Xhier

This 👌🏽 close to taking myself out "Hey Google: how do i stop procrastinating" "Ah this isn't Google?" (Insert random thing here)

[eggsolotl]

Small old doodles for my fic; MTS (More Than Survive)! Aka my disciple SY scumcum au one can read over here~

The designs are a little outdated to me but I Loved these doodles too much to not share. And yes. Obligatory SJ shoulders WHAT DO U NOT EXPECT OF ME

[minilamma]

Now that I think of it, thank god SJ did not have access to the internet. He would have been a menace, more than SY ever could.

Also I feel like SY on his own really just looked like an avg asian dude with glasses sometimes. So I had to slap a giant cucumber on SY's shirt to make him recognizable.

[minilamma]

More fanarts for "Dance in the Dusk" by @sareyen!!!!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64877248/chapters/166749796 I just read the new chapter and it gave me brain bugs about this master and disciple pair again. It's a fic of Shen Yuan as Shen Jiu's demonic cultivator shizun Wu Yanzi btw. PLEASE GO READ IT. IT IS SO GOOD.

ah any disciple thrown at SY is going to end up with some kind of weird shizun complex aren't they. LBH dodged the bullet just for SJ to take it like a train in this fic.

[minilamma]

SY: "He is right behind me, isn't he"

[peachesofteal]

KEEPSAKE / MASTERLIST

ghoap/female reader - omegaverse au

One Two Three Four Five Six Seven

[crashingcryptid]

Human reader on an alien 141 crew ship. You're an engineer, mostly for the ship, but you've learned a fair amount of weapons repair as well. The team enjoys having you around, mostly to study you, to learn more about human behavior.

"I'm a pretty bad reference." You joke one day during meal time, picking at your tray. "I'm autistic. That's already going to throw off your studies."

"Yes, but you're still human." Kyle insists, studying you with his eyes. You weren't sure where his eyes were, but you could feel them on you. "Humans are predators. My species are prey, and so is Simon." Simon lets out a sharp grunt, his form resembling what a snake looked like on your planet.

Only much larger.

"We are not prey. Ambush predator." Simon insists as he coils around your shoulders. He liked soaking up your body heat like a snake, too.

"Humans are endurance hunters. We're pretty far removed from using our instincts because of modern evolution, industrial revolution, all that. But they are still there." You explain as you finish your food, pushing your tray away.

"How can you be an endurance predator? You don't run." Johnny teases his fungal flower spiral opening and closing slightly. You'd learned quickly that his fungal growths worked almost independently of him, expressing his emotions for him.

"Want to see?"

Simon was fucking exhausted. The ship had two places for you that mimicked a human atmosphere. Your room and one that looked like a small forest with a lake. You hadn't run once, but every time Simon thought he had shaken you off, you would find him again. And again and again. For hours, he had tried to evade you.

He wound his way up a tree, high enough that he was sure you couldn't climb up and find him. He needed to sleep just for a few minutes, and then he would move. He woke to a soft rustling in the leaves beside him, body stiffening as he slowly opened his eyes.

"Hey, Si. Nice nap?"

[sweetsstrawberryys]

“Abnormal Heart Rate Detected”

Summary: After a quiet, sweet date, you kiss Ghost goodnight—only for his smartwatch to loudly alert him (and you) that his heart rate is going wild. Turns out even the most silent, composed man can’t hide when he's completely smitten.

Rating: Fluffy, soft-boy Ghost, awkward romance, kiss-induced chaos, sunshine x emotionally constipated grump.

Masterlist

---

Simon didn’t say much during the date—but he didn’t need to. The way he opened doors for you, pulled your chair out, and quietly placed his hand on the small of your back when crowds got too tight said more than enough. You talked, he listened. And every time you laughed, his lips twitched like they were this close to smiling.

The man was calm. Still. Like a statue wrapped in a hoodie and mystery. Unbothered. Unshakeable.

Until you kissed him.

Just a soft, sweet goodnight kiss outside your apartment. You leaned in, nervous but hopeful, and pressed your lips to his, and his hand twitched where it rested on your waist. A sharp inhale, then total stillness.

Beep. Beep-beep-beep.

You pulled back, blinking.

“What was that?”

Simon stood frozen. His smartwatch vibrated on his wrist, the little screen flashing:

ABNORMAL HEART RATE DETECTED

Current BPM: 127

Try to remain calm.

“…No fuckin’ way,” you whispered, gaping at the screen like it just betrayed the nation.

His ears were bright pink. “It’s—it does that sometimes.”

You gasped, grinning. “Simon. Did I literally make your heart race?”

He groaned, tipping his head back like he wished the ground would swallow him whole. “Bloody thing’s oversensitive.”

You stepped closer, teasing. “You sure? Or do you just like me that much?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you, half-murderous, half-helpless. Then—beep-beep-beep again.

“Oh my god.” You laughed and cupped his face, planting another kiss on his lips just to watch the number spike again.

Current BPM: 132.

He pulled away with a grunt. “You tryna kill me?”

“Nope,” you chirped. “I just want your watch to start playing romantic music next.”

“…I’m disabling the damn thing.”

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

BIRTHDAY GIFT 2 | 141

death. grief. canon-level violence.

Detonation tore through the compound with brutal force, the ground buckling as the structure convulsed and threw a wall of pressure outward that ripped breath from Kyle’s chest and shoved dust skyward until the air itself turned hostile.

Concrete screamed as it split, the east wing collapsing inward while heat and grit blasted across his face, iron tang coating his tongue as smoke surged through the corridors in choking waves that burned his eyes and clawed at his throat.

Staggering forward, Kyle barely caught himself as fractured tile skidded under his boots and cracks raced outward beneath his weight, the building no longer steady enough to pretend it could hold.

Somewhere behind him, Soap’s charge echoed in his head, placed too close and detonated too eagerly, and the thought scraped raw but found no space to settle because panic had already claimed his lungs.

Dragging air in short, painful pulls, he vaulted a fallen beam and felt glass spin beneath his soles while he shoved through a doorway that sagged on broken hinges, rifle tight to his chest and arm raised against debris still raining down.

Voices collided inside the hollowed shell of the compound, enemy shouts bouncing off ruined walls, metal groaning under its own weight, commands tearing through the chaos with sharp urgency that vibrated straight into his skull.

Running harder, Kyle felt rubble slide underfoot as his thigh slammed into splintered wood and pain flared bright and fast, yet he barely registered it because the building had stopped being a structure and become a living trap.

Then his momentum died the instant his eyes found you.

Frozen mid-stride, he felt sand swallow the force of his stop while disbelief punched a hollow through his chest and left him staring.

There you were, twisted beside a mound of shattered concrete, lower body pinned beneath a slab that might once have been a wall, your legs trapped at an angle that made his stomach fold in on itself.

That left boot, unmistakably yours no matter how his mind rejected it, pointed wrong in a way that turned his blood cold as red soaked into your thigh and mixed with dust until it formed a dark, sticky paste.

Curled forward under the weight, your shoulders hunched and your spine bowed as your hands clawed uselessly at the ground, fingers scraping and digging in frantic, mindless effort to escape pressure that refused to give.

Each movement came small and weak, driven by instinct rather than strength, your body trying to flee without the ability to obey itself.

At the sound of his boots, your head snapped up with sudden violence.

Baring your teeth, you dragged a low, feral growl from your throat that cut through the noise and hit Kyle square in the chest.

Locked in place, he felt his breath jam painfully behind his ribs as his mind scrambled to reconcile what he was seeing.

This wasn’t you, not the snarling fear or the raw animal edge, and the sight of your pupils blown wide and glassy while sweat carved tracks through dust on your face rattled something deep and fragile inside him.

Trembling fingers left jittering marks in the sand as you stared at him, fear and pain burning bright enough to eclipse everything else.

“GO,” you screamed, your voice tearing apart as it forced its way out, “GARRICK, RUN,” the words ripping free as though they shredded your throat on the way.

Every muscle in Kyle’s body locked at once, shock rooting him to the spot because you never yelled and you never sounded this desperate.

Heaving for breath, you shoved one hand against the ground as if you might launch yourself at him or anyone foolish enough to come closer, while the other scrabbled at your trapped thigh and recoiled with a broken sound when pain spiked.

Finally dragging air into his lungs, Kyle felt it burn all the way down as he took a step closer despite the dread curling tight in his gut.

Closer still, the angle of your leg assaulted him again, wrong enough to make his vision blur around the edges as blood pooled and fabric tore away to reveal skin already turning mottled beneath dust.

Training slides flashed unbidden through his head, sterile images labeled catastrophic injury, and he hated that his mind went there because this wasn’t a lesson and you weren’t an example.

“Oh fuck,” he broke, voice cracking as horror spilled through it, “oh fucking hell, shit, shit,” the words useless and helpless as they fell.

Answering him, you made a sound caught between a groan and a gasp that spurred him forward before he stopped himself inches from you, hands hovering because he didn’t know where touch would help instead of destroy.

Heavy boots thundered somewhere beyond the walls, multiple sets moving fast enough that his gut twisted as enemy voices carried closer on the wind.

Slamming his hand against his comm as if force alone might wake it, Kyle was met with screaming static that offered nothing but noise.

“Fucking Soap,” he hissed through clenched teeth, chest tight enough to ache, “he’s buying the first fifty rounds after this, swear to God,” the promise empty and bitter.

Barely louder than breath, you rasped, “Go,” dragging the word out as your strength bled away, “Garrick, go, you gotta go.”

Snapping back, he shot, “Not happening,” fury and fear tangling in his voice.

Lunging weakly, your hand scooped sand and flung it at him, grains pattering uselessly against his thigh before you grabbed a broken brick with shaking fingers and hurled it, the dull crack against his vest echoing desperation.

Unmoved by the threat wearing panic’s face, Kyle didn’t retreat an inch.

Driving his shoulder into the slab pinning you, he felt concrete groan beneath the effort, shifting just enough to promise disaster.

Ripping out of you, your scream punched into his ribs and lodged there as your body jerked hard and something inside your leg gave way with a wet, sickening sound.

Pouring free, blood surged down your thigh in dark, glossy sheets that soaked fabric and sand alike, spreading faster than his mind could keep up with.

Reaching on instinct, he grabbed for you and hissed as red immediately smeared his glove and sleeve, the stain blooming and spreading as though eager.

Pulling back too late, Kyle stared at his hand slick with you before bracing again and feeling his forearm press into your thigh, the tan fabric turning black-red in seconds.

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” he choked, shifting desperately for leverage while terror clawed his throat, “I’m sorry,” the words failing to bridge the damage.

Slamming weak but frantic, your hands struck his chest and dragged bloody lines down his vest, palms slipping as your breath shattered into broken pulls.

“Stop it,” you cried, voice splintering, “Kyle, stop,” each word fraying further as panic consumed you.

Marked head to toe, his plates and straps soaked through with your blood as every movement painted him deeper in it, a claim he would never forget.

Trying again despite knowing better, Kyle planted his boots and bent his knees, shoving upward with everything he had while rage tore from his throat in hoarse shouts. "Fuck! Come on! Move!"

Shifting another inch, perhaps two, the slab moved just enough to steal hope before crushing it.

Cut short, your scream collapsed into a strangled sob that broke him.

Dropping instantly, his hands flew up as though he could take the pain back by sheer will.

Violently shaking now, your whole body tremored as your jaw chattered and your eyes rolled unfocused, whites flashing between sluggish blinks.

“Kyle,” you croaked, blood bubbling at your lips as you swallowed wrong, “I can’t, I can’t feel-”

“Don’t,” he snapped, panic sharpening his tone as he ripped his scarf free with his teeth and jammed it hard against your thigh, red blooming through the fabric instantly.

Shaking hands betrayed him as blood slicked his grip and soaked through everything, yet he pressed harder and leaned into it, teeth clenched while your scream carved into him again.

“Stay with me,” Kyle begged through ragged breaths, forcing his gaze into yours, “look at me, don’t you dare close your eyes.”

Lolling briefly, your head jerked back up and your glassy stare locked onto his, terror naked and unfiltered.

Closer now, boots thundered and voices rose, the sound of rifles being read echoing through the wreckage.

Sliding forward, Kyle dragged himself nearer as his knee cut through a spreading pool of red that soaked into his trousers.

“Go,” you pleaded again, voice ruined, “please, I’m bleeding, I’m-”

“I know,” he answered hoarsely, the truth tearing at him, “I can see it.”

He could feel it.

Seeping warmth soaked into him through fabric and skin, staining him in a way he knew would never wash away. Marked by you. Marked by death.

“I’m not leaving you,” Kyle said, voice shaking, “that’s not happening.”

Fumbling at your hip, your fingers slapped uselessly against the holster before closing around your sidearm, the muzzle wavering between his sternum and shoulder as you dragged it up with an arm that trembled violently.

“Kyle,” you whispered, breath rattling, “you have to go.”

“Not going,” he replied, quieter than before.

Correcting when your elbow buckled, you clenched your jaw so hard the muscle jumped, determination burning in your eyes as a plea shaped itself into a threat.

“Please,” you rasped, “please, Kyle, go.”

Closing around his throat, emotion strangled him as the building groaned again overhead and dust drifted down to settle across your face.

Crouching low, he closed the remaining distance until your breaths brushed his neck, forehead pressing briefly to yours as he anchored himself to the heat still radiating from you.

“Stay awake,” he whispered, voice breaking despite himself, “I’ll come back, I swear.”

Fluttering, your eyes held fear and trust and unbearable pain all at once before softening.

“Go,” you murmured, barely more than breath.

Swallowing hard enough to ache, Kyle clenched his jaw and finally moved.

(...)

Rotor wash tore at the desert floor as Price watched Kyle stagger in from the haze, the younger man’s kit hanging wrong on his frame and his hands shaking hard enough that the blood smeared across his sleeves looked freshly spilled even as it dried.

Through the ringing in his ears, Price caught the sound Kyle was trying to swallow, the tight hitching breaths and the wet silence of someone crying without letting themselves make noise, and it set his jaw because this was the sound that came back when a man had crossed a line he could not uncross.

“Is that yours?” Price asked evenly, voice pitched low, his eyes already cataloging possible injuries, already measuring what could still be fixed and what could not.

“No,” Kyle said after a beat that stretched too long, his mouth opening and closing once before the word finally came out wobbly, “no, sir, it’s not mine.”

Slowly, Price followed the line of Kyle’s stare, past the men pretending not to look, and into the empty stretch of desert where the compound’s smoke still smeared the horizon.

“Where are they then?” he asked then, softer now.

Blank-eyed, Kyle stared straight through him. “Their legs are gone, sir." The boy looked ready to vomit. “Slab of stone came down, pinned them, they were bleeding bad and I- I couldn’t get it off and I left them there.”

For a moment Price tried to imagine it, but could only see the image of you younger, sunburned and stubborn and grinning after surviving something you should not have, heard your voice arguing tactics too loudly in a briefing room years ago, felt again the jolt in his knuckles from the day he’d punched you for costing them a mission and then stood there afterward knowing full well that same reckless call of yours had saved all their lives.

Carefully, he turned away before the memories could root him in place and keyed his comm to Laswell, forcing steadiness into his tone as he said, “Mission’s done, Kate, east wing collapse turned it into a meat grinder and we’re pulling out before QRF eats us alive.”

Quietly, Laswell answered with clipped questions about survivability and recovery windows, and Price gave her numbers he didn’t believe in anymore while his eyes kept drifting back to the empty space where you should have been walking out.

Behind him, Kyle broke then, shoulders folding inward as he whispered, “I shouldn’t have left them,” over and over, as if repetition might change the physics of stone and blood and time.

As firmly as he could manage, Price grabbed Kyle by the vest and made him look up, saying, “You followed orders and you’re still breathing, which means you did your job,” even as another part of him calculated distances, enemy movement, fuel, daylight, and the cost in lives it would take to go back for you.

Out loud, he added, “We’ll come back for them,” because Captains said things like that and men needed to hear them. Hope sometimes kept people functional a little longer.

Silently, Price knew they both understood the truth sitting between those words, heavy and unmoving as the slab Kyle had described.

You were going to die out there.

His hands flexed at his sides, knuckles pale beneath the thin gloves. His mind screamed at him that going back right now would be suicide.

John knew he had to draw the line somewhere.

He keyed his comm again, voice steady though every word carried the weight of three dozen regrets he had no right to feel, “Ghost, Soap… evac now. Grid Delta-One, coordinates locked. We’re pulling out. Repeat, pull out.”

Static hissed, then Ghost’s voice came through first, asking for location updates and status.

Within minutes or maybe hours, time had lost its shape, a shadowy figure arrived, sliding down onto the desert floor with ease, boots kicking up sand that clung to his armor.

Ghost’s eyes swept over the soldiers present before they finally settled on Price, a question in his eyes.

“Nothing we can do now,” Price's voice was rough even to his own ears, “they’re pinned under debris. We go now, or we don’t go at all.”

Ghost didn’t answer immediately, only let his eyes drift back to the ruins, taking in the ash, the dust, the void where life had been moments ago. His hands rested on his weapon, fingers flexing tight as he exhaled.

“Was… everything else clear?” Ghost’s voice finally came.

Tightening his jaw until it ached, Price forced the words out slowly, explaining, “The compound’s a ruin and the east wing’s gone, extraction’s ugly and there are patrols moving in, but aside from…” his voice failed him briefly, “…aside from them, we’re clear to move and we’re pulling out.”

Ghost’s eyes bore into him and Price felt that moment of shared guilt, a soldier-level grief for someone they both couldn’t save.

There were no words big enough to fix it.

The moment fractured when approaching footsteps cut through the stillness, Johnny's arrival carrying a discordant energy as he strode in too loud and too loose, his voice ringing across the sand with the same careless humor that had helped tip the mission into disaster in the first place.

Grinning faintly, Johnny called out, “Oi, where are they then, not exactly their style to drop out early for a kip."

The words hung wrong in the air the instant they left his mouth.

Price’s head turned slowly as he felt all the rage, disbelief, and frustration coil inside him at once.

Before he could think, Kyle’s fist collided with Johnny's jaw with enough force to stagger the man backward onto the shifting sand.

Pain flashed across Johnny's face, more from shock than the impact, his smile faltering as he coughed and stumbled upright.

“Oi- what the hell?!” Johnny barked, hand pressed to his jaw, confusion and indignation mixing with the dull ache, “Did I lie? It’s not like them to be-”

“Don’t. Fucking. Joke,” Kyle spat, shaking with a mixture of panic, guilt, and a grief that had nowhere else to go. “You- your damn bomb- look what you did, mate! Take a good fucking look!”

Johnny's grin had vanished, replaced by confusion and the first hints of fear.

Price felt a brief flicker of satisfaction at the justice of it, and then, immediately, the weight of necessity pressed down on him. His hand landed on Kyle’s shoulder.

“We don’t have time for this,” he said, glancing at Johnny. “We’re leaving. You caused this, but right now your job is to keep breathing until we can clean this up.”

For a heartbeat, the Scot just stared, blinking as if the world had slipped out of alignment. Johnny’s shoulders sagged and his mouth opened on a sound that never quite formed into a word.

“No,” he said eventually, shaking his head as if that alone might rewind the last hour, “no, that’s not right, the timing was clean, I checked it twice, I checked it three times,” and then, quieter and more frantic, “they were clear, they were supposed to be clear.”

Keeping his voice steady took effort Price resented as he answered, “Plans don’t always survive contact, you know that, and neither do buildings when you pack them that tight."

Facts were safer than feelings and right now, Price needed Johnny anchored in something solid. Something other than the slippery hell of regret.

Johnny looked up, eyes blazing with defiance as he stepped closer and said, “Then we go back,” the words spilled fast now, “we get a jack, explosives, something. We can't just leave them there, sir, not after what they did last time.”

Memory flashed uninvited through Price’s mind, the image of you dragging Johnny out of a kill zone by his vest while rounds snapped overhead, how Price had rewarded that with a punch that cut your lip.

“They saved us,” Johnny insisted, “they took fire meant for me and Kyle both, and if they hadn’t made that call we’d be chalk outlines. Don't tell me this is just another bad number you can cross off a board.”

Holding his ground, Price snapped back, “I’m telling you I don’t get to spend the lives I’ve still got chasing the one I can’t reach. Don't try to override my orders, Soap.”

Price hated how rehearsed it sounded even to his own ears.

Anger flared hot and wild across Johnny's face as he shot back, “You’re writing them off already, and you know damn well they’re still alive out there!”

Grinding his teeth, Price answered, “Alive doesn’t mean reachable,” and then harsher, “and it doesn’t mean savable under that kind of collapse with QRF closing in.”

He might'd judged it a lost cause then because Johnny took a step past him toward the smoke and shouted, “I’m not leaving them!” the words sounded torn straight from his chest as he shoved at Price’s shoulder and added, “you can court-martial me later, but I’m not doing this! I'm not going to be a coward!"

Moving faster than Price could react, Ghost crossed the space and hooked an arm around Johnny’s chest, hauling him back hard as Johnny fought like a man possessed, fists slamming uselessly against armor while he roared, “Let me go, Ghost! They’d come back if it was us, you bloody know they would! Let me fucking go!”

