Claiming [Higgs x F!OC]
Summary: Oriole leaves her bunker to go out on the road again, guitar case slung over one shoulder. Higgs takes the opportunity to get a closer look into her home. He tells himself he just wants to get to know this mysterious woman who's caught his attention - but there's a darker need aching underneath.
Pairing: Higgs Monaghan x OC
Word Count: ~3.0k
Content Warnings: 18+! AFAB OC. Stalking, breaking into her home while she's away, stealing her underwear, and pleasuring himself in her bed. Warning for uhh Higgs being a stalker and a huge fuckin' pervert. Smiles :3
[[A/N: I like Higgs being a freak. That's all I gotta say. I take requests (; Enjoy!]]
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Her home was quiet when Higgs entered alone. A shelter built in the empty ruins of a voidout crater, the world just outside the door hostile and hollow with black, tar-soaked dirt and rock crunching under his boots. Yet, somehow, it was the most welcoming place Higgs Monaghan had ever known. From the outside it looked the same as any other prepper shelter, except for the surprising lack of a delivery terminal (nobody delivered to the middle of a crater, after all), but when he’d entered the code to open the thick metal of her secure front door, it was as if he’d stepped into a whole new world.
Candles and dim light systems kept the home at a cozy light level, never too bright or too dark, a warm amber glow on the walls rather than the harsh white lightbulbs most places had. Every corner of her home was decorated and lived in, with the main room acting as both the living room and kitchen. The majority of this front space was decorated warmly with rugs, furniture, and an impressive collection of music discs, old movies, and books that had been thumbed through time and time again. A low coffee table sat in the center of the room, next to a wide amber armchair - her favorite chair - angled a few feet away from a nice television set hooked up to her wall. With no real news stations or broadcasting services after the death stranding began, it didn’t really play anything other than pre-recorded content, which would explain her sizable collection of DVDs in one corner of the room.
Higgs knew that some of those DVDs had been gifted to her by one Heartman of Bridges. The idea that she had another man’s gifts in her home, the mental image of her accepting them with her warm smile - that smile should be for him alone - twisted at something in him. His fingers traced lightly over the packaging of each disc as he passed by it, noting the lack of dust. There were shoes tossed haphazardly on the floor, a jacket slipped over the armrest of the chair, and little notes and knickknacks adorning almost every surface of the room - but no dust or dirt or mold. She kept her place clean, if not organized. He continued on his way.
In the other corner, separated by a long counter, was her sparse kitchen area. She wasn’t much of a cook, he knew as he rummaged through her cabinets. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular - just looking at her space, learning everything he could glean about her from the way she decorated and lived in her most private moments. This home that nobody in the world knew about, but her.
And him.
He pulled out a tin box, the outside worn and scratched from years of use and washing. He didn’t have to read the scratched up label to know what was in it, though he opened it anyway to take a whiff. The scent of tea filled the air for a moment, and he took a deep breath of it. She drank tea every morning - all kinds of brands, all kinds of blends, a wide variety of containers lining her cabinets and kitchen counter top. She didn’t like floral flavors and herbal teas were hit or miss, but she loved teas with fruity flavors. He put that tin away, pulling out another one to shake it lightly. Nearly empty. The lemon herbal tea was her current favorite, then. He smiled as he put it back, filing away that information for no other reason than because it was hers.
This place was warm, homey. Every corner is decorated with care, with attention and love put into the details. But more than anything else, it was hers.
Then, finally, he made his way down the very short hallway, pushing open the door at the end of it. Just like how the last room had been two rooms merged into one, this one had a dual purpose as well. Just like in every private room of any Waystation, the bedroom and bathroom had been delegated to the same space. He stood in the doorway for a moment, just looking around at the space.
In one half of her room was her bed. Unlike every private room found in any Waystation, this one wasn’t a cheap plastic shelf with nothing but a flat pillow and a thin blanket for warmth. Hers was a proper bed, a wide mattress on a sturdy frame, with a handful of plush pillows and thick blankets piled on top. Her bedsheets were a plain light grey, but everything else about her bedroom was covered in patterns and color. One pillow had a casing covered in purple heart patterns, another had a floral print that you’d find in a stereotypical grandmother’s home, and a third had a spiral galaxy printed on top of the fabric. Her blankets, two of them, thick and warm and soft to the touch, were tousled off to one side of the unmade bed, as if she hadn’t had the time to fix it after waking.
