'98 🔞 A bunch of amazing and wonderful reader-inserts for my lame, self-indulgent ass. All reblogs. Multiple Fandoms. Sideblog. N/SFW and sometimes Dark. Main blog @sketchlove
Ghost likes you soft and squishy with fat on your hips and a round tummy he can grip and squeeze under his thick fingers. More than likes, he craves it.
His life is all edges, hard men, hard steel, hard armor pressed into his chest until he forgets what it feels like to breathe without weight strapped on him. The rattle of magazines, the unyielding bite of Kevlar, the dull ache of scar tissue beneath it all. His world is built of bone and concrete, violence and recoil. Nothing gives. Nothing bends.
Except you.
You’re warm where he’s cold, pliant where he’s rigid. He can’t stop touching you because every handful of you pushes against his palm, yielding, generous, alive. When he takes hold of your hips he doesn’t feel the flat, brutal lines of gear, he feels something he can dig into. Something he can grip and mold and squeeze until his hands ache, and still there’s more. You’re a luxury he never thought he’d get, someone who doesn’t feel like the battlefield, someone who doesn’t bruise his hands just by existing.
And he loves it. God, he loves it. Loves how your thighs spill over his fingers when he spreads them, how your belly softens under his mouth when he kisses down, how you sigh when he grabs and pulls like he’s claiming territory. You tell him you’re heavy, that maybe he can’t lift you, and he just huffs a laugh behind the mask because compared to the endless weight of war, of corpses and duty and goddamn bulletproof glass, you are nothing. He can hoist you with one arm and slam you down onto the mattress just to prove it.
He does it often. Not because he needs to, but because he wants to because he sees the disbelief in your eyes every time and he wants to carve it out of you. Wants to hammer it into your bones that he likes you this way, that he likes having something to hold that doesn’t cut him back.
So he presses you into the sheets, body sprawling, fat spilling warm and perfect beneath his palms, and he groans like it’s a relief. Like it’s oxygen.
“Christ, love,” he rasps, pinning you tighter when you squirm, dragging his mask against your neck as though the fabric itself can taste you. “You’ve no idea what you do to me. I need this. Need you. All soft. All mine.”
And then he grips you harder, pulls you closer, not careful, not apologetic- hungry. Because to Ghost, your softness isn’t a flaw. It’s salvation.
Everyone assumes Price is the one with control issues in Task Force 141. Of course they do: he’s the Captain, the one calling shots and making impossible decisions with lives hanging in the balance. People see the authority and think that must translate to control in every aspect of his life. But Price delegates. Trusts his team. Knows when to let go.
Gaz, though? Gaz never learned how to let go of anything. He just learned how to make control look like care, how to disguise dominance as devotion. Price commands because it’s his job. Gaz controls because it’s his need, something fundamental and hungry that lives under his skin, that relaxes only when everything and everyone around him is exactly where he’s placed them. The Captain gives orders. Gaz repositions your entire existence and makes you thank him for it, smile soft and eyes warm like he’s doing you a favor. Like you asked for it. And maybe, by the end, you did.
You don’t remember when Kyle Garrick became the center of your universe.
It happened in increments. Small adjustments. A hand on your lower back guiding you through doorways. Fingers curling around your wrist to lead you somewhere he’d decided you should be. The way he’d tilt your chin up with two fingers when you were looking down at your phone, his smile easy and warm: “Eyes up here, yeah?”
You’d laughed it off. Found it charming, even. Thoughtful. Kyle was always thoughtful.
He remembered how you took your tea. Knew you got cold easily and kept a spare jacket in his car. Noticed when you were tired before you said anything, his hand already settling on the back of your neck, thumb rubbing circles that made your thoughts go syrupy and slow.
“There you go,” he’d murmur. “Just relax.”
And you did. Always.
The first time you tried to pour your own drink at his flat, his hand covered yours on the bottle. Not grabbing. Not forceful. Just… there. Steady and immovable.
“Let me,” he said, that trademark smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You’ve had a long day.”
You had. So you let him. Watched him pour the exact amount he thought you should have, watched him add ice cubes one by one. He handed you the glass and you drank, and something in his expression looked satisfied in a way you couldn’t quite name.
It was like that with everything. He ordered for you at restaurants before you’d finished looking at the menu; always something you’d like, uncannily perfect. Picked your movies. Chose where you’d sit, arranged your legs over his lap like you were something precious that needed careful positioning. Your friends joked that you’d been domesticated.
You laughed along. But sometimes, late at night when you were alone, you’d try to remember the last decision you’d made around Kyle and come up empty.
The shift came on a Thursday.
You were telling him about your day, about the new guy in IT who’d helped you fix your computer. “Really patient about it too,” you’d said, smiling at the memory. “Actually explained what was wrong instead of just taking over the keyboard. His name’s- ”
“That right?” Kyle’s voice was the same. Warm, interested. But his hand on your thigh tightened just enough that you felt each individual finger. The pressure didn’t hurt. It didn’t need to.
You looked at him. His smile was exactly the same as always. Easy. Relaxed. But his eyes had gone somewhere else, somewhere flat and evaluating. Like he was doing calculations behind them that had nothing to do with the pleasant expression on his face.
“Kyle?”
“Keep going.” His thumb moved in a slow circle against your leg. The motion was soothing. The pressure underneath wasn’t. “He explain everything to you, then?”
Something in your hindbrain screamed wrong but his hand was warm and his smile was Kyle’s smile and you were probably imagining things. You’d just surprised him. That was all.
“Yeah, he… it’s not important.” The words came out small than you’d intended.
“No?” His head tilted slightly, the same angle he used when he was adjusting your position in bed, figuring out exactly how he wanted you. “Seemed important a second ago. You were smiling.”
“I was just- ”
“You smile at him like that?”
The question was casual. Light. But his eyes hadn’t warmed back up at all and his hand had migrated higher on your thigh, possessive in a way that made your pulse jump. You couldn’t tell if it was fear or something more complicated.
“Like what?”
“Like you just did. When you were talking about him.”
You hadn’t noticed you were smiling. You didn’t know what your face had looked like. Kyle knew, though. Kyle noticed everything about you. Catalogued it. Filed it away.
“I wasn’t- it’s not- he was just nice.”
“Nice.” Kyle repeated the word like he was tasting something bitter. Then that easy smile spread wider and he pulled you closer against him, arm wrapping around your shoulders in a way that felt less like an embrace and more like a claim being staked. “I’m nice to you, aren’t I?”
“Of course you are.”
“Look at me when you say it.”
You did. His pupils had swallowed most of the color in his eyes.
“I’m nice to you,” he repeated, and it wasn’t a question anymore. His hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone with aching tenderness. “Take care of you. Make sure you’re happy. Everything you need.”
“Yes.”
“So you don’t need some random bloke explaining computers to you like you’re simple.” His grip on your jaw tightened just a fraction. Not pain. Just… emphasis. “Do you.”
It wasn’t a question either.
“No.”
“That’s right.” He kissed your forehead, soft and sweet, and released you. Just like that, the tension evaporated from his body. He was back to being Kyle- charming, warm, perfect Kyle. “What do you want for dinner, love? I’m thinking we stay in tonight.”
We. But you knew he’d already decided.
After that, you started testing the boundaries of your cage. Subtle things. Reaching for your own drink before he could get it. Picking a movie he hadn’t suggested. Saying you were going out with friends instead of asking if it was alright.
Every time, that same fractional shift. The smile staying locked in place while something dangerous moved behind his eyes. And then his hands on you; repositioning, redirecting, gentling you back into compliance with touches that felt like love and control in equal measure.
“Think you’re overtired,” he’d say when you pushed back. “Come here.”
And you’d go. Because by then you’d learned: fighting Kyle Garrick was like fighting a riptide. The harder you struggled, the faster you drowned. But if you stayed soft and pliant, let him move you where he wanted, everything was so much easier.
He never raised his voice. Never had to. He’d just touch you until you forgot why you were resisting, murmur against your skin until your thoughts went quiet, rearrange your body until you fit perfectly into the space he’d carved out for you in his world.
You stopped mentioning other men. Stopped making plans he hadn’t approved. Stopped reaching for things without checking his face first to see if it was allowed.
And Kyle was so, so pleased with you.
“Perfect,” he’d breathe into your neck while you sat motionless in his lap, your body angled exactly how he’d positioned it twenty minutes ago because you’d learned not to move without permission. His fingers traced patterns on your skin that felt like ownership. “You’re so perfect for me. Know that?”
You did. You’d learned.
Sometimes you caught your reflection in his flat and didn’t recognize the person staring back. Soft. Compliant. Waiting to be told what to do next. Arranged like furniture in someone else’s home.