Strain roughened Ghost’s voice as he dragged Johnny toward the helicopter, every step a battle, while he growled, “They wouldn’t want you dead on top of them, Soap, and you know it.”

Over the rising rotors, Johnny screamed Price’s name, desperation shredding whatever small control he had left as he yelled, “You promised we don’t leave our own, you promised!”

Turning away so Johnny wouldn’t see the fracture in his resolve, Price barked orders to the crew and forced his legs to carry him forward.

If he stopped now he might've been the first one to disobey his own orders.

The rotors kicked up a haze of sand and heat as the helicopter rose, the desert falling away beneath them in a blur of orange and gray.

Inside, Kyle slumped sideways against the bulkhead, eyes empty, staring at nothing that existed except the memory of what they had left behind.

Ghost sat beside him, one hand resting lightly on Kyle’s shoulder, trying to ground him without words, letting the younger man sink into the exhaustion and horror he couldn’t yet process.

Every so often, Ghost’s gaze flicked toward the horizon, where the compound still smoldered, as if he could somehow hold the world together with sight alone.

Johnny, on the other hand, could not sit still.

He paced in a tight loop, fists clenched, teeth gritted so hard a muscle in his jaw jumped, voice hissing through the cabin like a snake ready to strike. “No- no, this is wrong Price, we can’t just leave them! We can’t! They- Price, we can’t-”

Price’s own hands gripped the straps across his chest, knuckles white as he spoke slowly, knowing he had to thread the truth with a lie to keep them from descending entirely into chaos. “Johnny… I know what you’re feeling. I know what you want to do. We’ll come back, if we can but not now. Not now. Right now, we have to survive, or there won’t be anyone left to come back for them.”

“Not now?” He snapped, voice breaking as he leaned forward, eyes wild, chest heaving. “Not now?! How the hell do you know they’ll even-”

BANG!

His words died in his throat in an instant as the horizon bloomed into a furnace of orange and red, the compound behind them erupting in a roaring wall of fire and black smoke. Heat hit the cabin even through the armored fuselage.

Kyle’s body shifted slightly in its slump, almost imperceptibly, as his voice came, already mournful: “They… they were lying on bombs.. They were lying.. on bombs and I left them there...”

The words barely rose above a whisper, Kyle too busy staring toward that distant hell, where every hope of survival had ended in flames.

Johnny couldn’t look away, face frozen as though his body had betrayed him into witnessing a nightmare he had no hope of stopping. His mouth opened and closed once, twice, but no sound came.

Price’s gaze fell from the horizon, ashamed, mouth tight, hands unclenching only to curl back into fists.

The image burned in his mind, burned through all rationality, and he hated that he had been powerless to prevent it, hated that the calculus of survival had demanded leaving someone behind.

Ghost pressed the heels of his gloved hands to his eyes, tilting his head forward just enough to hide the tightness in his shoulders.

Kyle remained slumped, whispering fragments that made Price’s stomach churn, staring at that distant hell like the world had ended there, and Price knew they all carried it now.

A shared wound.

(...)

The chapel smelled of wet stone and candle smoke, a thin, bitter scent that clung to the walls and made Johnny’s throat tighten the moment he crossed the threshold, rainwater tracing chaotic lines down the leather of his boots and into grooves worn into the flagstones over centuries.

He paused briefly as the door swung closed behind him with a hollow thud that seemed far too loud in the quiet nave, and the sound carried too far, echoing across the empty pews in a way that made him feel like he had barged into something private, something that didn’t want him there.

Varnished oak gleamed under the dim, trembling glow of votive candles, each tiny flame flaring in the draft of the open door, yet the rows of pews still felt hollow, each empty space between mourners punching a gap through the chest that wasn’t supposed to exist.

A handful of people clustered near the front, coats dark and dripping, umbrellas collapsed at their feet, but their numbers were too few, the turnout small enough to remind him that this was someone who had lived quietly, quietly enough that the world had barely noticed when they were gone.

The chapel itself was pure England in stone and shadow: pale ribbed pillars ran along the walls, lancet windows leaked grey daylight that carried no warmth, and a timbered ceiling blackened with age and candle smoke loomed overhead like a cage no one could lift.

Somewhere behind the altar, a radiator ticked and sighed, mechanical comfort against the otherwise frozen quiet.

There was no casket, only a low wooden stand with a flag folded neatly atop it, the absence of the body beneath making Johnny’s stomach lurch as if he had walked into an unfinished sentence.

He swallowed once, twice, and muttered under his breath, a breath that felt too shallow, too small, and for a moment he almost regretted being here at all.

He hadn’t known you well, not properly, never shared a mission or a moment that mattered in the operational sense; your orbit had always been closer to Price and Garrick, loyal satellites in their gravitational pull, and Johnny had been on the edge, peripheral but not unwelcome, and certainly not unknowing of the respect you commanded quietly.

Simon had called you “amicable enough,” a faint smile in the chaos of life, a person who didn’t provoke yet didn’t cling, who left impressions like footprints in dust: fleeting, visible only if someone was paying attention.

Sliding into a pew near the back, Johnny felt the wood creak under his weight and rested his forearms on his thighs, letting his eyes wander ahead until they locked on Kyle, who sat in the front row and looked like he’d been hollowed out by grief, life drained from him in slow, uneven pulses.

His uniform jacket hung on his frame as if it had grown too large overnight, shoulders rounded forward, spine bowed under some invisible weight, hands clasped tight enough that knuckles gleamed white, and dark crescents under his eyes marked him as a man who had forgotten how to sleep.

Johnny’s jaw tightened, memory striking like an electric current: Kyle had been there when the east wing collapsed, had shouted your name through dust and heat, had dragged himself through ruins with nothing in his arms to soften the devastation.

And Johnny… Johnny had pressed the button.

The image came unbidden anyway, bright and cruel: the blastwave, the roar, the building folding in on itself like wet cardboard, heat licking his face, pressure pressing in from all sides, and your position lighting up the comm for half a heartbeat before going dead.

For someone who had spoken so little, you had left an echo loud enough to rattle every bone in the room, every nerve inside him.

“Still can’t believe it,” someone murmured behind him, soft and uncertain, and Johnny recognized the voice immediately, one of the lads from logistics, thin and hesitant, carrying grief the way some men carried tools: quietly, with effort.

“Whole wing,” the man continued, voice low, almost swallowed by the chapel’s shadows, “just… gone.”

Johnny didn’t respond, didn’t even turn, letting the words hang in the air like smoke, each syllable an accusation, a memory, a reminder that this wasn’t something you survived.

The priest didn’t linger, didn’t preach. There was no sermon, no parable, no promise of heaven to the men and women who had lived too long in hell-adjacent places. He spoke only of service, of giving more than was owed, of mercy even when men failed each other, and that was enough and also not nearly enough.

Kyle rose after the final ‘amen,’ boots scraping against stone in a sound that made Johnny grit his teeth instinctively, a raw noise that felt like it belonged in a warzone rather than a chapel.

He didn’t look back, didn’t acknowledge anyone, moving forward as though compelled by some unfeeling hand, and Johnny leaned slightly, drawn in despite himself.

Kyle reached the flag, a corner slipping loose beneath his fingers, and he folded it again, pressing down hard, as if the weight of the fabric might press something else out of the room, something untouchable and horrible.

Johnny watched his shoulders tighten, jaw lock, hands tremble once before stilling, and somewhere in that stillness, grief and guilt combined in a form he almost couldn’t bear to witness.

The woman waiting, family, smaller than Johnny expected, was swallowed in a black wool coat, shoulders too broad, hands twisting a lace handkerchief into submission, eyes locked on the flag as though it could speak for him, for her, for you.

Kyle offered it, hesitated, swallowed, and finally said, voice rough, not ceremonial, not measured, “I’m sorry. I should’ve brought them home.”

She flinched, then drew the flag into herself, folding her arms around it like a shield, whispering, “That’s alright,” though Johnny could hear how much it wasn’t, how little comfort could be wrung from a piece of fabric and folded cloth.

He stayed seated, staring at the seam between two stone tiles, counting breaths until the chapel stopped tilting under him, and watched as everyone else shuffled out afterward, murmuring soft condolences, brushing shoulders, boots whispering across stone, fragments leaving in fragments.

Outside, rain washed over a cemetery under a grey sky, headstones crooked and lichen-flecked, grass sodden, a low wall humming with distant traffic, engines and tyres feeding the hum of a world that refused to pause.

He found Kyle by the fencing.

Johnny’s boots sank into the soft, sodden earth, but he didn’t move yet, letting Kyle occupy the space near the gravesite while he assessed whether approaching was even possible.

Kyle’s lighter clicked, sparks snapping, smoke curling around his fingers, and the glow revealed a face hollowed out by grief, exhaustion, and something darker that Johnny had seen before but never so concentrated: guilt and rage, tangled together so tightly he could almost see the edges of it cutting into him.

“You holding together?” Johnny asked finally, keeping his voice low, almost casual, a habit of the military, a shield against emotion he hadn’t yet managed to dismantle.

Kyle laughed, a sharp, empty sound that scraped against Johnny’s ears. “Do I look like it?” he spat sideways, the smoke curling lazily into the drizzle. “What about you, then? You feel like a saint because you survived?”

Johnny rubbed the side of his face where Kyle had clocked him. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he said, almost too calmly, as if calm could stave off the tide.

Kyle’s jaw clenched, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, you’re here. But I was there too. I was right there when it all went to hell, and I had to watch… I had to watch-” His voice broke for a second, and he swallowed hard, but the anger didn’t leave. “You pressed the button, Johnny. You set up the blast, and-”

“I know,” Johnny interrupted quietly, holding up a hand, but Kyle cut him off before he could continue.

“No, don’t. Don’t you dare try to soften it. Don’t you dare tell me it wasn’t your fault. You were there, you-” He slammed the lighter down, sparks flying into a puddle, and the sound of it hitting gravel was loud in the quiet cemetery. “I was right next to them when the east wing came down, and you-” He jabbed a finger at Johnny now, “you sent them to their death!”

“You don’t get it!” Kyle finally shouted, taking a step forward, voice raw, wet from the rain. “You don’t fucking get it! I couldn't pull them out, and there was nothing, fucking nothing, I could do. And you… you were behind the safety. You were-”

Johnny stayed still, letting the rain soak through his coat, letting Kyle’s words strike him like fists, because in a way, that was exactly what he deserved. He felt the guilt coil in his chest, every heartbeat a reminder that he had done this. He had pressed that button. He had survived.

And you hadn’t.

Kyle’s fist hit Johnny square in the chest, hard enough that he staggered back slightly, boots sliding in the mud, and Johnny felt it, took it, because he didn’t have the right to push back, didn’t have the right to defend himself.

“You don’t get to survive and stand there! You don’t get to walk away with your conscience clean!” Kyle’s voice cracked, high-pitched now, almost inhuman with rage, the cigarette long forgotten on the ground.

Johnny exhaled slowly, letting the air hiss out between clenched teeth. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean for it to happen,” he rasped, voice barely audible above the rain. “I thought it was stable…”

Kyle swung again, faster this time, but Johnny caught his arm, not resisting, just holding it, feeling the trembling rage, the shaking guilt, the disbelief in Kyle’s eyes. “Stop,” he said softly, almost a plea. “I know. I know it’s my fault.”

“I know,” Johnny said again, soaked through in guilt and shame. “I know. I saw it. I can still hear it, Kyle. Every time I close my eyes, I hear-” His hands trembled as he lifted them, helpless. “I can’t… I can’t change it. God knows what I would give if I could.”

“You know?” Kyle spat, pulling his arm free. “You think knowing does anything? You think that makes it right that they-” His voice cracked, and he pressed his forehead into his fists. “You think it’s fair that I had to- I watched them-”

Kyle stumbled back, chest heaving, jaw tight, fists clenched. His voice dropped lower, shaking now with exhaustion and grief. “We’re supposed to protect people. That’s what we do. That’s the job! And you didn’t- you didn’t protect them, Johnny. You left us there, with that noise, that fire, that… chaos! And-”

Johnny’s own chest ached, stomach twisting, heart hammering. “I know,” he said again, quieter, humbling himself, letting the words soak into the rain. “I know. I can’t take it back. I can’t fix it. I… I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Kyle’s eyes burned with unshed tears, rain streaking over his cheeks, mouth quivering as he struggled for breath. “Sorry doesn’t bring them back!” he shouted, fists swinging uselessly again, and Johnny didn’t move to catch it this time, didn't block, didn’t argue, just took the blows like a confession, each strike digging into his guilt deeper.

“Until what?” Kyle screamed, the rain plastering his hair to his skull. “Until you can sleep at night and pretend it never happened? You think that makes it better?”

“I know,” Johnny repeated, ragged, almost a prayer. “I know. I’ll carry it. Every day. I’ll carry it until-”

“I won't pretend,” Johnny said quietly. “I never have. I never will. I carry it because it’s mine. It’s all mine. I survived, and I know why. And it haunts me every second, Kyle. I see it every second, hear it every second. I-”

Kyle’s shoulders sagged slightly, trembling with exhaustion and the slow, relentless flood of grief, and he kicked at a puddle, sending muddy water over Johnny’s boots. “I don’t even know what I want from you,” he admitted, voice breaking, finally letting a small shred of the despair through. “I don’t know if I want you to die here next to me or if I just want someone to tell me it wasn’t my fault that I… that I couldn’t-”

“You couldn’t save them,” Johnny whispered, stepping closer, hands open, empty, offering nothing but himself. “And you shouldn’t have had to. But you tried. You tried. And you’re alive, Kyle. And that… that means something too."

Kyle’s hands dropped to his sides, fists unclenching, rain soaking sleeves clinging to his forearms. His lips parted, but no words came, only the shaky intake of breath as grief finally overwhelmed his rage.

Johnny didn’t move, didn’t push. He let Kyle be, let him stand in the storm, let him rage and grieve and hate and hurt, all of it a testament to a life lost too soon and a weight that neither of them could ever fully share.

“I… I can’t forgive myself,” Kyle muttered finally, voice low, almost a whisper, the words carried more to himself than to Johnny.

“I know,” Johnny said again, soft and steady. “I know. Me neither.”

(...)

He lingered long after Kyle had disappeared down the gravel path, boots sinking slightly into the rain-softened earth, letting the drizzle run along his collar and soak through his coat as if the weather itself wanted to wash him clean of memory.

At the far edge of the plot, he found yours, standing apart in quiet defiance among older stones. The newest headstone in a field of weathered limestone and slate, its edges sharp, unforgiving, cold beneath his fingertips, and simple to the point of cruelty, too simple for someone who had lived, breathed, and moved through the world with a presence that had left traces, however faint, on every life you touched.

Your name was etched into the stone in flowing script, elegant but impersonal, destined to be traced by countless hands over decades, by eyes that would never have known you, never understood you, never grieved the way he was about to.

Beneath it, two dates stared up at him, stark in their finality, and Johnny knelt, rain soaking through hair, coat, gloves, grounding him in the chill as if punishment and absolution had been rolled into one.

Fingers dug into his thighs for leverage as he pressed a hand to the stone, felt its icy solidity cut through gloves and skin, a weight of permanence that both anchored him and mocked him in equal measure, accusing him for all the things he could not undo.

It was the same day, a cruel symmetry he could not escape.

Swallowing, jaw tight, he felt blood rush behind his ears, the pulse a hammering echo of memory. The blast, the roar, the way concrete had screamed and the building had collapsed in on itself, smoke curling and heat searing, the dust choking and choking again.

He could almost hear your voice, cut short in a scream that would never finish, could almost feel the heat of the fire licking at his arms, the sting of sweat and ash on his skin.

“Course it was,” he muttered, voice low, raspy, swallowed by mist and drizzle, words failing to carry nearly enough grief. “Happy fuckin’ birthday.”

The bell of the nearby church tolled the hour, dull and distant, reverberating through the drizzle and the wet grass, carrying the hollow weight of time over the cemetery, each strike pressing the moment tighter against him.

God heard everything, they said. Johnny let himself hope that maybe, somehow, He had heard you, had felt the pulse of your life and the echo of your death, had noticed that the world had lost someone who had deserved more than this simplicity in stone.

Rain ran into his eyes, stinging, and Johnny pressed both hands to the cold surface again, leaning forward, head lowered, letting the wet and the grief mix together until the world outside the small square of your plot disappeared, leaving only him and the impossibility of what had happened.

(...)

It had been five hundred days since Taskforce 141 had been reduced to four people, since the faces around him had narrowed, the jokes thinned, and the weight of every mission had doubled with fewer shoulders to carry it

Simon Riley crouched on a rooftop, rifle braced against his shoulder, scope leveled toward the abandoned industrial district while Price fed him ranges and wind corrections through the comm, his thoughts wandering to how absence had a sound when you listened long enough.

Through the scope, a lone figure crossed the courtyard with a gait that did not belong to desperate or ignorant men, and Simon murmured, “Hold a second,” cutting Price off as his pulse slowed instead of spiking.

Something about the cadence pulled at a memory he kept buried.

Another step brought the eyes into focus beneath a wrapped face, and Simon felt the certainty land without reason or proof.

It settled deep and refused argument.

Simon dropped from the rooftop, boots scraping rubble, rifle lowering slightly, hands flexing on the weapon as he moved forward.

Price’s voice shouted, urgent: “Ghost! Stand down! Do not-”

Every syllable fell away under the weight of recognition, meaningless against the force of what he was seeing, because he could not, would not, stop.

He ignored Price, ignored the rules, ignored caution, because the world had shrunk to the shape of a single presence, a single set of eyes beneath the scarf that had haunted his thoughts for months and years alike.

Simon knew it in his bones, in the marrow of his fingers curling around the rifle, that those eyes belonged to you.

He spoke your name first as if it were a lifeline thrown into the wind.

Come back. Hear me. Recognize me.

He didn’t expect an answer, he wasn’t even certain it was reasonable to expect one, but he needed it said, needed to feel your name as a sound out his mouth again instead of a lump in his throat.

“Oi… look at me,” he said again, waiting for the familiar flicker, the fraction of recognition he could hold onto.

Instead, the shot from your raised gun hit stone behind him, a sharp crack, a spray of grit that stung his cheek. Simon rolled forward, pressed the rifle low, his hands tightening on the grip, feet scrabbling over rubble as he closed the distance, irritation curling in his chest because each measured movement of yours defied confusion.

Panic did not shoot straight. Panic did not aim with intent.

Closer now, he lowered the rifle another fraction and said, “It’s Ghost,” choosing the name you had always used, convinced the sound alone would cut through whatever fog had settled over you.

Your answer came in motion instead of words.

You pivoted and drove a kick into his ribs with brutal efficiency, force landing where he hadn’t expected it, knocking the air from his lungs and slamming him into the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth.

Simon was already pushing back up, mind racing through possibilities he didn’t want to name, and when he lunged to restrain you his hand closed around your leg and found something wrong.

There was no give.

Cold resistance met him beneath fabric and dust, weight carrying straight through his grip and into his bones, and his breath caught as the truth sharpened into focus with sickening clarity.

“What did they do to you,” he demanded, voice rough, not a question meant for permission but a problem stated aloud.

Memory flooded him all at once, of you laughing, swearing, arguing, bleeding human blood on desert stone.

Your gun came up again, smooth and practiced, and when you spoke your voice carried nothing of that past. “You are not cleared to interfere.”

The words landed cleanly, devoid of fear or hesitation, and the last excuse Simon had clung to collapsed under their weight.

“You don’t know me,” he said slowly, hearing the truth in it even as it hurt, feeling it settle deep in his chest as something solid and terrible.

Simon recalculated.

Trauma did not erase recognition with such precision. Instinct did not produce movements that clean.

Whatever stood in front of him had not only been broken but bent out of shape.

The fight closed fast after that, bodies colliding among rubble and dust, Simon using training over emotion until momentum tipped in his favor and he drove you down, knee braced, grip locked tight around your weapon arm.

With his free hand, he tore the mask from his face and leaned down until there was nowhere for you to look but at him.

“It’s me!” he shouted. “Simon Riley. Look at me! It’s Simon!”

For a heartbeat, you went still.

The world narrowed to that single pause, and hope flared sharp and dangerous in his chest, because your eyes flickered, because something unreadable crossed your face, because for the first time since he'd seen you in 500 days, you weren’t moving to kill him.

Then your free hand came up and smashed the butt of your gun into the side of his skull.

(...)

When Simon woke, the air was cool and smelled of antiseptic and metal, his head throbbing as he stared up at the inside of a transport cot.

Price sat beside him, elbows on his knees, expression drawn tight with things he wasn’t saying.

“Easy,” Price murmured quietly. “You took a hit.”

Simon swallowed, memory crashing back in fragments, and turned his head enough to meet Price’s eyes. “It was them,” he said hoarsely.

(...)

@thelittlerockinyourshoe @nemira-the-mercenary @angelciipher @dreamingoreflection @trashaccount19 @bingbongsupremacy @muraaaaaa

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

BIRTHDAY GIFT | 141

gn reader. angst. death. imposter syndrome. major issues. explosives. canon-level violence.