His gloved hand drifted over the edge of her bed as he took slow, measured steps into the room. His masks, the black gasmask and accompanying gold chiralium skull both, had been left behind in her living room. His pale blue eyes scanned the room as he began to unlatch and remove bits of his armor as well. She would be gone for hours, he knew - he had the time to make himself at home, to make her space into theirs. His.
His BB pod he placed gently onto the low bedside table - it was the only thing he placed down with any care, everything else he stripped off of himself and let fall to the ground as he wandered - right beside a small portable tablet that his fingers itched to take. Her mails, her personal logs, any notes she kept and song lyrics she was workshopping, it would all be in there. Something like a rush of exhilaration pushed through him at the thought of reading it all, at reading her own thoughts, her conversations to others, at the idea of knowing her so intimately. His fingers shook for a second, but he forced himself to pass over it and leave it alone.
He wanted to learn her space first, to learn everything he could here before he moved onto something else. He couldn’t take that tablet with him, he knew it would be too far, she’d notice the absence immediately. She would know he had been here.
He smiled a crooked grin at the thought, but pushed on to the other side of the room.
The tall, cylindrical shower stood in the center of the far wall, lights off until he walked close enough for it to sense his presence. When he stood a foot away from the clear glass, the lights flickered on and the door slid open, welcoming him. He stepped into the shower as if obeying a silent command, clad in his fatigue pants, the black turtleneck worn under his armor, and his chiralium gloves. His heavy black boots left faint print outlines as he stood there, a few droplets of water still on the smooth tiled floor from her earlier shower. If he closed his eyes hard enough, he could almost smell her now - the faint whiff of her shampoo and the lotion she liked to use.
He opened his eyes again, and turned his head. There, on a small shelf in the shower, were her toiletries. Why imagine it when he could have the real thing in his hands, now? The thought of boundaries or violation never even occurred to him as he popped open the lid of her hand moisturizer and took a deep breath of it.
He leaned against the wall of the shower, exhaling slowly, shakily. The smell of coconut and some floral undertone hit him, he could recognize this scent anywhere - she wore this every day. He would notice it when he met her out in the world on her travels, on “accidental” collisions between the musician and terrorist. When he played his little mind games on her, when he pushed into her personal space and touched her like he had every right to, he would smell it on her. Soft, sweet, unmistakably her. To have it here, to smell it so strongly now with no breeze to carry it away, almost made him lightheaded. He popped open the cap of the lotion and squeezed a little dollop out onto his gloved hand, smelling it, rubbing it between his fingers for a moment. Then he soothed it into his throat and the back of his neck so the scent would follow him wherever he went, his little claim on her.
He turned to leave the shower behind, one hand moving slowly, letting his fingers trail over each of her shampoos, conditioners, and body washes as he exited. Her coconut lotion was still in his other hand, his thumb rubbing small circles into the cap as if it were a substitute for her, as if he could feel her with him now.
He felt the first stirrings of heat right there, boots trudging heavily through her bedroom, surrounded by the very idea of her all around him. Something low and heady coiling in his gut that made him tighten his grip on her lotion needily. Perhaps that heat is what pulled him in his next direction - to the darkest corner of her bedroom, where a desk with several drawers had been pushed up into the corner even if it didn’t quite fit the space. Papers littered the top of it, filled with scribbles, notes, song lyrics, drawings of the things she saw on her travels… more of her thoughts, laid bare for him to witness.
He leaned his hip against the desk as he rifled through the papers slowly, taking his time to read over the notes. He knew she wrote her own music sometimes, but he also knew that her originals were private, lyrics she kept close to her chest and rarely shared with others. He picked up one page and grinned as his eyes scanned over the words, feeling as though he was one of the rare few to get to see this hidden part of her. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t given him permission to see it - only that it was here, now, in front of him, and he was willing to take it. Even if most of the lyrics were scratched out, notes haphazardly written off to the sides, question marks and small doodles lining the edges of the paper. He touched the ink, tracing one finger over it delicately, something dangerously close to affection curling deep inside his chest.
The messy mind of an artist, he thought warmly.
He put the paper down slowly, gently - almost like with a reverence to this inimitable work.
He opened the desk drawer and was surprised to find clothing inside, with her apparently having turned the work desk into something like a dresser instead. He moved through the drawers one by one, opening them just to peer at what they contained. She organized her ‘dresser’ neatly, shirts on the top rows, then pants and dresses in the middle, and finally, on the bottom rows...
