Fic and Social links here, just tap
Most works are cross posted on Ao3. Please be warned, pretty much everything is NSFW. I'm not sorry and neither are you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · Call Of Duty · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Konig
Eventuality - König x OFC fanfic
Good boy - König x M!Reader oneshot
König von Garnichts - Eldritch!Konig x F!Reader , Oneshot
Johnny "Soap" Mctavish
The Four Horsemen of a Scot's Heart - Soap x OFC Slowburn
Dreaming of Rain - Soap x F!Reader oneshot
Captian John Price
Where’s home for you, then? - Capt. John Price x OFC oneshot
Simon "Ghost" Riley
After Hours - Simon "Ghost" Riley X OFC
Misc.
Threesome Special - Soap x F!Reader x König oneshot
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · · WatchDogs · · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Wrench
Wrench Headcanons - Wrench and Wrench x !Reader headcanons
Reruns - Wrench X F!Reader oneshot
Asking Wrench Out - Wrench X Shy!F!Reader Oneshot, Ask
summary: after a long day of work, you try to unwind by watching your comfort show, but your solitude is interrupted by yet another visit from noir, who seems to be finding more and more excuses to spend time with you… (includes a C.AI bot as part 2 below!)
wordcount: 2k
tags: brief mention of NSFW pop-up ads, nerdy n’ socially awkward reader, noir’s disdain for almond joys but he makes up for it at the end <3
It had been a long day at the crime analytics office in Vought. As the sun began to set, exhaustion crept over you after reviewing incident report after report. Your eyes strained from the blue glare of your computer screen. You knew you had promised your boss you would organize the ever-growing database, but the tiny voice of procrastination was pleading for rest before your overworked brain turned into a pile of mush.
Rather than more paperwork—you, being the slacker of all slackers in this department, decided a well-deserved break was in order. And what better way to recharge than turning off the noggin and filling it with good ol’ fashioned mindless entertainment?
With a few tired clicks of your mouse, you booted up your go-to streaming site, which was none other than 123movies. Scrolling through the options, your cursor hovered over the play button of your favorite trashy drama. The kind of cheesy, perfectly predictable melodrama spun from the worst of amateur YA plots. It was practically comfort food for your fatigued mind, just what you needed to loosen up after the mental marathon that was this long day.
As the opening credits began to roll, your computer began to whir and hiss like an overtaxed engine, emitting gusts of unusually hot air from the vents. Suddenly, its screen slowed to a sluggish crawl, cluttered with a barrage of not-so-savory pop-up ads. Barely a minute in, the pixels already scrambled to form images better to left unseen—half naked women in risqué yet tacky mermaid-like attire, claiming they were ‘just around the corner and ready for a good aquatic fuck.’
First of all, what the absolute living hell is an “aquatic fuck”??
Did you even want to know? And most importantly, what happened to the ad blocker you installed just the other day? Judging by the contents, you had a sneaking suspicion that slimy, sea-dwelling degenerate, The Deep, had tampered with your computer… yet again.
“For the love of-… what’s with all these pop-up ads?” you muttered under your breath as excessively explicit ads crowded out the episode. Your eyes darted furtively around the room to check for wandering glances, hoping against hope that none of your coworkers had noticed the unwanted filth invading your screen. Heart pounding, you squeezed your chair closer to your monitor into a makeshift barricade, shielding the display as best you could while hastily clicking away at the intrusive ads.
As you hurriedly closed the remaining windows, an ominous shadow fell across the screen. Dreading what—or who—might be behind you, you slowly swiveled your chair around to find Black Noir's stoic stare boring into your own.
You stifled a yelp as you instinctively clutched the armrests, catching yourself on the edge of your seat before an ungainly spill to the floor. Noir had a way of materializing without warning, and it never failed to unnerve.
“N-Noir!” you managed, inwardly cringing as your voice broke on his name. “Fancy seeing you in these parts. I was just taking a quick break and y’know- stretching ‘em brain cells.” You tried for a lighthearted chuckle, but it emerged as more of a strained squeak that faded into an anxious hum.
With a jerky flurry of clicks and the browser minimized from view, whatever dignity you still retained disappearing along with it. All that did remain was you praying to the heavens above that he hadn't noticed its questionable contents (even if he most definitely had and simply chose not to comment)
When Noir offered no response, you of course charmingly barreled ahead in your frazzled daze. “But anyways, s-sorry about that… how uh, can I help you today?” your words tumbled out in a breathless rush, punctuated by a shrill laugh you hoped disguised the mortification simmering beneath.
Noir cocked his head, observing you with that same silent intensity. You fidgeted, hands twisting in knotted discomfort, the heat in your ears now engulfing your entire face. Was it the invasive pop-ups that had you squirming in your seat? Or the fact he could snuff out your existence faster than you can say “workers’ comp”?
Either way, beneath the weight of his stare, you already felt as if you were some peculiar, freakish creature pinned for study, rather than some bumbling employee just trying to unwind and watch their comfort show.
And to him, you indeed were a fascinating, bizarre little human.
Mercifully, Noir chose to extend a folder toward you, putting an end to your somewhat pathetic withering. You accepted it with a wordless nod, nearly sagging in your chair as tension drained from your shoulders.
Whirling towards the familiar clutter of your desk once more, you pretended absorption in the folder’s material, hoping this signaled Noir’s leave. After all, has anyone seen the state of you? It certainly wasn’t a flattering one. Yet from the corner of your eye, you detected no movement, no receding footsteps—his shadowy form remained statuesquely in place.
Believe it or not, this has been becoming a thing, a growing habit of late—and a suspicious one at that. Lately his breaks had grown longer, minutes lengthening to quarters of an hour, all spent hovering at your desk as you worked. However, his focus was solely on watching and observing you. He never exhibited a hint of thought or motive for his reason there, only leaving you with questions that seemed to multiply by each and every visit.
Noir, on the other hand, was somehow utterly convinced that you and him were two peas in a tightly-knit pod. He swore you two were best of buds for life—even if "life" so far had only amounted to the past two weeks' worth of half-hour stretches where he silently observed your work from the corner.
Ironically, you didn’t have the slightest inkling of how he really felt. Instead, you always assumed that he, like most supes, regarded you as little more than a puny mortal—a fragile, near-useless sack of flesh and bones whose skull he was one misstep away from caving in with bare hands.
But nope, Noir was simply here to bless you, the nerdy but cute crime analyst, with his presence—his rather… unsettling presence.
The familiar hush settled as you reluctantly returned focus to the task at hand. Hocus-pocus-focus, you chanted mentally, peeling away the last shreds of stray thoughts to tap into the zone of productivity. Unfurling the dossier Noir provided, you began sifting through documents for insight on his purpose in approaching you. Meanwhile, a flick of movement in the edge of your vision revealed Noir's attention veer off course, the almond joy perched beside your keyboard capturing his notice.
You tensed, hocus-pocus-focus breaking, all too aware of past disappearances of snacks in these briefings. Sure enough, his hand drifted noiselessly toward the candy bar, no doubt spurred by ingrained impulse to dispose of it per his usual custom. But you'd grown wise to his methods by now.
Not again, you sighed inwardly, snatching the almond joy and cradling it protectively as if it were your dear, beloved child.
Noir made no move to withdraw, palm outstretched expectantly. You frowned, struggling to keep frustration at bay. "Please, come on- not this time!.. It's my last one for the day." Brows pinching, your tone threatened to rise before steadying with a slow and calm inhale. No use losing composure over candy, no matter the principle. So all you could do was peer beseechingly at Noir in silent appeal, legs jittering restlessly under your desk in building apprehension.
Unfortunately, you found no signs of leniency in his obscured face—only his hand beckoning relentlessly for the almond joy. You plea was once again met with stony resolve, as if he was internally distressed by the mere presence of it. What was he? Deathly allergic to almond joys or something?
With a resigned breath, you delivered the almond joy towards Noir's waiting glove, unable to hide the disappointment dimming your features. Your lips curled into a slight pout, gaze sinking heavy into your lap at being parted from the treat. Though Noir was never one for words, it really didn’t take a rocket scientist to see you felt bullied into submission by his demands. At the end of the day, what power did a measly analyst like yourself hold against one of the Seven? As your fingers uncurled, releasing the candy into Noir's grasp, you couldn't help but feel a bit put upon, even if that wasn’t his intention at all.
Noir was well aware of the upset feelings his request had caused, so in an attempt to remedy the situation, his arm was sent in a backwards reach for the notepad he often used to communicate. However, he found himself at a loss as words eluded him, his thoughts swirling in frustrating circles of “What should I even say?”—muddled and incoherent. For a moment he stared at you, mask betraying no emotion as he grappled to find the right words, despite the prick of guilt nibbling at his conscience. Then, lacking any better option, he simply tossed the offending candy into the trash, perhaps with more force than intended.
Clearly, socializing was not Noir’s strong suit.
With no further acknowledgment, Noir spun on his heel and marched away. You watched his retreating, rigid form with discomfort clenching your insides, eyes falling onto the lonely candy discarded in the trash, its colorful wrapper mocking your current disheartened state.
Wearily, you turned away from the almond joy, redirecting your attention toward the computer as a means to divert your now soured mood. Maximizing the browser, you hoped that your planned show may have had time to load during the interaction. But upon inspecting the screen, you found the video remained stubbornly stalled, stuck on buffering dots and refusing to roll despite the minutes passed.
Just. Peachy.
One (super)human encounter had sucked the very life source out of your dog-tired body, and now this. It was really shaping up to be one of those days.
Thoroughly worn out, you gently laid your head down onto the desk, pillowing it against the crook of your folded arms as eyelids slid shut. All you craved was to simply sleep away the remaining time until you could finally escape this wretched shift and retreat to the sanctuary of your home sweet home.
─────────────────
As your shift wound down to its end, you were finally stirring from your slumber. Rubbing the sleep from your bleary eyes, your blurred vision sharpened to show your colleagues had long since departed while you were snoozing away.
Rising and squaring your shoulders, you began to gather your belongings in preparation to leave as well. Once you had collected everything and lifted to your feet, something in the far corner of your desk caught your eye. Approaching for a closer look in the dim lighting, the fuzzy outline gradually came into focus—a cluttered collection of Hershey's Kisses, their jumbled placement grouped to form the shape of a heart.
You blinked in bewilderment, rubbing your eyes once more to ensure you weren't imagining things. Stepping closer, you spotted a sticky note nestled within the heart of chocolates, scrawled upon in a crude, blocky hand. At first, you assumed it was some silly prank from one of your coworkers, but you knew you recognized the handwriting anywhere—it was Noir's.
Gingerly, you plucked the sticky note from the desk, lifting it to your line of sight to read the message. “Kisses taste better than almond joys…Sorry.” you read softly, your voice trailing off as confusion crept in.
