare. You knew it was from the blood loss, you knew he could barely see straight, but that kind of look was reserved for someone he was sharing a bed with and you couldn't function at the sight of it.
For a moment he said nothing, blinking slowly- too slowly- as he took in a breath.
"Relax, kid," he murmured eventually. "I'm okay."
You swallowed hard.
His fingers were soft over your own, too weak to apply pressure but curled over your hand just the same.
"I am relaxed." You bit back at him, returning your gaze to the stupid fucking bandage beneath both of your hands. You didn't want him to see how much this affected you, you didn't want him to think you were a cowardly mess.
There was a soft huff as he patted your hand lightly. "You're shaking, Sunshine."
You sucked in a breath.
Your eyes flickered back to meet his, lips trembling at your exposure. He knew. The gentleness in his gaze was otherworldly, so foreign you wondered if it was even Simon Riley beneath the mask. Blood loss was clearly doing a number on him and he was doing a number on you.
“I’m a sniper, Sir.” You coughed, trying to tear yourself from the sudden intimacy of the situation. “I don’t shake.”
Ghost tutted from beneath his mask.
“Haven’t been with the right bloke, then.”
Your jaw dropped.
Ghost blinked at you as though he couldn’t believe what had come out of his mouth, either. Jesus fucking Christ. You suddenly realised why Soap had made fun of Ghost for never drinking when you’d all be at the pub. You remembered asking the Sarge why the masked enigma would always bail after an hour or two and his response was simple.
“The L.T can’t hold his tongue when he’s on the piss.”
You thought that implied aggression.
Clearly not.
“There is no right bloke,” you rasped, slowly pulling the bandage from beneath his hand. The loss of contact left you feeling empty but suddenly you could breathe a little easier.
Your fingers shook violently as you tried for the plastic wrapper again and your gaze flickered to Ghost’s face, praying he hadn’t noticed. You should have known better.
His eyes were on your trembling digits, a soft exhale making it’s way to your ears.
“Looks like I’ve proved you wrong, Sunshine.”
The words were low but there was no heat behind them. It didn’t feel lustful, they were murmured like an afterthought, his mind elsewhere. You wondered where Simon Riley disappeared to in his head when he looked at you.
“You crack a lot of jokes for someone who’s a literal shish kebab,” you snapped, tearing at the plastic wrapping with your teeth. Finally, the bandage came loose.
“And you talk a lot of shit for someone who cares more than they let on.” The words were fired back, demanding your attention.
You stared at him for a long moment, resisting the urge to squirm beneath his dark gaze. You’d never seen that expression on him before, as though he were daring you to disagree. As if he were waiting for you to say something.
“Can’t care too much in this business, Sir.” You choked on the words, unravelling the bandage.
“I believed that once,” he tilted his head.
“And now?” You prodded, leaning over him to wrap the bandage around his midriff. You tried to ignore how close your face was to his, how your fingers trailed against the skin of his stomach. The Lieutenant shivered beneath your touch and you kept your gaze downcast.
Fingers gripped your chin softly and you gasped as he tilted your face upward.
You were half on top of him, nose to nose and his stuttered exhale brushed against your lips. Simon’s eyes were half lidded and this close you could see the blue of his eyes, a stormy ocean that swallowed you whole. You were caught in it’s rip tide, drowning in the reverence of his stare.
“Now,” he murmured, lazily examining our features. His eyes lingered on your parted lips, his thumb slowly swiping your bottom lip. “Could say I’ve had a change of heart.”
Prompt idea….Viktor accidentally walks in on the reader having quickie sex with someone in the lab….👀👀👀…. But he can’t look away…. 👀👀👀……and while she’s with the other person, she accidentally says his name…. 😱
Oh nonny. You wicked thing. If you insist. This one’s for my beloved dirty little degenerate-pervy Viktor truthers. You know who you are @dad-dumpster @valaruakars and… oh yes, dare I say it even my precious sweet darling @arcanescribbles
Viktor POV - NSFW
TW: Voyerism, oral- f receiving, fingering, masturbation, slight angst, embarrassment, even more masturbation, peeping tom? More like peeping Viktor, is that a panty fetish I see? Oh my. MDNI
He realized too late that he should have recognized those sounds; the desperate soft huffing of heavy breath, the slickly wet noises, the stifled moans.
He’d been too wrapped up in his thoughts at first to hear them, or to put two and two together once he did. Too involved in the research and books balanced up to his chin and mug of coffee wobbling precariously by its handle in the hook of his finger as he struggled along through the door at the back of the lab, leaning heavily on the cane tucked up under his armpit.
The hour was late, late enough Viktor was used to being the only one there, and the shock was significant as he surfaced from the distraction of his plans and rounded one of the large prototypes that littered the back of the lab. Struck to a paralytic frozen stillness as he glanced up to find the pretty biochem assistant sat up upon a workbench, her shirt wide open and skirt hiked around her waist, with one of the many nameless tech engineers between the spread of her bare thighs, head buried under the rumpled hem of her skirt and her hand clutching desperately at his dark blonde hair.
Breath froze in his lungs and blood ran cold as ice in spite of the fire-hot flush he could feel flooding his face from the collar of his shirt right up to his ears. Face burning, heart a clenched stone, all he could do was stand there, staring as the tech lifted his head and rose, clearly aiming for a kiss that missed its landing as the assistant’s head turned away and his mouth instead made due with mauling biting kisses along her throat as he pulled one cup of her bra down to pinch and tug at the pretty tautness of a nipple until she was keening and writhing in her seat.