He opened the very bottom drawer and found a row of underwear, and he paused. They were laid out neatly, folded with care, a line of private treasures. He reached forward, but his hands stopped before he could grab one - not out of hesitation, not out of guilt. No, Higgs was not built for shame. He turned to see the clothing basket beside the shower, the one he’d glanced over earlier. He stood and walked back over to it. There was no shame in him at what he thought of doing - it was only that he wanted something better, something that had been closer to her more recently. He pawed through the hamper greedily. Finding the pair of cotton underwear, plain but for a simple lace edging, was all it took for the last of his restraints to snap.
Lotion and underwear in one hand as he walked back over to her bed, his other hand moved to his belt buckle, unsnapping the clasp with one rough movement. He let himself sit heavily onto the edge of her bed, pulling himself free from his pants and boxers, hard and aching already.
He opened the lotion cap again, squeezing out a bigger helping than before, then he finally let the bottle clatter uselessly to the floor. The smell of her filled the room stronger than before as he slicked his hand with the scented moisturizer. With his other hand, he brought her underwear up to his face and pressed it over his nose and mouth, breathing her in greedily. He shut his eyes, imagining that he could still feel her heat in it, pressed up against his face as his other hand began to spread the lotion over his length in slow, steady strokes. He laid back in her bed, picturing how she must have looked just hours ago, laying serenely under the covers, wearing nothing but the panties he clutched in his fist now. The combination of scent and imagination made him groan low in his chest.
“Fuck, songbird…” He whispered into the panties, voice rough around the edges.
He stroked himself slow at first, savoring the feel, dragging out the tension. He told himself that he had all the time in the world, that she wouldn’t be back for hours, that he could enjoy the moment. Each pump of his hand was slick, warm even through his gloves, and he imagined her hand there instead of his own. His mouth opened as his eyes clenched shut at the thought of her here, working him over, her pretty, practiced hands being put to better use than plucking that guitar of hers.
He inhaled heavily, then let his tongue snake out to taste the fabric, groaning aloud as his hips bucked. His grip tightened on himself, his movements picking up speed as he muttered curses and endearments into her lace.
“Mine,” he grunted between thrusts, breath airy and uneven. “No one else gets this… only me.”
The scented lotion made his skin glide with obscene ease, and soon the room filled with the wet, rhythmic sounds of his need. He thought of her walking in right now - to see him half naked and needy, rutting into his own hand in desperation, chasing the thought of her like salvation. He could picture her wide-eyed shock, the way she’d cover her mouth in disbelief, and he knew he’d keep going even then. The idea made him tremble, body shuddering, thrusting harder into his hand. He removed the lace from his mouth just to press it against the head of his cock, throwing his head back and whimpering. He had to bring one leg up to brace against the edge of her bed, uncaring about tracking dirt and tar onto her sheets.
“God, you’d hate me if you saw this, wouldn't you?” He rasped in between panting breaths, fisting himself through her underwear, hips shaking. But deep down, he didn’t believe it - she’d love this, he told himself as he bit back another moan behind clenched teeth. She wanted to be wanted, he thought desperately. She wanted him to want her, to be so undone at just the thought of her, the smell of her. He repeated all of those accusations in his mind as he pumped himself roughly, but he couldn’t tell whether those were his real thoughts, or just the needy fantasy that he would cling to.
He rocked back against the bed, whole body shuddering with his movements, head thrown back and mouth open as he fucked himself in hurried thrusts into the fabric of her used panties.
You’d love how badly I need you.
That thought alone pushed him over the edge, hips shooting upward hard as he shook. He turned his head to bite down on her rumpled blankets, muffling his loud groan as he came hard, spilling over his own hand and into her underwear, staining the fabric that had once been wrapped around her skin. His whole body shook with the release, heart thundering.
For a long moment afterward, he stayed there, chest heaving. Sweat lined his forehead and made his shirt cling to his skin. When the stars in his vision faded, he slowly looked down at the mess in his hand, at her ruined underwear. He turned it over in his gloved hands, thumb gently working the cum into the fabric. His grin spread slow, sharp and predatory.
He let his hand, holding the stained and spent underwear, rest against his chest, as if keeping something valuable close to his heart. He sprawled himself across her bed, arm slung across his eyes, the scent of her lotion still clinging to him.
He thought about cleaning everything up, fixing her desk and her sheets and putting the lotion back where he’d found it, to leave no trace of himself behind. He thought about taking the underwear with him, a perverse little keepsake to look back on…
Then he thought of putting the stained fabric back into the dresser instead, about folding it neatly and burying it beneath her other clean pairs. He thought about letting her find it one day, slipping them on without another thought, unknowingly carrying his mark against her body. The thought made his fingers tense against his stomach.
He had hours left. Hours to decide what else he could do.