Designed as a very apparent flirty gesture, the intent behind the note and chocolates still managed to whoosh straight over your head. As always seemed the case, even the most painfully obvious social cues could so easily evade your understanding—this proving no exception.
You slipped the sticky note into your pocket, then selected a foil-wrapped Kiss from the pile. Gently rolling the chocolate between your fingers, you unwrapped it and popped one into your mouth. You took time to savor its light cream filling beneath a smooth outer shell, face crinkling in thought and head tilting as you considered your verdict. “Eh… I’d beg to differ.” you mused with a shrug, slinging your bag over your shoulder as you took your leave from the office.
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Pssst- likes, comments, and reblogs are greatly appreciated in this household and keep me motivated! <3
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a C.AI bot as your very own part 2 where you thank Noir the following day:
Meet AIs that feel alive. Chat with anyone, anywhere, anytime. Experience the power of super-intelligent chat bots that hear you, understand
a/n: saw somewhere that kisses don’t contain nuts but then I also saw someone else say they actually do??? So let’s just pretend the kisses Noir chose are completely nut-free for the sake of the plot 😭
also, the reader is very much based off Anika if it wasn’t obvious enough haha! She’s so y/n coded 😤💗
Black Noir x Reader, Ao3 link
No, I don't know how to write anything short and sweet, and yes, you like it. Tag (WR) to find more of this title
obsession, stalker/possessive behaviour, cannon-typical violence, dark romance
3k wc
Chapter 2 - Days
You’re sure something walked out of that shop with you.
You don’t check behind you, not once. The city at this hour isn’t empty, a car idles too long at a red light before turning. Your throat reminds you of itself every few steps. When you swallow, it catches slightly, a faint resistance making you more aware of your breathing. You lift your hand once, briefly pressing your fingers against the side of your neck as if checking for something, but then drop it again before the gesture can turn into anything you’d actually have to think about.
Your building comes into view in the same way it always does, tucked between two storefronts that have already shut their lights off for the night. The hallway inside smells faintly like old carpet and the overhead light flickers once when you step in, buzzing as you cross to the stairs.
You don’t take the elevator.
The climb is familiar, your body moving through it without effort, one hand trailing lightly along the railing as you go. Your mind keeps trying to circle back to the shop, to replay it in pieces, but you don’t let it settle anywhere for long. Each step interrupts it, keeps it moving.
At your door, you pause just long enough to pull your keys free. The lock sticks at first but then opens. You push the door open with your shoulder and step inside, immediately reaching back to close and lock it behind you before anything from the hallway can follow.
The apartment greets you in a calming, familiar way, dim and still, the air slightly warmer than outside and faintly scented with whatever candle you burned the night before. The lamp by the couch is still on, casting a soft, uneven glow across the room. You don’t remember leaving it on, but the thought passes without catching, filed away somewhere that doesn’t require your immediate attention.
You set your keys down on the small table by the door and they land with a light jingle.
For a second, you just stand there, taking in the space without really looking at anything in particular. The couch, slightly rumpled from where you sat earlier. The mug on the coffee table, half-full and forgotten. The blanket draped over the armrest, one corner brushing the floor. Everything is where it should be, or close enough that your brain doesn’t immediately flag it as wrong.
You shrug out of your jacket, hanging it on the back of the chair by the door instead of the hook you usually use. The motion is automatic. Your shoes come off next, toed off near the edge of the rug, and you flex your feet once against the floor, grounding yourself again in something simple and physical.
You move through the apartment slowly, crossing to the kitchen area and reaching for a glass without thinking. The tap runs for a second before you take a sip, then another, the coolness settling something in your chest that had tightened. Your hand comes up to your throat once more, pressing lightly, testing the sensation again as you swallow. It’s still there, faint but noticeable, a reminder you can’t ignore no matter how hard you want to. You set the glass down and lean your hands against the counter, letting your head dip forward for a second. Your hair falls slightly into your face, and you push it back absently, your fingers catching briefly on your skin as they pass your neck.
You’re fine.
The thought comes easily, almost automatically.
You’re fine. You’re home. The door is locked, and you can deal with all this shit in the morning.
You straighten, exhaling slowly, and turn back toward the living room. The lamp casts the same soft light across the messy arrangement of your space. You take a step forward, your attention drifting without settling until something small pulls it into focus.
Your blanket.
It’s folded.
Not neatly enough at first glance. But you know it isn’t how you left it. The corner that you’re sure had been brushing the floor is tucked in now, the fabric smoothed in a way you don’t remember doing.
You stop and try to place it. Maybe you fixed it earlier? Maybe you don’t remember. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d done something small like that without thinking about it. The day had been long enough before the night got longer, and your memory of the hours leading up to your shift feels distant now.
You take another step into the room, eyes move past the blanket, scanning the rest of the space. The mug on the table and the book beside it. Nothing jumps out at you or feels immediately wrong.
Still—
Your gaze flicks back to the blanket.
You let out a small breath through your nose and move past it, crossing to the couch and dropping down onto it with a soft exhale. The cushions shift under your weight, settling around you in a way that feels familiar enough to quiet the small thread of something that had started to pull tight. You lean back, letting your head rest against the back of the couch as your eyes drift toward the ceiling.
The moonlight presses lightly against the windows.
You stay on the couch longer than you mean to, your body settling into it in slow increments, shoulders easing down and letting your tired legs stretch out. The lamp beside you hums faintly as your breathing finally evens out.
You bring your hand up again without thinking, brushing your fingers lightly along your throat, tracing the place where his grip had been. The skin there feels normal. At least there’s no sharp pain or swelling you can immediately notice, it’s just a lingering sensitivity that reminds you how easily it could have been worse.
You drop your hand and reach for the mug on the table.
The ceramic is cool when you pick it up, whatever was in it long since gone cold. You take a small sip anyway, more out of habit than anything else, and immediately regret it. You make a face, setting it back down a little harder than you intended, the sound dull against the wood of the table.
“Yeah,” you mutter under your breath, voice rougher than usual. “That’s about right.”
You lean forward, resting your elbows on your knees for a second, your hands hanging loosely between them as you look down at the floor.
You’re fine.
You say it again, this time out loud. “I’m fine.”
It sounds more real hearing it.
You sit there for another moment, then push yourself up with a quiet exhale, grabbing the mug and carrying it into the kitchen. The sink is already empty, a small detail you register without thinking as you set the mug down and rinse it out. The water runs over your fingers, warm this time.
You dry your hands on the towel hanging by the stove.
It’s slightly damp.
You frown faintly, fingers pressing into the fabric for a second longer than necessary. You don’t remember using it earlier. You usually let things air dry, especially when you’re rushing out for a shift. The towel shouldn’t be damp unless—
You stop that thought before it finishes.
You hang it back up.
You turn, leaning back against the counter, your eyes moving across the space in a slower, more deliberate way. The couch. The table. The lamp. The blanket. The air feels the same, or at least smells the same. Nothing is out of place in a way you can point to and say, yes, that’s wrong.
But something is.
It sits just under the surface, persistent enough that you can’t fully ignore it. Your gaze shifts toward the door without meaning to, drawn there by the same instinct that had you checking the lock earlier.
It’s still locked.
You know it is. You remember turning it.
You push off the counter and walk over anyway.
Your hand wraps around the knob, giving it a small, testing turn. It doesn’t budge. The lock holds, solid and familiar, exactly as it should. You let out a breath and rest your forehead briefly against the wood of the door.
“This is stupid,” you murmur.
The word settles into the space and disappears.
You straighten, turning back toward the apartment with a small shake of your head, like you can physically dislodge the feeling if you move enough. Your attention drifts again to the book on your table.
You step closer.
It’s sitting where you left it earlier, half-open and face down on the surface. You reach out and flip it over, your fingers catching lightly on the edge of the page. The spine creaks faintly as it opens, and you glance down automatically to find your place.
It’s not where you left it.
The page is different. Not dramatically so, not enough that you would catch it at a glance if you weren’t already looking for something, but now that you have you know it’s off by a few pages. The corner you had folded slightly is smooth again.
Your fingers tighten just a fraction against the paper.
That’s not something you forget.
You don’t skip ahead in books. It’s a small habit, but it’s consistent. Enough that the change stands out in a way the blanket or towel didn’t. You close the book slowly and set it back down exactly where it had been.
Your heart rate picks up. Your mind starts to move through possibilities, trying to land on something that makes sense.
You left it like this, you must have.
You were distracted earlier while rushing and tired, it happens.
Your gaze flicks once more across the room. Nothing else is wrong that you can tell. You stand there for a second longer, shoulders ease slightly as you exhale, and the tension in your chest loosens just enough to feel like you can breathe normally again.
“Okay,” you say quietly and turn away from the table, moving back toward the couch.
Eventually, your body starts to give in to the weight of the day, the tension in your shoulders loosening just enough that it feels heavier to stay upright than to let yourself sink. You can’t remember deciding to lie down but at some point you do.
You stretch out along the couch, one arm tucked under your head, the other resting loosely against your stomach. The blanket is within reach, folded neatly where you noticed it earlier, and you hesitate for a second before pulling it over yourself.
Sleep doesn’t come right away, but it comes.
—
The morning arrives without ceremony.
Light pushes through the window in a thin strip that cuts across the floor and up the side of the couch, landing somewhere near your shoulder. You blink into it slowly, your body stiff and your throat feels tight again when you swallow, the memory of the night settling back into place as your awareness sharpens.
You sit up, pushing the blanket down into your lap.
It’s folded.
If it had just slipped off you while you slept like normal, where it gets bunched and twisted or half hanging off the couch, no, it was folded neatly over your legs. The edges are aligned in a way that requires intention and care.
You stare at it for a second before pushing it off.
The rest of the morning moves normally.
Shower. Coffee. Getting dressed. Your body follows the routine without resistance, and for a while, it’s enough to quiet the part of your mind that keeps circling back to the small things that didn’t line up the night before.
You double check the door again before you leave.
—
Work feels normaler than it did the night before, you hesitated clocking in half expecting your manager to call you in and fire you, or question you, but it’s like nothing happened.
The shop hums with its usual rhythm from the afternoon crowd. Orders stack, voices overlap, the grinder runs almost constantly, and for a few hours you don’t have space to think about anything except what’s directly in front of you. The repetition helps.
No one mentions anything about last night.
No police or closed doors or tape across the entrance. From the moment you arrived, everything was exactly as it always is, like the space hard reset itself the second you walked out of it.
You don’t ask.
The thought comes, briefly, to check the news, to look something up, to confirm that what happened actually exists somewhere outside of your own memory, but you don’t follow through with it. Your phone stays in your pocket or face down on the counter when you’re not using it.