The bar was a mess of clinking glasses, half-wiped tables, low lights, and stray napkins that never seemed to make it into bins. The hum of chatter mixed with the scrape of chairs on the sticky floor, and the faint smell of spilled beer clung stubbornly to the air. It wasn’t the worst place to be on a Friday night, but it wasn’t great either.

It fit your mood perfectly.

Soap leaned forward on his elbows, shoulders relaxed, cheeks faintly flushed from his drink. He talked the way he always did. Open, warm, and far too easy to listen to. You envied that about him. You envied a lot about him.

“You… call Ghost during breaks?” you asked, trying to keep your voice level.

“Yeah, ‘course. What are friends for?” Soap shrugged, as if the topic wasn’t gutting you. As if it was ordinary. As if Ghost picking up his calls was the most expected thing in the world.

Your throat tightened. Soap kept talking.

“He gets grumpy sometimes but he picks up. Usually. Unless he’s caught up with something. Happens, aye?”

You nodded, but it felt mechanical. Automatic.

You tried not to think about how Ghost sent your calls to voicemail. How your messages went unread until he felt like answering, if he answered. How the only time you managed to get him out for a beer had taken months of trying and even then he sat stiffly, barely engaging, as if you were a task he had to tolerate.

But Soap? Soap had access. Effortless access.

Of course he did.

You coughed, trying to force down the lump that blocked your air.

Soap took it the wrong way. He reached out and patted your back, gentle and concerned. “Y’alright there?”

“Yeah,” you said quickly, waving him off. “Drink went down the wrong pipe. That’s all.”

Soap nodded in sympathy. “Rough.”

You looked at him, expression flat. “Thanks.”

He accepted that without question. Then, with another sip of his drink:

“So anyway, I called him up earlier. Asked if he wanted to eat with the McTavish lot for Christmas evening.”

Your pulse stilled.

Soap kept going, unaware of the shift inside you. “Told him he doesn’t have to come if he’s busy or tired. But he said he’d think about it. So that’s something, yeah?”

You didn’t answer.

You only hummed when you needed to, nodded when it looked expected.

Ghost. At a Christmas gathering. Ghost, choosing to be anywhere near a family. Ghost, considering a night with people he actually cared about.

Not you, of course. Never you.

You stared down at your drink. The ice was melting, small cracks running through the cubes, tiny drops sliding down your fingers as you held the glass. You kept your eyes on that and not on Soap’s excited grin.

Why would Ghost bother with someone like you when John McTavish was right there, loud, bright, magnetic, impossible to dislike?

Why would he choose the person who struggled to get even a full sentence out of him when he had someone who could pull a laugh from him without even trying?

Why had you thought, even for a moment, that you could matter?

“-Guess the eggnog and me weren’t meant to be,” Soap finished with an easy laugh, bringing you back into the conversation.

You forced a small chuckle, head dipping. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “Guess it wasn’t.”

Your voice held steady. Your hands didn’t. The glass trembled in your grip.

Soap didn’t notice. No one ever noticed.

And across the bar, laughter from another table cut through the room, Ghost’s subtle voice among them. A short, low sound. One you’d spent months trying to hear.

Not meant for you. Never meant for you.

You stared down at your drink again, letting the ice numb your fingers. It wasn’t enough.

—

Luckily, you weren’t stupid enough to request a suicide mission from the captain just to knock the sinking feeling out of your chest. Not tonight. Not after a day that had already felt like a slow, deliberate hammering.

You were a hopeless mess, yes. But at least you were alive.

Still, the thought had crossed your mind when you were shoved between Soap and Ghost in the back of the truck. Price, mercifully, was taking his role as designated driver seriously, despite the three drinks that had clearly loosened his usual iron grip on professionalism.

“Can't I shotgun?” you muttered, glancing at Gaz, who was passed out across the front seat, snoring softly.

The captain caught your gaze in the rearview mirror. “You stop Ghost from murdering Soap.”

Right. Of course. That was your job. To keep the peace. To sit quietly and take up as little space as possible while everyone else fit in perfectly.

You sank further into your jacket, hoping to disappear. If you could disassociate enough, maybe you could escape the tightness of the space pressing against your sides, the brush of Soap’s arm, the subtle heat of Ghost shifting on the other side.

Soap flopped against your shoulder with that irritating ease that made your skin crawl. He slurred softly, “What’re your plans for the holidays?”

Of course you were the last person he asked. Last. The afterthought in a chain of voices, a voice that would not have mattered if you weren’t there at all. You told yourself it didn’t sting, but it did.

“.. Probably-” you almost said ‘drink myself to death’ under your breath, swallowing it instead, “-catch up on sleep.”

The captain’s eyes in the rearview mirror burned into you, a reminder that your sarcasm and bitterness were being meticulously logged somewhere in your psyche for a future psychology session. Thin ice. Always thin ice.

Soap shouted over the engine’s rumble, “What? That’s so boring!”

The spit from his words landed on your neck, and you winced, brushing it away quickly, trying not to make a scene. “You’re even worse than Simon!” he added, and your stomach lurched.

Simon. Of course they were on a first-name basis. Of course.

You ignored Ghost shifting next to you, tried to block him out, make your brain stop recording the warmth radiating from the man beside you.

“Leave them alone, Johnny,” Ghost said quietly, and the contrast of his calm to Soap’s chaos only reminded you of your own invisibility.

“Oh, c’mon! You gotta admit, sleeping in for the entire break?” Soap bellowed.

“Sounds like a solid plan to me,” Ghost replied, voice smooth, almost fond.

Fond. Gods, he even sounded fond.

You wished you’d taken up Kyle on that drinking game earlier. Anything to blur the edges of your awareness, anything to stop the feeling that every laugh, every shared glance, every casual touch of John and Simon’s hands was a personal indictment of your own failures.

You thought of nothing and everything at once: the months of trying to get Simon’s attention, the laugh you’d almost coaxed out of him once, the small victories that now felt meaningless.

And the worst part? You knew it wasn’t fair. It had never been fair. You had tried. You had waited. You had carved out space in Simon’s life with patience and effort, only to be sidelined, again and again, by the effortless gravity of McTavish’s presence.

You bit your lip until it bled a little, not caring if anyone noticed, not even Ghost. You could feel Soap muttering something beside you, Ghost’s chair creaking as he shifted closer, their voices overlapping into some private universe you weren’t allowed to enter.

—

Kyle’s favourite was Price.

Price’s favourite was Ghost.

Ghost’s favourite was Soap.

Soap’s favourite was Ghost.

And you… well, you were part of the task force.

It wasn’t anyone’s fault. No one had done anything cruel. No one had explicitly pushed you away. But the pattern was there, threaded through every conversation, every private joke you weren’t present for, every look exchanged over your head.

It felt wrong to even feel it. Childish. Pathetic, even.

You were a grown adult, a soldier, highly trained, highly capable, and intimately familiar with the ugliest parts of warfare. You’d put bullets in men twice your size without flinching. You’d watched things that would haunt civilians forever.

And yet…

It felt exactly like being a lonely teenager again, sitting at the lunch table wondering if your friends had another chat you weren’t included in. The one they didn’t talk about around you. The one you would never see.

You told yourself that 141 wasn't built for friendship. That you weren’t owed their affection. That you weren’t owed anything.

But the sting still found a way in, sinking into your ribs in the quiet moments between missions.

—

The mission was a mess.

Comms cut out. Intel outdated. More hostiles pouring into the facility than anyone expected.

You didn’t have time to think.

You made a call. A risky one.

A wrong one, by Price’s standards.

You knew the shouting was coming long before it started.

“What the bloody hell was that?!” Price roared, and the sound cracked through the room like a hammer.

He didn’t wait for your answer. His fist slammed across your cheek, brutal enough to send stars scattering across your vision. You staggered but stayed upright, jaw throbbing.

“Did you listen to me during the briefing at all?!” he barked, stepping into your space, towering over you. “What were the mission orders?”

You opened your mouth, but he grabbed your collar and yanked you closer. His breath hit your skin, hot and furious.

“What were the mission orders?!”

You forced the words out, even as your throat tightened. “Establish surveillance… wait for reinforcements… hold perimeter.”

“Then if you knew,” he snapped, “what the fuck was that?”

Your voice shook. You hated that it shook.

“Captain, I- I needed to-”

“No,” he said sharply, cutting you off with a finger pointed at your face. “Don’t you ‘Captain’ me like that. You disobeyed direct orders. You just cost us-”

He shoved you back, and you hit the wall hard, shoulder screaming. Soap shifted where he stood, as if instinctively wanting to step in, but Ghost’s hand landed on his arm, a silent warning.

Stay out of it.

You didn’t look at them.

You couldn’t.

—

Laswell’s report took thirty minutes. Your explanation took two.

Her verdict was simple: Your deviation was made in an attempt to extract the team after the facility filled with unexpected hostiles.

You had acted to protect their lives. You should have followed orders. Both were true.

Outside the briefing room, the hallway felt colder. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. You couldn’t look at Price. You didn’t think you could handle whatever expression he had now. Anger, disappointment, pity. Either one made your stomach roil.

For long seconds, neither of you spoke. You stared at the floor. He stared at the wall. Ghost and Soap lingered farther down the corridor, unusually quiet.

Finally, Price approached. He stopped beside you. “Look at me.”

You did. Because you had to.

For the first time tonight, he wasn’t furious. He looked older instead. Tired. His jaw worked as if he was chewing on words he didn’t want to say. Then: “I shouldn’t have hit you.”

You blinked.

Once.

Twice.

He continued. “I was angry. We were blindsided. I took it out on you. That was out of line.”

His hand rested on your shoulder. Gentle, almost, and steady. The same hand that had thrown the punch. “You made a call under pressure. A bad one, but you were trying to get us all out. That’s clear.”

You tried to swallow past the tightness in your throat. “I didn’t want anyone hurt.”

“I know.”

You nodded. Not because you forgave him, you doubted he'd care if you didn't. Not because you wanted to talk, neither of you seemed to be in the mood.

But because it was the only response your body seemed capable of and the one that Price seemed to want.

He gave a small exhale, something between relief and regret, and stepped back. “Get some rest.”

He walked away, boots echoing down the hall. Soap followed after a hesitant moment. Ghost lingered the longest, enough that you felt his gaze on your cheek, your jaw, the bruise forming.

You didn’t look at him.

—

Garrick was a good kid.

More than capable. Quick on his feet. Sharp in ways recruits twice his age weren’t.

You actually enjoyed sparring with him. He listened. He adjusted. He didn’t get frustrated when you swept him onto the mat for the third, fourth, fifth time. He laughed through the bruises. And you caught yourself liking the role, someone older, more experienced, someone who could teach him something worthwhile.

You’d tap his shoulder in warning before shifting your stance. “Guard up.”

“Already up,” he’d grin.

And he meant it. He was trying.

But every time, every damn time, his eyes drifted.

Not at the floor. Not even at the clock. But to Price.

Captain walked by once, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed, and Gaz’s entire focus slid toward him like metal pulled by a magnet. A small tilt of his head. A spark in his eyes. A silent pull. You could almost see his body shift to face him fully, even if he stayed planted in front of you.

Hero worship? No. Not quite.

Price wasn’t a hero. And Garrick certainly wasn’t fourteen.

Didn’t stop it from feeling like that sometimes.

It never hurt enough to complain. Never hurt enough to resent Gaz for it. You just noticed it the way you noticed the cold before snow.

So you huffed in laughter when his attention slipped mid-spar.

You’d clap him on the shoulder, pull his weight over your hip, and slam him onto the mat one last time.

He’d wheeze, blinking up at the ceiling before laughing. “Alright, switch?”

You offered him your hand. He took it instantly, grinning wide and bright, hauling himself to his feet with a bounce you rarely saw when he was sparring with you.

“For sure! Thanks for the spar, mate!”

“Yeah, no-” you watched him jog toward Price, practically vibrating with energy, “-worries.”

You dusted off your hands, quiet settling into your bones. The mat felt colder under your knees than it had before.

Price clapped Gaz on the back. Gaz lit up.

Of course he did.

Of course that’s who he gravitated toward. Of course you weren’t the one he looked up to.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. You told yourself you were fine, you weren’t supposed to want that kind of connection anyway. You weren't even in your 30s yet!

And yet…Something inside you faded a little each time it happened.

—

Later that week, the base was quiet, the halls half-lit. You stood in the kitchen alone, the hum of the fridge the only sound. The light overhead was dim, casting long, lazy shadows across the counters. Laswell had surprised you with the cupcake. A ridiculous little thing, almost childish, bright and colorful, the frosting swirled in a gradient of colors that didn’t match anything you would’ve picked.

“I didn’t know which color you liked best,” she’d said, almost sheepish.

You didn’t know what your face had looked like in that moment. Grateful, maybe. Soft. Probably pathetic, if she’d gotten a good look at the way your hands had wrapped around the cupcake like it was a lifeline.

She placed the candle gently in the center, lit it, and stepped back.

For the first time in years, maybe since your fifteenth birthday or the one after it that didn’t happen at all, you felt warm. Like someone had nudged the world back into focus just for a moment.

Then the hallway cracked open with Price’s voice. “Alright, debrief for the mission in five!”

Duty first. Always duty first. The echo carried through the halls, bouncing off the walls. And just like that, the small bubble of stillness shattered.

You held the cupcake a little longer, thumb brushing the frosting and smearing the gradient slightly. It felt right, somehow. Messy, small, and yours.

You blew out the candle. Quietly. No wish coming to mind.

Carefully, you set the cupcake on top of the fridge. Balanced it just so. A small, absurd monument.

You turned to grab a mug from the cabinet, rinsing it absentmindedly under the tap. Water ran over your fingers, dripped down the counter. You didn’t bother drying them properly, just left the small puddle there.

The base creaked around you, the usual mix of distant chatter, footsteps, and the low hum of machinery. You leaned against the counter after you filled your mug with coffee, shoulders slack, watching the cupcake from the corner of your eye.

Soap’s voice floated from behind you. “Oi. What’s that up there?”

You didn’t look at him. Just tilted your head toward the fridge.

“It’s… nothing,” you said softly.

“Cupcake?” His grin was sheepish. “Laswell’s handiwork?”

You gave the faintest shrug, not moving.

He straightened, hands on his hips, frowning like a parent scolding a child. Or trying to. Then, without another word, he hopped and grabbed the cupcake.

You froze.

He tilted it toward his mouth, frosting smeared across his fingers, and took a big bite. Chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed. Licked his fingers.

You blinked.

“Oi,” you said finally. “That-”

He raised an eyebrow, smiling like you were sharing a joke. “It’s just a cupcake.”

You opened your mouth to protest, then closed it again. What could you say? Complain? Yell? It wasn’t worth it. He was right. It was childish. Silly. And you… you didn’t have the energy to be angry. Not really.

Soap took another bite, humming softly, satisfied. “Not bad. Laswell’s got skills, eh?”

He was right. It was good. And it had been meant for you. And now it was gone. And that was… fine.

You leaned back against the counter, watching him polish off the last crumbs.

Soap clapped the empty cupcake wrapper in his hand and tossed it in the bin, grinning like nothing had happened. “Cheers, mate. That was worth it.”

You nodded, tiredly, letting the warmth linger in your chest, even if it had come at the expense of your birthday treat.

—

You couldn't quite hear the team against your ear com. They were a mess of static and blood loss, a slurry of vowels and panic that you couldn’t separate. Everything was too loud and too quiet at once.

You tasted the grit of the sand against your tongue, a terrible mix with the iron of your blood trying to choke you out. The ground was warm under your back, too warm, and something sharp nudged between your ribs every time you breathed. You tried not to think about what it was. Or what it was attached to.

Price was screaming something. His voice came warped, distorted, the kind of strained tone you never associated with him. Could’ve been him. Could’ve been your brain filling in the blanks.

“-copy? Do you copy?!”

“-think he’s- God, Soap, you bloody-”

“-we’re circling back! Hold on!”

Static drowned them out again.

You wanted to turn your com off. You wanted peace. Just a moment where the ringing in your head and the drone of the rotor blades didn’t mix into a single, nauseating hum.

The helicopter was a tiny dot overhead now, growing farther and farther away. You blinked slowly. It wasn’t their fault, you knew. Even if you always half‑believed everyone must hate you, they didn’t mean to leave you behind.

(Your psychologist had said once that believing everyone actively disliked you was a sign of an ego far too big for its position. You didn’t like that session very much.)

It wasn’t their fault your legs had been crushed by debris from one of Soap’s explosives.

Wrong angle, wrong timing, wrong day.

You hadn’t even heard the collapse before you were already on the ground staring at a sky that didn’t care.

Still felt like shit though.

You shifted a little, just a fraction, and felt a clink beneath you. Metal brushing metal. Something taped. Something with edges too neat. You ignored it. You’d been ignoring it for a while now.

Someone was saying something through the com again. No… not saying.

Singing.

A soft voice, ragged at the edges.

Laswell.

“Happy birthday… to you…”

You froze. Or maybe your body was already still and your brain just noticed. Your vision blurred, tears slipping down your cheeks and into the sand. How long had it been since someone sang that to you?

“Happy birthday… to you…”

“-Don’t you dare close your eyes, stay with us!”

“-pilot says we’re losing fuel, we can’t-”

Your fingertips brushed the wires tucked under you, the faint warmth of something that shouldn’t be warm. One of the packets pressed awkwardly into your spine when you inhaled. You tried not to laugh.

“Happy birthday… happy birthday…” Laswell’s voice faltered.

You swallowed, lips splitting. “Laswell,” you rasped, but you didn’t know if the com transmitted anything at all.

“-kid’s still alive, I know they are, I know-”

“-we’ll come back, we’ll come back for you, just hold on-”

You tugged lightly at a wire. Just to feel it. Just to know it was still there.

“...happy birthday… to…”

You smiled, salt and blood catching on your tongue.

“…me.”

[demothers-empty-blog]

König found the fucker who gave you your cold, sergeant fuckface over here’s been coughing out in the open air for the last two, three minutes.

“Cough inside your arm,” he finally says, tone severely curt. The sergeant was going to oblige, what with König ranking higher but something about that snappy delivery made him talk back. “What’s your problem?” He goes, omitting the word “sir”. Certainly a choice, not a brave one.

The Colonel’s left eye twitches. His problem? His problem is being too overprotective of you.

“My problem?” He says. “My problem is you spreading your fucking germs everywhere. My problem is that my wife, who was here, working with me, caught your fucking cold and has been sick like a dog for six straight days.”

The chair’s legs scrape against the floor as König abruptly stood, “Six days, sergeant. Six days and six nights, I’ve had to stay by her side hearing her hack and wheeze her lungs out, she doesn’t eat, barely drinks anything and you’re wondering what my problem is?”

The sergeant shrinks into his seat as your husband stalks towards him and almost grabbed the man by the collar, but he held himself by some miracle. “Cough into your fucking sleeve next time.”

He looked like he was about to piss himself, good. The sergeant nods, unable to pry his eyes off the behemoth who stood before him, then he scrambles out of his seat and leaves König alone in the break room, never in his life has he seen the bastard move so fast, not even during drills.

Hopefully he got the message. Now, all he needs to do is get through the rest of the day so he can return home and cuddle beside you, and hear you whine and complain about being sick.

Poor Schatzi.

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

I LOVE YOU WITH KÖNIG

just cuteness. some angst. fluffy fluff. bit of a peek into my version of him. non-fluent könig.

König is a barren field.

There is no life that thrives under his hands. The curve of his palms do not cradle so much as it squeezes, fingers crudely drawn in a shape only bones that have been broken half a dozen times and healed wrong can be.

And still here you are.

Gods above, here you are.

You're half-drowned under his blankets, a slant of sunlight finding the gentle curve of your arm and it nearly feels deliberate, as if even the sun bends over itself to touch you, to touch the shard of godhood that he cradles between his arms.

And he understands. He understands.

The arc of your spine slots against his chest and it feels like a baptism. The slope of your shoulders, the sprawl of your legs, the thrum of your heart— it feels like an apology.

A quiet compensation for the hurt that began with his mother and creeped itself into every crevice of his being.

“Why?” He had begged God, had surrendered to a bruising kneel for a small revelation in the wooden floorboards of his childhood bedroom, pleading for Him to explain his mother's hatred, make him understand why she had a graveyard for a heart.

The atoms that make up the holy breath of God spells out— You. You. You.

Still he cannot imagine himself deserving this. Deserving you.

He reaches out, tentative, scared like a boy who has searched for salvation and found God.

König's fingers find your waist, pulling himself closer to you, pressing his chest against the dotted expanse of your back.

You shift then and suddenly a warmth finds his cheek and he cannot help but lean into it, surrendering to your touch.

“Good morning,” you whisper and he smiles, turning to kiss your palm.

“I love you.”

You turn around and wrinkle your nose at him. König aches with the need to kiss you.

“That's not good morning,” you say, an undercurrent of a scold in your words.

He tilts his head, grinning as a tight-laced accented voice spills from him. “No, but they say is good to start the day with a truth.”

