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Coyle comes home from a trial pissed, you dare to laugh at him.
Smut, rated explicit, tw: hints of domestic violence
Fic under cut or on my ao3
When Coyle first carried you to his little suite, you told yourself that you would do everything to make him happy, as you understood right then and there that you were living on borrowed time and that he was the only reason whether you lived or died. The issue was that, so far, every relationship you had began as heaven on Earth and ended with the guy losing his patience with your attitude. The good thing about Coyle? He was different, as there was nothing more heavenly than a smelly old man that wanted to fuck constantly.
“Miss me, sweetness?”
You were laying on the bed, wearing the red dotted dress that he had torn off some poor dead reagent. You think that he chose this one because the bright color made it easier for him to see. There was something wrong with his eyes that he hid under the sunglasses, not that you would ever admit that you noticed.
“Not really.” Despite your words, you move to a sitting position, expecting him to come close for a smooch or more. “I keep finding your beard between my legs.”
It was supposed to make him laugh, but it didn’t work.
“Too bad, I need’ja to do laundry.” It took him three steps to get from the door to the bed. You frowned, seeing the dark stand running down his trousers. When he tried to kiss you, you turned your face away.
“Someone pissed on you or something?” You sneered in disgust.
Coyle immediately dismisses kissing you, throwing his hands in the air instead, gesturing as if he was hitting someone. “The bitch bricked me in the head while I was pissin’!”
You can’t help but burst out laughing, earning yourself an ungentle pull on the back of your hair from the leather-clad cop. Behind your amusement, there’s the ever-present fear that this time he would lose his patience, that this time he won’t stop after a few hits.
“Don’t’cha laugh at me, bitch!” He slaps you as you try to control your laugh through short wheezes. Nothing was funny enough to die over.
“I’m sorry.” You pull at his hand to make him let go of your hair. He does. He’s in one of his ‘better’ bad moods, then. “I bet you made the bitch pay for it.”
“You bet I did.” He leaned over you, running his hand down your collar straight to your breast. “Made ‘er lick my boots clean, too.”
He pinched your nipple and you yelped, slapping his hand. “Hey!”
He let go of you, sitting down next to you. You barely moved your broken shins out of the way in time, saving yourself more pain. You didn’t doubt he did that on purpose.
“Hey!” You repeated with a slightly less high-pitched startle in your voice. “Take them off before sitting on the bed, I won’t be sleeping in your piss.”
“’s just the front.” He murmured, kicking off his shoes. You won’t tell him but you liked when he got like this. Talking back with defeated annoyance in his voice, treating you like you lived together for years, like you were a wife to him.
“Take off the shirt too, I’ll wash it.” You pull on his jacket. “Actually, take everything off, I’ll wash it all.”
“You try’na fuck me or somethin’?” He gets up, fiddling with his belt until his pants fall to his ankles. “I ain’t complainin’, so long as you’re askin’ for it.”
“Well, you never undress when fucking me in the first place. Maybe I want to see you too, you know?” You say, pulling on a sleeve on his jacket until he gets the point and allows you to take it off.
“An’ here I figured it was the get-up makin’ ya wanna squeal.” Coyle snorted, clearly amused. Good. You never knew what was going to trigger his next fit. In the past, there had been a couple of times when you proposed the idea of having sex, and in return, earned a furious lashing. Ever since then, you were constantly on the edge, walking on egg shells, not sure what to expect.
He lets you undo his tie and unbutton his shirt, leaning down while you sit on the bed, not wanting to put your broken legs under unnecessary pressure. When he’s bare you run your hand across his chest. There’s barely any softness on him, he’s made of pure muscle like a dog from a fighting pit.
“Like whatcha you see, darlin’?” He smirks.
“Very.”
He wraps his arms around you and pushes you further back on the bed, pressing a wet kiss to your lips. He tastes like cigarettes; you can basically feel a second-hand dopamine hit just from kissing him. When he pulls back, it’s to puff on his cigarette because of course it’s still in his hand.
He unbuttons the top of your dress, exposing your bare breasts – you’ve asked him to bring you a bra from one of the dead reagents, but when he did, it didn’t fit and he threw a tantrum about it, so you never asked for one again. Something told you that he didn’t understand the concept of cup sizes.