By the time your shift ends, the edge the previous dulled.
And when you get back home, the apartment greets you the same way it did the night before. You step inside, closing the door behind you, your movements automatic as you drop your keys onto the table and shrug off your jacket, this time hanging it on the hook where it belongs. Everything looks the same.
You move through it without thinking at first, crossing into the kitchen and reaching for a glass. The tap runs, you take a sip, and for a moment it feels like the previous night might have settled into something distant enough to leave completely alone. After all maybe it was just a bad dream fueled by too much caffeine and not enough sleep.
Then you turn and see your mug back on the table, clean and dry. Placed exactly where it had been before you picked it up and brought it to the sink yesterday.
You stop and your eyes fix on it, your brain trying to catch up to what you’re seeing, trying to rearrange the sequence of events into something that makes sense. You remember washing it. You remember setting it down. The sound of it against the sink as you did and the water running over it.
You know you didn’t put it back, and involuntarily your fingers curl slightly at your sides. Your gaze shifts to scan the rest of the room. The blanket is folded again, much neater than before.
The book is in the same place you left it, but now it’s closed completely, aligned with the edge of the table like someone adjusted it to sit just right. Your chest tightens enough that you feel your breath catch for half a second before you can steady it again. Your mind moves through the same explanations as before, faster this time, more urgent, trying to land on something solid.
You did this, you must have. Yeah, you don’t remember it, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen… you were tired. You didn’t sleep well, and it’s been a long day.
It has to be you. You tell yourself.
You let out a slow breath and then without meaning to, you say, “…okay.”
Your eyes move once more across the room, slower now, more deliberate, like you’re trying to memorize it as it is in this exact moment. You cross to the table and pick up the mug.
It’s clean completely clean, there’s no residue along the inside or faint ring left behind at the bottom, no streaks where it might have air dried unevenly. You turn it slightly in your hand, then set it back down exactly where you found it.
Your gaze shifts to the book next. You touch the cover lightly, sliding it a fraction of an inch out of alignment with the edge of the table. Not enough that anyone else would notice. Just enough that you would. Your fingers linger there for a second, pressing lightly against the surface, then you pull your hand back and step away.
Your attention drifts toward the blanket next and you walk over, grab one corner, and tug it loose, letting it fall unevenly across the couch. The fabric bunches slightly, one side hanging lower than the other, the fold completely undone now.
The kitchen was last, you rinsed a plate and left it in the sink instead of drying it. You open a cabinet and don’t close it all the way and you set your glass down closer to the edge of the counter than you normally would.
Each choice is subtle but intentional and by the time you’re done, the apartment looks… off.
Not messy or wrong in a way that would alarm anyone else. Just slightly out of sync with the way you usually keep it. Enough that you know without question, that if something changes again, it won’t just be something you imagined..
You nod once, more to yourself than anything else and turn off the lamp.
Darkness settles in slowly, the room shifting into shadow as the last light disappears. The shapes of everything soften, edges blurring into something less defined, and you don’t bother to turn the light back on. You move through it easily, your body familiar enough with the layout that you don’t need to see every step. Your hand brushes lightly along the back of the couch as you pass, grounding yourself in the physical space as you head toward your bedroom.
The bedroom is the same as always, the bed unmade, the faint imprint of where you slept a couple nights ago still visible in the sheets. You change quickly before sliding into bed. As you pull the sheets up around you, you stare toward the doorway for a long second. The hallway beyond it is dark, the faint outline of the living room barely visible from this angle.
Sleep comes slower this time.
___
Your alarm doesn’t even have a chance to ring before you’re up.
The light in the room is softer, early enough that the sun hasn’t fully come up yet. For a second, you stay where you are, your body still, your eyes half-open as your awareness pulls back into place.
Eventually you do sit up and swing your feet off onto the cold floor. You move into the hallway of your quiet apartment. Walking into the living room your eyes go straight to the table.
The mug is gone.
Your stomach tightens as you take a step forward, your gaze shifting quickly, searching the space without letting yourself rush. The book—
It’s aligned again! Exactly with the edge.
The cabinet door is closed.
The plate is gone from the sink.
Everything you left skewed had been corrected.
You stand there in the middle of it, the early morning light just beginning to filter through the window and your throat tightens. This would probably be the right time to call the police, or admit yourself into a psych ward.
Black Noir x Reader, Ao3 link
No, I don't know how to write anything short and sweet, and yes, you like it. Tag (WR) to find more of this title
obsession, stalker/possessive behaviour, cannon-typical violence, dark romance
7.2k wc (sorry)
Chapter 1 - The Cafe
The shop always gets softer after nine.
It wasn’t prettier, exactly. The lights were still a little too dim in one corner because the bulb over the pastry case had been flickering for a week and your manager kept forgetting to replace it. There was the tile behind the counter that still held onto old heat from the ovens, and the floor stuck faintly under your shoes where somebody had spilled vanilla syrup during the morning rush and half-cleaned it with hot water, which somehow only made it worse.
During the day it belonged to everyone else. Office people with hard voices and expensive watches. College kids pretending to work. Mothers with strollers and dead-eyed men on bluetooth headsets and girls who ordered drinks with six modifications and smiled at you like they were doing you a favor. The shop swallowed all of them, all day, and the noise stayed in your head and rang along the walls long after they left.
At night it gave some of itself back.
The grinder had gone quiet twenty minutes ago and the pastry case was almost empty except for one blueberry scone nobody wanted. Jazz hummed low through the ceiling speakers. It wasn’t real jazz, just the kind corporate picked because it sounded expensive and inoffensive, but it got the job done. Outside, the street had thinned into little passing pockets of life. A bus sighed at the stop across the block. Headlights slid over the front windows and moved on.
You stood at the register with a rag over one shoulder and your phone face down beside the tip jar, counting out the drawer with one hand while your other rubbed at a dried ring of milk near the card reader.
Forty. Sixty. Eighty.
You had already restocked the lids, wiped down the syrup bottles, and refilled the tiny fridge with those stupid green juices no one bought- well unless they wanted to feel morally superior at eight in the morning. The espresso machine was cooling behind you with quiet ticking. There was something nice about closing tasks, every part of it made sense. You did one thing, then the next, then the next. Things got quieter and the world shrank to whatever was in reach of your hands.
Rina would have said you liked jobs where nobody could text you.
She had, actually. More than once.
You smiled a little at the thought and slid a stack of fives into place.
She’d tried all year to convince you to make an Instagram for the shop at least, because apparently "you take enough sad pictures of coffee to make it work." You hadn’t bothered though. Sometimes people would take that too seriously, the no social media thing. Like you were withholding a body part from the internet out of spite.
It wasn’t that deep. You just didn’t like the feeling of being easily findable.
The bell over the door gave a short, tired jingle.
You looked up automatically. “Hey. Welcome in.”
The man who stepped inside had the kind of face that felt familiar before you could place why. He was mid-thirties maybe and in a good coat. Hair a little damp from the mist outside. He carried himself like he was used to being listened to, but he smiled in a loose, easy way that sanded the rougher edges off.
You knew him.
Not personally. Coffee-shop knew him. He’d come in a few times over the past couple of weeks, always late and alone. His usual order was an americano, no room. Sometimes he added a pastry and barely touched it, usually tipped in cash. But he always looked at your face, which counted for something in a city where most people looked at the register screen more than they bothered to make eye contact or even recognize your existence. You swear, sometimes customers make you feel more like a search engine than human.
“Still open?” he asked.
“Technically.” You replied.
He glanced at the clock behind you and slapped a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”
“Well, I mean it’s ten minutes to close.”
“So generous of you to let the desperate in.”
You smirked and reached for a cup. “You want the usual?”
His expression shifted, pleasantly surprised you remembered. “See, this is why I come here.”
“Because I enable caffeine dependency?”
“Because you make me feel seen.”
You snorted under your breath and wrote on the cup. “Uhm, that’s a weird amount of pressure to put on a barista this late at night.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain dark roast.”
The shop was empty except for the two of you. It made his voice carry more than it probably would have during the day. You set the cup under the machine and hit the button, the rich and bitter-smelling espresso began to pull in two dark streams. He took a slow look around while it filled, hands tucked in his coat pockets.
“Just you tonight?”
You only nodded in response, a slight unease building behind your chest.
“That legal?”
You shrugged. “Probably not.”
“That’s comforting.”
“Why, you planning a robbery?” You challenged.
He smiled bigger this time, teeth and all. “You always joke like that?”
“Only when the place is empty enough that I can hold a conversation.” You glanced over at him while the machine hissed. “Should I be worried?”
“I think everyone should be worried, generally.”
“That… sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
You laughed once through your nose and reached for the hot water. The cup warmed your fingers through the paper as you filled it. When you put the lid on, he was still watching you in that easy, absent sort of way some men had, like attention cost them nothing.
You slid the drink across the counter. “There. Your medically inadvisable evening decision.”
He took it, but didn’t move away right away. His hand brushed yours for half a second. His skin was still cold from outside. “Thanks,” he said. “You closing alone every night?”
Ah.. here it is. People asked things like that all the time without thinking. But with him, the timing was off. The extra second after he asked, when his eyes stayed on your face instead of dropping to the lid or the sleeve or literally anywhere else.
You reached for the rag on your shoulder and folded it over once in your hands. “Some nights.”
He nodded, like he’d been given something useful. “City’s rough lately.”
“Mm.”
“You hear about that shooting over on Mercer?”
You shook your head.
“Couple nights ago. Guy got hit outside a club.” He ticked, “Wrong place, wrong time.”
“Feels like that could describe half this city.”
He nodded and took a sip, making a soft approving sound. “You ever think about leaving?”
The question landed strangely. Too big for some late night coffee shop, and way too intimate for a man you only knew in passing. Outside, a car rolled through the intersection with bass low enough to rattle the glass. The jazz overhead had switched tracks at some point to piano.
You leaned back against the counter. “Leaving the city?” You paused, “Yeah… sometimes.”
“Where would you go?”
“I don’t know. Maybe somewhere quieter.”
He smiled into the rim of the cup. “You seem like you’d hate quiet after a while.”
Your smile faded, “You don’t know me.”
“Ah, but you know my order.”
“Yeah, well I work here.”
“And you’ve got a keychain shaped like a little black cat, which tells me you buy things impulsively if they’re cute enough. You like to read during slow hours because you leave books under the counter. You hate oat milk, and you keep turning your phone face down like you’re trying to discourage it from fulfilling it’s man-made purpose.”
You stared at him.
It wasn’t even the list itself. Most of it was true, and none of it was exactly private. It was how neatly he said it. Like he’d arranged the pieces together beforehand, almost like a prepared speech. He must’ve seen something shift in your face, because he smiled again.