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

DISCORD BOYFRIEND KÖNIG

sfw + nsfw. this is just an amalgamation of all my ideas

könig has never been one for putting his face on social media. even before the scars that pull at the skin of his cheek, reshaping his expression in ways he’s never fully grown used to, the idea of being seen, really seen, has never sat right with him. there’s a certain comfort in anonymity, in keeping the world at arm’s length. easier that way. safer.

that unease, paired with what some might consider his more nerdy interests, means he gravitates toward spaces like discord rather than the highly curated feeds of instagram or facebook. there, he doesn’t have to worry about photos or videos— just a username, and a presence in text.

his handle is simple: king 👑. a nod to the name he’s carried for so long, stripped of rank, stripped of weight.

even in the server where he’s most active, he keeps things vague, blending into discussions about games, military history, or whatever niche interest has caught his attention that week.

every now and then, he’ll let something slip— a mention of deployment, an offhand comment, disappearing for months at a time, only to return with a sudden burst of activity. some put the pieces together. most don’t. and könig prefers it that way. it’s easier to let them think he’s just another guy with spotty internet.

your first interaction is rather simple in retrospect.

he’s back after weeks of recon, shaking off the mission like dirt from his boots, easing into the familiarity of a gaming server he’s called home for years.

it’s not a small server, so new people come and go. he does his usual routine— an automated, slightly impersonal welcome but what he doesn’t expect is the sheer enthusiasm in return.

“hi!!!!”

he stares at the message for a second, counting the exclamation marks. three. four. five? a small smile tugs at his lips before he even realizes it.

it doesn’t take long before you’re at his metaphorical side, sending a friend request before the conversation even shifts from your college courses.

the older members tease him. something about his last deployment scrambling his head enough to take a newbie under his wing. he lets them talk. he doesn’t mind.

soon enough, you’re in his private messages, dramatically lamenting your latest loss in a game he’s only vaguely familiar with. könig listens— well, reads— as you rant, words spilling out at a rapid-fire pace, interspersed with keyboard smashing and increasingly incoherent frustration.

he’s not much for new releases, preferring to sink his teeth into a single game for months on end, grinding away until mastery is muscle memory. still-

one evening, without preamble, he sends you a link. his profile. in your game.

the response is immediate. ‘king!!! 🥺’ you type, followed by an onslaught of keyboard mashing that takes up half his screen.

he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. he wonders if you know how easy it is to make him grin like an idiot.

the calls are… an unexpected development.

könig doesn’t make a habit to join server calls. ever. it’s not even about anxiety, not really, just preference. too many voices, too much noise. he never expected to be comfortable enough with anyone to want to be in a call, let alone initiate one.

but when you start gaming together, it becomes a necessity. typing mid-match isn’t exactly efficient, and you’re the first to point that out.

“okay, listen, king, i am not about to lose another ranked match just because you take five years to type ‘behind you.’” he huffs, amused, but relents.

soon enough, calls become second nature— no longer tied to gaming, no longer requiring an excuse. you always ask first, polite thing that you are, and könig always agrees. sometimes it’s an unspoken invitation, a simple “call?” sent in the quiet hours of the night. sometimes he beats you to it, pressing the button before he can think too hard about it.

one time, it’s you who calls. he answers on the first ring.

“are you- wait.” you pause, listening. there’s a distinct, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the background. not footsteps, but something heavier, more controlled. “are you on a treadmill?”

“mm.” his voice is steady, unaffected. a quiet confirmation.

you gasp, and he can practically hear the amusement brewing in your tone. “oh my god! you actually work out? i thought you were lying.”

he snorts, breath hitching slightly as he adjusts his pace. “why would i lie about that?”

“i don’t know! you just- i mean, you sit at your desk all day, playing the same game for hours, and you’re always online at weird times-”

“you are describing yourself,” he points out.

“shut up.”

there’s a pause, and then, with the kind of mischief that only comes from knowing exactly how to push his buttons, you add, “prove it.”

he slows to a walk, swiping open his phone. a moment later, you receive a picture. him, flexing. the lighting is dim, but you can still make out the cut of his forearm, the solid shape of his bicep. just to humor you, he throws up a peace sign.

“not stolen from pinterest.”

you burst into laughter so sudden and bright that he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.

you learn what it means to miss könig pretty early on.

it happens suddenly. one day, he’s there, active as usual, sending the occasional meme, idling in voice chat even if he’s not talking. the next? radio silence. not even a ‘typing…’ indicator.

at first, you don’t think much of it. maybe he’s sleeping in. maybe he’s busy. time zones are weird. it’s fine.

but then a whole day passes. then another. you check his status— nothing. not offline, not do not disturb, just… gone.

curiosity turns into concern, and before you can think better of it, you ask in the server.

“hey, anyone heard from king?”

the response is casual. unbothered. “oh, dude’s probably deployed again.”

you blink. reread the message. “deployed?”

“yeah, king’s military.”

there’s no warning for the way that statement knocks the air from your lungs.

military? as in, real-life combat? as in, war zones and danger and actual life-or-death situations?

you stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure what to even say to that.

he doesn’t resurface for weeks.

you don’t realize how much you’ve come to rely on his presence until it’s gone. his absence is loud in the quiet moments of your day, in the spaces where a message from him would normally be.

you check the server out of habit, catching yourself before you can search his username. it’s stupid, you think. you barely know him. he’s just some guy from a discord server.

but the worry lingers.

and then, one day, just like that— he’s back.

his return is as unceremonious as his disappearance.

no dramatic entrance, no fanfare. just a simple “hello.”

you see it the moment he sends it. your stomach flips.

before you can stop yourself, you send a private message. “you’re alive.”

a moment passes. then— “yes.”

you frown. “you were gone for weeks.”

“i know.”

frustration bubbles up. “you could’ve said something.”

“i couldn’t.”

you hesitate, fingers tightening around your phone. you don’t know what you were expecting. an explanation? reassurance? but it’s clear you’re not getting one.

but then, a follow-up message. one that feels heavier, more careful. “i’m sorry.”

and just like that, the irritation dissolves.

it’s strange, the way things slip back into place after that.

he doesn’t talk about it, and you don’t ask. but something shifts. after that deployment, könig starts telling you when he’ll be gone. nothing in detail, really. just a simple, “i’ll be away for a bit.”

(it means everything.)

slowly, you get used to it. the rhythm of his presence and absence, the way your conversations pick up right where they left off, as if no time has passed at all.

it goes on for months. this… thing between the two of you. könig doesn’t hesitate to call it friendship, though he knows, knows, it’s something else entirely.

something with edges softer than companionship, something that lingers in the pauses between conversation, in the way you had whispered his real name under your breath when he revealed it to you.

he doesn’t rush to name it. doesn’t push. he lets it simmer until it feels inevitable.

in the end, it’s you who breaks first. technically. not that he’s keeping score. not that he would ever rub it in your face, especially when he was a mere day away from asking the very same thing.

it starts with a message. no preamble, no buildup. just a simple: hey, what are we?

könig sees it and reacts before thinking. presses the call button so fast his thumb practically smashes the screen. it rings once, twice—

“you didn’t even ask.” your voice comes through, half exasperated, half amused.

“didn’t want to give you time to unsend.” his own voice is steady, but his heart is anything but.

you huff. “bold assumption.”

“not really.”

a pause. he hears you shift, fabric rustling, the sound of you settling in. something warm and slow uncoils in his chest at the familiarity of it.

“so,” you start, hesitant. “what’s your answer?”

könig exhales, tipping his head back against his pillow. “do you want the truth?”

“obviously.”

he hums, considering. in reality, he’s known the truth for a while now. probably before you even realized it yourself.

“i like you,” he says, simple, sure. then, because he knows you, because he knows your deflections, your habit of teasing when you get nervous, he adds, “and i’m very aware you like me back.”

you sputter. “that’s a bold assumption-”

“not really,” he repeats, smug this time.

you groan, but you’re laughing, and it sends something bright flickering through him.

könig doesn’t ask for nudes. not once. he flirts, he teases, but never pushes. he knows your boundaries, respects them, never even hints at wanting more. if anything, he’s careful. too careful, sometimes. like he’s afraid of crossing a line you haven’t even drawn.

so when you finally send something, it’s your choice.

the first picture is tame. barely anything. it's a shot of your thighs, soft and warm in the low light of your room. nothing scandalous. nothing too revealing. but the second you hit send, your stomach twists with nerves.

könig sees it immediately. you watch the typing bubble appear, disappear, then appear again. and then— “fuck.”

you grin. “good?”

“you have no idea.”

it only escalates from there.

könig never requests more. but when you send it, when you want to send it, his reaction is worth it. he worships you through the screen, tells you how beautiful you are, how much he wishes he could touch you.

“pretty,” he texts once, attached to a voice message.

you press play. his breath is ragged, like he’s just run a mile. “pretty thing,” he repeats, voice tinged with something almost reverent. “you’re going to ruin me, love.”

the first time he sends you something, it takes him forever to work up to it.

you don’t ask for it. wouldn’t dream of pushing him into something he’s not comfortable with. könig isn’t shy, necessarily, but he’s private. you know that by now.

so when, out of nowhere, a picture pops up on your screen, your brain short-circuits.

it’s cropped carefully, but there’s no mistaking what you’re looking at— bare skin, broad shoulders, his stomach flexed just slightly.

“you like?” he texts after a minute.

you swallow hard. “yes.”

“good.” and then— “more?”

you bite your lip. “please.”

könig gets bolder after that.

he sends more. never too much, always teasing, always just enough to leave you wanting. sometimes it’s his hands, sometimes it’s his abs, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the waistband of his sweatpants hanging just low enough to make your mouth water.

one night, he sends a voice message instead. you press play.

at first, all you hear is his breathing. then, slowly, softly— your name, whispered through a noise that makes heat bloom low in your stomach.

“wish you were here,” he murmurs. “wish you could see what you do to me.”

the actual nudes don’t take long. not ar all. you’re both desperate. buzzing. könig’s the one who caves first.

it starts with your text. 10 p.m., the hour where inhibitions slip through grasping fingers like sand.

“wanna see your cock so bad, könig…” you murmur to your propped phone, cheek pressed to your pillow, another one stuffed against your chest like it might replace the hollow ache between your ribs. a distraction. a poor substitute.

on the other side of the screen, he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. fingers tensing, then flexing, like he needs something to hold onto. “love-” your whine cuts through before he can even think. instinctive. needy. his stomach clenches. “okay, okay. as long as you're sure.”

his heart pounds as he opens his photos. he doesn’t exactly collect dick pics, but there are a few kept locked away, private albums, a passcode he suddenly fumbles to enter.

three minutes. that’s how long it takes to choose the best one. the right angle. the right lighting. enough to make your breath hitch when you see it.

he hits send before he can overthink it, then leans back, phone balanced on his thigh, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

your phone buzzes. the photo pops up. you blink, breath hitching sharp in your throat.

“oh my god.” the words spill out of you before you can even think to stop them. “könig…” you stare at the screen, gaze locked on the thick, heavy length of him. the way it curves slightly, resting against his thigh like it’s weighed down by its own sheer mass. your breath stutters.

“you're so fucking big.” it barely registers that you've said it aloud.

“yeah? you like it?

“like it?” you shoot back. “i want it inside me.”

his breath leaves him in one harsh exhale. he shifts, hips rolling involuntarily like he can feel your words on his skin.

“can i see you too?” he sounds so polite. and then, as if that wasn’t enough to twist the knife deeper— “please?”

your stomach flips. you bite your lip, already reaching for your phone camera, the need to show him everything burning through you like wildfire.

your breath comes shallow as you slip your hand lower, phone steady in the other. the need is a pulse under your skin, throbbing, insistent. you pull the covers back just enough, the cool air prickling against the heat between your thighs.

the camera catches everything. your slightly parted thighs, your swollen clit, the wetness gushing out of your hole. it feels like baring a secret you’ve never told anyone. you hesitate for half a second, heart racing, then hit send.

the second the message disappears from your screen, it hits you— you just sent that to him.

on his end, könig freezes. the photo loads slow, torturous, and when it finally pops up, he feels his whole body tense, blood rushing south so fast it’s dizzying. “f-fuck, i need to be inside of you-”

sex with könig, if you can even call it that, at first, sneaks up on you. you never thought you’d be the kind of person who got into this. sending texts that made your face burn, leaving voice messages you could barely listen back to without cringing. but with him, it’s different. easier. less embarrassing because it’s him.

still, going from nudes to actual phone sex takes some time.

“gonna sleep,” könig texts you once, attached to a blurry photo of his bed.

“alone?” you send back, teasing.

the typing bubble appears. then disappears. then— “obviously.”

you grin at your phone, satisfied. but then— “but i could use some company.”

you stare at the message longer than you’d like to admit.

in the past, you hadn't told him how many times you’d dreamt of him because you thought you'd scare him off, kept your mouth shut about the images that haunted you at night, of his hands pinning you down, his mouth at your throat.

didn't tell him that you had woken up panting, arousal between your thighs, könig’s name on your lips too many times. didn't tell him that you had pressed your hand against your clit during your calls, to the sound of his voice, to his laugh, to the quiet, wrecked groans he sometimes lets out when he stretches after a workout.

but you wanted to.

and tonight, you would.

the conversation turns slow. lazy. heavy with something unspoken.

“you sound tired,” könig murmurs, voice warm. he’s always like this late at night. soft, unhurried, like he’s sinking into the sound of you.

you swallow hard. your skin feels too hot, too tight. “i’m not.”

a pause. then, lower— “what is it, love?”

you hesitate, pressing your lips together. it’s too much. too embarrassing. but he knows something is different.

“talk to me. tell me what you’re thinking.”

you let out a shaky breath. “i had a dream about you.”

the silence stretches.

you can hear him inhale. you bite your lip. force yourself to continue. “i think about you. when i-” you stop. you can’t say it. can’t admit it.

könig exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to steady himself. “when you what?”

your stomach is a knot of nerves. but you want this. want him. so you take a breath, close your eyes. “when i touch myself.”

his breath stutters.

“fuck.” the word is almost a groan. your pulse hammers, blood rushing through your ear as heat pools in your stomach.

“könig,” you whisper.

he exhales, whispers his next words like a beg, “say it again.”

you swallow. “i touch myself to you.”

“i do too.”

your stomach flips. “what?”

“i-” he cuts himself off with a quiet curse, like he's frustrated with himself for hesitating. “i touch myself to you too.”

your breath catches. heat blooms in your chest, spreading down your spine. “könig-”

“all the time.” his voice is lower now, raw, like he's aching with it. “when i can't sleep. when you're on call with me, laughing, teasing me. when i wake up hard in the middle of the night and can’t stop thinking about stuffing you full.”

your body is burning again, despite the aftershocks still rolling through you. you're about to choke out a reply when you hear it— the rustle of fabric, the faint creak of bedsprings, the wet slide of skin on skin.

“are you-”

a sharp inhale. “yes.”

“let me hear you,” you whisper, thinking about his pretty, pretty cock. uncut, soft skin stretched over the flushed head, the way it would slide back when he’s fully hard, revealing the deep pink of his leaking tip. the veins that wind down the length, standing out against the pale skin

there's a pause, a hitch in his breath. then, slowly— “okay.”

there's a small rustle, könig adjusting himself on the bed. the faint sound of him pumping lotion on his hand. a quiet sigh. and then, a low grunt as the warmth of his palm wraps around his cock.

könig looks down at his hand, eyes half-lidded, hips bucking up in small thrusts. he imagines your pussy instead of his fist, hot and tight and so fucking warm, fluttering around his length as he pushes in, spearing you open with a cock too big for your little cunny.

he knows you’d cry for him, little gasps and hiccupped moans, squirming beneath him as he bullies his cock deeper, past that tight ring of muscle into the slick, warm clutch of your cunt.

“a-ah- fuck, ah-”

your breath stutters at the sounds, hips grinding against your palm. “wish i could see you.”

“on cam?”

you groan, squeezing your thighs around the pillow in-between your legs, grinding your clit against the material softly. “yes, please..”

fuck, you're so polite.

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

TRAINER KÖNIG

sfw + nsfw. sucking könig's humongous titties. big cock. shower sex. semi-public. non-fluent könig.

it was a practical decision, you told yourself, scrolling past flashy advertisements for gyms promising overnight transformations, past testosterone-fueled testimonials about “beast mode” and “grindset.”

you'd sworn to yourself that as soon as you had the financial breathing room, as soon as you didn’t have to mentally calculate whether a dinner out would set you back for the week, you’d do it. invest in yourself. not in aesthetics, not in performance metrics, but in survival.

something that made you feel safer so that walking home late at night wouldn’t always feel like a loaded gun pressed to the base of your spine. you wouldn’t keep your keys between your fingers like they were some flimsy excuse for a weapon.

you found a coach who was within budget, someone named könig. a straightforward profile without a profile picture and just a handful of mid-range reviews.

it was genuine in its mediocrity, not glowing in the way bot-generated reviews tended to be, but not riddled with horror stories of scams or half-baked lessons either. people mentioned that he knew what he was doing, that he was patient, that his methods were effective.

but there were a few comments about his communication too. his english, more specifically.

at first, you were more nervous about looking weak than anything else.

logically, you knew that was the point. that was why you were paying for this— to get stronger, to learn. but the thought of stepping into a room filled with people who could probably bench your body weight while you struggled with a 25 kg deadlift made something inside you shrivel. made you feel like you’d be under a microscope, mistakes magnified. the thought of someone watching you fumble through drills, assessing your form— the potential for ridicule made your stomach knot up.

so, you signed up for solo lessons.

before you even met him, könig messaged you. a late-night notification breaking through the dim glow of your phone screen.

“is it ok that my english is not so good?”

you blinked at the screen. read it again. there was something unexpectedly… earnest about it. a self-consciousness that you rhymed with your own.

your thumbs hovered over the keyboard before you replied. “of course! i don’t mind at all.” then, after a second, “i’ll probably learn some phrases from you, haha.”

a long pause. three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. finally— “this is nice. i will try my best.”

something about that, about the fact that he had asked at all, the careful way he phrased it, stuck with you. you didn't know why, but it did.

the first time you met könig, you nearly turned around and walked straight back out the door, convinced your coach still hadn’t arrived.

at first, you genuinely thought you had the wrong room. or maybe there’d been some kind of mix-up, like another instructor using the space before your lesson.

you had walked into the gym expecting— what? some average-looking guy in a compression shirt? maybe a little bulky, maybe with that particular kind of gym-rat energy, all tight smiles and way-too-enthusiastic handshakes.

instead you got könig.

a massive, six-foot something, tank built like something that was meant to withstand damage and then deliver it back tenfold.

his hoodie, loose on his frame and looking a bit worse for wear from too many washes, still did nothing to hide the sheer scale of him. the water bottle he was holding was dwarfed by his hand and his arms, even relaxed at his sides, looked like they could crush a man’s ribs without much effort.

out of place. that was what he looked like. less self-defense coach and more guard stationed at the gates of hell.

you hesitated in the doorway, gripping the strap of your gym bag, suddenly hyperaware of every muscle in your body tensing up.

and then he spoke.

"… my client?” his voice was surprisingly soft. deep, yes, but smoothed down with the lilt of his accent.

you had to crane your neck to meet his eyes. jesus christ.

“uh, yeah, i think so,” you shifted on your feet, clearing your throat. “i booked the solo slots.”

he nodded. “good.” a pause. then, “you are… beginner?”

you exhaled sharply, not quite a laugh. “you could say that.”

his eyes smiled, something in the creases looking like amusement, before he jerked his head toward the back of the gym. “we start slow then.”

the whole thing went… surprisingly well.

könig was an amazing instructor for self-defense, not afraid to teach you moves that were downright dirty. not just the textbook counters or polished techniques that looked good in demonstrations but the kind of violence that left real damage. moves that could end a fight before it even started. his lessons were brutal in their practicality, built for survival, not sport.

his shrug always came before the skepticism could leave your mouth, as if he already knew the doubts forming behind your eyes. anticipation sat in his expression, waiting for you to question the practicality of a move that involved hitting someone's throat or breaking a wrist. waiting for that flicker of hesitation so he could counter it.

“has no rules, defense,” he simply told you, adjusting his gloves with a nonchalance that felt at odds with the destruction he'd just inflicted on the poor training dummy. his foot still pressed into its broken torso, the material caved inward like a crushed can. “s’long as you're safe, is good tactic.”

it was truth that didn’t need embellishment to him. könig wasn’t just saying it to justify his methods— it was a simple fact.

he made it seem less brutal, more justified. not just an excuse for violence but a reassurance, a lesson in survival.

it had you thinking if maybe you had been seeing things too rigidly, measuring combat in terms of right and wrong instead of what kept you breathing. könig didn’t. his world wasn’t one of fairness, it was of outcomes.

you exhaled, glancing at the poor, ruined dummy before looking back at him. “i think you broke it.”

könig tilted his head, unbothered. “hm. ja.” then, after a pause, he grinned, nudging the dummy’s crumpled remains with his boot like it might suddenly spring back to life. “but was good form, yes?”

the laugh that bubbled up caught you off guard, an unexpected burst of warmth. the corners of his grin lifted just a little higher at that.

texting started out as a necessity. scheduling changes, clarifying techniques, occasional reminders about bringing extra wraps. that was the whole point, really— a way to communicate outside of training.

somehow, though, könig turned out to be a menace over text. sarcasm practically dripped from his messages, sharpened now that he had the time to translate things properly. he was witty, sometimes outright ridiculous, and the sheer absurdity of his jokes caught you off guard more times than you could count.

könig: i think i have unlocked a new level of muscle soreness. my body is rejecting me. i am a broken man.

you: rip. gone and forgotten.

könig: good. don't tell my story. it's kind of pathetic.