“Dirty thing. Like it rough, hm? Little priss.” The tech chastised as his hand closed over her upper arm and yanked the assistant off her seat upon the workbench only to bend her roughly over the desk immediately across from them.
Viktor reeled backward, ducking behind the prototype. The books and coffee in his arms jostled and he frantically juggled them and his cane. He ought to leave, ought to hurry back the way he’d come and immediately find somewhere else to be. Forget what he’d accidentally seen and leave the two lovers in peace. Seconds away from dropping everything and being found out, he managed to deposit the pile of books and the coffee on a small table, nearly knocking over an open tool kit. He grabbed at it frantically before its contents could rattle and in a hot panic watched a ratchet handle go rolling toward the edge.
He snagged it mid-air and let out a silent sigh of relief.
Behind him the moans had picked up volume again. Wanton little noises tugging insistently at his attention until, in spite of himself, he’d set the ratchet down and was peeking out from around the edge of the prototype.
She was bent forward over the desk, facing his hiding spot, and for a second he nearly jerked backward, sure she’d spot him. But her eyes were closed, prettily flushed face upturned and mouth hungrily agape as she rocked against the desk, resting upon her forearms as the tech behind her busily - and from the sounds of it - viciously fucked her with his fingers, grinning down at her bare bottom. His hand clenched the back of her skirt up as his other busied itself between the cleft of her sweet bottom and part of thighs, the slapping wet noises positively obscene.
It was filthy, gorgeous, exhilarating and mortifying.
The soft curve of her bare breast wobbled gently, that succulent flushed nipple practically dragging across the desktop as she arched her back into the attentions. Eyebrows knit hard over eyes shut tight, lips glossed and opened enticingly into a lovely little ‘O’ of want. She was so pretty, so undone. That prim little assistant Viktor could never bring himself to start a conversation with, whom he’d watched with vague little stabs of jealousy as she easily conversed with Jayce or anyone else. Her little tight smiles and witty asides, her keenly intelligent observations and the way her hair was constantly in a state of coming undone or falling out place in soft tendrils.
It was fully undone now, as beautiful a mess as its owner.
The tightness in his groin was unbearable, tent pressed hard against the front of trousers as he watched in strangled silence as that lovely girl began to tremble, her fingers curling into fists upon the desk, nails scraping against the smooth, cold metal tabletop as she gasped and bucked. Viktor found his own hand pressing to the aching constriction of his clothed cock.
Much like watching, the pressure felt both sickeningly painful and dizzyingly good. He allowed himself one slow, palming stroke and practically had to stifle his own quiet moan. And then…
“Ahhhnn! Y-yes, mmn… Viktor!”
The world screeched to a halt. Suddenly you could hear a pin drop in the spacious, open lab.
“...What did you just say?”
The tech’s question was coldly accusatory, and Viktor, who’d jerked himself wide-eyed back behind the bulwark safety of his hiding spot, thinking wildly that he’d been spotted at the sound of his name, found himself once again torn between fleeing the scene and the fact that he couldn’t seem to make his feet move. She’d… she said his name. But she hadn’t seen him, she couldn’t have. Not with eyes shut tight. That meant…
“Dex, I’m… I…”
Viktor chanced another hidden, one-eyed glance around the shield of his prototype to find the tech had pulled the poor girl upright and was glaring at her in undeniable disgust.
“You’re what?” The tech prodded icily, and when instead of answering the girl just crossed her arms over her vulnerable bareness and stared guiltily at the desk she’d just been bent over, he took the liberty of filling in the blanks for her.
“You know, this whole time I was wondering why a such a stuck up, straight laced little slag like you was suddenly so willing and eager to mess around with someone like me when you normally can’t be buggered to even acknowledge anyone who hasn’t gone to your precious academy is even in the room. Did you even know my name before tonight? None of you lot got any respect for this crew. We do all your dirty work, crawl into the guts of whatever new inventive way to die or lose a limb you’ve all come up with, and not a single one of you seems to know we’re anything more than another moving part of your machines. Just faceless cogs.”
He snorted a laugh.
“Or I guess faceless cocks, huh? Just a human toy for you-”
His tirade cut off with the sharp sound of a ringing slap. The assistant he’d been berating stood there in stony silence, open palm still lifted, just daring him to try for a second out of her as he rubbed his stinging cheek. For a breathless moment it looked as if he just might press on with his insulting tirade. Instead he grabbed the discarded jacket of his uniform and left in a hot blooded huff, muttering under his breath and slamming the door on his way out.
Viktor sagged back against the prototype, eyes rolling to the ceiling in a mingling of gratitude and relief. If it had escalated further, what would he have done? A physical altercation might be beyond his scope, and usually the weight of his position of authority and sang-froid calm was more than enough to wield the command he needed in any given situation. But confronting a man who’d just been called by his name in the heat of passion? And with the obviousness of an erection still straining at the front of trousers?
Nothing about that would have ended well.
As it was, he heard the girl heave a sigh of dismay followed by a soft snarl of utter frustration and the clatter of something on a table go flying with what was doubtless an angry smack. Viktor was just about to resign himself to waiting until the coast was clear to finally sneak away when the next noise caught him off guard.