But Kyle’s hand was warm on the back of your neck and his smile was so proud when you were good and you’d long since stopped remembering what you wanted before you learned to want what he gave you.
“There’s my girl,” he’d say, and you’d fold into him like origami. Paper thin and shaped by someone else’s hands.
karafina // alain de botton, essays in love // karafina // alessia di cesare, the side effects of eating too many clementines // youqing wang // AL // christopher citro, our beautiful life when it’s filled with shrieks // caitlyn siehl, from what we buried; “in the kitchen” // zestivivi // eden robinson, "writing prompts for the broken-hearted" // yuutaguro
But yeah the only reason why I asked was bc I legit have no money, so in broke, but I really loved it and it made me crashout(lovingly) when I first saw it bc it was so yummy 😋
I can relate to being broke so much. Hope you get better soon. I was afraid tumblr might delete this acc entirely due to repeated reports but then at least they gotta have same standard for all posts. Thank you so much for enjoying my art.🥰
I stared at the instructor at the front of the class. His big brown eyes stared back.
We were the only two here.
“So, this is your class?” I finally broke the silence.
“Yes.” He replied. He didn’t so much as fidget with his sweatshirt, just stared, unnervingly still.
I nodded. His watch beeped.
“Time to start.” He padded over to his mat. He stood; arms limp by his sides and waited for me to do the same. I mirrored him, toes just shy of the edge of my mat.
He was a silent instructor, for the most part. Since there were no bodies in the way, I could simply follow his movements. There was no flowing, vaguely pan-Asian music over the speakers. It should have been unnerving, but something about the way his eyes tracked over my form made it feel… intimate.
“Hold.” He grunted. I did, muscles trembling ever so slightly. He padded behind me. “Gonna touch you. Good?”
I forced myself not to reply Why use many word when few do trick?
“Yeah.” It came out huskier than I intended.
His hands were warm and dry. Of course he wouldn’t be breaking a sweat, we’d only just begun a few moments ago.
“You’re putting too much pressure here.” He rested a hand on my lower back. “Shift like this, and you’ll find it’s easier to balance. Engage your core-” A hand pressed down on my knee, squaring my stance. The trembling stopped, although I could still feel the muscles stretching.
He didn’t wait for me to confirm it was better. He just went back to his position at the front of the class. In front of me.
-
“You did good.” He said once we wrapped class.
“Thanks.” I smiled. “Same time next week?”
He let out a huff of air, maybe a laugh. “I’ll be here.” He replied.
The next week was the same. Just he and I. I had arrived early, listening in on what it was that was keeping his class size so small. On the one hand, it seemed it was pretty advanced. I was fine with that - I’d always been athletic. I rock-climbed. I hiked. I swam. But Price’s was a rather large leap in difficulty, and his class was never this empty.
On the other hand, the instructor had a couple of… quirks. For one, he was unnervingly quiet. I thought, the first few times he moved to adjust me, that he was staring at me like he wanted to fuck me. But the more I stared back, the more I began to realize he might just be… different.
Also, he seemed to never take off that mask of his. It was this bizarre balaclava with a skull printed on it right where the real bones would be.
“Do you drink with that thing on?” I blurted out during cooldown. I tried to feel embarrassed, but it was bothering me way too much.
“…what?” I couldn’t read his expression.
“Your mask. Do you lift it up, or do you, you know, use a straw down the- the eye window?” I motioned, pantomiming the straw’s descent with a curled finger against my nose.
A long beat of silence stretched between us, during which he stared at me, unblinking.
“I fucking take it off.” He replied. Then, as if I were the weirdo, he gathered his things and left without another word.
Unfortunately, I didn't have any psychic powers, so I couldn’t burn through the door to keep staring at him. Eventually, I had to roll up my mat and leave the classroom. The beginner class was starting to trickle in.
-
Next week, there was someone else in class. An older woman who had been talking with a different instructor before class.
“Claire,” Simon inclined his head. “Welcome.”
“Thanks, Simon.” She glanced around the room, mercifully ignoring me. “This everyone?”
He grunted an affirmative. Then, as he had last week and the week before, he moved to stand at the front of his mat.
“I’m Claire,” Claire introduced herself as if I’d been too busy in another conversation to have heard her name before.
“Randi.” I held out my hand. Simon cleared his throat. I dropped it, toeing up to the front of my mat. “Alright,” I muttered. “Nevermind.”
Claire was far too flexible for a woman her age. As I watched her move, I felt… jealous. No, not jealous. Envious. I thought I was doing well, but she was able to do bakasana without blocks. And that kind of pissed me off.
But when I tried it out myself… Well… I wouldn’t have called it a fall, what with the way the world spun.
“All good?” Simon was clearly biting back a laugh.
“Oh, all good. Just wanted to do a little somersault. You know, to shake it up.” I kept my eyes on my sprawled limbs, eyes wide with embarrassment.
“You nearly had it!” Claire said helpfully. “Just need to…” She curled into the pose again, slowly lifting one foot, then the other. I forced down a baleful glare.
“You were close.” He stepped forward, holding out his hand to help me to my feet. “Try again.”
He knelt beside my mat, and it took a moment for me to realize he was going to spot me.
I sighed, feeling a bit too coddled, and got on my hands and knees, bending at the elbows.
“Good base.” He encouraged quietly.
I took Claire’s advice, starting with one foot still on the mat and raising my knee toward my elbow. One knee up… it was hard not to tremble. This wasn’t like rock-climbing. The muscles being engaged were way different.
“Ah.” He seemed to catch something. “You mind?” He reached out. I nodded, already feeling the exertion. “Feet down.” I obeyed gratefully.
“Not your arms.” He tapped my bicep. “Your core.” He took a breath, and I imagined he was flexing his core underneath his sweatshirt. His hand gently came to rest on my belly. “Engage your core on the upward movement to hold yourself in place.” I blinked. That was the most words he’d said to me in weeks.
I glanced at Claire, then back at him. Was it because she’s here? Did he take a deep breath so he could talk for that long? Maybe he has asthma and the mask filters out dust.
He shot me a look, and I realized he was tapping my core with his first finger - a not so subtle get on with it. I tamped down my thoughts and readied myself.
I tried again, focusing on my core as I brought my knee up to my elbow once again. The feeling of his hand on my abs definitely made that a bit easier. Lifting my other foot slowly, I let out a soft noise of panic.
“I’ve got you.” He murmured. I scoffed, but I did, for half a moment, hold the pose.
Right up until I started tilting again, and he had to more or less push me back by the stomach. I barely caught myself. Simon removed his hand and stood, padding back to his mat.
“That was so good!” Claire cheered. “Wow, massive improvement! You’ll get it in no time!” I flashed her a smile that may have been more of a grimace. “You’ll get there.” She repeated warmly.
-
Next week, no Claire.
Week after that, no Claire.
No Claire the third week after, either. The module was coming to an end.
“So,” I cocked my hip as class wrapped, sipping from my water bottle. He’d stopped leaving immediately after class around week four. “You’re down a receptionist.” He gave me a sidelong glance.
“We are.” He confirmed.
“Are you… hiring?” I asked. He turned to face me fully, studying me in that way he had. I was about to rescind the question when he finally said,
“We are.” Then, “Pay’s shit, though.”
I snorted, choking on my water. “Not me!” I laughed. “My little sister. She’s just turned sixteen and we need to get her out of the house.”
“…oh.”
I blinked back a level of surprise. He sounded almost… disappointed.
“I figured… if you need a part-timer, I could bring her along when I come to lessons? But she’s old enough to take the bus.” I pushed a little. It was a bad habit of mine.
He nodded, just once. “Sure. Bring her next week, I’ll have Johnny interview her.”
“Not Johnny.” I said quickly. “And now that I think about it, not Kyle either.”
“…she a bit…?” He let the implication hang.
“Very.” I replied emphatically. “Love her to bits, but very boy crazy.”
He nodded. “I’ll do it, then. You can sit in if you’d like.”
“Oh.” I thought about it for a moment. “Yeah, alright. That’ll do nicely.”
“Done.” He replied.
-
“No!” Jenny said emphatically. “Absolutely not. That’s so basic.”
“You are going to the interview, and you are going to take the job if they give it to you.” I ground out.
“Fuck off! Just because you’re my guardian doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do! I’m a complete person! I have autonomy!”
“You have an attitude problem.” I ground out. With a sigh, I raked my hand through my hair. “Listen,” I braced myself on the kitchen table, throwing the tea towel I was holding over my shoulder. “I know this sucks, alright? I miss Mum and Dad, too. But I can’t support your spending habits, so if you want to keep saving up for that… what was that suit?”