“Occupational hazard,” he said. “I notice things.”
“What occupation would that be?” Your mind raced, maybe he was just FBI or CIA and didn’t really understand social boundaries.
He lifted the cup in a tiny salute. “Insufferable regular.”
You huffed a quiet laugh because the alternative would have been letting the silence grow uncomfortable, that small prickle under your skin eased enough to be ignoreable. Sort of. Under the counter, your fingers brushed the spine of the paperback you’d shoved there hours ago.
“Congrats,” you said finally. “You’re very observant.”
“I get that a lot.”
“I somehow doubt that.”
He leaned one elbow on the counter. “You’re right. Usually people say… invasive.”
“There we go.”
“That feel more honest?”
“By a mile.”
He laughed, and annoyingly it was a good laugh, warm and low. It made it easy to forget what had just felt strange about him. That was probably why people like him got away with being strange in the first place; they were used to packaging it in charm and letting other people do the work of smoothing it over.
Still, you found yourself staying where you were.
Maybe because it was late and you were tired, maybe because he was familiar enough to register as safe, even if some small part of you wasn’t sure why. Or maybe because the shop was empty and his voice filled it in a way that kept loneliness from settling.
He turned, looking out through the front windows. “Dead out there.”
“Best kind of closing shift.”
“You don’t get nervous?”
“About what?”
He looked at you then, over his shoulder. “Being the last person in a room.”
You let the rag drop onto the counter. “That’s kind of a weird question.”
“So that’s a yes.”
“It’s a no, actually.”
“Really.”
You nodded, “Yeah, really.”
He studied you a second longer than felt normal, then nodded like he’d accepted some private challenge. “You’ve got a calm face.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Even now.” His eyes narrowed. “Most people get twitchy when they realize they’re being watched."
You held his gaze because looking away would have felt like giving him something. You were nearing your social batter cap for this specific conversation. It couldn’t be leading anywhere good. “Maybe most people are more polite than you.”
“Maybe.”
You expected him to smile again but he didn’t. Some heavy tension settled between the two of you, it wasn’t anything obvious. He was still standing exactly where he’d been, coffee in hand. But the whole room seemed to sharpen a little. The hum of the fridge under the pastry case. The tick of cooling metal behind you.
Then he blinked, and whatever had gathered there loosened.
“I’m keeping you from closing,” he said.
“That’s literally true.”
“Should I take that personally?”
“Nah, I think you’d enjoy that too much.”
His mouth twitched. He reached into his coat, and something in your chest pulled tight for one hard second before he took out a folded bill and dropped it in the tip jar. Way too much money.
You looked down at it. “No.”
“Counterpoint.” He snapped his fingers, “Yes.”
“That’s like half my electric bill.”
“Then I’m a humanitarian.”
“You’re weird.”
“So I’ve heard.”
You pushed the bill back toward him over the counter. “Take some of it back.”
He didn’t. His eyes dropped to your hand instead, to the short crescent moons your nails made in the paper where you held it between two fingers.
“You always this stubborn?”
“You always ignore direct instructions?”
“Almost professionally.”
You sighed and left the bill where it was. “Okay fine. Congratulations on your philanthropy.”
“Thank you. I feel… changed.”
He took another sip much slower now, like he had nowhere to be. Ten minutes to close had become six. Outside, the streetlamp near the corner flickered once and steadied. Somewhere in the back, the old freezer gave a brief mechanical shudder. You grabbed the sanitizer bottle and started wiping down the counter again, mostly for something to do with your hands.
He watched you for another beat. “You from here?”
“Born and raised.”
“That explains the face.”
You glanced up. “What face?”
“The one that says you’ve already decided whether or not someone’s worth your energy.”
The corners of your lips twitched, this guy would just not give up. A small, very small, piece of you almost respected the game. Almost. “That is not a city thing.”
“No?”
“No. That’s a me thing.”
He smiled into his cup. “Yeah. I know.”
That feeling behind your chest grew. It was easy to miss if you wanted to miss it like a thread pulled a little too tight. He’d said it casually, like with the rest of the conversation, but it sat in the air wrong. ‘You didn’t know me,’ you’d said earlier.
The jazz piano overhead hit a soft descending line. Outside, someone passed the window without looking in, and the world kept moving. Still, something had shifted just enough that you became aware of the back door. The employee entrance. Your keys in the front pocket of your apron. Phone face down by the register.
He looked at the clock again.
“Almost ten,” he said.
“Yeah.”
“You lock up right at closing?”
“Usually.”
“Good.”
You put the sanitizer bottle down carefully. “You ask a lot of questions.”
“Do I?”
“Yes.”
“Am I making you nervous?”
You considered lying. “A little.”
He took that in with an expression you couldn’t quite read. There was no embarrassment in it. Then he set the cup down on the counter, very gently, and gave you a look that almost passed for apologetic.
“I didn’t mean to,” he said.
And because you were still working off the version of him that joked and that tipped too much, you nodded. “It’s fine.”
He looked at you for a second longer.
Then he smiled, soft as anything. “You’re very trusting.”
The bell over the door jingled again behind him and both of you looked up at the new comer.
For one weird moment your body registered the shape in the doorway before your brain did, tensing. The man was tall, drenched in shadow from the street behind him and wore a black supe suit, head to toe. And he was still, so still. The whole entrance to the shop seemed to shrink around him.
The man at the counter went completely silent as the stranger stepped inside.
The bell gave one last thin sound and settled.
He didn’t move past the doorway at first. He just stood there, framed by the dim street behind him. Black on black. Mask, suit, gloves. There was not a slip of visible skin you could see, and definitely no expression.
The man at the counter straightened a fraction. It was subtle. You might’ve missed it if you hadn’t already been looking at him. “Oh,” he said, light again and glancing back at you. “You guys still open?”
You didn’t answer right away, instead your eyes were glided back over to the figure by the door. You don’t think he had looked at you yet. At least not directly, it was hard to tell with the mask. His head angled just slightly, like he was taking in the room in pieces. The machines, the man. Then finally you, and it took everything not to shrink under his gaze.
“Yeah,” you said finally, because the silence had stretched long enough to become noticeable. “We’re open but just a few more minutes.”
The man let out a small breath through his nose, like everything had just slotted right back into place for him. “Perfect. I thought I was about to miss my window.”
“You’ve got like… three minutes.”
“I’ll take it.”
He stepped away from the counter for the first time since he’d come in, giving you a little space but he didn’t move far. He walked toward the sugar station, then past it, then slowed.
Your attention pulled back to the door, the stranger hadn’t moved.
You could tell that the black wasn’t all matte. It caught the light on dull edges, flat in some places, worn in others. There were faint marks along his arms, scuffs that were definitely not just decorative.
You swallowed. “Can I get you something?” you asked, because that’s what you were supposed to say.
His head tilted a fraction more toward you, but he didn’t answer. Behind you, the espresso machine ticked as it cooled. The man near the back gave a short laugh. “Not much of a talker, huh?”
Nothing.
You felt your fingers curl slightly against the counter.
“Do you—” you started, then stopped.
He had moved. It wasn’t fast, that was the worst part. He just… stepped forward. One step. Another, another, each foot placed with total conscious control. The distance between him and the counter closed much too quickly. Your pulse kicked.
“I was actually just finishing up here.”
Up close, the mask was worse. Featureless except for the shape of it. No eyes you could see, just the impression of where they were. You had the sudden, disorienting thought that if you reached out, your fingers would meet something warm under it. Living and breathing.
You couldn’t move.
“Listen,” the man from before tried again, a little sharper now. “I don’t think—”
The stranger turned then. It all happened in one clean motion, he crossed the space between them faster than your eyes could track properly. One second he was at the counter, the next he was on him and a sickening sound immediately followed. You felt it in your chest more than you heard it. The man staggered back into the edge of a table. His cup tipped, coffee sloshing over the lid and down onto the floor in a dark spill.
“Hey—what the hell” you nearly shouted.
He grabbed at him with one hand at the front of his coat, the other catching his arm before he could swing or reach for anything. There was no struggle, not really.
You just stood there. Your brain hadn’t caught up yet, it kept trying to place the scene into something familiar. A fight, or a robbery. Something with rules you understood. But this didn’t have any. Wasn’t this stranger a superhero? For your mental peace you didn’t really keep up with the news, but now you’re sure. This was one of The Seven.
“Okay,” the man said quickly, breath hitching once. “Okay, we can— we can talk about this.”
Black Noir drove him back into the table, the wood scraping hard against the tile. Something cracked and the man’s voice cut off into a grunt. The man twisted, trying to get his footing, trying to reach into his coat. Noir caught his wrist mid-motion and bent it sharply back. There was a choked sound.
“Stop,” you said again, louder now. “You—”
The gun appeared like it had always been there. One second his hand was empty, the next it was pressed sideways between them, close enough that you could see the way his fingers tightened around it. Everything snapped into place and your stomach dropped.
“Hey,” you said, softer this time. Careful. “You don’t… you don’t need to—”
The man’s eyes flicked to you and something changed in them.
He moved faster than before. Faster than the stranger expected, maybe. He twisted his arm sharply, forcing just enough space to bring the gun up and out between them.
Noir’s grip shifted but it was too late. The gun swung, pointed toward you.
“Don’t,” the man said, breath coming quick now, voice tight with something that sounded almost like relief. “Don’t move.”
Everything in your body went very, very still. The barrel was pointed at your chest.
You could see the faint reflection of the overhead lights along the side of it. Your own outline, warped and small.
“Okay,” you said quietly.
The stranger froze with his hand still locked around the man’s arm. The other braced against his shoulder.
The man egged you closer with a sharp jerk of the gun. “Come here,” he said.
You didn’t argue.
You stepped out from behind the counter slowly, hands visible, movements small and deliberate. Your shoes stuck slightly against the floor where the syrup hadn’t been fully cleaned.
“Easy,” he said. “That’s it.”
You stopped when he pulled you in close enough that you could feel the heat of him through your sleeve. The gun shifted as it pressed just under your collarbone. Not quite touching but close enough.
Near him, the dark stranger hadn’t moved.
“See,” the man said, almost conversational again, though his voice was tighter than before. “This is what we call a complication.” His hand came up, gripping your arm. Fingers digging just enough to anchor you in place between them.
“You’ve got a choice now,” he continued, eyes flicking past you toward the stranger. “You keep doing whatever it is you were doing, and she gets hurt. Or—”
He shifted the gun slightly. Your heart kicked hard, but your face didn’t change. “—you take a step back.”
Silence. The stranger’s head tilted just a fraction. Then, slowly, he let go of the man’s wrist.
The man smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes this time. “See?” he said softly, almost to you. “Reasonable.”