His lips move down to your neck, his beard scratching the sensitive skin there. He was always sucking and biting like a damn teenager, constantly adding new marks across your skin, so you couldn’t even look in a mirror without thinking about him.
Judging from the rigidness pressed against your thigh, he was hard already. You oblige, rubbing his cock with your thigh, just as his teeth closed over your nipple.
“Ah- Coyle!” Your shock is lost in his laughter.
Coyle lets go and leans back before running his roughened hands under your skirt and pulling your panties down your legs. You hold back a whimper as he touches your broken shins, afraid that if you cry out, he might like it and hurt you again. Maybe even worse.
“Good girl.”
He dives between your legs with the enthusiasm of a tiger catching its prey – considering yourself lucky that he enjoys giving as much as taking. Your legs kick against the mattress and you curse at the sharp pain, unable to hold back.
“Ah- Fuck!”
You can feel him laugh between your thighs, before his tongue runs across your folds and up to your clit.
“Fuck, Coyle-”
You run your hand through his short hair, desperate to pull him closer to have him lick your clit again, but he’s already pushing his tongue inside of you and you tremble, wanting him out and inside at the same time.
“God, Coyle-” You moan, projecting your voice since he likes it when you’re loud. And as a reward, he responds by moving up through your folds and back to your clit where he closes his lips around it and sucks. “Ah-”
You can feel two of his fingers push into you. The sudden stretch bites at first, but you’ve had much worse. It’s nearly embarrassing how easily his fingers slip all the way in, before he starts stroking them inside of you.
“There!” Your voice has an awkwardly high pitch to it as he curls his fingers just so to press against that soft bundle of nerves while his tongue mercilessly laps at your clit. “Just there- Don’t stop!”
And he doesn’t. If there’s something good to be said about Coyle, it’s that he finishes the job once he starts it… at least when it comes to sex.
The way your orgasm hits you reminds you of the current of his cattle prod. It runs through you, sending your body into spasm like electrical currents seizing every quivering limb. As you come down from your high, you find your thighs squeezing hard around his head, your broken shins hurting with the tension. You let go, your legs ragdolling on either side of him.
Coyle’s self-satisfied smirk never leaves his wet face as he lifts his body and positions his hips between your legs.
Your mind is still clouded as you run your hand over the smudged lines on his arm. You only come back to your senses as he grips your wrist hard enough to bruise and pins it to the mattress.
“Careful, sweetness.” He growls.
Fear sobers you. Unfortunately, your mouth runs faster than your sense does. “I like it.”
“Ah’course you do. Must remind ya of yer kind, make ya think I'm one of ‘em.”
Judging by the blurriness of the lines he has had the tattoo for a long time, likely since his youth. It showed two identical lightning bolts lined up, looking almost like-
“I had it before the Germans did.” He inputs, as if reading your mind. How did he always know?
“I wasn't thinking that.” You lie. “Is just that your arms are so big and sexy, I needed to touch them.”
You don’t quite understand his response as the feeling of his cock brushing across your folds does a great job at distracting you, but it was something in the terms of: “Yer real lucky I get bored of fuckin’ corpses.”
He lets go of your wrist, using his freed hand to grip your thigh and spread your legs further apart, right before he guides his cock inside you.
He slips in easily to no surprise; you're probably soaking the mattress at this point. He wastes no time before fucking into you hard. He's on the longer side, long enough to reach where it hurts and you let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine, as you move your hips to find the angle that feels nice.
“Quit movin’.” He curses, digging his nails into your hips to keep you still.
“You're too big.” You complain, knowing he likes to hear it. Despite him holding you down, you manage to twist your body enough for it to feel nice. “It hurts.”
He only drives into you harder hearing that, a satisfied smile flashing his lips.
You run your hands across his sweating chest, feeling the muscle underneath the scarred skin. You don't get you see him naked often and you didn't lie about enjoying it.
He catches your hand, moving it up his chest. Knowing what he wants, you lean forward, reaching for his neck. He grins as you wrap your fingers around it and squeeze.
Soon his smile turns into a gasp for breath.