“könig,” you typed one evening. “where the hell did you learn english?”

“the internet.”

immediate suspicion flooded your mind. “what part of the internet?”

“…the bad part.”

“be more specific.”

“ah…” there was a long pause, like he was regretting his choices. finally, “weird forums.”

apprehension curled at the base of your spine. “what kind of weird forums, könig?”

“…conspiracy theories.”

sheer, undiluted disbelief clung to you as you stared at your screen.

“WAIT” he backpedaled immediately, as if he could feel your judgment through the phone. “i was a child!!”

“A CHILD IN CONSPIRACY FORUMS?”

“it was not like that!!”

his frantic response only made you laugh harder. “then explain.”

“i was just reading, yes? stories. people told very cool stories. aliens, secret government projects, ghosts”

“oh my god, you were a cryptid kid.”

“nein!!”

amusement bloomed in your chest. “so what i’m hearing is you were, like, deep in the trenches. lizard people? JFK clone theories? the moon isn’t real?”

“…yes.”

“jesus christ.”

“it was fun!! and good english practice!”

“you learned english from paranoid men on the internet.”

“they were very passionate.”

laughter ripped through your chest so violently you nearly dropped your phone. könig sent a series of increasingly exasperated texts, all variations of “stop laughing”, which only made it worse.

every time you thought about it after that, a fresh wave of giggles overtook you. the next training session, you couldn’t even meet his eyes without picturing tiny könig hunched over an old computer, nodding solemnly as someone named TruthSeeker88 explained how the queen of england was actually a reptilian overlord.

he hated you for it. “you are evil,” he muttered when you brought it up again, shoving your shoulder lightly. “this is slander.”

“is it slander if it’s true?”

“YES.”

somewhere along the way, little snapshots of your lives started slipping into the conversation. könig sent blurry photos of his boots kicked up on a table, a war documentary playing in the background. “history lesson,” he’d caption, like he wasn’t watching something unreasonably brutal for fun. you sent the sky from your morning walk, pink bleeding into gold, and he always responded with a simple “pretty.”

you weren’t sure if he meant the sky or something else, but you let yourself wonder.

and then, selfies.

his were always shy, half-obscured, like he couldn’t quite bring himself to let you see too much despite the fact that you saw each other every week. the lower half of his face, mostly— jawline tucked into the shadows, the soft curve of a grin barely visible.

sometimes it was just his hands: wrapped around a steaming mug, fingers long and scarred, or flexed absentmindedly over his knee, veins shifting beneath pale skin. you never commented on them outright, just sent something casual— “cozy” or “nice gloves, old man”— but you always saved them, tucked away in your camera roll like little guilty pleasures.

yours were much less subtle in comparison.

exhausted post-workout, slumped against your couch with a dead-eyed stare. wrapped up in a hoodie, coffee in hand. the first time you sent one, you didn’t expect much. maybe a quick “good job” or some kind of fitness advice. instead, he sent “cute.”

you stared at the message for a full minute, blinking. your stomach did something stupid.

after that, he started commenting more. when you looked particularly grumpy, he’d send a teasing “you need nap, bird?” or “angry face. very scary.” and when you groaned about soreness, he was smug about it, “should have stretched. tsk tsk.”

it was cute. unbearably cute.

but all good things must come to an end.

one month. that’s how long this was supposed to last. four weeks of training, a neat little package of lessons that would leave you more capable of handling yourself in a fight. somewhere along the way, that timeline stretched, bending under the weight of something neither of you dared acknowledge.

könig should have cut you off weeks ago.

“you are expert already,” he tells you one evening, leaning back against the wall with his arms crossed. his tone is light, teasing, but there’s a hint of real curiosity beneath it. “i do not think class is needed. why do you keep taking?”

hesitation flickers in your chest. because of you, you want to admit, but the words sit heavy on your tongue, too risky, too exposing. instead, you roll your shoulders back and offer something easier, something safer.

“i need to beat you first.”

amusement dances across his features. könig huffs out a quiet chuckle, tilting his head as if considering the possibility.

“it will not happen in a million years, i think.”

arrogance suits him. confidence carved into his bones, stitched into the way he moves, the way he fights. you don’t argue because he’s right— he’s bigger, stronger, more experienced. if he wanted to, he could probably break you in half without much effort.

but miracles happen.

it’s a fluke. both of you know it. a momentary lapse, a split second where his guard lowers just enough for you to slip past his defenses. könig lets you try—indulges you, really, humoring your attempts at taking him down like he’s teaching a child to wrestle. that cockiness, that easy amusement, is what costs him.

somehow, impossibly, you get him in a triangle choke.

his body tenses the moment your thighs clamp around his neck, locking him in place. shock flickers in his eyes before it shifts into something unreadable, something quiet and assessing. his breath comes out steady despite the position he’s in, controlled in a way that makes your pulse stutter.

for a moment, you think you have him.

then, with an ease that’s almost insulting, he pries your legs apart, spreading them like it’s nothing.

a gasp hitches in your throat.

his movements don’t stop there— before you can even process what’s happening, he shifts, pressing himself close, kneeling between your thighs, completely caging you beneath him. his grin is wide, pleased, entirely too unbothered for someone who had just been seconds away from losing.

“very good, bird,” he praises. “very good takedown. i like.”

air sticks in your throat. something is wrong.

“k-könig-”

he blinks at you, tilting his head slightly. “ja?”

your bugged-out stare flicks downward, and his follows instinctively.

oh.

his entire body tenses. his pupils shrink.

understanding dawnes, slow and terrible, as he finally feels the press of something very, very apparent against you.

“that was not supposed to happen.”

no shit.

könig’s weight shifts over you, muscles tight as he tries to move away but instead— maybe by accident, maybe not— his cock drags against your core, thick even through the fabric separating you. the pressure is just enough to make your breath hitch, a spark of something warm licking up your spine before a sound slips from your throat.

he freezes, head jerking up like a startled animal, eyes darting around the empty training room, scanning for any sign that someone might’ve heard, his breath uneven as he listens, as you listen, as the silence between you stretches impossibly thin.

nothing. no one.

he exhales. something in his face twitches, like he’s still trying to convince himself this is real, that you really just made that sound because of him.

his gaze drops, landing back on you, mouth parting, jaw flexing. then his body moves again, slower this time, cock grinding against you, rubbing you through your clothes, dragging heavy between your thighs, and you swear you see his eyelids flutter just slightly at the friction.

his forehead presses against yours, breath coming faster. “tell me to stop.”

the words hit your skin as more air than voice, warm against your jaw, but you don’t even need to think about it, because stopping is the last thing you want right now, the very last thing your body would allow.

“d-don’t stop.”

he curses, words slipping before he can stop them, and you don’t know what they mean, only that they sound wrecked, like they’ve been dragged up from somewhere deep in his chest.

könig’s forehead presses harder into yours. his hands tighten at your waist. his breath comes out uneven, stumbling over itself, and his voice fumbles through the next words. “i don’t have lube.”

“we don’t nee-”

“we do.” his face twists a little, mouth pressing tight, like the idea of taking you without it is actually painful.

you swallow, shifting slightly under him, feeling just how big he is. slick gathers between your thighs, and before you can stop yourself, the question slips out, barely above a whisper.

“are you big?”

his lips twitch, like he’s fighting back a grin, like he can’t believe you just asked that, and then it spreads into something quintessentially könig, — slow, lazy, and warm.

he presses in harder, dragging over your soaked cunt through the fabric of your underwear. the friction pulls a gasp from your lips, hips rolling up instinctively.

his grin stretches wider, eyes flicking down to watch you grind against him. "i am not small."

heat floods you, pussy fluttering around nothing, aching. your hips move again, searching for more, slick soaking through your underwear. your head tips back, breath catching. the sound that escapes you is closer to a whimper than you’d like to admit.

his lips find your jaw, tongue flicking out, tasting sweat and skin. his voice follows his mouth, words warm against your neck. "pretty little pussy..." he murmurs, dragging the syllables out like he’s savoring them. "bet it’d feel better wrapped around me."

the sound that leaves your throat is humiliating, high-pitched and needy. you don’t mean to make it, but it’s too late.

könig grabs your wrist. pulls you up. your balance falters, and before you can recover, he hauls you toward the showers. boots thud against tile. the door slams, lock clicking into place.

his mouth finds yours before you can speak. lips crash into yours, messy and eager. tongues tangle, breaths mix, heat pouring between you as your fingers twist in his hair. a laugh bubbles up between kisses—yours or his, you can’t tell—and he groans into your mouth, grinning against your lips.

“fuck,” he breathes, pulling back just enough to look at you. cheeks flush, eyes dark with something feral. “wanted this so long…”

clothes hit the floor in frantic shoves. hands fumble, pulling fabric away until skin meets skin, warmth pressing in on all sides.

his cock, thick, flushed, and dripping with precum, hangs between the two of you, weighed down by its own girth.

he sees your stare and grins. "big, huh?”

words fail you and for a moment you can't do anything but nod dumbly.

könig reaches past you, flicks on the shower. water crashes down, steam rising fast. the air thickens with heat and he wastes no time to pull you under the spray, water slicing over skin.

scarred hands find your face, thumbs brushing your jaw as his mouth returns to yours.

your hand slides down between you and wraps around his cock. konig's hips jerk forward, breath shuddering out against your lips.

“could kill you with this, eh?” his grin tugs lazy at the corners of his mouth. his chest lifts and falls, breaths dragging in deep, water cascading over both of you, hot against skin already burning.

your hand tightens, fingers sliding along the thick length of him, precum slicking your palm. warmth pulses beneath your touch, veins pronounced under your grip. he twitches when you give a slow twist near the tip, hips jolting forward. a groan rips from his throat, echoing off the tiled walls.

“scheiße,” he hisses, jaw working as he fights the urge to thrust. one hand flies to his hair, tugging as if the sting will help. water streaks down his face, lips parted, breaths breaking up his words.

“not helping,” you breathe, voice shaking. you press your mouth to his jaw, pressing a kiss there before your tongue darts out to taste the salt of his skin. his breath catches, eyes squeezing shut.

“oh, fuck-” his hips rock forward again, cock dragging through your fist, smearing more warmth along your stomach. precum drips from the flushed head, glistening in the steam-filled air.

a grin tugs at his lips, strained but there. “you tryna kill me?” the words slide out. "scheiß kleines ding…”

you laugh, kissing down his jaw. “not my fault you’re easy.” your thumb slides over the tip.

his head knocks back against the wall, neck stretching, throat working through a swallowed groan. “you- fuck- you think is easy?” a hand finds your chin, pulling your gaze up. “look at me.”

könig’s eyes catch yours. blown out. a ring of blue against black. then suddenly his lips curl, and his voice slips through his teeth.

“i have touched myself to you.”

you blink. “what?”

his grin widens. “before.” his hips push forward, cock dragging against your belly. “many times.”

your face burns.

“oh my god.”

his head dips, lips brushing yours, his breath hot and amused. “you do too, hm?”

your heart stops. heat shoots through you, cunt clenching. “yeah,” your breath shudders. “me too…”

his eyes widen, like he didn't expect you to admit to it, then narrows, grin pulling crooked. “yeah?” his cock twitches in your hand again. “fuckin’ knew it…” laughter spills out, breathless and warm.

könig’s head dips to press a sloppy kiss to your lips. tongue sliding against yours, messy and eager. laughter rumbles out, hips rolling, giggles slipping between mouths.

“fuckin’ knew it,” he repeats, words slurring together. “think about me late at night? fingers stuffed in that pretty cunt…”

you gasp, half scandalized, half aroused, hips shifting as slick pools between your thighs. “könig-”

“yeah?” another thrust. precum smears across your belly. “tell me.”

“i- fuck- yeah,” you breathe. “think about you all the time.”

he groans like the words alone could undo him. könig’s hands drop to grip your thighs, fingers digging firm into the flesh as he lifts you like you weigh nothing. your back meets the cold tile with a dull thud, heat from the shower clashing with the chill seeping through the wall.

your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him close. his cock drags through your folds, thick length sliding slick against your cunt, nudging your entrance but never pushing in.

könig watches your face, chest lifting with every shaky breath. “how much do you take?”

you blink, heat simmering through your skin. “what?”

his cock slides against you again, harder this time, grinding against your clit, making you twitch. “normally. how much?”

a shrug rolls through your shoulders, confidence bubbling up, reckless. “all of it,” you answer without thinking, back arching, rubbing against him, arms looping around his neck. “i can take everything.”

he stills, expression shifting— his lips part, brows lifting just slightly. then he laughs, a low, amused sound, mouth curling into a grin. “nein, you can not.”

challenge flares in your chest. “i can.”

another laugh, softer now, hands adjusting on your thighs. “you are-” he shakes his head, grinning wider, lips brushing your cheek as he exhales, “-so very stupid.”

heat pools in your stomach, thighs clenching around him. “i’ll prove it.”

hands grip your thighs, fingers pressing deep into flesh as könig shifts his weight, cock grinding slow against your entrance, precum smearing where you’re slick and warm. a breath shudders out of him, jaw tight, brows pinching like he’s trying to hold something back. “you say this,” he mutters, “and then you cry.”

“i won’t,” you shoot back.

“hm.” his gaze flicks down to where his cock pushes against you, dragging through your folds. “we’ll see.”

könig’s fingers flex. his grip tightens and your breath hitches. “ready?”

“please,” you gasp, nails biting into his shoulders.

he grits his teeth, cock sliding as deep as your walls will allow, head bumping against your cervix. every sob that escapes your lips makes his hips stutter, breath catching like he’s holding on by a thread.

"oh shit," he mutters. "look at you... crying so much."

"feels too good." your hands are weak on his shoulders.

könig grins, breathless, hands squeezing your hips. "ja? but you begged for this, no? say ‘please, könig, fuck me’-" he mocks your voice, low and whiny, then thrusts, ripping a squeak out of you. "and now you cry like a little baby like i said."

you shake your head against his chest, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. you love it—you love his cock so much it hurts—but you just can’t stop the sounds. every thrust drags a new sob from you, body trembling in his grip.

"shh." he squints down at you. "you are too loud-" his hand slides to the back of your head, pressing you close. "fuck... here. suck."

your lips brush his chest, and his nipple is right there, stiff against warm skin. you hesitate, dizzy from pleasure, but then your mouth opens and you latch on, tongue flicking over the peak before you suck soft and slow.

könig’s hips jerk.

"oh, shit- good girl," he breathes, head falling back. his fingers tangle in your hair. "yeah, just like that. little baby needs something to suck on, huh?"

your cheeks burn, whining against his chest, mouth working over his nipple as his cock drags in deep and slow. he groans, low and desperate, fucking you through your cries.

"such a messy baby," he grins, looking far too fucked-out to be as smug as he is. "can’t stop crying, can you? too good, yes? too much?"

you nod, sobbing around him, and könig just laughs, like he can’t believe how fucked you both are.

"keep sucking," he growls. "will fuck you ‘til you’re dumb.”

[anghimalaaynasapuso]

PORN DIRECTOR KÖNIG

nsfw. 40s könig. come eating. pussy slapping. voyeurism. manhandling. degradation. squirting. sex work.

you never planned on doing porn.

you don't think anyone does, really. you had a whole different life mapped out— degree, stable job, retirement.

but college was bleeding you dry. bills stacked faster than you could pay them, textbooks cost more than your monthly groceries, and your financial aid office had the efficiency of a broken vending machine. part-time jobs barely kept the lights on. dinner was whatever was cheap and lasted the longest.

you worked, studied, scraped by, but it felt more like drowning in slow motion.

camming started as an experiment. a shot in the dark born from desperation.

you bought a cheap ring light from amazon, found a secondhand webcam on facebook marketplace, and set up your little filming space in the corner of your apartment. it was nothing fancy. the lighting was bad, the camera wasn’t great, and instead of a tripod you had a stack of books.

but it worked.

you slipped into the only matching lingerie set you owned— soft pink lace, delicate ribbons, tiny bows stitched in all the right places. sheer enough to tease, but still leaving just enough to the imagination. the bra straps slipped down your shoulders as you posed in front of the mirror, lips parted, fingers playing with the waistband of your panties.

picking the best ones, you captioned them with something playful then posted them to onlyfans, shut your laptop, and forgot about it. you weren’t expecting much. maybe a few subscribers, a little extra cash, nothing major.

then, your account blew up.

someone with a bit of reach had apparently found your photos and posted them to a a ddlg subreddit, and suddenly you were everywhere.

at first, you didn’t notice. but when you woke up to hundreds of new notifications, dms, and tips flooding in overnight, you started digging.

that’s when you saw it. a post on reddit. thousands of upvotes. hundreds of comments dissecting your photos in excruciating detail.

[r/ddlg] found this new onlyfans girl and i'm losing my mind. she’s so soft. look at her. look at her.

🔺14.3k upvotes 💬 793 comment

u/daddysfavorite456: this is the most perfect little babygirl i’ve ever seen wtf

🔺6.2k

u/sirspanksalot: the way she’s tugging her panties down just a little… i need a moment

🔺4.9k

u/subsugarplum: her little pout in the third pic is actually ruining my life

🔺3.3k

u/softdom_daddy: how do we make sure she never pays for anything again in her life?

🔺7.1k

your breath caught in your throat as you scrolled. every detail of your photos was being analyzed. obsessed over.

the way you tilted your head just slightly, eyes wide and doe-like. the way your fingers curled in the hem of your panties, like you were hesitating. like you needed permission. the little pout in the last photo, lower lip caught between your teeth, the faintest furrow in your brows.

suddenly, your subscriber count was doubling by the hour.

new subscribers flooded in overnight. your follower count jumped by thousands. dms piled up, requests, tips, compliments, outright begging.

"you're perfect. please let me take care of you." ($20 tip)

"you’re the softest little thing i’ve ever seen." ($50 tip)

"tell me you do custom videos. i’ll pay whatever." ($100 tip)

the sudden influx of attention was overwhelming. you barely had time to process it before people were demanding more.

demand skyrocketed. they were practically clawing at your metaphorical door, begging for more content, more variety— more, more, more.

for now, solo work was fine. it was safe. comfortable. easy to control. but you knew it wouldn’t be enough forever. you saw it in the comments, in the messages, in the ever-growing list of requests. they wanted more than just you and a camera. they wanted another presence. another body in the frame.

you debated your options. a studio would be the safest bet. you had the budget now— painstakingly built, every small tip, every renewal adding up until you finally had enough that you didn't need to comprise comfort.

but finding the right studio was another thing entirely.

you didn’t want the overproduced, garish lights and cheap theatrics of mainstream porn. you wanted subtlety. intimacy. something with taste. good lighting, soft edits, angles that captured the feeling rather than just the act.

something that matched the persona you had so carefully built.

you thought about it for weeks before finally bringing it up to valeria, a girl you often had collabs with.

she tilted her head when you mentioned it. "professional production..? you know there are a lot of seedy guys out there."

you nodded, worrying your lip between your teeth. you’d done enough research to know that most so-called "professional" setups were just glorified scams, with sleazy directors who treated performers like props.

valeria watched you for a second, then clicked her tongue. "but, if you ever actually follow through, i know a guy. a lot of the girls have worked with him before. big name in the business. respects his actors. good guy." she pulled out her phone. "i’ll send you his portfolio. put in a good word."

you meet könig a few weeks later, after countless back-and-forth emails, late-night calls hammering out details, discussions about setups, plot points, pricing. every conversation had been strictly professional so far and you appreciated the distinct lack of attempts to try and get in your pants.

you don’t expect to spot him the moment you step into the airbnb you rented for the shoot, but there he is, standing head and shoulders above the rest of the crew. and the first thing that strikes you isn’t his height (though jesus, he’s massive). it’s how out of place he looks.

he doesn’t carry himself like someone in the industry. doesn’t exude that easy sleaze, that over-familiar smirk you’ve come to expect from men in this business. no tight black tee straining over biceps, no carefully curated air of supremacy with just a hint of nicotine.

instead, he looks like someone’s dad who got lost on his way to a hardware store and somehow ended up in the adult industry instead.

his glasses are perched high on the bridge of his nose, pushed up with the absentminded shove of a knuckle. his sweater— soft, thick, comfortable— hangs loose on his frame, sleeves pushed up to reveal thick forearms dusted with silver hair. he’s dressed like he should be standing at a backyard grill, not directing an erotic film.

he’s older than you expected. forty, according to his portfolio, and he wears it well. silver threading through black, crow’s feet at the corners of sharp, washed-out blue eyes. his nose is crooked— like it had been broken once and never quite set right— makes his face look lived-in, a little rough around the edges. his stubble is light, a soft dusting of salt and pepper.

he looks warm.

he’s talking to someone. one of the crew, maybe, head dipped slightly, listening intently. but even hunched, even relaxed, his sheer size makes him loom.

and then the door clicks shut behind you, and he hears it. könig's head lifts, pale blue eyes settling on you in an instant.

he excuses himself with a quiet murmur. hands tucked into the front pocket of his pants, broad shoulders rolling slightly like he’s trying to make himself smaller, less imposing.

it doesn’t work.