Your arm ached where he held it, “Now,” the man said, adjusting his grip on you. “We’re going to walk out of here. Nice and easy.”
Your eyes flicked, just once, toward the door. Then back.
“Okay,” you said.
“Slow,” he says again, softer this time, like he’s reminding both of you. His hand tightens around your arm as he starts to guide you sideways, angling your body between himself and the stranger. The gun stays close, steady enough that you can feel the intention behind it even if it isn’t pressing into you. He keeps talking, like the sound of his own voice is something he can hold onto, something that keeps the situation from slipping too far out of his control.
“You’re doing great,” he adds, glancing down at you for half a second, almost reassuring. “Just keep it easy and we’ll be out of here in a minute.”
You nod once because it costs you nothing and seems to give him something back. Your feet move when he moves you, careful and measured, stepping around the spill of coffee and the leg of the table that’s been shoved out of place.
“No sudden moves,” the man continues, eyes flicking between you and the figure ahead. “We all stay calm, nobody gets hurt. That’s the goal here.”
The stranger doesn’t respond. He hasn’t said a word since he walked in. He stands there with the same quiet stillness, but something about it has changed. It doesn’t seem passive anymore. It looks coiled, like every part of him is waiting for a very specific second to arrive.
You take another step.
“Good,” the man murmurs. “See, this is manageable. People make situations worse when they panic. You’re not panicking. I like that.”
You don’t answer. Your attention has narrowed into something sharp and quiet, focused on the space between you and the stranger Black Noir. The distance is smaller now. Too small. You can see the faint texture of his suit where the light hits it, the subtle rise and fall at his chest that tells you he’s breathing even if everything else about him feels inhumanly stone.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” the man says, shifting his weight slightly behind you. The movement presses you a fraction closer to the gun, just enough to remind you it’s there. “We’re going to head for the door. You’re going to stay right where you are until I say otherwise,” he adds, directing that last part past you.
Noir tilts his head again.
It’s a small movement, but it draws your eyes. There’s something deliberate in it, something that doesn’t read like confusion or compliance. It reads like adjustment, like he’s recalculating the room with you in a different position now.
“Don’t,” the man snaps, catching the shift immediately. The gun presses in this time, a brief, hard point of contact against your chest that makes your breath hitch once before you steady it again. “Don’t do that. I don’t need you thinking you’ve got options here.”
Noir doesn’t make any move. Shouldn’t he be trying to save you right now? Was he really going to let this asshole use you to escape?
“Good,” the man says, though his voice has tightened again, a thin edge creeping back in. “Good. We understand each other.”
You feel his grip on your arm adjust, fingers sliding slightly higher like he’s trying to find a better hold. You can already feel the faint pressure building where it’ll bruise later.
“People always think these things are about control,” he goes on, almost conversational again, like he’s slipped back into that earlier version of himself by force. “It’s not control. It’s leverage. You don’t need control if you’ve got the right leverage.”
You glance at him then.
It’s quick. Just enough to see his face from the side. The looseness from earlier is gone. His jaw is tighter, eyes sharper, every bit of him focused in a way that feels narrower and more dangerous. The charm is still there, but it’s thinner now, stretched over something.
“You understand that, right?” he says, catching the movement. “You seem like someone who pays attention.”
“I understand you have a gun,” you reply quietly.
His mouth twitches, almost impressed. “That’s part of it.”
Another step.
The door is closer now. You can see the reflection of the three of you in the glass, warped slightly by the angle. You, centered. Him behind you, half-shadowed. The stranger in front, darker than both of you, something that doesn’t quite reflect the same way.
“Almost there,” he murmurs.
Noir moves.
If you hadn’t been watching him, you might’ve missed it entirely.
“Don’t,” the man says again, sharper now, the word cracking slightly at the edges. The gun presses harder into you, enough to hurt this time, enough to make your body react before you can stop it. Your hand comes up without thinking, fingers catching at his wrist.
“Hey,” you say, quieter now, not to him, not fully. Just into the space between all three of you. “It’s okay you don’t have to—”
Black Noir’s head turns toward you, fully this time.
For the first time since he walked in, his attention lands on you without anything between it and you. It isn’t warm or cold. You feel it settle over your face, your shoulders, your hand where it grips the man’s wrist.
The man follows your line of sight, something flickering across his expression as he realizes where your attention has gone. His grip tightens again, pulling you slightly closer to him like he’s reclaiming you as part of the equation.
“Stay with me,” he says, low and firm. “Don’t look at him like that.”
You don’t answer.
Because the stranger is still looking at you.
And then it happens without warning. One second the stranger is standing there, looking at you, and the next he’s moving, and everything else becomes something you’re trying- and failing to keep up with.
His hand catches the man’s wrist, the one holding the gun, and twists it hard and fast in a way that doesn’t look like strength so much as certainty. The sound that comes out of him is sharp and involuntary, the first real crack in that controlled voice he’s been using all night.
“Don’t—”
The word breaks.
The gun jerks sideways. Your body moves with it before you can stop it, pulled off balance by the sudden shift.
His other hand drives forward into the man’s center mass with a force that folds him around it. It’s precise. There’s no hesitation, just a clean, brutal interruption from whatever he was about to do next.
The man gasps and the gun slips.
For half a second, it’s loose between all three of you. Then it’s gone. You don’t see where it goes. You just hear it hit the floor somewhere to your right with a sharp clattering sound.
The stranger doesn’t need to look for it. He turns him, fast and controlled, putting himself between you and the worst of it without ever acknowledging you directly. The man struggles now, real panic setting in, movements losing that earlier calculation and turning sharp, desperate, messy.
“Wait—wait—”
It doesn’t matter.
The stranger had already decided how this ends. There’s a rhythm to it, something practiced and efficient. A strike, a shift, a controlled redirection that sends him back into the edge of the counter. The impact rattles everything on it. The lids you just stacked jump, and a cup tips and rolls away.
Your own hand is still half-raised, fingers curled around empty air where his wrist had been. Your body hasn’t caught up yet but your brain is trying to make sense of what you’re seeing, trying to slow it down into pieces that fit into something explainable. It fails to.
The man hits the counter hard, then again, then he’s dragged back and turned and forced down onto the tile. The sound of it is wrong, dull and final, and definitely doesn’t belong in a place that smells like coffee and sugar.
“Stop,” you say, but it comes out quiet.
The stranger doesn’t stop. Every movement is deliberate, he’s finishing something he started long before you were ever part of it. The man’s voice breaks apart under it, words turning into sounds.
You take a step back.
Your heel catches slightly on the uneven edge of the floor where the tile shifts into the rubber mat behind the counter. The sensation pulls you back into your body just enough to feel your pulse again, heavy and insistent, beating somewhere too close to your throat.
The stranger adjusts his grip. And then—
Stillness.
The man stops moving.
Black Noir stays where he is for a second longer, hand still where it needs to be, like he’s making sure of it. Then he lets go. The body settles against the floor with a soft, unremarkable sound.
Everything else rushes back in around it.
The hum of the fridge.
The faint music overhead.
Your own breathing, uneven now, louder than it should be.
You stare.
Your eyes trace the scene without meaning to. The angle of his arm. The way his coat has twisted under him. The coffee spreads slowly across the tile, mixing with something darker you don’t want to focus on but can’t entirely ignore.
This is what he was. Not the man at the counter who joked and tipped too much and asked too many questions.
Your gaze lifts and the stranger is already looking at you.
He hasn’t moved far. Just enough to stand and straighten, to reset himself into that same controlled stillness he had when he walked in. If you hadn’t just seen it, you might’ve thought he’d never moved at all.
Your throat tightens, but you don’t step back again or try to run. Your body feels locked into place, held there by something you can’t quite name.
He takes one step toward you.
Your hands drop to your sides without you realizing it, fingers curling slightly into your palms as he closes the distance. The room seems to shrink with him, everything pulling inward toward this one point.
Whatever he came here to do, it isn’t finished.
He closes the distance without changing speed, but it still feels sudden. One step, then another, until he’s close enough that you can see the fine texture of his suit where it catches the low light, the faint scuff along his shoulder, the subtle rise and fall of his chest. There’s no rush in him. No leftover urgency from what just happened behind him.
You take a step back.
It’s small. Your heel shifts against the floor, catching slightly on that same uneven edge, but you correct it quickly, steadying yourself before it turns into something more obvious. Your hands stay at your sides, though your fingers tighten again, nails pressing into your palms just enough to keep you grounded in something physical.
He doesn’t stop and the space between you closes to nothing.
Up close, he feels larger. Not just in size, but in presence. The air around him seems denser. You can hear your own breathing now, uneven. You even don’t realize you’ve tilted your head up slightly until he reaches for you.
His hand comes up and closes around your throat in one clean motion, fingers fitting against your neck like they were always meant to be there.
Your breath cuts off.
Not completely, but enough that your body reacts instantly, a sharp inhale that doesn’t go as deep as it should. Your hands come up without thinking this time, fingers catching at his wrist, wrapping around it in a grip that isn’t strong enough to stop it from happening.
Your pulse jumps hard against his palm.
You feel it.
You know he feels it too.
The room has gone completely silent again. Even the music seems distant now, like it’s coming from another building entirely. All you can hear is your own breathing, shallow and uneven, and the faint shift of fabric when he adjusts his stance slightly to keep you steady.
Your back hits the edge of the counter. The contact is light, but it stops you there, pins you between him and something solid. There’s nowhere else to go without pushing forward into him, and your body doesn’t try.
Your grip on his wrist tightens.
Your thumb presses against the side of it, just under the joint, like you’re checking something. Feeling for something. The shape of him, the reality of him, the fact that this is happening and not something your brain has decided to invent.
Your breathing stutters again.
Instinctively you try to swallow but it’s difficult. The pressure shifts slightly under the movement, his fingers adjusting just enough to account for it.
There’s no expression to read, nothing in the mask to give anything away, but the attention is there, fixed and direct. It settles over your face, your eyes, the way your hand holds his wrist instead of pushing it away.
Your chest rises again, shallow, uneven. Your other hand lifts slightly, almost like it might reach for him, then stops halfway, hovering for a second before settling back against his arm instead. Your fingers curl into the fabric there, catching on a seam.
You’re aware of everything in pieces. The fact that he hasn’t tightened his grip though there’s no doubt he could. Is this who black Noir really was? You think to yourself, a ruthless killer who leaves no witnesses and likes to watch the life drain from their eyes?
He could end this in less than a second.
There’s nothing in your body that could stop him if he decided to.
Your grip shifts again, just slightly to bring him closer. Tempt him into finishing it. Your fingers press more firmly against his wrist, your thumb sliding a fraction higher like you’re trying to map the shape of him through the glove.
Your breathing steadies.