He doesn't last much longer after that, spilling himself inside of you and you pray, just like every other time, that Easterman had him chemically fixed.
You let go of him, just as his body hits the mattress. It takes a while for his breath to be still enough for him to murmur: “Gimme a smoke, bitch.”
If Coyle was anyone else talking to you like that, you would’ve punched his lights out, but as he's a professional killer, you lean off the bed to find the pack of cigarettes he keeps in his pants. You try to move your legs as little as possible in the process.
You put two cigarettes between your lips, lighting them at once, before handing him one. You don't bother asking him if he could help you get to the bathroom, you know what his answer would be. “I ain't a fuckin’ nurse, honey.”
You choose to trust him not to fall asleep with a lit cigarette at his lips and burn the place down. With slow and painful steps you leave the room with his pissed fucking pants in hand to wash them before he's called for another trial.
Discarded by Murkoff and put in the Judge's seat, Coyle becomes your only hope of survival.
Rated explicit, tw: Murkoff typical violence
Fic under cut or on my ao3
You wake up disoriented and at first it seems like your eyes are cloudy, so you blink few times hoping your vision will clear – you are met with burlap covering your sight. You want to remove the bag from your head but your hands are tied to the chair you’re sitting on. You try to kick your legs – they are the same, chains around your ankles are keeping you from escaping.
“Where am I?” You ask, looking left and right, trying to see through the bag. Realization hits you like a bullet; they made you a trial victim. “You sons of bitches, no!”
You curse as you fight your binds. You can feel rope around your neck forcing you to keep your posture straight. “No, no, no, no! No, I shouldn’t be here! I should be free!”
“Ladies and gentlemen of the court.”
You hear the familiar words. You can see through the burlap the shapes of the figurines in a courthouse. Oh, God, you know where you are – the judge’s seat. “No! I was supposed to get out!”
“The state accuses my client of the kidnapping, torture and mutilation of four men and women.”
You trash your body, trying desperately to free yourself. “Not here, not the judge, no!”
You can see movement in front of you.
“You! I know you’re here!” You shout at the reagents, who started the trial. „You can stop this, you bastards are gonna stop this shit right here!”
You get no response. This was all wrong, you were supposed to get out! You had collected the release tokens and went through the gate! The guard at the Rebirth booth didn’t say anything about your tokens! If he had told you that you need to earn them through the trials, you would have! But he took them and sent you through the gate, where you sat in the chair in the shuttle, thinking you were going outside… Your flow of self-pity is disturbed by the mannequins continuing the trial.
“I move that the case against my client be dismissed.”
“You can’t stop the wheels of justice!” Behind you a male voice shouts.
That was Coyle’s voice. Coyle. Of course, Coyle was here, this was his trial, he was here to protect the judge and right now, he was your only ally.
“Coyle!” You call out, you could smell the trademark stench of burnt leather and cigarettes and for the first time you didn’t want to flee from it. “Coyle help!”
You get no response, only horrifying silence, filled only with your hard breath and cries for help. Tears are pouring down your face and so is snot that you try to wipe into your shoulder but the noose around neck is choking you when you do and the bag only sticks to your face and the burlap absorbs nothing smearing it over your face… Overwhelmed you cry. “I survived this long doesn’t that mean something?”
Once again, you get no response – not until the figurines move with their scripted speech. “Your honour, this trial is the clearest miscarriage of justice I’ve ever seen. The state has no evidence, no witnesses and frankly, no case.”
“No fucking mistrial! The bitch is guilty!” Coyle shouts again.
“Guilty!” You try to repeat his words, holding on to the last strains of hope that if the trial goes wrong, you will be allowed to live. But the figurines just continue with their old script. “Here, I said it! She’s guilty!”
“I humbly request out toss out these charges and find my client not guilty.”
“Fuck! Not guilty!” You try again. “Or guilty! Just tell me, what do you want me to say!”
You can see the outline of the reagent in the middle of the court room, ready to continue the trial by pressing the button. “Don’t you do this, don’t you fucking dare! You are gonna kill me for nothing! Absolutely nothing!”
You are moved back and you know what’s coming next, the hammers hovering over your body, ready to smash your bones in a slow agonizing death.