More of those soft moans, the quietly wet enticing sounds that had him peering back around to find her bent back over the desk, bare breast cupped in her own hand, fingers rolling and tugging nipple to stiffness once more and her other hand shoved down between her thighs as she finished what the tech had started.
“Ah, Viktor… nnh, please yes, please!” She was going at it with a desperate, almost angry need, huffing stuttering breaths and savaging her lower lip between her teeth as she fell right back into the building crescendo that had been so unfortunately interrupted by her own indiscretion.
Viktor grit teeth as he was pitched right back into another impossible choice. What… what if he walked out there? What if he walked up to her, tucked the fall of hair back behind one ear and slid his fingers down to replace her own. What if he asked her to say his name like that again, for him. Would she let him? Let him feel how wet she’d got imagining him, while she wished another man’s touch had been his. How would she squeeze around his fingers, his cock?
He could practically smell her arousal from here, what would it be like close up? How did her skin taste, her mouth? That sweet slick gloss dripping down her thighs? How many times could he get her to say his name that way and what would it take until she was gasping it hoarsely, brokenly, begging. Would she be prettily embarrassed if he went out there, or terrified and appalled?
Her soft, needy little sighs of his name were driving him mad. So hard that the ache in the tightness of his balls was all consuming, that all he wanted, no - needed- was to get himself out of his pants and, oh Janna, please, buried in her.
But he couldn’t.
Couldn’t do any of it. If he went out there now, how could he possibly explain why he’d been watching for so long? What he was even doing there or why he felt it was in any way appropriate to interrupt her… her… oh gods, she was so close to orgasm, he could hear it. The way her breath picked up, the way she trembled upon the desk she leaned over, the quickening pace of the wet sounds of her fingers sliding in and out of herself.
And how she was pleading his name. Like… like he was somehow the one who could offer her the release she was chasing. Gods, it sounded so good. She sounded so good.
If he pulled himself free from his trousers she was sure to hear the frantic way he needed to fuck his fist. No way he could keep himself quiet, or at least quiet enough to keep himself hidden. Palm rubbed hard at his length as he sucked breath in near silent hisses through clenched teeth, thumb running the sensitive ridge of the head of his cock pressing through soft, straining fabric of his pants. A sweetly hot spiral of weighted craving coiling taut in the pit of his belly, tensing hips, leaving lean muscle of stomach and thighs tensing to a slight tremble with the need to thrust.
How many fingers did she need? Two dripping digits stuffed tightly into the clenching heat of herself, or three? Watching her face as she lost herself was intensely arousing but the thought of seeing her from behind was destroying him. The soft curve of her bottom, pretty, softly swollen, slick lips just peeking between the cleft of cheeks her fingers shoved to the limit inside herself, wet just dripping from knuckles as she…
One last little stifled shout of his name and she panted a stuttered, broken moan before falling still. Viktor watched in desperate fascination as she sighed, gone boneless on the desk for a long moment.
Janna, to collapse against her; to kiss the heat of her flushed cheek or run hands over the little shivering tremble of hips, to soothe and help her catch her breath, to taste the little bead of sweat that ran down her temple and beside the tender curve of her ear to her throat.
She picked herself up off the desk as he watched, still gripping the aching stiffness of his cock through his clothes. Watched her stand on weak legs and slowly redress herself, with a regretful, or perhaps it was resigned, look on her face. Watched her rebutton her shirt and fix her hair as she wandered out of the lab, tugging at the back of her skirt.
Viktor waited until the door swung shut, waited a good three minutes at least after the sound of her footsteps had faded until he struggled out from his hiding place, the strain in his pants making walking more difficult than usual as he shuffled over to where she’d lain, stroked fingertips over the heat of her that still lingered, fading upon the metallic desktop. There was a smudge of sticky wet on the edge of the desk where her damp fingertips had brushed it and he was just about to drag a finger over the faint gloss of moisture when something on the floor caught his eye.
A tiny black crumple of lace.
Viktor bent painfully, stiffly, and snagged it, rising to let it hang from one finger as he regarded the discarded cloth in confusion for one second before the shape of it suddenly made sense.
Her panties.
She’d left her panties.
Long fingers curled tightly into a fist over the soft, lacy garment and a second later he had his pants open. The fist clenching her panties braced upon the table as he frantically, desperately fucked into the tight grip of his other hand, mouth hung open as he rushed straight over the precipice of his release with a delirious surge that had him hunched over with a sharp jerk, a soundless long groan dying in the gape of his mouth as lungs convulsed.
It was both the most intense release he’d ever had and the least satisfying. Over so quick, and nothing half as wonderful as all those delicious little fantasies he’d conjured watching her, listening to her. Not nearly as good as she would have felt.
Coughing slightly, struggling to catch his breath, Viktor righted himself. Hissing softly at the tender ache of abused flesh left too long constricted and then fisted far too roughly with precious little lubrication, he put himself away.
There was barely a half second of consideration for the panties in his grasp before he tucked them into his pocket. He could have, and perhaps should have left them where he found them - but what then? If the cleaning staff found them perhaps inconvenient questions might be asked. If instead the next morning their work colleagues found them then even more inconvenient scandals might get bandied about, no doubt leading to her embarrassment if that jilted tech ever spoke up.