Not completely, but enough that it changes the rhythm of the moment. The panic that should be there doesn’t fully take hold. It flickers at the edges, tries to build, then stalls, like it can’t find enough space to grow.
You look at him. There’s no mirror in the mask. No reflection you can catch your own face in. Just that same dark surface, absorbing the low light, giving nothing back. Your fingers tighten once more around his wrist and you finally feel a pulse.
Your mouth parts slightly as you try to take another breath, shallow but steady, and for a second it feels like the entire moment balances there, held between two possibilities that haven’t decided which way to fall yet.
His grip shifts, it was only a fraction but you feel it immediately. He goes loose. The pressure at your throat eases just enough that your next breath comes in a little deeper, a little less restricted, but he doesn’t let go right away.
His hand stays there, resting against your throat, the pressure reduced but not gone. Like he’s testing something. Waiting. Watching for a reaction that doesn’t come.
You don’t move or pull away.
Then he just lets go.
One moment his hand is there, the next it isn’t, the space between your throat and the air returning so suddenly it almost feels like falling. Your body reacts on instinct this time, your hand dropping from his wrist as you take a deeper breath, then another, your lungs catching up all at once. The air feels colder now.
Even with the space back, even with the pressure gone, your feet stay where they are, your back still lightly against the counter, your hands hovering uncertainly at your sides before settling there.
He’s still standing close enough that if you moved forward even slightly, you’d be back where you were.
But he doesn’t reach for you again. He just stands there, watching.
H didn’t finish it.
The space where his hand had been feels wrong for a second, like your body hasn’t caught up to the absence yet. You swallow carefully, testing it, feeling the faint drag where his grip had been, and then you let your shoulders drop just slightly as your lungs settle into something more even.
He doesn’t move right away, in fact he stays exactly where he is, close enough that you can still feel the heat of him. His head tilts a fraction, not as sharply as before, just enough to suggest he’s still taking something in, still adjusting to something that didn’t go the way it was supposed to.
There’s nothing to say that would fit into what just happened, nothing that wouldn’t feel misplaced the second it left your mouth..
You do notice that the shop smells stronger now. Coffee is burnt and bitter where it’s spread across the floor, mixed with the sharp edge of something metallic underneath it that you don’t let yourself focus on for too long.
He takes a step back and your eyes follow the movement without thinking.
He turns.
There’s no hesitation in it now. Whatever calculation had been running before is finished. He doesn’t look at the body on the floor, just walks toward the door. Each step is the same as before, measured and quiet. The bell above the door gives a soft sound when he reaches it, the metal vibrating lightly as he pushes it open.
Cold air slips in from outside. It moves across your face, your neck, the spot where his hand had been, and for the first time since he touched you, you feel something like a shiver move through you. Your body is catching up now, processing what your mind hasn’t fully put into place yet.
He pauses at the doorway for a second and his head turns slightly, not enough to fully face you, but enough that you know he’s aware of where you are, of the fact that you’re still standing there, watching.
Then he steps out.The door swings shut behind him with a soft click, the bell giving one last small chime before it settles.
And just like that he’s gone.
You don’t move right away.
Your eyes stay on the door for a second longer than necessary, like part of you expects it to open again, like this isn’t actually finished yet. When it doesn’t, you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
It comes out slower than you expect.
The room comes back in pieces.
The counter. The machines. The chair knocked slightly out of place near the table. The dark spill across the tile. Your gaze catches there and lingers for half a second too long before you pull it away, your stomach tightening in a controlled way that you manage by focusing on something else.
The rag is still on the counter folded where you left it. You reach for it without thinking, your fingers closing around the fabric like the motion itself is enough to anchor you. You press it flat against the surface and drag it once, slow and deliberate, even though there’s nothing there that needs cleaning. The motion helps a little.
Your breathing steadies again, falling into a rhythm that feels closer to normal, even if your chest still feels tight in a way that doesn’t quite go away. You set the rag down and rest your hands against the counter, leaning into it just slightly as you let your head dip forward for a second.
Your phone is still face down by the register and the thought comes, clear and immediate. Call someone. Report it. Say something. Do something that makes this real in a way that extends beyond this room. Your hand lifts but stops. You stare at the phone for a second longer, your fingers hovering just above it, close enough that you could flip it over.
You lower your hand.
Whatever this is, it's staying here.
You straighten, pulling in a deeper breath that stretches your lungs in a way that almost hurts, then let it out slowly as you reach for your keys in your apron pocket. The metal is cool against your fingers, solid and familiar, something that belongs to you in a way nothing else in this moment does.
You move on instinct now.
Lights first.
One switch, then another, the overhead glow dimming until the shop settles into shadow, the only real light coming from the street outside. The shapes of everything soften, edges blurring just enough that it’s easier not to focus too closely on any one thing.
You step around the spill carefully.
Your shoes stick slightly again, that same faint resistance pulling at each step, and the normalcy of it almost makes you laugh, except the sound doesn’t come out. It stays somewhere in your chest, caught there with everything else.
At the door, you pause.
Your hand rests on the handle, fingers curled around the metal as you look out through the glass. The street looks exactly the same as it did before. A car passes. The world hasn’t shifted to match what just happened inside.
You unlock the door and pull it open, stepping out into the night as the cool air hits you fully this time, wrapping around you. You pull the door closed behind you and lock it, the motion automatic, practiced.
The street stretches out in front of you, quiet but not empty, the city still moving in its slow, late rhythm. You take a step forward, then another, your body settling into motion even as your mind stays a half-step behind, still inside that room.
You don’t look back, but as you walk and the shop fades behind you, there’s a quiet, steady pair of footsteps just out of distance.
Something walked out of that room with you, even if you never saw it follow.
NSFW, Unprotected sex, Yearning, Fic Spoilers but can be read independently (this is chapter 5 of an on-going fic on my ao3)
The lead came in cold through the station’s anonymous tip line, just past midnight, with no callback number. “Rig parts stored in a metalworks unit off Tricentennial. You'll know it when you see it.” No voice. Just text. But the timing matched their last hit. And it was specific enough to take seriously.
You and Kim didn’t speak much on the drive over.
The streets were mostly empty. A light fog crawling up from the harbor. Kim kept one hand on the wheel, the other tapping the back of his thigh, not impatient, but alert. Like something about this already didn’t sit right with him.
The warehouse itself sat squatting between two old factories that looked like they’d been condemned twice and forgotten both times. No lights on the exterior. No security signage. Just one metal roll-up half-cocked and a side door unlocked like it was waiting for you.
Now you’re inside.
And it’s too quiet.
No creaking beams. No dripping pipes. Just air. Clean, sterile. Like someone took a pressure washer to the soul of the place.
Kim enters first, cautious, sidearm holstered but his posture ready. You’re behind him, scanning high while he checks low. The source tipped was clear: “Rig parts stored in a metalworks unit off Tricentennial.” The address matched. The timing fit. It all lined up.
A little too perfectly.
The light inside is pale and artificial, the fluorescent strips were still powered on. The moment you both step in, something’s already wrong.
There are no footprints on the floor. The dust isn’t disturbed. In fact, it’s completely absent.
Kim says nothing at first. He moves to the center of the warehouse, turning slowly, eyes scanning walls, corners, ceiling vents. The air is wrong. Not musty. Not chemical. Just... prepared.
“Clear,” he says quietly.
You take a few steps deeper.
Then—
Click.
You both freeze.
Kim’s eyes snap to your foot. The pressure plate is almost invisible beneath the thin tarp. You didn’t even feel it. But you both heard the sound.
Your boot hovers over it, the shift in weight already made, too late to undo.
“Don’t move,” Kim says. Voice low. Controlled. Barely breathing.
You sweat trying not to. He crouches beside you, eyes scanning the floor. He peels back the tarp with the tip of his pen.
There are just wires underneath, and nothing looked like it was rigged to explode. It was a pressure alarm. A trip trigger.
Kim breathes out, slow, jaw tight. “They wanted us here.”
Then you see it. Sitting on a workbench just adjacent, there was a sealed envelope. White. Clean. Too clean.
You nod toward it. “I think that was left for us.”
Kim doesn't hesitate. He moves to it, opens it with gloved fingers and pulling out the contents. A piece of paper, and a photograph.
The paper is blank, just a thin sheet folded around the image. But the photo-
It’s of you and Kim.
Taken from outside your station window. Through the glass. At night.
You’re both sitting at the desk. You’re watching him. He’s writing something. There’s no way you’d ever know it was taken. But someone was close, someone was watching.
Kim’s fingers tighten around the edge.
Half Light: This wasn’t just surveillance. It was a message.Inland Empire: They see what you are. Together.
He says nothing.
You step beside him. See the photo. Still don’t flinch.
“We were supposed to trip the alarm,” you murmur. “They wanted to see how long it took for us to react. Or who came to save us.”
Kim doesn’t speak because he knows what they were really doing.
They wanted to see how he would react- to you in danger.
You crouch beside the pressure plate. Disarm it in three careful movements. Snap the trigger. Coil the wire. Done. When you rise again, Kim is staring at the photo like it’s a personal failure.
You take it from him, gently and fold it into your coat.
Your voice is low, and you tentatively reach out to palm him closer, but something in his expression makes you hesitate, “C’mon, there’s nothing else to see here.”
Kim doesn’t respond, but he follows you out, hand close to his sidearm, eyes scanning every rooftop on the street.
Back in the safehouse he slams the top drawer of the desk shut harder than necessary. You don’t flinch. But you do stop pretending to read.
Kim is pacing, tight loops between the desk and the wall, hands flexing and unflexing like he’s trying to shake something out of his bones. The photo is still on the desk.
“You should’ve stayed behind me,” he says. No preamble.
“I was beside you.”
“You stepped on a wired pressure plate.” His accent was thick and heavy.
You throw your pen down. “I disabled it. I’ve done that kind of field work before—”
“I should’ve gone first,” he snaps, turning on you.
His voice echoes in the room. You blink. The anger hits harder than expected. Not because it’s loud, but because it’s personal.
Kim keeps going. “You charge into things like it doesn’t matter what happens to you. Like you’re—”
“What?” you cut in. “Expendable?”
He doesn’t answer.
You stand. “You think I’m reckless because I didn’t let you throw yourself in front of me? You think I’m stupid for not letting you carry all the danger by yourself?”
“I think you didn’t think.”
“You don’t get to say that,” you bark.
His shoulders stiffen. But he doesn’t back down. “You’re not invincible. Just because you’ve survived a few close calls doesn’t make you—”
“No,” you say, stepping forward, “but it doesn’t make you my fucking bodyguard either.”
“You could have died,” he snaps, louder than before. “Do you understand that? Do you even care that someone watched us, followed us, lured us out there—”
“I care,” you say. “I care more than you do, apparently.”
He freezes.