“It’s not a suit - it’s a matching set from Disturbia.”
“Sure. Disturbia. Whatever. If you want to keep yourself in those tall-ass boots, you need to get a part-time job. Plus,” I sighed. “I wouldn’t say no to you helping out with the grocery bill.”
She stared at me.
“Mum wouldn’t have made me get a job.”
I stared at her, channeling as much of my yoga instructor as I could. “No?” I asked, deadpan. “That might have been because you were ten when you last knew her.”
It was a well-worn argument, and I already knew she still didn’t understand how much it hurt when she said that. With another sigh, I tried one last gambit.
“The guys there are hot.” I said, turning away to stare at the oven. It stoically refused to help. “Two of ‘em will probably even let you, like… feel their muscles or whatever.”
At that, Jenny lit up. “How hot?” She demanded.
I held down the complex wave of guilt and relief that washed over me. Tugging out my phone, I navigated to the website and showed her their profiles.
“Holy fuck.” She breathed. “Yeah, yes, absolutely, one hundred percent, yes, I will-”
“Next week. I’m taking you before my lesson.”
“Okay!” She squealed. “I’m going to go pick something out.” She jogged to her room, her platform boots landing with heavy thuds.
-
I tried not to laugh as Jenny sat, done up in what I’m sure she thought was a very mature, very professional outfit. Unfortunately, it tilted closer to the Black Parade.
“Alright, so you remember what I told you?” I said as we stepped off of the bus. “Smile. Be honest. And don’t-”
“Don’t hit on the hot ones, I got it, I got it.” She waved me off.
“Don’t hit on any of them, Jenny. I swear to God-” I rolled my eyes to the sky. Dad was probably tearing his hair out while Mum was laughing.
The bells on the door chimed sweetly as we stepped into the now-familiar studio. Thankfully, Johnny’s class was in session. Kyle stood at the front desk, smiling warmly.
“Hello,” he greeted us both. “New, or returning?”
“Returning.” I answered. “Been Simon’s only student for the module.” I smiled. “C’mon, you don’t remember me?”
“Sorry.” He grinned sheepishly, “Simon and I have concurrent classes. I’m Kyle.”
“No big. I’m Randi. Speaking of - is Simon leading another class? He’d offered to interview my sister Jenny here for the open reception position?”
“Right!” Kyle seemed to remember a conversation. “Yeah, he’s just taking a break. I’ll bring you back and you can wait in the office.” He offered, gesturing to Jenny. Her eyes were wide, a faint blush already tinging her cheeks.
“Hey!” I hissed. “Eyeballs back in your head. Go.” I nudged her between the shoulder blades.
While Jenny made her way in to the office, I took one last glance around. Snagging Kyle, I whispered, “I’m really sorry about her.”
“Hm?” Kyle smiled warmly, confused.
“Not right now. Just… in the future.” I admitted.
Kyle nodded, still confused. “Sure.” He replied.
I nodded in return, following Jenny into the office.
“Alright,” I sighed, taking in the room. It was in direct contrast to the studio. Where the lobby and classrooms were standard white walls and light-colored wood, the office was… utilitarian. A second-hand executive desk, a laptop and monitor on one corner, and a couch and two armchairs off to the side.
Jenny, true to herself, took the couch. Thankfully, she sat primly on the edge instead of sprawling out on it like I expected. I tried those telepathic powers I hoped I had again - failing to tell her without words to move to the armchair.
Or did I? She caught my eye, apparently getting the message and swapping to one of the two armchairs. I took the other, and we continued to wait.
It wasn’t long before a soft knock sounded. Kyle popped back in.
“Can I get you two anything to drink? We have some waters, or bottled protein drinks.”
“Yes, please!” Jenny said a little too loudly. “Um… what do you prefer?” She asked him shyly.
I bit back a smile as she flushed heavily, all the way to her scalp.
“Water myself, though some of the protein shakes aren’t total garbo.” He smiled, taking it with grace. I wondered vaguely if he dealt with this often.
“I’ll take a water.” Jenny replied.
“Chocolate shake, please.” I said. “I can come get them if you’d like.”
“Nah, that’s alright. I’ll be right back.” Kyle gave a quick thumbs up and disappeared again.
Moments later another knock sounded, this time firmer. There was no pause, and Simon entered the room. He was wearing the same sweatshirt he wore every week. Same athletic shorts. Same compression pants underneath. He handed us our drinks, having clearly intercepted Kyle on his way in.
“Randi.” He nodded. “Y’alright?”
“Good, yeah.” I replied. “You?”
“Good." He turned to Jenny abruptly. "You must be our interviewee.” She straightened immediately, wide-eyed. Her eyes stuck on his mask, taking in the fact that, apparently, adults wore the same edgy shit she did.
“Jenny!” She stood, sticking her hand out stiffly. “N-nice to meet you, um… Mister…”
“Just Simon.” He replied. “Sit.”
She did.
Simon took in our positioning and stared me down for a moment.
“Mind if I take your seat?” He inclined his chin toward my armchair.
“Oh, yeah, sure.” I stood, shifting to the couch and completing our game of musical chairs. “Should I… make myself scarce?” I asked.
“Nah.” He replied. “I’ll be quick." He rearranged his armchair to better face her. "Jenny.” He began. “Had a job before?”
“No, sir.” She replied, sat ramrod straight.
“Quick learner?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Computer skills?”
“Loads.”
“Free on Thursdays?”
“For?” She asked, cheeks pink and eyes shining.
“…work.” He deadpanned.
“Oh! As in you need someone for Thursdays! Right!” She chuckled sheepishly. “Yes, yeah, sure. When?”
He pondered that for a moment. “When’s school out?”
“Three.”
“Three to eight. Thursdays. If you do good, we’ll add Tuesdays in.”
Jenny nodded eagerly. “Okay!” She said.
“Okay.” He replied. “Good. I’ll grab the form for you to fill out. Welcome aboard.” He stood, catching my eyes one more time before moving to the door. Leaning around it, half opened, he shouted for Kyle. I flashed Jenny a thumbs up and a grin as Kyle’s voice floated in. A few more moments passed before Simon closed the door once more, paper in hand.
“Right.” He moved to the office desk, grabbing a pen from one of the drawers. “You can fill this out here, or you can return it when you’re ready.”
“Here. Now. I mean, I’m okay with here. May I… use the desk?” Jenny’s face was a near-permanent red.
“Of course.” He gestured broadly. As Jenny scurried to the desk and began to fill out the form, Simon once more looked to me. He cocked his head to the side slowly. I lifted my eyebrows before slowly gesturing to the spot beside me on the couch.
He sat carefully beside me before folding over himself, resting his elbows on his knees. His eyes burned a hole in Jenny’s scalp, watching her fill out the form carefully.
“Any new classmates joining?” I asked, watching him watch her.
“Nope.”
“Bummer.” I replied, leaning back on the couch. “…does that affect your job? If you don’t get students?”
“Nope.”
“Why’s that?”
He shrugged. “Dunno. Just know I haven’t been fired yet.”
I nodded. “Must be nice.”
“It is.” Then, looking toward the door, he admitted quietly, “I like my current class sizes.”
“Yeah, it’s nice.” I agreed, trying not to read too much into his words.
Jenny looked up, holding her form aloft. “Done!” She crowed, as if it were an exam.
Simon stood, taking the form and giving it a quick look.
“Alright.” He nodded once more. “Three pm. Next Thursday. I’ll teach you the basics.”
“Great!” She stood. “Thank you!” She once more held out her hand. He shook it firmly, giving it one good pump.
“You’re welcome.” He strode to the door and held it open for us both.
-
“I’ll see you at home?” Jenny asked as I walked her out of the studio.
“Yeah, I’ll see you after my class. Unless you want to stay and watch.”
“Oh, no, you should get your alone time with your boyfriend.” She grinned. “I’ll see you!”
I frowned as she made her way to the bus stop, but brushed it off as a teenager misreading the situation.
Simon was quieter during our lesson today. We focused once more on bakasana. I noticed he was less confident as he spotted me, as if his mind were elsewhere. I’d been holding the pose for a few moments before I panted,
“How long do I hold this for?” His eyes snapped up to mine.
“You can release.” He replied. He seemed to come out of his fugue as I did so. I sat back on my heels, waiting for the next pose. He continued to stare at me, a slight furrow creasing the space between his brows.
“…yes?” I asked. He shook his head, standing and moving to the front of the room again. The rest of the lesson was finished in silence.
Only once I was swiping at the sweat on the back of my neck did he finally speak.
“…you busy?” Then, as if catching himself he clarified, “Friday night?”
I froze. “…for?”
“Drinks.”
I stood, still frozen stupid. “…romantically?”