As Viktor made his way slowly toward the door he’d come in from he briefly considered tucking the pretty, lacy things into the drawer of her desk. It was a sweetly devious thought, to be sure; to watch her discover her underwear laid neatly in her desk and have to wonder who knew, who put them there. Perhaps he could leave a clever little note beneath… no. No. Then she’d know, and no one could ever know that he’d just… just hid there and watched. It surely didn’t matter how sweetly she’d moaned his name or begged for him, if she knew he’d seen everything and done nothing? No, she’d hate him, find him repulsive.
Viktor paused at the door, hand sliding into his pocket, the delicate lace brushing the tips of his fingers as he glanced behind himself.
Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader
Wordcount: 4k
Warnings: rough smut. violence. almost sexual assault (but nothing in detail). me probably knowing nothing about this. Srs hurt/comfort. references to suicide.
Summary: You are another means to an end. He needs a second pair of hands and you have the face to distract scavengers and the guts to kill people who need to be put down.
A/N: not sure about the timeline between joel and tommy splitting post-outbreak. I’m really playing fast and loose with canon here since joel is on the move with the reader and not stuck in one place. Hopefully his characterization is somewhat on point.
It’s not like you fall into Joel’s lap. It’s a gradual process where you’re in separate packs of hunters that inevitably dwindle to a few lonely pairs. You’re maneuvering around each other in the same snuffed-out city. The only source of lights is in sewer tunnels. There are familiar faces in the dark.
One night, both of your groups are cornered in an empty factory by a crowd of infected. It’s silly. A foolish way to lose, but you do. Everyone but you and Joel get bitten, and you feed your friends a bullet. Joel does the same.
Then it’s an awkward stare-off. You think of killing the silence with a dry remark, but nothing about the beefy, stern-looking man in front of you seems dry.
You recognize him just as he recognizes you. You’ve seen each other during a few trade-offs. Now - you really fucking wish you’d said hi.
"You need a partner,” you tell him bluntly. Your voice only wavers a little, but as soon as the words leave your mouth, his brows raise in what you think is incredulity. You change course.
“I need a partner,” you clarify. “I need someone to watch my back. You can’t survive out here in a party of one.”
He frowns, scraping a calloused hand over his beard. You think he’s ready to say no, so you reach back into your coffers to grasp something else to offer him. We have guns.
Bingo.
He finally straightens. His eyes are clear and brown as espresso grounds. Long, girlish lashes. “Show me.”
It’s been five years since the outbreak.
***
Joel has these dreams where all of his hair falls out. Sometimes it’s his teeth.
In the very corner of his brain, he recalls that there’s symbolism there.
You’ve forgotten something. You’re forgetting.
He goes and goes and never stops. He does not stop because if he does, all he will have is quiet air and memories. Sarah. The greasy splatter of blood on his chin and beard and how he didn’t notice until days later. He scrubbed his skin until it hurt and turned pink as raw chicken.
What did you do? What did it cost?
Joel cannot find it in him to regret the things he’s done. He lives somewhere in his chest. Not his head - never his head. He doesn’t know what to do with all that emptiness. He wants to fill his nights with something other than the stars or a campfire or a popcorn ceiling in an abandoned house.
I survived. I did what I had to do in a dead, dead world.
You were right. He couldn’t do it on his own.
You are another means to an end. He needs a second pair of hands and you have the face to distract scavengers and the guts to kill people who need to be put down.
He was gonna say yes even before you brought up the guns.
***
You’ve become incredibly intimate with his back. He always walks ahead of you, so you trace the broad line of his shoulders and the molasses-dark curls that cover his scalp. You long to draw patterns in the suede of his sand-colored jacket.
You familiarize yourself with his tells and what it means when he stiffens, hunches or relaxes. His knuckles turn white with how hard they wrap around his gun when he’s somewhere he can’t see all four corners.
He barely speaks. It’s like trying to squeeze water from a stone. Joel is a fucking boulder or maybe a bullet.
A month on the road, you spot a family wailing for help. They’re dragging something that looks suspiciously like a body, and Joel curses. “They’ll have a whole fuckin’ pack on our ass.” He checks his guns, and you think he’s going to shoot them because now their problem is his.
“They have children,” you whisper.
“They’ll kill us,” he replies matter-of-factly. “Kill us or try and take what’s ours. It’s how it goes.”
“That’s it then?”
He remains silent, dragging his thumb along his chin before readjusting his pack. “You’re free to go play Mother Teresa, but I ain’t helping you. I’m headed North, and that’s the end of it.”
He does leave. He storms off, slipping between the trees that line the charred highway. You wait for a second out of spite before chasing after him. He hasn’t gone far. In fact, you think he deliberately slowed his steps so that you could catch up.
***
Joel asks you to play damsel. Supplies are running low. There aren’t many towns nearby, so when a small group of scavengers draws near, you go.
You were never a good actress, but your grief is real. You’ve honed and carved it until it became a weapon. You run toward them with your eyes wide and wet with fear. You choke down sobs that churn from some lost place inside you. Your dead family. Your dead friends. Your dead future. RIP to all that.
Of course, the hunters accept you, their beady little stares cataloging your body under layers of cotton and denim. They lead you into their temporary camp and start a fire. They wrap a blanket around your shoulders that smells like mildew and loam. Just as you suspected, their comforting words begin to have double meanings.
We can’t just give you these things—shelter costs somethin’.
Don’t worry, your pretty head, we’ll keep you safe.
C’mere.
Your palms are damp with sweat. You nod, swallowing a weight. You’ve done this before, but Joel usually turns up before they start getting familiar. Maybe he's unsure. Maybe, there are too many.