“I care enough to tell the fucking truth.”
Kim’s mouth tightens.
“The truth,” you say again, slower, angrier, “is that this isn’t about the case. This is about you.”
He looks away.
“You’re scared,” you say. “And instead of admitting it, you’re pretending this is all about tactics. Like I’m some rookie you need to protect. Because if you admit what it really is, then maybe you’d have to-”
“Don’t,” Kim says, low. Almost a whisper.
But you keep going. Because it’s the only way through. “—maybe you’d have to admit you care.”
The silence in the room cracks like glass. His eyes are on you now. Fully. Not cold or guarded, but… exposed.
You shake your head, heart pounding. “You pretend nothing touches you. Like if you just stay rigid enough, the world won’t get in. But it already has, Kim.”
His mouth opens and then closes. He has nothing, so you step back, chest heaving.
“I nearly stepped on a bomb today,” you say. “And you didn’t panic because I was hurt. You panicked because you couldn’t stop it.”
You wait, but he doesn’t deny it. He just stands there, staring because he knows it’s true, and it terrifies him. The room settles around you again, but nothing feels still. The walls don’t echo anymore. The silence is thick. There’s nothing left to throw between yourselves and the truth.
Kim’s standing like he’s just taken a punch he didn’t see coming. Well, he did see it. He just didn’t think you’d say it out loud.
Your voice has dropped. No more shouting. But the tension is worse now. Colder. Closer. Realer. “You don’t talk about it,” you say. “You keep everything inside like it makes you safe. Like if you just hold it in long enough, no one can use it against you.”
He still doesn’t speak.
“But it’s already being used,” you continue, quieter now. “You’re using it. Against yourself… and against me.”
Kim’s jaw works. His eyes flicker, toward the photo on the desk, toward you, toward the door. Anywhere but inward.
“I don’t have time to let things get… personal,” he says finally, and the words feel like rusted metal dragged across concrete.
“That’s a lie,” you say. No venom. Just the truth. “You already did.”
Silence again.
It lasts too long.
He runs a hand through his hair; frustrated, ashamed, exhausted. His voice, when it comes again, is softer. But not weaker.
“I didn’t expect this.”
“This?” you ask, flat.
“You,” he says.
And that stops you. Not because it’s tender, but because it’s honest. You can’t help but swallow and look away.
“I know I’m not easy to work with,” he mutters, eyes on the floor now. “But I have control. I’m good at… keeping things contained.”
“You were good at it.”
He huffs, not a laugh, a bitter exhale.
You step closer. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Kim. You didn’t break a rule. You didn’t compromise the case.”
He looks at you again. Really looks. And you can see it, there’s fear still flickering behind his eyes, but also something else. Longing, pain… want.
You close the space between you one step further.
“You’re just tired of pretending you don’t give a shit about anyone.”
The silence after that is worse than the shouting.
Because it’s true and he knows it. And he’s not ready, but he’s already there. He opens his mouth then closes it. Takes one step back, then another forward.
And stops. Halfway.
Like even his body can’t decide what it’s allowed to want.
The room hasn't changed, but everything inside it feels different now.
It’s not hot, not really, but Kim’s skin feels too tight, like the air is pressing in from all sides, like his own jacket has turned against him. He hasn’t sat down. He hasn’t even moved. Just stands in the same spot, arms folded too tightly across his chest, staring at the spot on the floor where the light bends a little wrong.
You’re leaning against the edge of the desk now, one hand braced against it, fingers curling slightly over the side. Your shoulders are still high from the adrenaline. You’re flushed, not just from the argument, but from saying something you can’t take back. The kind of thing you don’t say unless you mean it. The kind of thing that lands like a slow detonation in a quiet room.
Neither of you speaks.
The photo sits where you left it, face-down now, as if that could unmake the fact of it. As if the evidence isn’t already in the space between you; written in the air, carved into both of your postures, embedded in every glance that neither of you can bear to hold for more than a second.
Kim shifts first. He turns slightly away from you, but not all the way. Just enough to seem like he’s gaining control- in reality, it’s just a delay. A stall.
You watch him.
You watch the line of his shoulders, too rigid for comfort. You watch the way his jaw ticks, his breath shallow. You see him fold back into himself the way he always does when the emotions are too big to fit inside the rules he’s made for them.
He doesn’t know how to be like this. Open and seen.
And yet he hasn’t left the room.
“I meant it,” you say, knowing he won’t respond.
You straighten up slowly, pushing off the desk. The floorboards creak under your boots, louder than you expect and Kim’s head lifts slightly at the sound, though he doesn’t turn around.
“You’re not the only one who’s scared,” you say. “But I’m not going to pretend it’s not happening just to make you feel better.”
His shoulders shift barely, a breath, maybe. Or something like it.
Another step forward. Quiet. Careful. You stop just behind him, not touching. Not yet. The space between you is narrow now. A crack in the surface of something neither of you have ever had the tools to name.
“You’re not wrong,” he says finally, and his voice is so low it’s barely sound. “About me. About what I’m doing.”
You wait.
“But if I admit it,” he continues, “if I let it in- if I let you in — I don’t know how to go back to the way things were.”
The admission sits heavy between you. It isn’t soft. It isn’t poetic. It’s true. And it costs him something.
You take another step. Your hand moves slowly until your fingers hover near his. Not touching, but the heat of it is real. Tangible. One inch closer and it would mean something.
“You don’t have to go back,” you say.
Kim turns his head and for the first time in what feels like hours, he looks at you. There’s nothing guarded in it now. No distance. Just the quiet devastation of a man who’s spent his whole life building walls and just realized he’s been standing on the wrong side of them.
The seconds stretch.
He doesn’t move away, and your hand is still there, just beside his, waiting.
He looks at you like he’s seeing you for the first time, and like he hasn’t stopped seeing you since the moment you met.
Kim Kitsuragi doesn’t give anything away for free. Not his thoughts. Not his time. Not his heart. He wears precision like armor, wears distance like skin. But now, standing this close, you can see what lives under it. The edges of it. The cracks.
His expression isn’t soft. His mouth is tight. His brow furrowed. His lips parted just slightly, like he’s trying to say something and doesn’t know how. His face is lit only by the desk lamp behind you, casting half of him in golden light and the other in shadow. His hair’s come slightly undone, falling across his forehead. It makes him look younger, somehow, but harder, too.
And his eyes… dark, impossible to read unless you’re this close are fixed on your mouth.
He’s still not moving, but his hand lifts.
Slow. Controlled, at first, he ghost of a reach. Then it closes the gap. His fingers brush yours and then, for the first time, interlace with yours. It’s not hesitant. It’s not polite. It’s not professional.
And then-
he kisses you.
It’s not a question.
It’s not slow.
It’s not the kind of kiss you give when you’re sure of yourself. It’s the kind you give when you’ve been trying not to for too long and the dam finally breaks.
His hand comes up to your jaw, firm, fingertips rough with callus and heat, guiding you in like it was inevitable. His mouth is hard, urgent, and just slightly shaking. He doesn’t groan. He doesn’t gasp. But you feel the way his body tilts forward into yours, like all that control is being thrown off balance and he doesn’t know how to stop falling.
You feel it in the tension of his shoulders, how they won’t relax. You feel it in the way his thumb drags over your cheek, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you without admitting that’s what he’s doing. You feel it in the restraint. Even now, even with your mouths pressed together, he’s still holding something back, like if he lets too much out he’ll come undone completely.
You taste salt. Breath. Heat.
His mouth pulls away just barely, hovering, lips brushing yours with the aftershock of the contact. His breathing is uneven now, and that’s when you realize it: he didn’t plan for this. He didn’t even want it.
He needed it.
And it terrifies him.
His eyes stay closed for one beat. Then two. Then open, and he looks at you like he’s already bracing for you to pull away.
But you don’t.
Because you’re still standing there, still holding his hand.
You don’t speak. You just reach for him.
It happens fast, your fingers curl into the front of his jacket, right over the zipper, the fabric creasing in your grip, and you pull. Not hard. Not gentle. Just deliberate. Enough to make his breath hitch, enough to crash your mouth back into his like gravity isn’t optional anymore.
Kim reacts before he can think. His mouth finds yours again with passion this time, with urgency. All that careful self-discipline? Gone. Shattered. He kisses you like a man punishing himself for wanting it, like he hates that it feels good and can’t stop chasing it anyway.
You spin or maybe he turns you, and your back meets the desk hard enough to rattle it. His hands are on either side of your waist, palms braced against the wood, body crowding yours like he can’t bear the inches that still separate you. The kiss is no longer controlled. It’s heated. Messy. Breathless. His lips part against yours, his nose brushing yours, every motion uncalculated. Human.
The desk groans under the shift of your weight. One of Kim’s stacks, which was originally neat, aligned, obsessively ordered- tips from the impact, scattering case notes like leaves in a storm. White pages flutter across the floor like an explosion of structure, his whole system undone in an instant.
He doesn’t look. He doesn’t even care.
His hand finds your waist. Not hesitant. Not testing. Claiming. You can feel the tension in his fingers where they grip the hem of your shirt, the faint tremble that betrays how hard he’s trying to hold himself back even now. But his restraint is losing ground with every second your mouths stay together, and with every inch he lets his body press into yours.
You shift slightly on the desk, arching just enough to bring your hips against his.
The breath he lets out is a groan, it’s low, repressed, dragged from somewhere in his chest like it surprised him too. His forehead drops to yours, eyes closed, both of you breathing hard. His lips hover just barely off yours now, still open, like he's trying to remember how to speak but can’t find the words.
You feel his hand on your hip twitch, like he wants more contact but is waiting for permission he doesn’t know how to ask for.
“Say it,” you whisper.
His brow creases.
“Say you want me.”
He hesitates. Only for a heartbeat.
“I want you.”
His voice is wrecked. Rough. Honest.
It’s the most honest thing he’s said all night.
And then his mouth is on yours again, fiercer this time, like now that it’s been said, he can have it, have you, and he won’t let himself pull away until something breaks.
You feel his hand slip behind your back, flatten against your spine, drawing you into him fully now, like proximity alone might not be enough. Your legs shift to make room, hips grinding against his through layers of clothes and tension and history.
The kiss is all teeth and breath and release. It tastes like coffee and sweat and paper dust and weeks of unspoken feelings finally finding a way out.
And Kim?
Kim’s eyes are still closed, like if he opens them, it might not be real anymore.
The papers are gone. Scattered. Useless. Forgotten. And Kim’s mouth is on your throat now.
Not kissing. Consuming.
His tongue traces the edge of your jaw with terrifying accuracy, like he's cataloging the exact places to make you gasp without a sound. His breath is warm against your skin, and his stubble drags just enough to burn. You thread your fingers into his hair and tug, and that makes him groan. It’s not a polite noise, not restrained, but low and involuntary and needy. It vibrates through his chest and into yours, and the sound alone makes your knees weaken.