“No, no, no.” You could see the reagents moving in front of you, two shapes ready waiting for your execution. “I hope all of you die!”
You can feel the platform you are on moving backwards.
“Coyle!” You try again. “Kill them! Fucking kill them! Kill those evil bastards! Please!”
It happens agonisingly slow. You can hear the hammers before you feel them, sensing the motion of their movement. You still have time to beg. “Coyle, help! Please, Coyle! Aagh!”
Your pleads turn into a scream as your bones are smashed. You have never felt pain such as this, its sharp, burning and agonizing all at the same time. It hurts so bad your sight goes black and nothing exists but the horrifying pain.
You last thought before the world disappears completely is that you don’t want to die.
…
Pain.
You can’t focus on anything but the unbearable pain. You expect that any second the inevitable death will come – but it doesn’t.
“What-” You wonder if you were dead already, but the pain feels very alive. “God, it hurts.”
“God ain’t here, sweetness.”
Your eyelids feel impossibly heavy as you force yourself to open them. Your eyes cannot focus at first. You don’t know what you are seeing and on instinct you lift your hand to touch the dark smudge in front of you, only then realizing that your hands are free. What you touch is warm leather.
You look up.
“Coyle.” You breathe out. You lean into him, resting your head on his chest. You can barely think through the pain. “Am I dead?”
“Not quite yet.” Coyle laughs, while his hand runs through your hair. “Ain’t you cute, all cuddly like a beaten mutt.”
It takes you a while to gather yourself. You are alive.
He presses something to your mouth and you let go of his jacket to take it in your hands, realizing it’s one of the medicine flasks. Grateful, you drink. When you are done you drop the bottle, thinking a second too late that you might’ve used it to defend yourself.
You make the mistake of looking up, seeing the damn hammers still hanging over your head.
In panic you try to stand on your legs and with a scream you nearly fall. But Coyle catches you, seating you back on the judge’s chair. Your entire body spasms as pain shoots through you.
“No! I- Take me down, please, God, let me out!” You beg him, as your mind floods with horrifying scenarios of what will come next.
“You wanna call me God, I got no problem with that.” Coyle laughs. He sounds smug and at this point you don’t even mind. “You sure know how to compliment a man.”
He picks you off the chair with one arm under your knees and the other under your shoulders. His burnt face is inches from yours and he blows cigarette smoke right to your nose, laughing as you cough.
“You’re a pretty thing, would be a waste of a good bitch to leave you to them.” His breath stinks. “If you’re a good girl, I take you out of here before the cleanup crew comes. What do you say?”
You can see your calves, big blue marks already forming on them.
“Help me, please…” You beg, expecting that any time, a Murkoff agent will appear to finish you off.
“Since you beg so nicely.” The smug bastard laughs, and you don’t even care, as long as he takes you away from here.
“Please.” You repeat. “Please, it hurts.”
He lifts you up, throwing you over his shoulder like you’re a sack of potatoes. You nearly hit the damn car battery with your forehead.
“Careful.” He purrs, amusement clear in his voice. “Jenny is a jealous girl and might bite ya.”
You struggle to breathe and between that and the blinding pain shooting through your legs you pass out.
…
You come to as he’s putting you down, when your legs hit the ground, you think you might die. Your entire body spasms as pain shoots through you.
“Aagh!”
“Looks pretty nasty.” Coyle comments, as he hovers his hand over your bruised calves and you pray, he isn’t sadistic enough to touch them.
“Don’t-” Your head feels heavy, so you rest it on the floor. His hands slip under your dress, pulling it up. You didn’t give your clothes much attention until now, but as you do you realize that not only did they put you in the judge’s robe, they also removed everything else you wore. “Wait!”
“Don’t you try backing off now, girl, I ain’t no prince charming to save you for free.”
He managed to pull the robe all the way up to your chest, despite your protests. You sit up and press your legs together to save yourself at least some dignity. The motion sends another shot of pain through your body.
“Motherfucker, it hurts-“
Your curses are disturbed by his hand slapping the back of your head.
“I’ve got a name, darlin’.”
You hate realizing he could have hurt you ten times worse – and that you’re grateful he didn’t.