Where’s Joel?
It rings through your head. Your ears buzz.
He’s there. You know it. He’s watching and waiting and -
One of the men grips your knee before sliding it up further. He chuckles softly, and you dig your nails into your palm and chew the inside of your mouth.
You remind yourself that this is all part of the plan. You have it down. Act helpless. Get them in a vulnerable spot. Joel enters stage left and makes quick work of them. He’s probably biding his time.
“Now - maybe we can come to -”
Where’s Joel?
Your heart is thudding in the cage of your ribs. It’s in your throat.
“Did you hear what I said, girl? How about -”
The man grunts. There’s a handle sticking out of the top of his skull. He sputters before his eyes roll back and then Joel is there, ripping that blade free and giving you a quick jerk of his chin.
“Stay behind the trees,” he orders before descending on the rest of them.
“Where the fuck is my gun?” the bald one roars as he digs through his pack.
“Mine’s fuckin’ gone, too,” a lanky blonde yells.
Smart Joel. He must have snatched what he could while they were distracted.
As you slip behind a tree, you turn to watch the rest of the carnage. You think it’s in the bag up until the big bald fuck manages to knock Joel to the side so that his shot misses.
Joel up again, which is something he had constantly branded into your head. Never stay down. You’re right fucked if you stay down.
Joel keeps fighting. He’s broad and full of a rage that ripples out of him and shakes the air. The punches he deliver are devastating. The skill he has at killing is a privilege to watch. He is an exploding star hurtling to the earth. A bull barreling through concrete. He’s older than you, but it doesn’t slow him down. Not at all.
You remain low in the trees just as he instructed. Your chest tightens when the lanky blonde socks Joel’s face so hard that his jaw audibly clicks. It doesn’t seem to break his stride because he disposes of him quickly, whipping out a switchblade that he plunges between the blonde’s ribs. Then he’s onto the next one. He’s barely using his guns.
Bullets attract infected.
They’re also precious. Finite supplies.
Right. Good thinkin’, girl.
The sounds coming from the fight are a sharp blend of sawed-off grunts and insults. Joel is the only silent one as he cleaves his way through the chaos. It’s intimidating. It’s unreal.
Something moves on the ground.
The blonde he’d stabbed is still alive, wiggling like a snake. He’s crawling onto his knees, red-soaked fingers shakily grasping his discarded shiv from the dirt.
“Joel,” you yell, but not loud enough. He’s too busy with the bald shithead whose red face is straining as he tries to sloppily defend himself against your partner. The man on the floor rises, arm cocked to deliver a stab to Joel’s lower back and you move without thinking. You sprint forward and tackle him to the floor, arms snagging firmly around his throat. There’s a startling pain in your side before it dissipates. You rely on adrenaline to drive you to the second act.
Quickly, you yank your pocket knife from your jeans and pierce the man’s throat. He squeals before it turns wet. You draw the blade out and bring it down again. It’s not easy and requires all of your strength to break flesh.
It’s unnerving. You’ve killed before, but this disturbs you. He squeals again, but it’s muffled. He choked and snorts.
This little piggy…
Somewhere Joel’s voice sings in your head:
Don’t think. Just kill.
The blonde shivers under your weight, palms slapping out at mud before he curls his fingers into trampled weeds. He takes one final rattling breath and goes still.
You scramble back on your ass, heels kicking up dirt as Joel whirls around to stare at you. His expression is incredulous and it doesn’t fit his face. It’s alien and wrong. He’s usually far too confident and cautious. He knows all outcomes, but this? You saving him? No - he did not expect that.
Joel blinks before carefully stepping over the dead man. He steps toward you, lowering himself so he can meet your eyes. He touches your cheek. “You ok?”
“Fine,” you mumble. “Fine - he-he was gonna -”
“I know,” he finishes and it almost sounds like a thank you.
He grabs your wrist forcing you up. “Let’s do this quickly,” he instructs, gesturing to the backpack, tents, and assorted supplies. It’ll be a good haul.
You nod, already forgetting about the pulsing cut beneath your ribs.
***
You must be getting sick. Your palms feel like weighted lead. Your steps are slow and clumsy. Your skin is screaming hot, and it takes Joel two full days to notice. You’ve stopped in a deserted garage on a lone suburban street. A stale, sweet smell comes from the door that leads into the house, and you don’t want to open it.
Joel searches through boxes and plastic cases while you lean heavily against the cool garage door. He glances at you before doing a double-take. Perhaps, it’s obvious - even in the dark. Perhaps - this is the first time he has truly looked at you since they’ve stopped walking.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothin’,” you mutter even though your head may topple off your neck. Fuck.
Abruptly, he straightens and strides toward you. You catch him rolling his eyes before he stops short. He grasps your face with surprisingly gentle hands. He inhales sharply. “Jesus,” he hisses. “Goddamnit, girl, you're burning up.”
You blink at him, and even that is a chore. Your lids are so heavy, each individual lash stings. You lick your lips. “Mm’ok.”
Without another word, he wraps his arms under your thighs and picks you up bridal-style. “Joel,” you wheeze, your arm flying around his thick neck. The short hairs at the nape tickle your skin. “It’s fine.”
“Quiet.” He grunts before kicking the door open and hauling you into the raw darkness of this deserted house.
“Fuck,” he mutters and places you on the counter. “I’m gonna secure the perimeter…should have done it before hauling ass in here.”