He made a non-committal noise, which left me reeling.
“Sexually, then?” I tried.
A sharp nod.
What a freak!
“Uh, sure.” I nodded numbly. “Yeah, alright.”
“Great. I’ll… text you. Once I get your number.”
“Right, yeah, of course.” I moved to my bag, pulling my phone out and handing it to him. He took it, silently adding his number and texting himself.
I returned from class to find Jenny sitting on the couch, waiting for me. She looked up from her phone with a grin.
“So, how was class?” She asked, feigning nonchalance. She’d changed from her Gerard Way cosplay into something more comfortable - a cute little cotton minidress (still black, though).
“Quiet.” I replied, flopping on the couch next to her with a groan. “And I can’t get that fucking pose.” I sighed, carefully avoiding the question.
“Uh huh.” She said, glancing back at her phone. “And the other part? The fact that he’s your secret boyfriend?” She bounced on to her knees, then, twisting to face me. It reminded me of the energy she used to have when we were younger. I fought a wave of fondness.
“He’s not my boyfriend.” I rolled my eyes. “Not every two people who stand next to one another are dating. This isn’t one of your shows.”
“Uh huh,” she replied again, clearly not buying it. “So, did he ask you out today, then?”
“What?” My eyes widened, and I could feel the heat of a blush licking up the back of my neck.
“He did! I thought it looked like he was looking at you too much!” She crowed. “Oh, man, I’m so excited. You’ve needed to do something for yourself for a while.”
“…what?” My voice softened.
“I mean,” she shifted, clearly uncomfortable. “I’ve been thinking about what you said this morning. About the groceries. And, I dunno… you do a lot, don’t you?”
I shook myself free. “Nah,” I waved off her concern. “It’s not that bad. You’re only sixteen, you should use that money for clothes or whatever. Don’t worry about this shit, it’s my responsibility.”
We both sat contemplatively in her admission.
“…thank you, Jenny.” I leaned, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and pressed a kiss to her temple.
“Ew,” she pulled away. “Gross. Don’t do that.” I chuckled, pressing a sloppy kiss to her cheek. “No!” She laughed, struggling. I wrapped my other arm around her, pressing stupid big sister kisses on to her face again and again until she wriggled free.
…it worked for us. And I forgot that Simon was supposed to text.
-
I was in the middle of eating in front of the telly when my phone buzzed. I picked it up on instinct, expecting a notification from some inane social media, but no. It was a text.
Here’s the place. Reservation’s 7pm.
A link followed the text. It was a nice place. Cloth napkin. Bougie brass light fixtures. Wood-paneled, deep booths.
Huh. I swiped through the photos.
Got it. Meet you there. I texted back. He replied with a thumbs up. A thought occurred to me. We can’t go back to mine, though.
I know. He replied quickly. Will Jenny be okay for the night?
Her? I texted. Yeah, she won’t even notice I’m gone.
Okay. He replied. Johnny can watch her if need be.
She’s sixteen. And no. Never let her near Johnny.
He sent back a dubious emoji, but I didn’t have the energy.
7pm. Meet you there. I ended the conversation, setting my phone face down on the coffee table.
-
Jenny hooted at me as I stepped out of my bedroom around half six.
“Look at you.” She grinned widely. I tugged at my skirt hem, rolling my eyes.
“Shut up.” I returned. “If you like it, I should change.” I looked down at myself. Maybe the miniskirt was a bit much.
“No, no, I hate it.” She replied quickly. “Awful. Boring. Very basic.” She grinned.
“Mhm.” I replied evenly.
“Nah, he’ll love it. You’re a knockout.” She said.
“Sure.” I said, picking up my coat. “Alright, well… I’ll be back late. Try to go to bed before 3am, yeah?”
“Yup!” She threw herself back on the couch, going back to scrolling on her phone.
“…love you.” I said cautiously as I reached the door.
Yoga Instructor AU with Ghost - Finally all four came out!
Anybody loves romcom should definetely read it, Idk how to describe it but it's full with human energy, delicate settings showing family relationships.
cw/tags: cis-female reader. alpine divorce type situation.
you're crying when you see him, a body standing on a dock, eyes furrowed, watching you slap at the water in exhaustion to get a little closer. but your arms are burning, are actually beyond the point of burning, and he sees it. sees you give up as you approach. he crouches down at a dock post, unfurls a loop of rope, and tosses it to you in your kayak. it lands fat and spooled in your wet lap.
"grab it," he commands. your hands can't clasp anymore, but you clumsily set your oar across the kayak, and pathetically hold your forearms and cramping hands down over the rope to pin it in place.
and then, blissfully, you are tugged to shore. to land and safety, food and potable water.
the kayak slices the water calmly and then you're being lifted out by big arms and carefully positioned legs, thick and sturdy.
you think he asks if you're alright, and you think you laugh when he does.
—
the familiar sensation of emerging from unconsciousness crawls over you, your body returning to you piecemeal until you've puzzled it out. you fainted when he lifted you out and you noticed you were standing in some industrial dockyard. specifically now, you're in some office stretched out above you from where you seem to be lying on a couch. everything burns and stings.
"alrigh'?" a thick, craggy voice from behind your head. you twist slightly and there's the man that helped you.
"i'm so sorry," you sob again, like the fainting only hit pause on your crying.
silence. "wot for?"
you don't even know. you're waterlogged and sunburned and you're pretty sure you can't lift your arms above your head if you needed to.
"my boyfriend left me out there," you try to explain through shaking breaths. "he had…everything in his kayak. the compass. water. phones. food. i think maybe he thought i still had my phone on me."
"wot the fuck 're you sayin'? your boyfriend wot?" then he finally pushes himself out of the wooden office chair and leans against the desk where you can see him better. folds his huge arms across his huge chest.
"no," and it's a laugh-cry. "he thought it was funny. wanted to see if i could make it back without his help. i tried following him, but he was too fast. then it came to a fork in the river and i didn't know how to get back."
the man's face is dark with something even beyond anger. it doesn't fit the mundanity of the office surrounding you; lists and certificates and handwritten notes tacked up everywhere on the cheap walls.
it feels good to see it reflected in someone else's face. "i didn't know where i was, or where to paddle. i just needed to find anything human. it's been…hours." and then your anger breaks open easy like yolk trapped under a thin skein to reveal the sadness underneath because all you really are are sad. a man you've been dating, let come inside you more than once, met your friends and your grandparents, left you out in the middle of a giant body of water with no means of survival.
you could've died and you can already hear his voice in your head: babe i thought you had your phone! how was i supposed to know you've put it in my bag? you should've said something. babe please you're really making something out of nothing. you're always saying how much you want to toughen up and get into the outdoors stuff with me. i came back to find you but you'd disappeared; you should've just stayed put and i would've found you. you made it into such a big deal. jesus.
sometimes, the worst part of seeing your partner as they really are is not what they say or do, but what you can very clearly hear them saying or picture them doing.
"you're in a shipyard, love. don' know where you started but i'm bettin' you've come a long ways."
you shrug. "we parked on the side of a two-lane highway. portaged in. i'm not from here, i have no idea."
"judgin' by the look of you, it's been a few hours at least." he pushes himself off the desk and shuffles through something out of sight. comes back with a first aid kit, and after flipping through the contents, what looks like cooling gel packs for burns.
"oh, no, don't waste that on me" is silenced by a rude look.
"can you sit up."
you do awkwardly.
"i'm gonna cut your top off. don't think your arms are gonna be much help." a pair of scissors is brandished and they look insanely small in his big, calloused hands, and he drags it through the fabric of your tank top unless it falls down to your waist, leaving your bikini top underneath. you think if you had your wits about you, you'd try to argue.
"move a bit." he softly uses his hands to shift you, then out of sight, you hear the packet ripped open. then a blissfully cold gel is being spread across the sun-scorched skin; over your shoulders, up your neck and tops of ears, with a gentleness that doesn't match those big hands, down your upper arms, and the top knob of your spine where your tank top had dipped low all day.
a shuddering breath is punched out of you as the gel seems to penetrate the top layer of skin left to cook under the hot august sun with no reprieve from cloud cover.
you're turned back around with his hands on your waist, facing out into this office. it must be one of those offices set up in a trailer. he crouches down in front of you, knee cartilage popping.
"better." he's not asking. declaring it to be true about you. he presses a cold water bottle into your palm, and that's when you both notice where your trail shorts had ridden up, revealing a patch of skin that got burned as well. a stupid rectangle across both thighs.
he rips open another gel pack with his teeth. you watch quietly as he smears it across your flesh, trying not to drag the skin.