“Coyle-” You whimper, hating yourself for sounding so pathetic. “I can be good, okay? It just hurts so fucking much-”
“You’re lucky, you’re so damn pretty when you cry.” His hand caresses your cheek. “That mouth of yours needs reminding it ain’t a gutter. I won’t mind teaching it some manners.”
You close your eyes and take a deep breath. It’s okay, you’ve exchanged sexual favours before. You need to think of this as a transaction. You tell yourself. “Okay. I’ll suck you off, just don’t touch my legs.”
“Good girl.” He basically purrs.
It’s easy from there. He makes you do the work of undoing his belt and unzipping his pants. He’s already half hard, although thinking about it, he is probably getting hard every time he kills someone.
You spit in your hand, although his cock is already grossly moist – from sweat you assume – and stroke him until he grows in your hand.
“Good girl, now use that sweet little mouth.” He grasps your hair, pressing your head to his cock. “And look at me.”
You indulge him, looking up at his covered eyes, even if you would rather pretend he’s someone else, as you put your lips around his cock. You can do this. You did this before. You run your tongue around his head, it tastes salty, but not as bad as you feared it would.
“Atta girl.” He praises, pressing your head further down his cock. “You can use teeth a little~ yeah.”
That was a new one. You pull back a little, unwrapping your lips from your teeth, so you can let them slide across his skin, not daring to try anything worse. Judging by the moan that followed it was what he wanted.
You take his cock as deep in your throat as you can, while still teasing it with your tongue and teeth. It would’ve felt nice to have something fill your mouth like that if you weren’t hurting like a bitch.
“That’s it, sweetness~”
He grips your hair, pulling you back, until it’s only his head in your mouth and then down again, further than you would prefer, because of course he does. You do your best not to throw up over him, as you choke on his cock.
You put your hands on his hips to steady yourself, just as he pulls you back. You take a deep breath, but it’s stopped halfway through as he’s forcing you down his cock again.
Your eyes are burning from crying, so you close them, not expecting him to give a shit at this point, as he thrusts into your throat. You try to have him finish as soon as possible, moving your tongue with the motion of his thrusts and sometimes letting your teeth scratch his skin.
“Aagh, fuck~“ He pulls out when he comes, splashing your face with his cum. You don’t have it in yourself to mind, as you expected much worse from him. “I needed that!”
When he doesn’t give you any more orders, you wipe his cum and drool in the robe you wear. It takes you a moment to realize he’s waiting for you to put his fucking cock back in his pants and when you do finally realize, you do it with disgust and disappointment.
Your hand brushes by something hard in his pocket. You feel it and recognize the telltale shape of cigarette box. Fuck it, you are clearly lucky today so why not push it? You think before asking. “Can I have some?”
He looks down at you and for a moment you feel a spine-chilling fear, before the corner of his mouth twitches and he reaches for the box, spitting the bud of his last cigarette on the floor next to you.
“Hell, sure, why the fuck not. You had a horrible day, didn’t ya?”
“Yeah.” You murmur, as he hands you two cigarettes.
You hold them up for him to light, but your hand is shaking as it nears the cattle prod. He grips your wrist, holding it still, as he lights them up. The current licks at your hand and you close your eyes, afraid of the burn. Luckily for you, it takes a mere second.
He takes one cigarette from you, leaving you the other and you breath it in, letting the warm feeling it brings nuzzle your mind. Of course, it does nothing with the pain in your calves, but at least it’s something nice.
But with heimie's perspective?? I see him as someone who only had a rlly good relationship with his mothers or female relatives and he was closest to his aunt since she was basically his best friend that didn't scold and nag and constantly look out for him without letting him do a thing on his own like his mothers did 😭😭
I wrote a part two about year ago! :D It's from reader's pov but one of the chapters of this series has Heimdall's pov too. This one, although I recommend checking the previous parts because it had gathered plot by that time. (The series is also on Ao3)
I view him as not really caring to bond with female relatives after joining Odin's household. When it comes to the reader/his arranged wife, he (in my head) bases his stance towards her on what he knows from Odin and has to learn in time, that using and discarding women is not something he should look up to or what he wants for himself. At some point he probably catches himself looking at Thor and Sif and thinking "why aren't I loved like that" with zero self-reflection.