He seems on edge. He doesn’t usually forget shit like that because that shit will get you killed.
You nod before leaning back into the wall. Your head bumps against a cabinet and Joel has the nerve to tell you to be careful.
After a few minutes, he returns.
The kitchen is surprisingly clean. His gaze darts around the space before he picks you up and takes you to the second level. You can hear his boots making soft thumps in carpet. You can see framed photos on the walls. Finally, he settles you on a dusty queen-sized bed.
“Think it’s a cold? The flu?”
In the current world, it could be any number of things. Regardless, you’re beginning to realize what this is. You’d avoided checking it out. You’d buried its burning ache. The knife - the metal. It had to have been dirty.
Had you cleaned it? Were you too busy wanting to help Joel sift through everything that you’d ignored it? How fucking stupid could you have been?
You shake your head.
“You gotta work with me here,” he urges, a brush softer. “What hurts?”
Sighing, you roll onto your side and pull up your shirt. Joel sucks in a breath. Even now it’s throbbing insistently. Feels hot. It had been so small.
You’d forgotten that small, open wounds can lead to fatal infections.
Joel’s hand rests on your hip, a fingertip drags lightly under the puffy flesh and you flinch. It smells like something sick.
“Guessing by your silence, it’s bad,” You try to laugh and it cracks like peanut shells.
“It’s not good,” he replies carefully. “You need antibiotics.”
You’re too scared to inspect the wound. You can imagine it: oozing pus, streaking, swelling, beating like it has its own heart.
“Did you get this during the fight?”
“Yeah,” you whisper, pressing your cheek into the cold blankets.
“And you didn’t clean it?” Joel’s tone rises. You guess that he’s keeping a tight lid on his anger.
“Forgot.”
When he says nothing, you glance at him over your shoulder. His nostrils flare. He’s flexing his jaw. His hands are fists at his sides, but his dark eyes remain on you. He’s thinking, perhaps trying to decide if it’s worth scolding you or ripping you a new one.
What would it matter if you’re already dying?
He takes a deep breath, shakes his head, and abruptly swings his backpack off his shoulder before crouching to the floor. He unzips it and rummages. “Alright, I can clean and bandage it, but you’ll need antibiotics - somethin’ like doxycycline or amoxicillin. May be able to barter with a few people up near Asheville, but that means I’ve gotta leave you for a day, possibly two.”
You freeze.
What?!
Frantically, you twist around to face him. “I’ll-I’ll be alone?”
He sits down on the bed, touches the back of his hand to your forehead. His mouth tenses at the level of heat, but he keeps it there. It’s the most intimate thing he’s ever done.
“This is your life on the line, darlin’.” He runs his other hand through his unruly hair. He keeps his eyes on the floor. “I’ll lock the house down.”
You snort. There is no such thing as locks anymore. Zero law. Break a window. It’s enough.
“There’s no one around here,” he adds pointedly as if reading your mind. “Everything’s been picked clean. I’m sure you’re safe.”
He doesn’t promise it. You’re not sure he’s good at promises.
Everything smells weird. Like old fruit.
“Bye,” you mumble as he reaches for his gauze and tends to the cut.
“Haven’t left yet, hon.”
“But you will.”
He clears his throat.
***
Joel moves fast. He doesn’t stop.
That wound had been festering for days. How did you even fucking walk that far with it? How could you not treat it or ask him to?
He wants to shake you for being so stupid. He wants to watch you wither and die from the injury so that you learn your lesson.
But I’d bring you back. I’d pull you out.
Joel feels something hard lodge in his throat. The trees are green and full of shadows. The highway is marked by broken cars and a few scattered bones.
You’d saved him. You’d gotten hurt saving him.
He really doesn’t enjoy the fact that you’ve slipped your way inside him. You’ve wrapped those nimble little fingers around his ribs and ripped them an inch. He’s creaking. He’s old and getting older and the world is fucking dead. It’s just a rotting corpse and Joel really likes when you sing. Sometimes, they’re just on the road and you’ll start murmuring a tune from the forties or the seventies. You have this soft, breathy tongue for old love songs. Ella Fitzgerald. Billie Holiday. Judy Garland. Dolly Parton.
He can’t stop thinking about your expression when he left. Your eyes were wide with fear, your lower lip trembled as you called after him. You were too weak to sit up. You reached a hand out before dropping it as if it was too heavy. Inexplicably, he rushed back to your side. “I will come back,” he declared.
“Are you sure?”
He stroked your hair just once. He lowered his face to yours. “I will.”
***
Joel kills for the antibiotics. He won’t tell you that even though he’s sure you already know his game. He’s ruthless. He has to be. He didn’t have time to barter.
He returns to you as quickly as he can. He’s shocked at his timing. It’s only been twenty-five hours when he bursts back into the house and runs up the stairs. In the daylight, he realizes that there are bodies in the living room. Pill bottles on the antique coffee table. Stained carpet. The corpses are mummified. He’d left you in a tomb and that makes his stomach turn over.
He’ll clean them up before you come downstairs. You will. You’ll be fine.
He’s almost relieved when he finds you still in bed, but when he gets closer, he blanches. You’re seemingly worse, drenched in sweat and shivering. He folds himself over you, hands on your face as he tilts it up. Your eyes can’t focus on him.
“Hey,” he says, slapping you gently. “Sweetheart - I’m back. I’ve got the medicine.” He reaches around and presses his hand to the wound. It’s hot as an oven, sticky as a melted sweet on pavement. He can smell the infection and he grimaces. “Let’s turn you around.”