"chin up."
more along your breastbone where the tank top didn't shield, up your throat, and you realize how large his hands really span when they're cupped around your trachea. tops of your ears. forehead. it feels so intimate and clinical at the same time.
"that bad, huh," you give out shakily when he's chucked the sixth pack to the side, used up.
he grunts. instructs you to sip the water slow, no matter how dry your mouth feels, how badly you want to tip it down your throat and let it sluice through your bloodstream.
"headache?"
somehow the least of your concerns all things considered, but yes. fetches you some pills from the first aid kit, watches you carefully as you swallow them.
"get some rest then. i'll take y'home when i'm done."
the realization that you don't have anything to get you home yourself is devastating and if you had moisture to conjure fresh tears, you'd surely cry again. trying to find a comfortable position is impossible, so you end up just reclining to the side, wedging someone's spare hooded sweatshirt under your head as a pillow.
shockingly, you must doze off sometime after you hear the man leave the trailer. when your eyes open, dry and achy, there's a flickering overhead light on and the sky's darkened outside. you look around and find a clock on the wall. you don't know when he hauled you in, but it must have been at least an hour of sleep.
you readjust and check out the burns on your forearms, and fall back asleep.
the sound of his boots hitting metal steps has you inhaling sharply out of hazy, discomfited sleep. you watch him enter, eyes trained on you over the desk.
"y'alrigh'?"
you nod stiffly.
"let's go." he helps you into the oversized sweatshirt that you used as a pillow. it stinks like cigarettes and body odour, but it helps protect your sunburn from being scraped against. you're grateful for the size of it, that it doesn't force you to move your arms much to be folded into it.
he has to slow and shorten his long-legged stride to match your small, aching ones across the shadowed shipyard, lit only by sharp white fluorescent overheads. he brings you over to a large black truck, gets you situated (with his help) into the passenger side, and then goes back to the yard to lock up.
when he returns, you're trembling slightly inside the big hoodie. dreading what has to come next.
"everything is at my boyfriend's," you nearly whisper, embarrassed and penitent. "my keys and…it's all there."
"right." he gets directions and doesn't bother tapping them into his gps, just steers the truck out of the parking lot and onto some dark highway.
"i'm really so—"
"no." he actually raises a hand off the steering wheel to emphasize the rough word. "you're not apologizin' for 'im."
—
the ride is long and silent, and you must doze back off in front of the blue-lit dashboard and the man, who introduced himself finally as simon, who smokes a cigarette out his window a few times. you feel too guilty to ask if he even lives close to the city, to gauge whether this trip is adding time to his own commute. you can only imagine it does, and it burns you hotter for it.
coming to under frequent lights of the highway carved through the city, minutes from your boyfriend's exit.
you direct him the rest of the way, softly. "this unit, yeah, right here."
"what's his name?" he asks while sidling the truck up behind your boyfriend's car. so he did come home.
"sam," you answer without a thought, and then he's out of the truck and locking it behind him, striding in double time up the steps.
you hide. you hate yourself for it but you shrink in the hoodie, pulling it up over your mouth anxiously as you watch the door open under a shitty porch light. then all you see is the massive shadow of this man, simon, with his arms stretched out and he disappears into the open door. the door slams shut.
minutes and minutes stretch. you keep your hand on the handle but you won't leave the safety of the truck cab.
he reemerges alone. he comes up to your car door and unlocks it with the fob. "this all of it? check."
your phone, purse and wallet, house keys, reusable water bottle, and random things like a pair of your pajama shorts, a couple books, toothbrush, skincare stuff, tampons. it's stuffed into one of you old duffel bags you must've lugged over there at some point.
"i mean…i think this is it?"
"don't guess. you don't wanna come back again."
has he broken up with your boyfriend for you?
so you check the bag again. "yes…yes, it's everything." anything else is a lost cause, you don't need to tell him that the hard liquor was all purchased by you.
he hauls himself back in the truck and you can see under the street lights, the split knuckles on his fists, smeared blood down some hairy fingers.
"thank you," you whisper.
his fingers ripple off the wheel in a "don't mention it" gesture. you tell him where your apartment is, and then fall silent.
—
you invite him up. for logistics mostly, because it hurts too much to lift the duffel bag by yourself. he stands beside you in the elevator, huge and bulky, silent on his own.
you feel his eyes flick around your space as you let yourself into the apartment. he agrees to a cup of coffee, despite the hour.
there's only the one couch. you're distinctly aware that the only other man who's sat here with you has been sam. by contrast, simon is huge, taking up space that makes the couch feel more like a loveseat. he's technically in the corner, but his big ass and legs has him nearly halfway to you.
"is this yours?" you ask, fingers picking at the large wrinkled sweatshirt swamping you. "i can give it back."
"nah," he says firmly, and you notice how absurdly small the coffee mug looks wrapped in his big hand and thick fingers. "looks better on you."
you set your mug on the coffee table nervously. "okay, so i get the sense that you don't want me to thank you, that you're not the type that would accept it even if i tried?"
silence tells you you're right.
"do you…are you seeing someone?" you shift slightly to look at him, watch his reaction.
"no."
you already know he wouldn't come up just to be nice. he's dragged a woman to shore and broken up with her shitty boyfriend for her and taken her home. he owes nothing to you.
when you lean over, disbelief seems to flicker over his still face before your mouth finds his. you feel the taut sunburnt skin stretch painfully under the hoodie, but his warm lips opening against yours is a hot distraction. you let both soft, warm puffs of air against him as you pull away and go for the skin of his neck.
this is when you remember that you woke up in your bed with sam this morning.
his hands fall at your waist, where the skin was safe from the sun, pulling at your hips with a soft hot sound behind his teeth.
you separate, both huffing.
"i think maybe that we should—"
"yeah, course." he says it too quickly.
you raise your eyebrow. "—wait til i'm healed. is what i was gonna say."
he's surprised. hides it fast but you catch it.
you give him your number. type it into his old phone.
his mouth tastes of cigarettes and coffee when you kiss him goodnight at the door. you don't brush your teeth at bed, choosing to savour the taste on your lips. you pull the hoodie up over your mouth and breathe in his scent, stale and kind of gross but safe, until you fall asleep.
Thinking about meeting your future husband, john price, at a bar...right?
But it's not the usual way you'd think. No glances across the bar, no shared smirks or flirty touches.
In fact, you hadn't even noticed john until another man shoulder-checked you instead of stepping the the two inches it took to get around you. The man, drunk by the smell of his breath, had whirled on you "watch where you're going, bitch."
The hand never grabbed your arm, because john stepped in.
Large body between you and the strange man, some words hissed that you couldn't focus on with the hunk of muscle un front of you. Between one blink and the next the man was flat on the floor and johns knuckles were bloody.
On the sidewalk after getting kicked out, with streetlights casting a smoky halo around john, you knew you had to take him home.
One night led to mutliple, led to staying for breakfast and coffee dates and then real dates. Led to whispered confessions and your dreams for the future slowly shifting to include your john. Led to a wedding and an even better wedding night.
On your honeymoon john insisted on taking you out of the country to meet some friends and stay in some fancy cabin.
"–And this is nikolai, but everyone calls him nik." John nods to a man you'd recognize anywhere.
"Are you...are you the man from the bar." You've never been good with subtlety. You look at price "why are you friends with the guy from the bar?"
Of course. Your husband whom you've believed to be your lucky savior since you met him has actually had his eyes on you for far longer. In his infinite wisdom, he decided staging a rescue was the best way to impress you back then.
...nikolai has the audacity to laugh when you chew john out for it.
simon was always scared his daughter would be an afterthought. after all, that’s what he was in his family. tommy was the good one, with the house and the wife. simon was just the… other one. too quiet, too tall, too big for school.
a little slow with reading, miss abbot always told his mother about a test for autism, but she never got around to doing it .
he’d always been an afterthought in his own family, and he was so scared his daughter, the light of his life, might be an afterthought. after the army, after ops, after you. he was scared in his heart maybe you would think of her as an afterthought.
he comes back from his op, weary and exhausted, into the small flat in manchester. it’s a two bedroom and you’ve converted one of them to a playroom for your daughter. he finds you in the room, the two of you fast asleep on the playmat.
his two girls are aleeping soundly. the toddler in her favourite summerdress , and you curled up around her, your hair splayed out behind you. you’re wearing his sleep shorts, and your hand is curled around your daughter, like you were playing with her and the two of you fell asleep.
“love?” he asks, voice rough, and then you sleepily blink, before your mouth quirks into a small smile.
“ah, si-“ you yawn, “hey, violet wanted her dada for so much of this week.”
he just blushes, not used to being wanted -
“si?” your voice falters, and then you touch him on the arm, “si, baby, violets teacher came to talk to me today at montessori.”