“good to finally meet you,” he says, accent curling soft in his words.

oh, you think. you hadn’t expected that, either.

his voice is deep, just shy of being harsh. it's a far cry from the sharp tone you’d imagined after hearing him speak over the phone. there’s something smoother about it in person, a warmth undercutting the rough edges.

you shift the tray of coffee in your hands, balancing it carefully before setting it down on the small folding table near the entrance.

“brought coffee for everyone,” you say, wringing your hands because you refuse to brush them off on your dress.

he glances down at the cups, and for a second you think you see something soften in his expression.

“thoughtful,” he murmurs, and though his face remains unreadable, you can hear the approval in his voice.

you exhale, trying to shake off the nervous energy thrumming in your chest, and clear your throat. “figured caffeine would help. don’t wanna be the reason your crew collapses mid-shoot.”

könig huffs something close to a chuckle, tipping his head toward the set-up behind him. “they’ve worked under worse conditions.”

you’re not sure what that means, but before you can ask, he gestures for you to follow him further into the space.

the next few minutes are easy. professional. you go over the shot list, the angles he’s planning, how he likes to work— efficient and minimal retakes unless absolutely necessary. he asks about your preferences, what you don’t want, what you do.

it’s…comfortable. smoother than you expected. he’s patient, but direct. no wasted words, no unnecessary small talk, just the work. you like that.

and then your phone rings.

you pull it from your pocket without thinking, glancing at the name on the screen. simon riley. your co-star. you press accept, bringing the phone to your ear.

“hey, you on your way?” you ask, already stepping away from könig, mind half on the conversation you’d just been having.

but simon doesn’t answer right away. there’s a beat of silence. “can’t make it.”

your stomach drops. you stop short, pulse spiking. “what?”

“somethin’ came up. won’t be able to get there.”

you glance at könig, breath stalling in your throat. this cannot be happening.

“simon, i can’t reschedule,” you hiss, stepping further away, out of earshot. “i already paid for the location, the crew’s already here-”

“nothin’ i can do, sweetheart,” he interrupts, not unkind. “’m sorry.”

but sorry doesn’t fix this. sorry doesn’t change the fact that if you don’t shoot today, you’re out thousands. your grip tightens around your phone. “simon, please-”

the line clicks.

he’s gone.

panic creeps up your spine, cold sweat starting to form on your palms. you can’t not shoot today. you can’t afford it. the budget’s already stretched thin, and a reschedule isn’t just inconvenient— it’s impossible.

you drag a hand to wipe the sweat on your forehead.

könig’s eyes are on you and you can feel the heat of his gaze. when you turn, he asks, “problem?”

you open your mouth, hesitate. because what the fuck are you supposed to say? every option you can think of results in you losing a few hundred dollars at the minimum.

you figure the truth is the best option you've got. “simon's out.”

könig watches as your fingers tighten around your phone, knuckles turning white. you press your lips together, trembling just slightly before biting down.

he tilts his head, slow. "know anyone that can sub in?"

you shake your head immediately, too fast, too frantic. a sharp inhale makes your shoulders rise, lashes fluttering against the unshed tears that suddenly gloss your eyes.

fuck.

you’re going to cry.

könig shouldn’t be looking this closely.

shouldn’t be cataloging every shift of your body. shouldn’t be tracking how your throat works as you swallow, how the delicate line of your jaw tenses under pressure.

it’s detail that shouldn’t register. detail that has no purpose. no place. no right to send his thoughts careening somewhere they have no business going.

but there they go anyway.

because he's been watching you.

not in a way that's creepy— könig tells himself that, over and over. he was just a professional doing his research, getting a feel for his clients. it’s good business practice, staying informed, making sure he knows who he’s working with, what they bring to the table.

and if that research led him to your socials, to hours of footage in soft, honeyed lighting, to endless clips of you sprawled out on pristine white sheets as you mewled into the camera— well. that was just part of the job, wasn’t it?

nothing personal. certainly nothing unprofessional.

but the truth, the thing he never says out loud, not even to himself is that he’s spent far too many nights with his phone in one hand and his cock in the other, watching you through the screen.

watching you in those tiny lingerie sets. pink and white lace, frilly little bows, the kind of girlish softness that makes his teeth ache.

könig's watched every fucking video. every stream. every post. hours spent with his laptop open, pants shoved down around his hips, hand working his cock as you bat your lashes and moan so sweetly it makes his head spin.

‘am i a good girl?’ you breathe into the mic, like you’re talking right to him. like you know.

and god, does he know you.

he’s studied you. learned you. mapped out every twitch, every tell, every fleeting flicker of pleasure that crosses your pretty face. the way your brows pinch together when you’re getting desperate. the way your lips part right before you come, glossy and swollen, tongue darting out to wet them like you want something in your mouth, like you’re inviting someone to grab you by the jaw and fuck your throat until you can’t think.

he’s seen how your thighs start to tremble when you edge yourself too long. how your back arches off the sheets when you finally let go, hips rolling into your own hand, breath catching in your throat as you fall apart in a mess of shuddery gasps.

könig has jerked off to all of it.

not just once. not just twice.

so many times he’s lost count.

sometimes slow, drawing it out to hear that little whimper you make at the end— the one that sounds like you’ve been fucked dumb.

sometimes rough. desperate. chasing his own release with one hand fisted in the sheets and the other pumping his cock.

it drives him fucking crazy.

it’s worse up close. worse when you shift on your feet, looking up at him from beneath your lashes, trying to hold yourself together.

stop.

he clenches his fists. drags in a breath through his nose. he is not some fucking rookie. not some kid who can’t keep his head straight.

but then you make a sound that crawls under his skin and sinks deep. and suddenly his thoughts are careening somewhere they shouldn’t go—

places where that breathy little sound is choked out against his palm. where those fingers twisting at your sleeves are scrabbling at his belt instead, pulling, fumbling, desperate.

his cock twitches.

jesus christ.

it’s perverse. it’s wrong. twenty years between you. he shouldn't even be thinking about you like this. but then he thinks about how small your hands would look trying to wrap around his cock. how easily he could press you up against the nearest wall, let you feel how bad he wants you, let you know exactly what you do to him—

and yeah.

he’s fucked.

his grip tightens on the coffee cup, knuckles white, cardboard crumpling in his palm.

"we can reschedule." it’s the logical thing to say. the right thing.

but you stiffen immediately, shaking your head almost violently, like the mere suggestion hurts.

"i can’t." your voice wobbles. "i don’t have the budget for it. the airbnb, the crew- if we don’t shoot today, it’s done. i lose it."

he can hear the distraught in your voice, the panic creeping in, rising in your throat. and könig— könig has never been good at ignoring that kind of thing.

his jaw tightens. his fingers flex. his pulse pounds in his ears. and before he can think better of it—

"i can do it."

your head jerks up, eyes locking onto his. wide. startled.

"what?"

könig lifts a broad shoulder, deceptively casual, ignoring how his pulse is hammering in his throat. acting as if he didn’t just offer himself up like it was nothing.

"i can do it," he repeats. "you need a scene partner."

he pauses, just long enough to make sure you’re really listening before he adds, pointed: "i’ve done worse for less."

it’s true too. könig had started shooting for money, not for passion, not for art. there were years where he took any job that paid, no matter how grimy, no matter how degrading. no dignity in it, no careful framing, no thoughtful direction. just harsh lighting, rough hands, the sound of too many bodies shifting in too little space.

it’s not like that anymore.

now, he works for himself. he makes art, in his own way. he only takes projects that meet his standards, only shoots what he knows will look good.

and this, you, would look incredible.

"are you-" you swallow hard, throat working, voice tight. "you’re serious?"

könig lets out a short, amused breath, tilting his head. "wouldn’t offer if i wasn’t."

your gaze flickers down to his mouth, just for a second, before snapping back up.

he notices. of course he fucking notices.

you hesitate, worrying your lip between your teeth, and he wants— god, he wants.

he lifts his coffee, takes a slow sip. watches you.

"think it through," he says, letting the accent curl around the words. "do you trust me?"

you stare at him, breath coming in short, uneven pulls. your fingers tighten around your phone.

and then, even though you probably shouldn't, you nod.

this is insane, is all you can think as your hands smooth down the dress, fingertips catching on the fabric’s delicate weave. it sways when you move, hem teasing the tops of your thighs.

the crew picked it because it feels normal, something someone’s wife might wear on a lazy sunday, waiting for her husband to walk through the door. not lingerie, not tight or short or scandalous. innocent.

somehow, that makes it worse.

the set sprawls before you, carefully crafted to mimic home. the couch sits comfortably worn— or at least looks like it, upholstery creased just enough to suggest years of use. a blanket lies draped over the back, fringes brushed out to seem effortless.

the coffee table holds small artifacts of a life: a half-empty mug with a faint lipstick stain, a book splayed open, pages curled, a pair of keys glinting under the warm overhead glow. off to the side, a framed photo perches, two strangers caught in mid-laugh, frozen happiness you’re supposed to claim as yours.

the lighting bathes it all in amber. soft, forgiving. like sunset spilling through a window that doesn’t exist. everything is designed to feel. to pull the viewer into a scene that isn’t real but wants to be. warmth. comfort. longing.

your pulse trips. nerves coil tight under your. stepping out, you inhale–

and there he is.

könig stands beside the couch, posture loose, almost as if he’s holding himself back from something. the uniform strains against him, fabric pulled taut across broad shoulders and the solid line of his chest. it’s glaringly obvious that it wasn’t tailored for a man like him— you doubt anything ever is— but he wears it like it belongs to him anyway. the belt grips a tapered waist, dog tags resting cold against his sternum. they glint when he shifts, catching the warmth of the lights.

he’s big. that part you knew. everyone knows. but there’s something about seeing him like this, the bulk of him filling the space, boots planted, arms crossed, sleeves clinging to thick forearms, that makes your breath catch in your throat.

he looks like he could hold the world in his hands. break it if he wanted.

then he lifts his head. and his gaze finds you.

it hits like a physical weight, gravity pulling you closer.

his eyes track the line of your body. starting from your face, drifting down, and back up again. for a moment you assume he’s taking inventory, cataloguing details you didn’t know you were offering.

your skin prickles under the attention. heat pooling low, spreading outwards.

könig’s jaw shifts. a muscle ticks. his fingers flex where they rest against his bicep, knuckles pale for half a second before he eases them loose.

you swallow. "do i look okay?"

silence stretches. then: "you look perfect."

his voice sounds like it's been scraped raw from something you can’t name. and you know you shouldn’t take his words to heart. shouldn’t make something out of nothing. he was just being polite—

but god, he doesn’t stop looking.

you breathe out. "are we ready?"

that seems to snap him out. könig exhales, nostrils flaring. “yeah," he says, looking away.. "we’re ready."

you nod and he turns, clapping his hands together.

"quiet on set!" his voice cuts through the chatter. "lights- ready? camera?"

a muffled ‘rolling!’ comes from behind the equipment.

he glances back, stepping into place. "sound?"

"speed!"

he nods, shoulders shifting under the snug uniform. "all right. action on me. three... two..."

his gaze flickers forward, locks onto you. his hand lifts, a silent ‘ready?’

you nod.

"action!"

the front door creaks open.

you see him first— broad shoulders filling the doorway, boots heavy against the worn rug you picked out last fall. his bag drops with a dull thump, keys jangling, and for a beat, you just stand there, watching.

it doesn't feel real. something out of a dream. your husband looks older somehow. tired. lines carved a little deeper around his eyes, hair at his temples brushed with more gray than before.

it's longer now too, the ends curling where sweat and travel have left it mussed.

then his gaze lifts, blue catching yours. and that’s all it takes.

you move.

your feet carry you faster than you realize, dress fluttering against your legs as you throw yourself into him.

könig catches you with a small grunt, part effort, part relief, hardly moving from his spot. strong arms close around you as he lifts you off the floor with an ease that's almost unfair.

his hand finds the back of your thigh, fingers splayed wide. "easy, sweetheart," he murmurs, voice rough from disuse, deepened by exhaustion and age. there’s an edge to it, earned from years of barking orders and nicotine abuse. "still getting old, you know."

you huff a breath that’s almost a laugh. "you’re not that old."

"hm." könig presses his face into your hair. "tell that to my back."

your chest tightens. god, you missed him. missed the way he smells— soap, leather, that faint trace of cologne you’d tucked into his bag months ago, almost worn off, but still miraculously there. you press your nose to his neck, breathing him in, and whisper, "missed you."

"missed you more." when he pulls back, his gaze traces every line of your face, eyes crinkling at the corners. "lemme take a good look at you, baby."

heat blooms in your cheeks, but you let him. there’s something reverent about his gaze when you meet his eyes.

then, he kisses you.

and fuck.

it’s messy. warm. his mouth is rough against yours, stubble scraping your skin, tasting like coffee burned down to the dregs.

"god," you breathe, voice catching on a gasp. "i love you."

könig chuckles, pressing his forehead to yours. "love you too," he murmurs, using that voice he saves for early mornings when you’re tucked against him, trading lazy kisses and whispered secrets.

his hands slide down to your hips, pulling you close. the world tilts, narrows, until there’s nothing but him. his body, his breath, the scratch of his stubble when he tilts his head, brushing his nose against yours.

then his fingers slip under your dress. his breath hitches the moment he finds you bare, his touch grazing soft folds, sticky and warm with slick.

"no panties?" his voice dips somewhere between a laugh and a growl.

heat blooms in your stomach. you bite your lip, shrugging. "figured you'd appreciate it."

his gaze darkens, blue eclipsed by black. "oh, do i."

könig’s fingers slide between your folds, dragging through the slick mess you’ve already made. you flinch at the contact, hips twitching toward him before you can catch yourself.

he pushes it in, slow. the stretch punches a gasp out of you, walls fluttering around the intrusion. he pauses, ignores your whine, brows drawing together, finger knuckle-deep. "did you get tighter?"

his voice is soft, almost like he’s talking more to himself than you, words slipping out under his breath.

his finger curls, pressing snug against your walls, testing just how much resistance it meets.

you whimper, thighs twitching, nails digging into the fabric of his jacket. "m-maybe if you fucked me more, i wouldn’t be."

the words tumble out before you can think to stop them. your pulse skips as you process what you just said. heat floods your face.

könig’s head tilts. his eyes flick up, narrowing, — not angry, not exactly— but his stare steals the breath from your lungs all the same. your lips part, trying to fumble out an apology stuck at the back of your throat when—

slap.

he pulls his finger free and smacks your pussy.

you squeak, body jerking as the sting blooms quick and hot between your legs, warmth spreading through your skin, rushing up your spine. you’re caught between shock and the low, simmering heat that pools in your belly.

"careful," könig warns although his tone is deceptively light. his fingers tap against your clit in soft, featherlight pulses of teasing pressure that makes your thighs jump. "keep that attitude and i’ll slap this pretty little thing five times. make you count every single one. s’that what you want?"

your cunt clenches, slick dribbling down to coat his knuckles. he feels it, of course he does. feels how your body betrays you, responding before your mind can catch up.

chest heaving, you shake your head, breath shivering out of you. "no-"

"no?" he echoes a soft mockery, fingers dragging through the mess between your thighs, spreading it just to hear the wet sound it makes echo in the space between you. "then behave, sweetheart. don’t make me teach you."

your heart pounds, breath coming in little gasps as you offer him a jerky nod. könig only watches with lazy half-lidded eyes.

"now," he murmurs, finger filling you again. "gonna ask one more time. have you gotten tighter..." his thumb brushes your clit, just enough to make you twitch, "...or have i just left you empty for too long?"

heat surges through you. your hands clutch at his jacket, grounding yourself in the weight of him. your face burns.

"you were gone for so long," you whisper, voice small, shame curling in your stomach.

he sighs. something in his gaze softens, guilt threading through his voice. "i know, baby." his forehead presses against yours. “missed you too."

you sniffle, nuzzling into his shoulder. "y-you can’t go away that long again..." the words tremble, cracking at the edges.

he kisses your temple, breath warm against your skin. "i won’t," he lies, gentle. "let me stretch you out, yeah?"

könig guides you further into your home, coaxing you down on the couch. könig kneels between your legs, broad hands spreading you open and drinking in the sight of you laid out before him.

"look at you," he murmurs, thumb dragging through your folds, gathering your slick up to rub slow circles against your clit. "so wet for me already. miss having me inside, huh?"

your fingers clutch at the cushions as he begins to fill you, head tipping back. "yes-"

"you gotta watch, pretty," könig interrupts, fingers tilting your chin back down.

your gaze drops, breath catching when you see it— his thick fingers buried deep inside you, slick dribbling down his knuckles. the gold band around his finger shines beneath the mess you’ve made, drenched, the sight obscene and somehow more intimate than you’re prepared for. your walls flutter around him, clenching down like your body’s desperate to keep him there.

"look at that.” he grind. "look at your cute little cunny... makin’ a mess all over me."

your cheeks burn. you squirm, trying to close your thighs, but his other hand tightens on your hip, keeping you spread. "no hiding," he says. "told you to watch."

so you do.

you watch the slow drag of his fingers pulling out, coated in slick that strings between you. your cunt clenches around nothing, throbbing, and you let out a soft, desperate whimper. könig hums, pleased, pressing back in. "look how well you take me," he says, dragging against that spot inside that makes your vision blur.

you whimper, head spinning, hips grinding down onto his hand. "feels so good-"

"yeah?" he presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh. "gonna let me in now, sweetheart? let me fill you up nice and slow?"

you nod, frantic, words lost to the heat coiling low in your stomach. könig smiles, pulling his fingers free. you whine at the loss.

"shh," he soothes, wiping his slick-covered fingers against the head of his cock, spreading you over himself. "gonna take care of you. just lay back and be good for me, yeah?"

his hands grip your thighs, pressing them up toward your chest, folding you beneath him. your skin burns under the pressure, nerves sparking with every shift of his weight. the blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance. he’s patient, achingly so— dragging it along your folds, gathering your slick, smearing it along his length until you’re soaked enough that he doesn’t have to rip you open.

könig’s gaze drops to where you’re spread open for him. "ready?"

you nod, breath catching in your throat, but it’s barely a sound, barely a thought when he starts to press in. he breaches you, the thick crown of his cock pushing past your entrance. your cunt clenches on instinct, trying to force him out, but könig presses on.

every inch feels like fire licking up your spine, burning through every nerve until you’re nothing but sensation.

"gonna fill you up, sweetheart.” his voice is a low rumble that vibrates through your bones. "stretch you out every day i’m home-" he drives forward another inch, making your back arch, "-’til this pretty cunt just opens up for me."

you can’t speak. can’t think. everything narrows down to the drag of him inside you, veins and ridges catching on the soft walls of your cunt. your mind spins, vision blurring as your hips jerk, instinctively trying to escape the overwhelming fullness. his fingers bite into your thighs, holding you in place.

"uh-uh," he murmurs, dark amusement curling at the edges of his words. "don’t run, baby. you wanted this."

he braces himself, broad shoulders tense above you as he tries to sink deeper. but even with how wet you are, how pliant you’ve gone beneath him, your body refuses to give. his hips stutter, pushing, pushing— yet still, there’s that impossible last inches he can’t force past.

“p-please- need it, need you-” the words spill out as he pauses, pulling back an inch.

"i know, baby, i know," he pants, forehead pressing to yours, sweat slick between you, before rolling his hips back in, trying his damn best to bottom out, but your cunt clenches stubbornly. frustration twists across his face, the sight of you writhing beneath him, cunt stretched wide and still too tight to take him fully— it drives him insane.

"gonna have to fix that," he murmurs, thumb brushing a tear from your cheek.

you nod, dazed, tears slipping down your temples as you sob out a choked, "yes- yes, please-"

"shh," könig soothes, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth. "you’re doin’ so good, baby. takin’ me so well. just need to open you up a little more, yeah?"

könig adjusts his grip, hands sliding beneath your knees, lifting you with ease. before you can even register the shift, he’s pulling you up against his chest, arms hooking beneath your legs, locking you back in a full nelson.

your breath stutters, eyes going wide as your body is left entirely at his mercy, weightless in his grip, spread open around him.

könig’s lips graze your ear. "gonna let gravity help us, yeah? lil bit of science. let’s see if this pretty little cunt can take all of me now."

your toes curl, breath hitching as he angles his hips, smearing your slick between you.

then he lets gravity do most of the work.

your breath leaves you in a shattered moan as your body sinks down, forced open as he drops you down on his cock. your walls flutter, clenching around him, stretched impossibly wide, struggling to take him, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you squirm away.

"that’s it," könig groans, arms flexing as he holds you still, keeps you spread. "so fuckin’ good for me, baby. lettin’ me stretch you open- gonna make you take it all."

you whimper, drool slipping from the corner of your lips, eyes rolling back as the last stubborn inch finally, finally sinks in, his cock seated fully inside you for the first time.