He manages to cradle you against his chest before dripping water into your mouth drop by drop. You lick at it, whimpering as the dry skin of your lips cracks. He wets an old towel and lays it on your forehead. He feeds you tylenol and antibiotics. He cleans the wound and worries when you don’t wrench yourself away from his touch. It should sting fiercely, but the pain is diluted beneath the fog of fever.
He cares for you and then waits. It’s a little too similar to when he’d stay up with Sarah when she couldn’t breathe right due to bronchitis or unable to keep medicine down because of a stomach bug.
Let me save you. He thinks. Let me save you this once. He has to seal the memory of Sarah away because it’s too much. It’s agony. He shudders as if he’s placed burned his fingers on a screaming tea kettle. It wrecks him. He can’t fall apart when you’re already half-gone.
***
In the middle of the night, you touch his jaw, scrape your nails across his beard. “You called me darlin’,” you slur. “Sweetheart.”
“I did,” he confirms as he circles your wrist with his hand. He could squeeze it and it’d break. “Now - sleep.”
You pull his arm down to your face, nuzzle your cheek against the cool metal of his watch. It startles him, but he doesn’t pull away.
“Joel,” you repeat.
“G’night, honey.”
He doesn’t know why he called you that the last few days. Darlin’. Honey. Sweetheart. He’s never done it before.
***
That event changed things. It shifted the air between you. You’d saved Joel’s life and he’d saved yours in return. In all respects, it should have kept their relationship on equal ground. One action had canceled out the other. A debt repaid.
But, it’s different. He is different. He’s always watching you. A bit more protective. A bit more anxious. Sure - he trusts you to handle yourself, but he wants you not to need to handle yourself.
They’re on the road and it’s getting colder. He has people they could rely on for a few weeks of shelter, but it’s a trek.
“I say we make it to California,” you grumble as your boots catch on half-melting frost. “Hawaii.”
“Let me build a boat real fast, then.”
It’s all so much of the same. Walking. Supplies. Ammo. Food. Laundy. River baths. Medicine. Holing up in deserted, dusty homes that still reek of family ghosts.
Then there’s the tension between you. The knot of things unsaid tugging you closer.
You think about him all the time. The shape of his face and the hook of his nose. The jawline. The big brown eyes and thick, umber hair. He’s so big and bulky and protective and, if you could, you’d huddle inside him.
Let me bury myself there all winter. Let me seek your heat.
It comes to a head because it’s inevitable. In a strange house on a strange street near North Carolina, Joel shares a bed with you. Nothing is different. Nothing at all. You roll toward him and place your hand on his chest. He jerks, but doesn’t remove it. His heart is pounding furiously beneath the cotton.
He utters your name gently. You watch his lips fold around the letters.
“You almost died today.”
He snorts. “No - I didn’t.”
Alright - he didn’t. It was only a small scuffle. One gunshot for a backseat of supplies.
But you wanted a reason. Needed a reason to touch him like he had touched you when you nearly died.
“You could’ve,” you reply stubbornly.
He huffs a laugh. “I ain’t dyin on you anytime soon.”
“I know.”
You dig your fingers into his chest, rub them deep until you feel his hand slide over your thigh. He squeezes the meat of it and you wriggle under the covers.
“You sure?” he asks, voice hoarse. He sounds nervous. Good.
Lazily, he turns on his side, his hand wanders up your leg. He hauls you closer so that you’re intertwined, tangled up in limbs. He presses his cheek to yours and curls his fingers behind the crotch of your panties before sinking two of them inside your cunt.
“Oh,” you gasp, clawing at his hair. “Fuck.”
He moves deliberately, stroking your walls until it begins to smart like a bruise. His thumb finds your clit and he teases it, circles with a calloused trigger-happy fingertip.
“Is this what you want?” he murmurs despite it just being the two of you and there’s not a soul for miles except maybe the dead spirits in this house. A happy family. A dog. Gone.
You grip some of his t-shirt and tug it, thighs opening around his hand. You rock down on him as he plays you like his six-string.
You push at his boxers, reach for his cock. It’s hot in your palm. Full and throbbing just like that wound on your side that sewed you both together. He grabs your chin and holds it still. “Tell me,” he demands. “Is this what you want?”
Do you want me?
You nod, chewing your lip as he adds a third finger. He stretches you open. He readies your sex.
“You, Joel,” you reply to seal the truth of it. “You.”
He lowers his head and captures your mouth. Joel kisses you senseless, his tongue sweeping behind your teeth and making itself at home. He drinks, his beard scraping your chin raw. He tastes like leather and ammunition. Sweat. Wood. Generic shampoo. He lifts his head to catch his breath.
“Alright, darlin’.”
***
It is a smoother coupling than you expected. You didn’t think he’d kiss you. Before, you assumed that if this would happen, it would be a cold fuck in the form of stress relief. Not this.
He groans against your teeth. You clasp the back of his head and his soft curls. His rests his forearm beside your face as he bears his weight above you. You watch the muscles in his jaw work with every thrust. The vein in his throat tenses. His chest hitches and you can’t help but lick a clean line up his sternum.
He likes it. His lungs rumble.
His hand slides between them, parting the lips of your cunt to press and tease your clit. Your pussy is wrapped around his length. He drives to the end of you before easing back until only the tip remains l. He pushes in again so that you feel every ridge of him. Again. Again. You can hear your body take him. It echoes in the room.