“mmm?”
“she wants her to get tested for ADHD, it’s just a little thing but i dunno, she seemed like it could help violet get a good head start."
simon has an ex wife, he doesn’t talk about her at all, the only one who knows about her is price. the rest of the team don’t even know he has one. it was something, something that left him only with a scratched pair of rings that he wears around his neck, and a photo of a sweet young woman holding a small baby between his books. not that he lets anyone see. not even price.
the new translator who comes to base cam’s head office, with her bright eyes and easy smile, and puts her child in the kindergarten. johnny loves her, when she makes his blue eyes crinkle in laughter. gaz has taken a liking to her and her toddler, since his room is next to hers, always bringing the two of them little treats from the mess. price who puts a large arm around her, always helping her out with being new. his office is right next to hers, and if she wants anything she just “ask.” he’s also giving her daughter, violet, piggyback rides.
ghost comes back from a mission, the past two months in deep cover. and price thumps his shoulder, “c’mon lad, there’s this lovely lass on base i’d like you to meet.”
and when he sees you, his heart crumbles into a thousand tiny shards.
three years ago you’d called it quits with your secondary school sweetheart for his emotional absence.
ghost looks at you, and then at the startling yet familiar brown of his daughter’s eyes.
pornstar!ghost who cannot stop playing with you over your panties, hold you hostage in his lap while he gets his fill of you
he gets your cunt so often for work that it's a novel treat getting to toy with your lingerie. it's how he knows the cameras arent running, that when your lips part and your eyes roll it isn't scripted, isn't for anyone's benefit but his, because no one can see that pretty pussy.
but he can feel it.
can feel the way your clit swells when he pinches it, rubs his fingers over it, slaps it. can feel when you start to get wet, the way it begins to soak the fabric, silk and lace sticking to your cunt, slicking his fingers where they rub over you. you twitch and flinch away from him, pressing tighter into his hold in the process.
God, he loves it. loves the way you whine for him, beg for him, the way you turn with wet parted lips to try and catch his mouth with your panting desperate kisses.
it's the only time he talks too much, tells you too much, asks you for too much. asks you to tell him you're his when he knows you can't be.
Wholesome!König who metamorphoses into the ultimate European Dad whenever you go to the beach.
Insists on picking you up at 7:15am sharp so you can arrive before all the good spots are taken? Check.
Pulling up his weather app at 15 minute intervals the whole ride there, updating you on wind speed, pollen count, and UV index? Check.
A chunky, waterproof watch on his wrist with three alarms set to ensure the day stays on schedule? Check.
Sunscreen applied to every conceivable inch of skin, with an extra thick glob on his nose? Check.
Swim trunks with tiny pineapples that you bought him after the first time he tried to wear a Speedo to the beach? Check.
But for all his foibles, the day you spend together is truly the highlight of your summer. Arriving early to set up your towels, chairs, and umbrella in the right spot was the best move; the generous application of sunscreen prevents you and your dreadfully fair-skinned boyfriend from becoming sunburnt; and to his credit, his regimented, Austrian work ethic does turn off once you're truly settled in your spot.
You alternate between sunbathing, walking up and down the shoreline, and cooling off in the ocean. You've never had a relationship this easy - anything you suggest, he's already halfway done making it happen. Plus, seeing his Baywatch body and muscular build on full display fills you with a mix of desire and smugness, like you know the other women on the beach wish they were you.
When lunch rolls around, König sweeps you out of the water and carries you to the towel "so your wet feet don't get sandy." You would be embarrassed if it didn't heal your inner sixth grader, who'd always dreamed of a man so chivalrous.
It is entirely unsurprising that he's packed an incredible picnic lunch, with kartoffelsalat and hearty roast beef sandwiches and those little packs of pretzel sticks kids used to trade in the cafeteria. He also withdraws a small pitcher from the lunch box and shyly explains that he tried to make mojitos, but he's certain they're terrible and, honestly, you don't actually need to drink it, he's got some water bottles under the icepacks...
When you finally wrap up your day, you're relaxed and sleepy and as happy as you've been in a long, long time. König insists that you remain lounging on your towel while he packs everything else into the car. You doze off on the ride home as your boyfriend smiles fondly and turns down the radio as not to wake you.
[Smut beneath the cut.]
He tries to drop you off at home, but you demand he come inside and at least shower off so he doesn't have to drive back to the barracks grimy with sweat, sunscreen, and sand. Of course he agrees - the man has never said no to you in his life, even before he finally had the courage to ask you out - and he turns eggplant-purple when you casually shuck your swimsuit to join him.
You're stupidly horny for him after seeing him half-naked all day, so you take your sweet time lathering your vanilla bodywash into his skin. He sighs beneath the steam of the shower and the ministrations of your hands, shoulders slumping like his joints and tendons finally realized he's no longer in a combat zone. Blissed out and half way to falling asleep on his feet.
But he wakes right the fuck up when your fingers creep lower and you begin to massage his cock.
König loves your handjobs. He says you're unbelievably good at them and he never needs to worry that his size is hurting you - a frequent insecurity of his when you first became intimate. While you languidly work his hardening member back and forth, you rest your head between his pecs as the water pours down on you both.
He makes the most pathetic little whimpers as your lazy tugs turn into proper pumping. One of his hands flies against the tiles to keep himself steady against the urge to turn into a puddle at your feet.
When you tell him its time to wash his hair, he seems perfectly willing to accept that the handjob is over without having come. But when you ask him to get on his knees so you can reach his head, he quickly picks up on what's actually happening: a perfect excuse to smush his face into your tits.
König may love your handjobs, but he worships breasts.
You squirt some shampoo onto his head and begin to spread it through his short hair while König attends to your chest. Sucking, rubbing his face, thumbing your nipples, and whispering breathless gratitude into your cleavage. It's not terribly long before he picks up where you left off, the wet noises of his hand sliding over his cock speaking to something primal in your cavewoman brain. "I'm so lucky," he says over and over again. "So fucking lucky."
It doesn't take long for him to empty his balls, splattering your legs as he leans so hard into your body you nearly topple. The shower quickly washes away the mess as he plants a final kiss beneath the swell of one breasts.
He quickly asks what you'd like in return - he's happy to lick your pussy for the rest of the night, or he could sit you on his lap and use his fingers - but all you really want right now is a nap. There's something so satisfying about pampering this man, who got dealt a shit hand in life but is somehow still the type to fumble his way through a homemade mojito recipe if he thinks it'll make you smile.
Neither of you bother to put clothes back on as you collapse into bed and wrap your bodies around each other. You think to yourself, not for the first time, what a wonderful father he would make. You can picture with ease König's big hands spreading sunscreen over a little boy who has his eyes and your hair.
A goal for next summer, maybe.
===
I dont usually do requests, but I would literally jump off a bridge for @the-californicationist ❤️💕🧡 Thanks for the prompt, Cali!!
[shout out to @konigs-lover who sent me this nsfw artwork which possessed me early this morning.]
Imagine König’s massive frame wedged tight under a crumbling broken section of wall, gear snagged, shoulders jammed at an awkward angle, lower body stuck helplessly on the other side of the wall, voice gone hoarse from shouting for help. Any second now, someone would find him. A teammate. A friendly. Anyone.
Fingers brushing his hips. Relief crashing through him. “Ja- here! I’m stuck, pull me- ”
The hands didn’t pull tho. What they did was slid lower, hook into his waistband, and yank, pants and underwear dragging down in one rough motion, catching briefly on the thick muscle of his thighs before his cock sprang free into the cool air, heavy and already half hard from adrenaline an the awkward position.
“What- ?”
A soft, warm palm wrapped around him, fingers stretching wide around the girth of his cock, stroking, thumb dragging slow over the flushed head and smearing the bead of precum that had already gathered.
König jerki no hard, trying to twist away, but the wall held him fast as the hand continued squeezing, stroking again, almost curious.
Then came the press of thighs.
Soft. Delicate. Trembling faintly as they bracketed his own powerful legs, hand wrapping around his cock and the head nudging against a cunt before sinking down slow, tight heat splitting wider and wider around his cock. Every inch was a struggle. He could feel the way your walls fluttered and fought the intrusion, the burn, the way you had to rock and twist to take more of him.
His cock was too thick, too long, and your were forcing it anyway. The head popped past the tightest ring and you kept going, thighs trembling violently, soft gasps turning into bitten off whimpers as you sank lower, lower, until your ass was flush against him and he was buried to the hilt in scorching, clenching heat that felt like it was trying to strangle his cock.
König’s head cracked against the stone. A guttural, broken groan tore out of his chest.