"fuck," könig grits out. "that’s my girl. knew you could take it, baby. knew you just needed a little help."

könig doesn’t give you much of a chance to adjust. the moment he thinks you're ready, his arms tighten, muscles flexing as he hauls you up before slamming you back down.

you jolt, cunt forced to stretch and squeeze around him with every thrust. his strength controls everything— the pace, the depth, the way you bounce like a ragdoll, helpless to slow him down. he’s slamming himself inside, spearing you open over and over, forcing you to stretch wider than you ever have.

you can’t keep up. your limbs go slack, muscles useless, brain short-circuiting. your vision blurs, eyes rolling back, drool slipping from the corner of your lips as your mouth falls open in a silent scream.

könig chuckles, pleased, watching the way you’ve gone completely limp in his arms. "gonna stretch you out like this every single day. keep you full, fuck you dumb, make sure this little cunt remembers who it belongs to."

your body convulses, wracked with sensation too intense to hold in. könig keeps moving, fucking you onto his cock like he’s trying to break you in, to shape your cunt to his cock.

"n-no-" your voice barely comes out. a sob caught in your throat as your fingers claw weakly at his forearms. your legs shake, eyes welling up, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. "g-gonna pee," you whimper, body locking up.

"no, baby." he drags you down harder, grinding the thick head of his cock against that perfect spot inside you. "you’re gonna cum. gonna make a mess all over me, aren't you?"

your sob turns into a choked wail as you gush, squirting hard, the release almost violent, soaking könig's thighs, dripping down to form a puddle on the floor beneath you.

könig watches you fall apart with hooded eyes, holding you up as your body jerks and trembles in his arms. "good girl," he praises, sounding utterly enthralled by the mess you’ve made. "fuckin’ knew you’d soak me- knew you were just a little messy thing."

you slump against him, muscles useless. the aftershocks have you so dazed that you barely register the shift before you’re being turned, pressed down against the floor, cheek squished against the slick puddle you just made.

"könig-" you whimper, trying to lift yourself, but his broad hand presses between your shoulder blades, keeping you down, keeping you open.

he ignores you, fingers digging into your hips, adjusting your position, spreading you wider. he lines himself up and pushes in, stuffing you to the brim in one deep thrust. your fingers claw at the wet floor beneath you, the slick sound of him sinking into you obscene in the quiet.

"good fuckin’ girl," he drags his cock out before slamming back in, his thighs slapping against your ass. "just let me use you, yeah? just take it like my perfect little cumdump."

you sob into the mess beneath you. könig presses your face harder against it, his broad palm splayed between your shoulder blades, keeping you pinned.

"lick it up," he orders, tone smooth, assured, the kind of voice that expects obedience.

your whole body burns, but the heat between your legs is hotter. könig feels the way you clench around him at the command, the way your body betrays you before your lips can even form a protest.

"kö-”

“don’t make me say it twice, sweetheart," he warns, hips pulling back, dragging his cock out until only the tip stretches you open.

"what’s the matter?" he mocks. "you were so eager to make this mess- now you’re going shy?"

your breath shudders out in a small whimper before you obey, lowering your head, tongue flicking out, just barely grazing the puddle beneath you.

könig clicks his tongue. "that’s not licking, that’s teasing."

his hips snap forward, knocking you further into the mess, forcing your mouth against it. your lips part with a gasp, and könig watches, eyes dark and hungry, as you taste yourself properly for the first time.

"there we go," he hums, smug satisfaction. "now clean up every drop."

your cheeks burn as you press your tongue flat to the floor, licking a slow, tentative stripe through the mess. the taste floods your mouth and your stomach twists— but the weight of könig’s cock inside you, the way he keeps you full and stretched and pinned beneath him, sends another rush of slick dripping down your thighs.

he notices. of course he notices.

"oh, sweetheart," he breathes. "you like this, don’t you?"

your body betrays you again, a little shiver running down your spine, your cunt fluttering around him.

"mm, you do." he chuckles, dragging his fingers through your hair, tightening his grip. "filthy little thing. you’re gettin’ off on this."

you squeeze your eyes shut, shame crawling up your throat.

"könig-"

"uh-uh," he interrupts, grip tightening, making you whimper. "keep licking, schatz. don’t stop ‘til it’s gone."

your tongue flicks out again, lapping up another mouthful, swallowing it down even as heat prickles behind your eyes.

könig groans at the sight, his free hand stroking down your spine, over the curve of your ass. "that’s it, baby," he breathes. "such a good little slut for me."

you whimper, thighs squeezing together, hips rocking subtly against him, desperate for friction, for anything.

he notices that, too. "oh, you poor thing," he coos, all false sympathy, fingers stroking your cheek where it’s damp with tears. "s’this gettin’ you all worked up?"

könig pulls back just a little, dragging his length through your overstretched walls. "you gonna come just from this?" he asks, rolling his hips. your body tenses, toes curling. "from licking your mess off the floor like a good little bitch?"

your face burns, whole body trembling. too full, too overwhelmed, too much— and yet, you nod, a choked little sob escaping your lips.

his pace stutters, burying himself to the hilt with a ragged groan, holding you still as he spills inside, his cock twitching, pumping thick ropes of cum into your swollen cunt. "fuck," he pants, chest heaving, his weight bearing down on you. "so good, baby. took me so fuckin’ well."

his cum is hot inside you, sticky, leaking, seeping out around his cock as he slowly pulls back, watching his spend start to slip from your overstretched hole. könig hums, almost thoughtful. he presses a broad palm against your pussy, scooping it up, pushing it back in with two thick fingers, shoving his spend as deep as it’ll go. "keep it in,” he says almost absentmindedly. he lifts his hand after a moment, tilting his head as he examines the way it drips from his fingers.

his free hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up. your lips part before he even has to tell you. "clean it up," he slides his ring finger past your lips.

your lashes flutter, heat prickling up your spine as you close your lips around him, sucking gently, swirling your tongue over the ridges of his finger, tasting yourself, tasting him.

könig groans, thumb stroking over your cheek, watching your lips stretch around the digit, tongue flicking against the band wrapped around his finger.

"good girl," he breathes, eyes hooded, cock twitching against your slick folds, already stirring again, already wanting more.

he presses his finger deeper, until it nudges against the back of your throat, until your breath stutters and your eyes go hazy, wet.

"so pretty like this.” his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing slow circles over your swollen clit. "gonna keep you like this forever, wife. nice and full."

he pulls his finger from your mouth with a soft pop, watching the way your tongue flicks out after it, lips wet, eyes dazed. "gonna make you a mommy.” he grins. “fill you up every night until it takes.”

“-and cut!”

[saintquincy]

help comes from unexpected alphas

ghoap x gn!reader | 8K words

tags: sickfic, omegaverse, a/b/o, scentmatching, semi established ghoap, mostly fluff, mild angst

Question: what happens when an omega with covid who has lost their sense of smell crosses paths with their scent match?

AN: welcome to this not fully flushed out sickfic oneshot. not my usual pacing or story telling style. but hey, there is a first time for everything. i tried to keep the reader as gender neutral as possible, but if I missed something feel free to let me know if the comments.

AO3 | Tips | other fics

You weren't exactly new to the building. You had been living here for over six months, squirreled away in your flat, working on articles for the magazine you wrote for. The pay wasn't great, but it was enough to offer you your freedom, offer you a place in society that wasn't secondary to some bonded knotheaded alpha.

stop. breathe.

in for 4.

You shook off the dark thoughts that typically followed any thoughts of alphas because that typically led you down the path of one specific alpha. You hadn't admitted to you therapist that you had been holed up in your flat for weeks now, working around the clock on articles, made more difficult by the fact that you wrote lifestyle pieces but hadn't seen the sun in days. Instead you lived vicariously through videos and posts and stories other people posted online.

The problem was that you want to be out there. You want to be visiting cafes with friends, trying the newest overpriced dessert from some trendy place in London that would be replaced by another new trendy place in less than six months. You wanted to be out there with other people.

hold for seven.

You told yourself, and your therapist, that you were fine. Of course you were fine. How could you not be fine?

out for eight.

Since moving to the apartment building you'd fallen into the habit of waiting as long as possible before doing laundry. Once you reached the point of no return, like tonight, you would drag down weeks of laundry and hole up in one of the corners of the dreary laundry room and wash the endless piles of clothes, spending most of the time grumbling to yourself about the fact that you never left the apartment how could you possible have so much dirty laundry.

Tonight was no different. You were probably close to a heat judging by the way you had tore everything off your bed, including the pillows to get a deep clean. Or by the way your nose scrunched up when you entered the dingy laundry room. This wasn't a luxury building, it didn't cater to making omegas feel comfortable, it barely met most of the standards for safety and well being. Then again, you were likely one of three unbonded omegas based on the neighbors you had met. The other two you had met were bonded, older, and perfectly happy with their packs on one of the pack floors. Those flats had in-unit washer dryers.

Once your first load was started you hopped up onto the washer, letting the warmth of the machine bleed into you. It was cold down here, the rickety heating struggled enough on the upper floors, but down here it was always non existent.

Logically, you knew that you should probably pull something of your own out of the dirty pile and throw it on until there was something clean and dry to wear. But logic didn't always win out against omega instincts, especially this close to a heat.

Especially, when you had spotted a particularly comfy looking sweatshirt on top of the lost and found pile.

It should bother you that that specific article of clothing was touching other articles of clothing, all with unknown levels of cleanliness. It did bother you, the logical you that worries about things like scabies, or crusted over mystery messes. But your instincts are going to win out logic because you can't stop thinking about it.

It would look perfect in your nest.

The thought doesn't surprise you, it does disgust you because you don't know who's sweatshirt it is, or where its been, or if it will even smell good. It could stink, but your omega is already so locked on you can't help the way you slip off the machine, taking measured slow steps towards the offending pile of lost clothes.

What if the owner comes back and sees me wearing it?

That is enough to give you pause, hand already reaching out to pick it up. Your gaze flicks to the door, its closed, its been closed, and only once have you ever seen anyone down here when you have done laundry this late at night. John. He was an alpha by the looks of him, but he must have been on scent blockers, even with your keen senses you hadn't picked up a hint of his scent, not from him or the pile of monochrome clothes he had been tossing into the machine.

It wasn't uncommon, many industries relied on industrial strength scent blockers, suppressants, the works in order to work at peak capacity. Doctors, teachers, soldiers. You couldn't imagine the man with his broad shoulders, stack of muscles and carefully shaved mohawk being a teacher or a doctor, but then you didn't like to make assumptions. Enough people made assumptions about you based on your designation.

After that first run in you had never seen him in the laundry room again, but you did see him from time to time, leaving the building, standing in the mail room taking out an obscene amount of envelopes, slinking back into the building late in the night smelling of booze. No matter how rough he looked he always had a bright smile for you.

You can't take it anymore, you snatch up the sweatshirt, bringing it to your nose and taking a sniff.

in for four.

hold.

If you weren't going into a heat before the scent on this sweatshirt was sending you over the edge. You could not do something as embarrassing as slick in the basement laundry room over someone's dirty abandoned sweatshirt.

Fuck.

There was no way you were leaving this behind now that you had gotten a whiff of the scent. It was a surprise you hadn't zeroed in on it the moment you stepped foot in the room, but there were so many conflicting scents here, it had been just one in a million. But now, pressing it to your face, god, nothing has ever smelled better.

You would ignore the obvious implication that whoever's sweatshirt this was was a scent match.

The reality though was that in all the months you had lived here you had not once gotten a whiff of someone who smelled even remotely like this. Like leather, like smoke, like salty sea air. It is hard to ignore the image it creates, a bonfire on a beach, the sun already dropped below the horizon, skin pressed against a warm body, fresh sea air clinging to their skin so heavily you could taste the salt as you lap it from their neck. A purr rumbling in their chest as you nuzzle their scent gland.

a fantasy.

Scent matches were the things of romance novels, soulmates, alphas who fought for omegas and provided and were shitty people and shitty alphas. It didn't work that way in real life, there wasn't some made for you alpha out there who would take one sniff of you and then sweep you off your feet.

You haven't always been this jaded, but you were now and even as you press the worn sweatshirt to your face you know it doesn't matter. Whoever this alpha is they aren't going to change anything about your life, even if you are scent matches. However, you could cling to this stolen piece of clothing and dream a little while you finish the rest of your laundry. Over time, the scent would fade and you would be left with someone's stolen sweatshirt tucked carefully into the corner of your nest.

It's a familiar disappointment. A familiar existence. An existence you tell yourself you are fine with. That you are over what happened with your last alpha. That you don't need anyone else. No alphas, no betas, no omegas. You are fine. This is fine.

stop. breathe.

in for 4.

****************

"They cannae ban me from base," the Scot grumbles from the sofa.

Simon doesn't respond. They've already had this fight, hell, Price has already had this fight and if the fury of their captain had not been enough to shut up Johnny then there was nothing Simon could do.

"They can, and they 'ave. So shut it and get back in the bed," Simon all but growled.

It wasn't uncommon for the two to battle for dominance, an alpha alpha pairing was rarer but not unheard of, neither of them willing to fully submit to the other. The only time Johnny submitted fully was in bed, and that was out of the question in his current state.

"Ah dinnae like the bed," he says with a deep frown, thick brows knit together as he glares up at the other alpha.

"F'r fucks sake why not?"

"Disnae smell right."

Simon fights back another sigh. This thing between them is new, its delicate, a tenuous thing threatened on all ends because of their careers, their designations, society, the lack of claiming bites, the lack of official paperwork. But most importantly, neither of them really know how to go about this properly. An omega would know what Johnny needs, would have scent marked the whole goddamn flat the first time they came here. But Simon wasn't an omega, he rarely felt like a proper alpha, none of those protective instincts he heard people talk about.

maybe he should call price.

"Need me t' scent them?"

Johnny considers the question, twisting his body to look into the darkened bedroom. Simon knows he could better elevate his injured knee if he was in the bed. His sorry excuse for a sofa is barely big enough for the two of them sitting, forget stretched out knee up on pillows.

"It smells stale," he murmurs, not meeting Simon's eyes.

Simon knows he hates this, being injured is bad enough, admitting he needs help, admitting that the stale smell left from months of disuse is messing with his instincts? Instincts typically buried beneath industrial strength suppressants?

Simon doesn't need a bond to know it is killing Johnny.

"I'll do the wash if ye promise t' sleep in the bed tonight."

Johnny nods eagerly, his scent warming. Its a rare moment for Simon to even be able to scent him. Neither of them needed their scent blockers while they were on leave, but typically they were prepared to be called back to the field, most leaves cut short by a late night phone call from Price. But this time Johnny had a minimum of 6 weeks before he could even attempt physio and Price had convinced anyone who mattered that the two of them were a package deal. So begrudgingly, Simon is taking some long overdue leave.

Simon is not used to the domesticity that comes from being with Johnny. Years of circling around each other, attraction and camaraderie keeping them close and than an op gone too long, a supply drop missed and the two had scented each other for the first time.

scent match

The word bounces around Simon's head as he drags Johnny's bedding down to the basement. The building is not the fanciest, a far cry from what either of them could actually afford and yet not surprising to Simon considering they spent very little time off base and Johnny at least had family to go home to even if the lot of them were betas and civilians who struggled to understand Johnny.

Simon had never considered it a possibility that he would have a scent match, for a multitude of reasons, first and foremost being the fact that he had always assumed he would die in the field. Couldn't expect someone like him to meet a scent match when he had spent his whole adult life drowning in scent blockers and suppressants. The odds of finding a match in the military, let alone on his team, was so astronomically small and yet, here he was, doing the laundry of his mate.

The laundry is blessedly empty and while Simon could make the trek back up to the flat but he thinks that maybe he needs some time alone to sort through his own thoughts.

And he is alone for a while, the hum of the washer working over the sheets lulling him into a trance, he muses that it must be what it feels like to mediate. The only time he feels this kind of peace is when he is in a blind, hidden from view with a sniper scope up to his eye, every thought, every feeling focused on the crosshair. Only now, that focus is on the endless spinning of the machine, the clear front of the machine a window into a technicolor of fabric.

The sound of the door opening comes as a surprise, his defenses down as he tries to distract himself from his tumultuous thoughts.

Simon doesn't turn right away, despite years of military training screaming at him to turn, to assess the situation, to make a plan of attack, to protect himself.

But its hard to talk himself off that ledge, the tension bleeding through him, ice in his veins as he wars with himself not to turn around. There's only one set of footsteps, dragging what must be a laundry bag. He can easily handle one assailant. No problem.

He doesn't realize he is holding his breath until he inhales deeply, trying to center himself before turning and trying to act like a normal bloody person.

Had he not already experienced scenting Johnny for the first time he would think he was dying in this moment.

bergamot, a sweet orange cake in the summer, asphalt baked beneath the sun.

Simon never had a happy summer as a child, he doesn't know what it feels like to think back fondly on that time, to feel nostalgia over summers that seemed to last forever, but as the scent invades his senses he believes he knows what it might feel like in this moment. He thinks he might understand the magic of those memories.

The moment is broken though when the footsteps stop and the person, with the second most delectable scent he has every smelled, takes a deep breath and sneezes. The sound is wet, a pathetic whimper follows it, a sound that has him grinding his teeth as he turns to face whoever it is threatening to turn his whole world on its side.

****************

The last thing you want to be doing at this very moment is laundry. The stuffy old alpha doctor at the clinic had barely even looked at you before writing it off as "a summer cold" and letting you know there was not much they could do for you even though you were on day five of thinking your head was going to explode from the pressure. You couldn't even smell how gross and sweaty and likely foul your sheets and clothes were, but the thought of what it might smell like was enough to have you dragging your ass down to the laundry room.

You did feel a bit bad that you are subjecting the rest of the building to your illness, but you had no choice and there is never anyone down there at night anyway.

Your laundry had been packed in a daze. Your feet dragging as you shuffle down the stairs to the basement, luckily not crossing paths with another person.

should have showered, you think, deciding clean pyjamas were not eneough.

Your thoughts come to a halt when you step into the laundry room. There is an alpha, because there is no way the monstrosity of a man is anything but an alpha, standing frozen in place next to the machines you usually use. He's tense and when he finally takes a breath, his fists clench at his sides, back straightening. You can only imagine how terrible you probably smell to him, there's no other logical reason for the response.

You frown, picking up your sweatshirt and giving it a sniff. You don't really feel well enough to worry what the strange giant of a man thinks of you in this moment.

All the sniff does is mess with your sinuses, the breath catching in your throat as you breath, the tickle in your nose hard to ignore. When you sneeze it feels like your brain is rattling around in your head and you can't help the whimper.

You rub the sleeve of the sweatshirt you're wearing beneath your nose, hoping you aren't a snotty mess on top of everything else.

"Sorry," you mumble turning away.

You decide the sweatshirt is probably dirty now too, pulling it off and dumping it into the wash with the rest of the clothes. You try and fail to ignore the way the man is staring. The alpha. You don't recognize him, but then again the building is big enough that you don't know everyone here.

It irks you though, as an omega you usually rely on scents to get you through the world. Sure, its a pain to be attacked by a barrage of what everyone is feeling, but in moments like this, if you could scent him you could get a better read on him. Because right now, as you dump detergent into two of the machines, peering to the side, its hard to tell what he is thinking but its harder to ignore the way he is staring.

maybe he's a germaphobe and that's why he's down here so late.

It's a realistic enough assumption, better than jumping to the worst which is that those glares are menacing in a threatening way and not just in a you were a menace to his peace of mind way.

"Sorry about the sniffling and sneezing, I really thought no one would be down here."

Your words are no more than a whisper that scratch against your raw throat. You really shouldn't be here, you should be in bed, but even the thought of being in the dirty excuse of a nest you had been burrowed into for days makes your skin crawl.

You're not sure if he even hears the words, his body still stiff and now that you have no distraction to hold your attention you turn to him.

Then you take a step back. His honeyed gaze tracking your every move. If you had been well, or in better control of your instincts, you might have reacted differently. You aren't even sure what it is you are doing, but your heart is pounding and something close to fear crawls down your spine.

"I can just—" you start but he cuts you off.

"Not a problem. Can't help it, yeah?"

You nod but you aren't sure what it is you are agreeing to.

"I haven't seen you around before, did you just move in?"

You should just shut up. You should set a timer on your phone and make the exhausting journey back to your flat, back to your empty nest and come back when the wash is done. But you can't look away from this man, this alpha.

"Stayin' with a…friend."

"Oh," you perk up a bit, as much as you can in your condition, "maybe I know them. What's their name?"

You might hide out in your apartment, not quite ready to face the outside. Maybe a bit broken by circumstances and fate and an alpha who had promised you the world. And maybe the obsessive need to know everyone had been a result of that distrust the world had bred into you, but over time it had become something else and now your neighbors, even some from the pack floors were your world, your little sliver of life.

So odds are, if this man is staying with someone here then you know them.

It is hard to not try and guess who it is as he stands there, seeming to digest the question like it isn't the most straightforward thing. It is straightforward to you, even when your head has that distinct stuffy feeling like the only thing between your ears was cotton.

Maybe it's Olive, the omega from 2B. She's a firecracker, a personal trainer at the gym who has on more than one occasion hit on you when you have run into each other in the mail room.