You’re tearing me apart. You’re splitting me. You’re branding me. I can’t breathe.
Do it again.
“Wider,” he urges as his whole body trembles. “Lift your ass for me.”
You do and the angle allows him to plunge deeper.
You know he’s trying hard to fuck you like it doesn’t mean something. He’s rolling his hips and pinning your wrist to the mattress and it feels like the fat head of his cock is punching the bottom of your lungs. It hurts a little and meaningful sex shouldn’t hurt like this. Or maybe it should. Maybe, that's the damn point. You're close to tears because it feels so good and so much at the same time. You can’t help clenching around him, coming like a fountain as he punishes you with another harsh stroke.
“Darlin,” he says in a voice that stings like gravel. It’s one sweet thing given between grunts and groans and the wet slap of skin. It’s all he can offer. He traces the cut along your ribs that hasn’t yet scarred over. He pets it with his thumb as he stares at you intently.
“Say it again,” You bring your knees to his waist, skate your nails down the muscles of his back.
The corner of his lips twitch. “Darlin,” he offers before lowering his mouth a breath from your own. “Darlin.”
Happy kinktober! I know the Rein stans are always in need of content and I am here to write for Big Crusader Daddy. Also i really like writing characters taking baths and stuff and i hadnt done that yet for this event.
The Overwatch dropship had never felt more cramped. You hated being sealed in, trapped. As claustrophobic as you felt, you also hated how open the bay was. Nowhere to hide, no shelter. You were seated as far away from the rest of your squadmates as possible. They were doing everything they could to keep their attention away from you, trying to be respectful.
You were shivering, skin hot under your armor but unable to keep warm. The lights were too bright, the engines too loud. The smell of metal and sweat and ammunition burned your nose. Absently, you reached up to the junction of your neck, digging your nails into the soft flesh in an attempt to soothe the burning there.
Look, if I introduced a WIP on here excitedly and then promptly never mentioned it again, it doesn’t mean I’m not working on it, it means I’m slowly rotating it in my mind like a rotisserie chicken and then went out to the grocery store to buy several other rotisserie chickens while I wait for it to cook and then slowly started rotating those rotisserie chickens and repeat
going thru phone pics and found this thing that was tacked up next to the toaster at my old job, if anyone needs some light toast eating reading material
Everything Is AWFUL and I’m Not Okay: Questions to Ask Before Giving Up on Yourself
Are you hydrated?
If not, have a glass of water. Dehydration can mimic or increase feelings associated with anxiety and a well hydrated brain functions optimally. Avoid excess caffeine.
Have you eaten in the past three hours?
Don’t be a victim of hanger! Get some food–something with protein, not just simple carbs or high-fat. Nuts, hummus, and veggies are great options to feed your studying brain. Keep healthy snacks within reach to avoid mindlessly chowing down on sweets.
Have you stretched your legs in the past day?
If not, do so right now. If you don’t have the energy or time for a run or a trip to the gym, just walk around the block or building. Even minimal exercise preps the mind for learning so that you can focus better and recall things easier, plus it’s good to get a change of scenery.
Have you said something nice to someone in the past day?
Do so, whether online or in person. Make it genuine! We bet your study partner would appreciate a compliment.
Have you moved your body to music in the past day?
If not, jog for the length of a song at your favorite tempo, or just dance around your bedroom for the length of an upbeat song (singing along is a bonus)
Have you cuddled a living being in the past two days?
If not, do so. Don’t be afraid to ask for hugs from friends of friends’ pets. Most of them will enjoy the cuddles too; you’re not imposing.
Have you started or changed any medications in the past couple of weeks, including skipped doses or a change in generic prescription brand?
That may be screwing with your head. Give things a few days, then talk to your doctor if it doesn’t settle down.
If daytime: are you dressed?
If no, put on clean clothes that aren’t PJs. Give yourself permission to wear something special, whether it’s a funny t-shirt or a pretty dress.
If nighttime: are you sleepy and fatigued but resisting going to sleep?
Put on PJs, make yourself cozy in bed with a teddy bear and the sound of falling rain, and close your eyes for fifteen minutes while focusing on breathing deeper with every breath- no electronic screens allowed! Adequate sleep is a necessity for stress management.
Do you feel ineffective?
Pause right now and get something small completed, whether it’s responding to an email, loading the dishwasher, or tidying up your room. Good job!
Do you feel unattractive?
Take a darn selfie. Your friends will remind you how great you look. You are always insta-worthy.
Do you feel paralyzed by indecision?
Give yourself ten minutes to sit back and figure out a game plan for the day. If a particular decision or problem is still being a roadblock, simply set it aside for now, and pick something else that seems doable. Right now, the important part is to break through that stasis, even if it means doing something trivial.
Have you over-exerted yourself lately–physically, emotionally, socially, or intellectually?
That can take a toll that lingers for days. Give yourself a break in that area, whether it’s physical rest, taking some time alone, or relaxing with some silly entertainment for a little. Time spent refreshing yourself is never time “wasted!”
Have you waited a week?
Sometimes or perception of life is skewed, and we can’t even tell that we’re not thinking clearly, and there’s no obvious external cause. It happens. Keep yourself going for a full week, whatever it takes, and see if you still feel the same way then.
You’ve made it this far; and you will make it through. You are stronger than you think.