“Scheiße- you’re- hnnngh- too fucking tight- ”
You started moving, rolled tour hips in desperate, greedy circles, using his stuck body like a toy they’d found. Every drag of that impossibly tight cunt up his length made his vision white out. Every time you dropped back down, takin him all over again, the wet, filthy sound of it echoed in the narrow space.
Your thighs shook harder as you fucked themselves on him harder, faster, chasing something.
He couldn’t stop it.
Couldn’t thrust. Couldn’t pull out. Could only stand there, pinned and used, while some faceless stranger took what they wanted from his cock. His balls were drawn up tight, cock throbbing violently inside that squeezing heat, leaking steadily with every clench. He could feel you getting wetter, slicker, the mess dripping down his shaft and onto his thighs.
“Hör auf- stop- I’ll- fuck- I’m gonna- ”
You didn’t stop, only rode him harder, cunt fluttering and spasming around the thick intrusion like you were getting off on how much it hurt, how much it shouldn’t fit. König’s growls turned ragged, voice cracking behind the wall. His hips jerked uselessly, trying to buck you off, trying to thrust deeper despite himself, and every failed movement only made the tight heat grip him harder.
He was close.
Humiliatingly, terrifyingly close- cock pulsing, thighs shaking, trapped and used and unable to do a single fucking thing about it.
König x fem!reader, dubcon, exhibitionism, public sex, freak4freak, noncon piss play, forced orgasm, cockwarming, llanguage barrier, love at first fuck, implied future stalking
This is for the server 💜 thank you I love you
König hates the subway.
He's too big for it- too tall, too broad, and every time he tries to sit on the little plastic seats his thighs splay out and take up both around him to make room for his cock. At least he's in the corner so he only has open space on one side.
Today he ignores the dirty looks as the subway car fills up- he's spent the last several hours tracking a lead through the city, his feet ache and he wants to finally sit down for a bit. The crush grows, people shuffling around, and at least the man on König's open side doesn't do any more than grumble a little- he rolls over and promptly goes to sleep.
As the doors finally closed, the car rocking into movement, König finds that his open thighs have caught a pretty little fish.
You're standing with one arm up on the handlebar, headphones on, eyes firmly fixed on the middle distance, but you're being pushed nearly into his lap. And you look so soft- big sweater hanging off your shoulders, the raised hem revealing a little pair of shorts, smooth clean flesh of your thighs on display. The zippered bag between your feet must be groceries, he thinks. Did you also have a long day? Or is this you waking up, running errands in the same clothes you slept in?
And even better- as the train moves along, he realizes you're perfectly at eye level to see every bounce and sway of your breasts, the delicate little jiggling when a bump comes up, nothing between them and his own eyes except the sweater. No bra today, lovely? He wishes it were colder, so he could see more of your nipples.
It's just what he needs after so much headache, a pretty girl who can't run away, and so König indulges himself- long sweeps of his eyes from your pulse fluttering in your throat, across those lovely soft tits, down to where your shorts cling to the inside of your thighs- oh, you're trembling. He looks up, you still are looking past him, but there's a thin press to your mouth. Scared? Nervous? He thinks about locking his ankles behind you, dragging you into his lap, and his cock heats up, beginning to fill. When he adjusts it- there, yes, your eyes looking down for a moment and then snapping away.
Precious girl.
König sighs softly, palms himself. There's nowhere for you to go- you're as trapped as he is, people at your back and on either side, everyone turned away with their noses in their phones. You get closer, even, as you cling to the handlebar and fight the sway of the train, your legs held apart to keep your bag safely between your feet. König hooks an ankle behind yours, tugs just a little, and hears you gasp as your balance wobbles.
The seam of your crotch beckons him, those shorts riding up, and when you try and pull them down they simply refuse, springing back into place. Too much girl for such small clothes, the curves spilling out. It's nearly indecent how every movement just wedges them tighter- it is indecent, he realizes, because you're not just trying to fix your clothes and ignore the man staring at your body- your lips are parted and your pulse is thudding under your skin, your nipples have grown hard, pushing at the sweater.
This is-
This is turning you on, this pretend play at decency when really you're using your own little shorts to play with, making yourself hot and wet in this crowd of strangers. Teasing yourself even while he's sitting here, watching, and König sees the way you swallow when he squeezes his cock properly, traces it down his thigh so you can see just how big it is.
Then abruptly the subway car jerks, hard, and as you tumble down and into his lap all the lights cut out.
König doesn't waste an opportunity.
He grasps your hips, drags you down over his lap, and you're as soft and warm as he hoped. The shorts go right up, wedging high between your ass cheeks, and when he bounces you on his cock, drags your seam down the length of it, he feels the way you shudder, a hand coming up to his chest, digging your nails into him.
You speak, softly under the shouts of other people- and he can't understand you. Ah, König is a foreigner here.
"Does little fish want my cock?" He asks, in German, and gets nothing back but a soft confused sound. Perfect. "Slutty cunt hanging out, waiting for me, I know, precious. I will help you," and he turns you to face away and lifts your sweater, stuffing a wad of fabric into your open mouth, and then grips the back of your shorts and pulls hard, a seam popping, the muffled squeal you make going right to his cock as your pussy is split by the shorts, pressure that he knows will grind your clit. You tremble in his grip, and do nothing to fix your sweater or push him away, because König knows exactly what you want.
He lets go of your shorts to palm your tit instead, pinching at your nipple. Still no lights, only a dim glow from phone screens, and the little corner stays dark. You're huffing and moaning around your makeshift gag, and König twists your nipple hard, so that your legs stiffen and go tight, back arching.
He drags you back into his lap. "Perfect, sexy girl," he moans into your ear. "You don't realize how perfect you are. I'm not letting you get away after this. Do you want a spring wedding? I cannot wait, I will make you mine sooner, but we can still have a ceremony." On his lap, thighs open between his, your hips are circling, seeking pressure. He squeezes your other breast even as he shoves his hand into your shorts. "I will fuck you before so that my cum soaks into your pretty white dress. Or make you pregnant first, eh? Belly fat and tits falling out of your gown?"
Your clit is a hot, slick little bud under his fingertips. Soaking wet pussy, throbbing, and König feels his cock spurt a little when you clench on the finger he works inside. So so tight, so wet, taking what he gives you- still a stranger and you're so eager for it! Do you ride the subway every day hoping for someone to fuck you?
König will be the last and only one, now.
More seams pop as he forces his hand down into your shorts. Too small for so much flesh, bouncing and squeezing on his finger, and he takes it out, flicking your clit, and then grips the shorts in both hands and tears, ripping them tight down the middle, snapped threads digging into your thighs.
You gasp, the sweater falling from your mouth, panting breathlessly. There's words there he doesn't care about, as he works to get his cock out. It's so dark he can't see, can only unbuckle his belt by feel, shoving his pants down so that it springs up and smacks your thigh. Your hands grip his chest again, tugging.
Oh- you want his jacket. "Oh, shy now love? Where was this when you were humping the air in front of my face?" He chuckles, and shucks off the jacket. It's more than big enough to drape over you, but he waits a moment to lift your thigh up, finds the dripping folds of your pussy by the heat coming off you. Incredible, perfect, he's going to keep you forever-
The lights come on as König drops you onto his cock, spears you open, and in the same movement pulls the jacket over your body.
Your mouth opens silently, eyes huge, and he bites back his own moans as your pussy flutters around him. Flutters, what a soft word, when it's not soft at all- it's straining, screaming, the tight wet heat forced open by his cock, every inch packed inside and shoving your organs out of the way, the throbbing little mouth of your cervix sucking at his cockhead. Your thighs spasm, and König draws you against his chest, a man with a pretty wife who is cuddling him in the train car, nothing unusual at all.
Under the jacket he shoves your sweater back up. Soft warm breasts heaving with your gasps, your eyes huge and blank where your face turns into his chest. He plays with a nipple, tugging at it, sighing in pleasure when you squeeze on his cock. Your hand comes up, finds his, and clings to him. His heart warms even as his cock aches.
"My perfect little wife. I can't fuck you here, so keep me warm. Milk my cock," he murmurs, and brushes a bit of hair from your forehead. "Yes. I love you, my sweetheart. Use that little cunt to make me cum." He bucks his hips just a little, so you have to swallow a moan, and then it's just perfect- playing with your nipples, twisting and pulling so that you clench onto him, holding you still with his arm around your body, pinning you in place. No wriggling or riding, not here, just a hot slick pussy to soak his cock, his balls, the little quivering pulses of it smearing your fluids onto his skin.
A little too much, maybe, because you're whispering desperately at him, gasping and shaking, and he realizes there's more wet in his lap than even the sluttiest, most well fucked pussy should have. Oh, he's so big, he's pushing on your bladder.