Or maybe Theo, the beta who lives next door to you. He has no shortage of friends who visit. The last time you had chatted with him he had let slip he was being courted by a pack, maybe this was one of them? It had been quiet through the walls since Theo had started getting courted but that didn't mean someone from the pack hadn't been over?

Maybe one of the alphas? There are a handful of unbonded ones in the building.

"Stayin' with John."

"John with the dog or John with the stupid hair?"

The alpha lets out a bark of a laugh, some of the tension bleeding from his shoulders as his scarred face breaks into a grin that is far more feral then you typically saw in polite company.

"Johnny's goin' t'love that."

Johnny.

Johnny.

Johnny.

The name wraps itself up in what is left of your thoughts. It fits him because of course it does.

"He's back?" you ask, you haven't really ever spoken with him, but you have noticed him enough, noticed enough about him to figure out he travels for work, is away for long stretches and when he is here it's sporadic, unpredictable. You have spoken to him enough to know he isn't from the area, the accent hard to miss.

"Aye, on bedrest, fucked up 'is knee."

You try and fail to hold back a cough as you go to answer, instead the sound that comes out is a wheeze, a hacking cough follows.

The alpha all but glares at you as you try to regain control of your body, curling in on yourself as you breathe deeply.

in for four.

The familiar fear that you have done something wrong, something unbecoming of an omega catches you off guard. You can't hold back the whine that slips from your lips.

"Seems like you should be the one in bed though," he says, tense again but making no move to leave. "Got someone who could finish that for you?" he asks, waving a hand at the laundry that continues to spin at your side.

You almost laugh. John, Johnny, has this man, and this man has him. And you have you, yourself, and no one else. And you would laugh if you knew you could have without it feeling like you have swallowed glass.

"Just me," you say, voice rougher than before.

Maybe you should go lay down.

****************

Johnny is restless. He hates being injured, but its worse this time with Simon here, Ghost, his scent match.

The Ghost is his scent match.

his mate.

Johnny hasn't fully come to terms with that reality yet. Price had taken it in stride, hadn't even bothered to pretend to be surprised when it happened. He actually had the audacity to already have the paperwork prepared for them to be an official pack, only thing left was a bonding bite between the two of them.

It is Johnny who is stalling, Johnny who clams up every time the two of them move in a direction that feels anything like intimacy. He can't explain it, even when Gaz poked and prodded for information, wrongly assuming it was Simon who was dragging his feet.

It isn't Simon, it's him. It's him and his stupid secret.

With Simon out of the flat he can spiral about it. The bed hadn't really smelled that bad, it had been an excuse, a gentle encouragement to get Simon out of his hair for a bit. The other alpha had been hovering and Johnny knows he should appreciate, he is so very lucky to be scent matched to someone like Simon, someone who can understand the fucked up mess that is Johnny's mind, Johnny's life.

But there is one small problem, that could have remained a small problem had he not gotten injured.

Johnny is still lost in his thoughts when the door to the flat bangs open, Simon stumbling in, his face a twist of emotions, anger the easiest to read.

Simon has always been hard to read, between the lack of scents in the military, the mask that was firmly in place when they were on base, and the closed off nature of the other alpha. But here, without suppressants coursing through their veins, scent blockers left unpacked, Johnny doesn't even need to see Simon's face to know something was wrong.

Very wrong.

"Are you okay?"

Simon's shoulders heave as he takes in a deep breath.

"Why didn't you tell me," he says accusingly, his stare heavy.

Johnny swallows, the edge of anger turning Simon's scent to wildfire, something untameable. Its almost enough to burn out everything else, but not enough to cover up the slightest tang of oranges.

"Ah dinnae ken, ah mean, ah did, but it dinnae mean anythin'."

"The omega doesn't know?"

"Ah wasnae sure, dropped a scarf runnin' out the building one day. Ah was on the way tae base, picked it up thinkin' ah could return it. Fuck, Simon, ah was at the end of a dose, didnae even ken what it was at first. Never smelled anythin' like that til," he trails off, looking over at Simon who is still at the door, fists clenching and unclenching.

"And you didn't say anythin'? There's leave for this kinda thin'."

"Leave? Tae dae what? Pack up with a random omega who's name ah didnae even ken?"

"'ow long?"

"Aboot six months," Johnny says, the confession almost a whisper.

"Fer fucks sake," Simon growls, stalking across the sparse living room, dropping down to his knees next to the sofa. "Why didn't you say anythin'?"

"Say what? Ah meet a nice omega, a civvie who disnae ken aboot the blood on mah 'ands?"

Simon doesn't respond, instead he reaches out a hand and cups Johnny's face. His skin is warm, fingers and palm calloused and rough. Johnny's hands are no different. These aren't the types of hands that get omegas to come home to, these are the hands of killers.

Johnny and Simon are meant for each other, made for each. But you, an omega with a kind face, and a soft smile every time you crossed paths? You are too good for the likes of them.

"But—"

"Nae, disnae matter that the omega is a scent match. I cannae be what they need, you cannae be what they need."

Simon doesn't respond right away, he studies Johnny, the too intense stare makes Johnny look away. He almost wishes Simon would put the mask back on so he doesn't have to see all of the emotions playing out across his face.

"You are a good man, John MacTavish, and if you wanted that omega down in the basement, you would make them the happiest omega around. And if this is fate, or whatever bullshit people think scent matches are then it won't matter that you and I are gone all the time, or 'ave blood on our 'ands, or are the most boneheaded alphas that omega has ever met because if it is meant to be then it will work out. We can make it work out. Together."

"Who are ye, and what 'ave ye done with my Simon?"

"Your Simon? More like my Johnny," he growls out, leaning forward to capture Johnny's lips in a searing kiss.

It's not their first kiss, their first kiss had been all instinct, the overwhelming coming together of two forces of nature. All the others since, the stolen moments together, the attempts at bonding, Johnny had had this secret, this worry looming over him because he knew that for as strong as he was in the field, how long he spent training, no amount of physical strength would make him enough of an alpha to care for an omega properly. Not the way an omega would deserve.

With Simon at his side in the field the 141 was unstoppable, maybe they could be unstoppable as a pack?

"Keep kissin' me like that and we are goin' to 'ave tae move this tae the bedroom." Johnny's smirk is met with a deep frown.

"The doctor said—"

"Och, ah dinnae care what the doctor said. Ah want ye more than ah can even say."

Simon chuckles, "yer an insatiable slag."

Johnny laughs, yanking Simon back in close. If not for the twinge of pain from his braced knee he would have pulled the alpha down the rest of the way.

"Ah can smell them," he murmurs into Simon's neck.

"Poor 'mega's sick, down there sneezin' an coughin'."

"What?" Johnny sputters, pushing back on Simon until he can see his face again. "Why're ye up 'ere then?" Johnny asks, distress clear on his face.

"'ad to know if you knew. Y'want the 'mega?"

There aren't words to describe the way he wants you. It isn't all instincts either, even though your scent had lingered in his mind for far longer than it had on the scarf, especially after he got his dose of military-grade suppressants. But it didn't matter, in the same way nothing had tamped down Simon's scent, the only thing that had been able to block out the memory of your scent was the shock at smelling Simon for the first time.

"Still dinnae think we're good fer them, but ah havnae stopped thinkin' aboot them."

Simon hums in response, falling back on his ankles. Simon kneeling at his side doing something unholy to the Scot.

"Not sure I'm the best one to approach an omega who didn't realize we were scent matches," says, looking unsure of himself.

"Disnae matter, y' said if it's meant tae be than it'll work oot. Goan and get our omega.

****************

As soon as the door closes behind the alpha you let out a long sigh, body sagging against the machine. When that isn't enough you let your body slide down the machine until you come to a rest on the cold floor. As an omega you are familiar with fevers, even more familiar with dealing with them as you ride out heats alone.

in for 4.

You try to steady your breathing, focusing on the warmth behind you, the rumbling of the machine not too unlike that of a purring alpha or omega. You let your eyes close, a familiar fantasy awaiting you. You imagine its your bonfire alpha wrapping you in his warm embrace, purring as you suffer through this never ending cold.

You should set an alarm. You're not certain you can handle the alpha coming back and finding you sleeping on the grimy basement floor. He probably already thinks that you are a mess of an omega. Can't even keep your nest clean. Can't take care of yourself. A sorry excuse for an omega.

You hear the door open, it feels far too soon for John's alpha to be back to switch out his loads. Great, another neighbor who will see you at your lowest, really just your luck.

You're so caught up in your spiralling thoughts that you don't hear them approaching, you don't realize they are speaking to you until the back of a hand is pressing against your sticky forehead.

"Christ, you're burin' up."

It is John's alpha. Had you dozed off? Maybe more time had passed than you thought.

"Just a cold," you murmur already missing the warmth from his hand when he pulls it away.

The whine that escapes you is embarrassing but has the desired effect when his hand returns, this time cupping the side of your face. You lean into the firm pressure, not at all bothered by the rough skin, or the sharp inhale from the man whose hand you are currently pressing into.

This is arguably a new low for you, so you might as well fully commit to this nightmare.

"You need water, and rest, and maybe a trip to A&E."

"Doc says its nothin'."

He lets out a huff, knees cracking as he bends down next to you. His arms are warm as they wrap around you, hugging you close to his chest as he stands. You nuzzle in close to his neck, cold nose rubbing against where you know his scent glands would be. Its incredibly rude but he doesn't move you. You let out a whine when you can't smell anything, stuffy sinuses keeping his scent from you.

"What flat are you in?" his voice rumbles through his chest.

"The one with the flower pot," you mumble back.

You aren't fully sure this isn't a dream, for a moment you are so sure, so certain you smell the scent from the sweatshirt, but then, that doesn't make sense because John's alpha wasn't here. But he's here now and he's taking you to your flat, and then everything will be fine.

You're certain you've overdone it the next time you can piece together enough words to resemble a thought. You knew you were sick, you knew your own body but you had let that waste of a doctor gaslight you into gaslighting yourself that it wasn't that bad. But it was, it was bad enough that you were having a fever dream, one where you could just make out that people were talking to you, but not what they were saying.

"Back with us, bonnie?"

You peel your eyes open. Its dark in your room, as it should be given the hour, only, it isn't your room because you painted your wall the first chance you got, and your bed has four posts that you carefully hang curtains from to create a nest, with fairy lights threaded through it. Your room also does not have a stupidly handsome alpha with blue eyes and a grown out mohawk.

"John?" your voice is barely a whisper, it hurts more than ever to speak.

"Aye, gave us a bit of a scare."

"Us?" you rasp, but you already know the answer.

"Aye, Simon's grabbin' yer last load from the machine."

You know how you should react, you're an unbonded omega who is beyond sick currently tucked into the bed of an alpha you barely know. The alpha part is an assumption, you faintly remember Simon purring so you had been correct there and while the scarred alpha from the basement has given you a whole new understanding of the meaning brick shithouse, John has always been bigger than the average man.

You close your eyes, pulling the blanket over your face. It's hard enough to think without seeing John, propping himself against the doorway, blue eyes bright with humor, a brace attached to his left leg, holding the knee straight.

"How'd I get here?"

"What was that? Cannae hear ye?"

You peer out from beneath the throw, glaring at John.

"Simon went down tae check on ye, dinnae sit right with us, leavin' ye down there alone. Ye were in a right state."

You think if you laugh the way you want to you'll regret it, but a right state is an understatement. How could you have been so dumb? What if someone else had found you? Someone not so pretty and kind and, fuck are you thinking this or saying it out loud?

The door opening interrupts your thoughts.

"For fuck's sake Johnny, told you to stay on the bloody couch."

The alpha stops in the doorway, dropping the laundry bag you know is yours and with an ease that is surprising despite his size picks up John. John gives out a chirp of surprise, arms scrambling to hold onto the alpha before he is unceremoniously dropped onto the bed next to you.

"Ye great oaf, cannae just be pickin' me up like that. Coulda jostled my knee."

"Tell you t'stay on the couch," he grumbles before turning to you. "How you feelin'? Need anythin'."

"Am I dreaming?"

That would explain the odd calm you felt despite your circumstances, only you typically don't have a pounding headache in your dreams. If it is a dream then it wouldn't be a problem if you rolled over and nuzzled into the alpha next to you.

"If yer dreamin', then ahm dreaming, bonnie," John says, closing the distance between the two of you and breathing in deeply.

"Fuck, ye smell so good bonnie," he says against your skin before he is being pulled away by his mohawk. "Shit!"

"No manners, this one. Sorry about 'im." The other alpha, Simon, holds John for a moment longer before dropping him to the bed.

"You need something warmer t' wear," he adds, moving towards your discarded laundry bag.

Its presumptuous of him. Neither of these alphas seem to know how to properly interact with an omega. His hands rummage through the bag, you fight down a growl that turns into a whine when the item he pulls out in the sweatshirt.

"Mine," the word is out before you can stop yourself.

The alpha looks up shocked, pale face flushing as he holds up the sweatshirt, you scramble out of the bed, legs shaking as you cross the room to snatch the sweatshirt away from the man who is a complete stranger, not that you really know John either.

Your heart is racing, lungs struggling to keep up. You feel lightheaded, but the adrenaline pumping through your body as you glaring up at the alpha like you could actually do something to someone his size.

There is nothing for you to do but pull the sweatshirt on over your head, its oversized, previously belonging to someone much larger than you.

"Bonnie, where did ye get that sweatshirt?"

You don't turn to look at John, instincts driving you hard to not turn your back on the alpha in front of you. Instead, you take a step back and then another until your back is against the wall and you can see both men. Simon with his wide eyes and John with his wide grin, a grin that looks very out of place.

You feel lightheaded, this is too much, you need to be in your flat, in your nest. You should grab your bag and hightail it out of here.

"It's mine," you repeat.

"Nae goin' tae try and take it, just wonderin' if ye ken who's sweatshirt it is."

You don't know, you tried, for weeks after finding it to find the owner. The name on the back was the only clue, but no one in the building shared it. Not first or last name. No one came looking for it and more importantly no one had smelled near as nice as the sweatshirt.

You pull the collar up to your nose and take in a deep breath, still nothing, not even the faint smell left behind from a fresh wash in the building's machines.

"Did ye meet my mate?" John asks, pushing himself up on the bed so that he is resting against the wall.

"Not really."

Fuck, you were tired. So tired.

"Well, bonnie, this is my mate, Simon Riley."

You turned to the giant of a man.

Simon Riley.

Riley.

Riley.

You don't have the energy to fight your instincts, to argue that logically this doesn't make sense, its too convenient, its too much of a coincidence. Instead you stalk forward, pulling up on your tippy toes to try to scent the man that John claims is named Simon Riley. Riley like the name emblazoned on the back of the sweatshirt.

You breathe deeply, desperate to catch even a hint of the scent that has haunted you for months. Instead your left dizzy, legs like jello as you step back. The giant of a man grabbing your arm gently as you sway.

"Let's get you into bed, yeah?"

You don't fight him on it, giving into the instincts that are telling you that you should roll around in the bed and make sure it smells just like you.

"Want me t' kick Johnny out? You need t' rest and you can do it 'ere, but if you want I'll take you to your flat, just wasn't sure what you meant by the one with the flower pot."

You also don't know what you could have meant by that.

"I should go back, I don't want to be a bother."

You force yourself to say the words even though everything in you is screaming that this is the alpha that smells like a bonfire on the beach, that if only you could scent you would be wrapped up in the warm embrace of smoke and salt.

You want to breathe him in and never let it go.

****************

Simon's certain it was only adrenaline holding you up as he guides you into the bed. He gets his confirmation from the droop of your eyes as you burrow down beneath the blankets, fresh from the wash and still a hint of warmth in them. He passes you the bottle of water he had set out earlier, you drink from it lazily before drifting off.

Johnny watches you raptly, fingers twitching at his side as he stops himself from reaching across the bed to touch you. Simon knows John means nothing untoward by it, that his instincts are riding him hard to offer you comfort however he can. Simon knows this because he feels the same way, instinct driving him to bundle you up in his arms, hold you close.

"We should let them rest," he says making no move to leave the side of the bed where he hovers over you.

"Aye," Johnny agrees making no moves of his own.

They stay like that longer than reasonable, long enough that Johnny falls asleep himself, body twisted in a way that Simon knows can't be comfortable and likely to leave him with a crick in his neck.

With a sigh, Simon moves to Johnny's side of the bed, maneuvering him until his knee is properly elevated and tucked beneath his own blanket. Simon considers if it would be odd to continue his vigil over his two mates, but decides that he should make himself useful.

Simon doesn't know what to do to make an omega comfortable in a domestic capacity, he doesn't know from personal experience either, his father had not been the type of alpha to offer comfort or care. The only thing he knew was what he had been trained to do. In their line of work they often crossed paths with omegas in distress, they had to be prepared to assist, to act.

You weren't in distress but you were in need, in need of care, in need of someone else to look out for you while you were ill.

In need of something Simon wasn't sure he knew he could give, despite his words to Johnny earlier.

He'll need to get groceries, Johnny and him had been living off takeaway but if they convinced you to stay they would need more than cheesy toast and chinese. Even if you don't stay, Simon can't live off scraps for six weeks. He's not much of a cook, he's not sure if Johnny is.

Bloody hell, the two of them barely know how to live with each other, how to be mates. And now this?

He expects to feel the usual discomfort at the unknown, he is nothing if not a creature of habit, but the apartment is warm with your scent and Johnny's. Yours' sweet on his tongue, even with the burnt taste of sickness while Johnny's is fresh and tart, a summer breeze through tall grass, tart dark berries on his tongue.

The way he would feast on the two of you.

Johnny has a single tinned soup. Simon warms it for you on the stove, testing the temperature with his finger before waking you up.

You had shifted in your sleep, your body gravitating towards Johnny who needed the rest as well. When he wakes you he watches the moment you come to, eyes wide with confusion before you wake up the rest of the way. He helps you sit, letting you feed yourself even though he has the strongest urge to do it himself, to hold the spoon in his steady hands and watch you as your lips wrap around the spoon.

Instead he busies himself with putting away Johnny's clothes. The Scot is a perfectionist in the field, but at home his space is chaotic. Simon tries not to focus on the way socks are with pants, or that boxers are haphazardly shoved wherever there seems to be free space.

"You don't need to take care of me," you say when he takes the bowl away.

Your eyes are already heavy, he forces you to drink water anyway, not happy with how warm you still feel.

"I don't but I want to."

"Why?" you ask, your eyes already closed, hand already reaching out for where Johnny lays on the bed.

He knows you won't remember asking, you won't remember him answering but he says it anyway, "because you smell like something I never dared to dream of. Because Johnny wants you and I would give him the world. Because I think there is a version of this where we can make you the happiest omega in the world."

Simon thinks its a properly romantic thing to say even if you weren't awake to hear it. He thinks about it more as he putters around Johnny's flat, cleaning and organizing the kitchen. He watches a video on his phone about how to properly stock a pantry. He feels like an idiot looking it up, but the video has thousands of views so he must not be the only one who didn't know.

At some point Johnny wakes up with a gasp of pain. Simon brings him his painkillers, he has days left of the good stuff, its been less than 48 hours since he was discharged and subsequently kicked off base by Price. It feels like a lifetime as Simon watches his mate chug down water before dropping back down into the bed, the pain written across his face in the way his lips twist into a grimace, brow knit together. He doesn't even make a move to get closer to you.

You appear only once. Eyes bleary with sleep, the arms of the sweatshirt dangling further than your finger tips, your feet bare against the wooden floors. You mumble something before disappearing into the bathroom.

It was late when he brought you here, even later now that he can't avoid sleep any longer. He changes into clean shorts, forgoing a shirt. Its already warm in the flat and as he hovers next to the bed he knows it will be warmer once he convinces himself that slipping in next to you is the right move.

"C'mere," you mumble.

He had been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't noticed you rolling over, pulling the blanket from your side to expose the empty space on the bed created by you curling in next to Johnny. It will be a tight fit, maybe not ideal in the long run, but in this moment Simon doesn't know if there is a long run, in his line of work he never knows if there will even be another day at the end of this one, so he slips in next to you.

You are demanding in your sleep, pulling his arm over your waist, forcing him to press his chest to your back. Close enough now that he can feel the tremor of a purr rattling around your chest. He tucks his face in close to your neck, nuzzling your scent gland, letting his own scent soak into your skin hoping it will be enough to chase away the sickness that clings to you.

Simon lets himself drift, the warm press of your skin against his, your purr, Johnny's heavy breathing, all of it is a comfort he's never known before.

He's not sure if its a dream, or his own last thoughts before sleep pulls him under but he pictures your face, overcome with something he doesn't know how to describe when you finally scent him, scent Johnny. In the dream you don't know about their jobs, about their pasts or their futures, you just know that the three of you were destined for each other.

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[hunxi-after-hours]

《罗小黑战记》 | THE LEGEND OF HEI (2019)

[pragnificent]

This is Money Snake. She only appears every 312 years. 

If you reblog her picture within the next twenty-five seconds you will have good luck and fortune for the rest of your life. 

[thingsamylikes]

I reblogged her late last year and my 2024 has been very satisfying work-wise and (secure enough to not stress out) money-wise so far. Money Snake is wise and good.