He smiles, touches your cheek, and sees the despair and the heat together- the desperate need to not release even when your pussy is spasming on him, when you're trying to come.
His hand falls down your chest, across your belly, and König flicks your clit and kisses away a tear. "Go ahead, my darling," he croons. "Piss on my lap. You can't stop it now. Show your husband how that soft pussy feels when it's coming, go on," and there's that confusion again, a lack of understanding that makes his cock swell and jerk inside you. He touches your clit, flicks it, and then rubs just below, where a tiny hole is spasming, little sharp spurts of piss leaking out, a few drops at a time. Below that is the straining hole of your pussy, thin flesh taken to its limit on his cock. He can feel the way you're struggling even now, forced too wide, nothing left to hold back.
He flicks your clit again, then rubs back down to both holes, then another flick, over and over as your eyes glaze. You're shaking, the soft moans coming up, and König leans down and kisses you, sucks all the noise out of you, as he gets a grip on your slick, slippery clit and pinches it with sharp jerking motions, up and down.
You're lucky he has his arm over you, or your thrashing would have dropped the jacket, then everyone on the car could have turned and seen it- your tits bared and heaving, nipples swollen, your open thighs and the way your pussy jerks and comes while split on his cock, the spurts of slick and piss soaking his fingers and his clothes. The way your eyes roll, mouth slack, as pleasure takes you. They'd see König come, see the way you're already too full so there's slick white bubbles of it spurting past the base of his cock-
He groans into your mouth, and keeps rubbing and pulling your clit, using your clenching pussy to finish milking his balls empty. "My wife, fuck, so good," he pants against your cheek. "Oh, my darling girl. I love you," and you moan weakly, shuddering, as he finally lets go and holds you against his chest, just soft and warm now, keeping his cock inside as a few last trickles of your piss spill down his thighs. God, he's going to smell like you for hours.
The subway eases to a stop. König keeps his arms over you as you start to wriggle, gasping as your pussy clenches on his cock. You're trying to stand up, to leave, holding his jacket to cover yourself- the mess of your pussy and thighs can't be saved just by your sweater. He tore your shorts, so as you shift up and off him, he sees the burst of frothy cum sticking to you, wet all the way to your knees.
"You're so lovely," he says, sincere, as you stumble and flush and avoid his eyes. Shy again? Already?
König stuffs himself back into his pants, and smiles when you bob a little disbelieving wave at him, waving back, watching you stumble out of the car, bag hanging haphazardly off your elbow. His jacket swallows you whole.
You'll keep it, he thinks, you'll go home with your pussy leaking across it and maybe nuzzle into it. A reminder of what you think was the best hookup of your life, a random encounter you'll touch yourself to for the rest of your life.
König, who keeps a tracker in the collar of the jacket he wears on missions, simply takes his phone out and pulls up the app. A little pin is blinking as the subway starts to fill again. He ignores new dirty looks, this time for his size and the piss on his clothes- he doesn't care. He has a wedding to plan.
Very few times in his life has gaz been given a direct order from his spouse, and every single time he treats it with the urgency of a mission.
He has never once failed any of your requests....until today, it seems.
"Gaz, baby, you better come home smelling like that tomorrow." You had whispered in his ear last night after hours of sex. Not that you two never fucked, but he swears you were trying to kill him that night, face tucked into the crook of his neck.
Gaz doesn't want to admit defeat, but he's crawled through the entire base. Sniffing everything like a fucking dog trying to identify what smell had rubbed off on him. He didn't leave base, followed his normal schedule yesterday, so eventually he should find it.
He's in the middle of helplessly sniffing soap bottles in the hopes he accidentally grabbed someone else's when ghost walks in, post–...whatever he does to workout. He raises a brow at gaz sniffing the soap bottle, but says nothing.
Gaz knows ghost wont say shit about it, given everything he's walked in on ghost doing and—
Wait.
....gaz takes a much to obvious sniff in ghosts general direction.
....that's the smell. Gaz remembers the sparring he did yesterday, how ghost seemed very keen on grapples that time. The smell that had you jumping gazs bones last night was the smell of his lieutenant covered in dirt and sweat.
Gaz contemplates for a moment, looks ghost up and down. He's far from a turn-off, thats for sure. Easily both of your types.
Gaz nearly cries the first time he stays for dinner at ghosts house and eats your cooking.
"Oh! Kyle, grab whatever you want, I wasn't sure your preference!" You smile when he freezes in the doorway of the dining room. The table is full of food, and it sides and main courses alike. Ghost is already sat, rumbling happily to himself while he butters some rolls.
And that's the thing about all the food that kyle can't quite wrap his head around. It's all...unhealthy.
Or. Maybe not unhealthy? But certainly not anything kyle would have had growing up in his childhood home. Rolls slathered in butter, pasta with a thick creamy sauce, cuts of ham glazed in honey. You smile tightly at the way he seems frozen in indecision, and gently offer "if it's not okay, I can make you a salad. But...simon always tells me you stare at his lunch. I figured..."
That's enough to have gaz snapping out of hid stupor, realizing his mouth is watering.
He pushes down his mothers voice talking about carbs and fats and addictive sugars, loading up a plate with a bit of everything. He misses the smile you and simon share.
The first bite has gaz practically moaning before he catches himself, embarrassed at such a reaction.
You just chuckle, leaning over the table to serve yourself "simon is the same way. Don't forget to leave room for dessert, though!"
Gaz genuinely does cry at that. The casual mention of dessert, the easy acceptance of food between you and ghost. It feels impossible to imagine he lived years eating almonds and fruits and avoiding "bad sweets" like they'd kill him.
You and simon pretend not to notice, and you make sure to note down the dishes he seems to favor for next time.
That night, gaz experiences his first proper food coma on your couch, passed out and unsuspecting when he sat down not five minutes ago. While you and simon clean up, you whisper "I see why you like him, si. He's cute."
"Mhm." Ghost nods, bent over the sink and scrubbing dishes "think we bring it up after a few more dinners?"
"Tempted to just skip the dating and buy a ring now," you joke, catching the soft smile of your husband "yeah, I think a few more. Need to figure out what his favorite dish is so I can make it for the announcement, yeah?"
Because really, how are you not meant to fall in love with kyle when he's to horribly charming? Obviously, ghost already has.
The toddler had just woken up from his afternoon nap, eyes still groggy and dazed with leftover drowsiness, when suddenly a teddy bear perched atop a tilted shelf fell right in front of him. It didn't hit him, but it did surprise his little heart. His bottom lip began to quiver, eyes glassy with unshed tears. Instinctively, his first course of action is to waddle over to his father, hands rapidly opening and closing in a universal uppies gesture.
Price sighs and picks him up, gently bouncing the hiccuping boy in his arms. “Oh, bloody hell. You're a soft lad, aren't you? S'alright, s'just a wee toy.” he'd croon, brushing back his son's sleep tousled hair. Despite that, his eyes are tender as he murmurs gentle words to ease down the boy's sniffles.
“Papa, bear bad.”
“Yes, that was a very naughty bear. But you don't gotta worry, papa's got you.”
After all, he's willing to get his hands dirty so that his son stays clean and soft as he wants to be.
“Aye, that mean ol' bear made ye cry hm?” Soap coos, picking him up and pressing a kiss to his brow. Then he'd make a fake, over dramatic mad face at the stuffed bear, giving it a light smack as if reprimanding it for scaring his son. “Bad bear. That's what ye get for scarin' the bairn.”
Boosted by his father's scolding, the little boy gave one last hiccup and made a face at the toy as well, mirroring his father's scowl - albeit softer. “You meanie!”
“Ye, you tell 'im lad!” At the very least, he'd teach his son how to deal with threats even when he's crying.
Gaz is immediately there to soothe the little one, lifting him into his arms and rubbing small circles on his back as the boy emits soft whimpers. “There there, it just fell, see?”
He walked over to the source of his son's tears, picking it up and placing it back on top of the shelf. “Look, the bear can't stand on its own. He's just a victim of gravity.” As if on cue, the bear once again tumbled down the tilted shelf—but he effectively demonstrated that the bear didn't scare him on purpose. Although he did mutter a ‘really gotta get that fixed before the missus returns' under his breath.
Ghost chucks the bear across the room and instantly swipes his son from the floor. The boy, now held in his father's arms, cheek pressed against his chest, ceased his tears — his cries fading to soft sniffles. The thrumming of Ghost's heart lulls the little one into a sense of security, his tense shoulders easing until he's calm.
“Right. Nothin' to be scared of. I'm the scariest one in this room.”
“Dada, pwotect?”
“Aye, you're the safest baby in the world. So don't be scared of a bear, you have your dada shieldin' you.”
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