“You have no idea,” he mutters against your skin, his voice cracked and harsh now, “how long I’ve—”
“Show me.”
That’s all it takes.
His hand moves between your thighs, fast, decisive — like he’s been holding himself back for weeks and now, with your legs around him and the desk biting into your lower back, there’s nothing left to do but finally let go.
He finds the heat of you through your clothes, and when his fingers press in, it’s not gentle and so you gasp, and his eyes go dark like he’s been starving for the sound.
“You’re soaked,” he says, like it physically pains him. His forehead drops to your shoulder. You can feel his breath falter, uneven now, as his hips roll forward without permission, grinding hard against the inside of your thigh.
The friction is maddening. Cruel. Perfect.
Your hands are under his shirt before you even realize- dragging up over smooth skin and lean muscle, over the tense lines of a man holding himself back from absolutely nothing anymore.
Kim moves your underwear aside like it’s offending him and then his fingers are on you. In you. Slow at first, because he needs to feel it. Because he wants to memorize how wet you are, how you clench around him. But then?
Then his thumb circles, and your whole body jolts, and that’s when he starts to lose control.
“You’re going to make me come like this,” he growls, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “Just from touching you.”
Your hand drops to his belt. The buckle clinks, low and sharp, and Kim lets out the most guttural noise you’ve ever heard from him. It's like it slips out without his permission, like he’s shocked by how fast he’s falling apart now that the floodgate’s broken.
You fumble with the zipper so he helps, impatient, and you finally get your hand on him, and—
He’s hard already, thick and aching, and when you wrap your fingers around him, Kim’s entire body stutters forward like he’s about to come undone from that alone.
His hips snap once, and your back arches.
“Fuck” he hisses through his teeth. “We need… wait—”
He’s reaching for his coat pocket, even as you stroke him, even as he thrusts into your palm once, twice, recklessly now, and then he curses in Komyunité when he realizes: it’s not there.
You kiss him hard, dragging him back to you by the collar, biting his lower lip as you grind up against him. Your thighs squeeze around his waist and he whines helplessly into your mouth.
“Then just—” you breathe, “—do it anyway.”
And that’s the end of him.
He lines up, eyes locked on yours like a man begging for permission with every breath. But you’re already gone, already pulling him into you, already—
He pushes in.
All the way.
And the sound he makes is not safe for work. It’s not safe for anywhere.
His hands are on your hips, gripping hard, dragging you down onto him like he wants to carve the shape of himself into you. Your mouth falls open. You don’t even make a sound at first, just feel it, full, deep, dizzying.
“Holy fuck,” Kim breathes, low and wrecked. “You feel so… I can’t-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence.
He just starts to move. Rhythmic. Brutal. Reverent. Like every thrust is a confession. The sound in the room is obscene. Wet, breathless, desperate. Kim’s hips snap forward again and again, the desk beneath you groaning with each thrust. His hands are braced on either side of your waist now, knuckles white, muscles in his arms trembling with restraint that no longer exists. You’re not kissing anymore. You can’t. Your heads are pressed together, foreheads slick with sweat, your breath caught between your open mouths. Every time he drives into you, you gasp — and he chases it, leans into it, fucks into it like it’s a lifeline.
“You’re perfect,” he mutters against your cheek, voice so ragged it barely sounds like him. “Fuck— you’re so tight, I—”
His teeth graze your neck again, and when your hips roll up to meet him, he shudders. His rhythm stutters and he grunts, low, involuntary, like the pleasure is dragging him under faster than he can brace for.
And gods, you’re close now.
Every drag of him inside you makes your body coil tighter, hotter. His pelvis grinding into your clit with every thrust, the thick length of him filling you, stretching you, and his voice in your ear, hoarse and frantic: “Please… don’t stop- don’t- fuck, just like that.”
You reach between you, fingertips slick, trembling, and press where you need it most. Kim watches you touch yourself with a look like he might lose his mind from the sight.
His voice drops to a whisper.
“Show me.”
You do.
And that’s what breaks you.
You come around him hard, shaking, crying out his name, not loud, but real, your whole body clenching around him as the wave crashes through you. You hear him curse. You feel him lose control, feel his hips stutter again and then he grabs your face with both hands.
Pulls your mouth to his.
And comes inside you with a force that makes him moan into your throat.
It’s filthy.
He doesn’t stop moving until every last pulse of it’s out of him, until he’s spent and wrecked and leaning into you like his body’s forgotten how to hold itself up.
And then? Silence.
The room is hot. You’re both breathing like you ran a mile. The scattered papers around you are damp with sweat and rumpled with the outlines of your bodies. His coat is still on. Your underwear’s hanging off one ankle. There’s a pen somewhere under your ass.
You laugh once, breathless, amazed. Kim lifts his head, barely, and smiles. Small. Crooked. Real.
His thumb brushes your cheek, like he’s still not convinced you’re real, or that this happened, or that he’s allowed to have this and not implode. “Shit,” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” you say.
Neither of you move.
Because you both know the moment you do, something will shift.
And nothing between you will ever be the same again.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
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The fluorescent lights above the station buzz like cheap tinnitus.
Kim Kitsuragi sits in a cracked plastic chair, perfectly upright, one leg crossed over the other. His undershirt is dry. His tie is not. He removes his glasses briefly to clean them, even though they’re not dirty. A habit, mostly. Across the table, the 57th’s precinct Chief scratches at his temple like he’s trying to dislodge a difficult thought, until he finally speaks.
“You’ll be taking the La Delta transfer on the Sonderborg case.”
Kim blinks once, very slowly.
Logic: Unusual. The 57th doesn’t do cross-precinct collaboration unless it’s serious.
Authority: And when have you ever needed help?
Suggestion: You’re being babysat.
Reaction Speed: Or they think you’re lonely.
“I work alone,” Kim replies flatly.
The Chief exhales through his nose like he expected that answer. “Not this time, Kutsuragi. This case has…” he hesitates, choosing the right words, “political optics. Too much union involvement, not enough results. They want new eyes on it.”
Kim presses his lips together. He was talking about the Sonderborg case- sabotage at the harbor docks. Explosives. Some suggest a union cover-up. It’s been sitting on his desk for three weeks, slow-moving and full of awful smells.
Empathy: He doesn’t want help. But he knows he needs it.
Logic: The transfer is already approved. Objecting is pointless.
“They’re unconventional,” the Chief adds, after a beat. “But they get results.”
“Unconventional,” Kim echoes, as though he’s tasting the word, and finding it suspicious.
The Chief smirks, tired. “You’ll see.”
At that exact moment, someone knocks on the frame of the open door. The nylon of Kim’s jacket rustles as he glances behind him.
You walk in.
You do not look like a cop. You look like someone who once was a cop, then stopped being one for aesthetic reasons. Your coat is too large, draped half-hazardly over your shoulders. Your boots are scuffed, but shined, like you did the work and then went walking through something awful anyway.
You nod once at the Chief. Then at Kim.
“Lieutenant Kitsuragi,” you say, voice even, not too warm, not cold. “A pleasure.”
Volition: That wasn’t sarcastic. They mean that.
Kim stands. “Detective.”
He doesn’t offer his hand. Neither do you. The silence between you is… efficient. It lasts long enough to be acknowledged but not long enough to be awkward.
“Let’s brief them,” the Chief mutters, gesturing. “They’ve read the file, but they’ll need your current notes.”
You walk past Kim, and he watches as you do- not your face, but your eyes. They settle on him. Only him.
Inland Empire: They’ve already read you. Like a story they remember from childhood. The ending, especially.
Composure: Keep your face neutral.
Kim clears his throat once, unnecessarily. “Follow me.”
You do.
The hallway to the briefing room reeks of burnt coffee, permanent marker, and the special brand of institutional fatigue unique to the 57th. Old paint curls in strips from the corners of the molding. One of the overhead fluorescents buzzes with a dying pulse. It’s nothing if not consistent.
You trail three paces behind Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi, matching his pace without matching his gait. Your footfalls are softer than his, deliberate, silent. He doesn’t glance back to check if you’re keeping up. He doesn’t need to.
He can feel you. There’s a hum behind his shoulder blades, like static electricity just before the air snaps.
He reaches the door and opens it without ceremony. The hinges let out a groan he doesn’t bother to acknowledge. He steps aside, gestures for you to enter ahead of him, to anyone else it would have looked courteous, but you could tell- to him it was just protocol.
You step through the threshold like you’ve already been here before.
Your eyes move first. The scan is fast, methodical, layered. Window. Air vents. Exit door. The warped ceiling tile stained by old water damage. A dent in the side of the filing cabinet that someone tried to hammer flat and clearly gave up on halfway through. You note everything. Your gaze skims the room like floodlights across a dark field; and then lands, finally, on him.
You smile.
Kim doesn’t return it.
SUGGESTION: Smile back. Just to see what they do. AUTHORITY: Absolutely not.
“Lieutenant Kitsuragi,” you say again, same tone you used downstairs.
He slides past you with the whisper of his coat and takes the chair opposite yours.
“It’s just Lieutenant,” Kim replies, dryly.
You nod hearing him, but then deliberately say it again. “Lieutenant Kitsuragi.” A flicker of amusement ghosts at the corner of your mouth. You sit. He doesn’t look at you as he opens the folder, but his attention sharpens all the same. He lays out several photographs with the same careful, quiet efficiency he uses on everything.
Scorched metal. Frayed wires. A melted pressure switch curled like a dead insect.
“We recovered these from the docks,” he begins. “Industrial-grade incendiary compound. Remotely triggered. We believe the saboteur used a stolen transmitter.”
You lean forward, elbows on the table, hands clasped- interested. Like you’re already three steps into a theory you haven’t said out loud yet. Your eyes track across the photos like you're dissecting terrain. Your brow furrows slightly, mouth ticking just to the side.
“Hmm.” A soft sound. Thoughtful, but not impressed. “Crude. But it’s precise work, like someone wanted to scare, not kill.”
He pauses for a second. Then says, flatly:
“Or wanted it to look like that.”
Your eyes snap to his and you hold his gaze. There it is again! The thing he clocked in the first ten seconds of meeting you. The way you look at him like you’re parsing. Like you’re used to seeing through people, and you're still deciding whether he’s the exception or the same as the rest.
You nod, once. “Good point.”
A beat.
Then: “You think they’re union? Trying to make some kind of statement?”
“No.” Kim’s answer is immediate. Clipped. Certain. “It’s too polished. This isn’t amateur hour. But…” He hesitates, “Yes, this is a message.”
You nod again, slower this time, brows lifting. “To who?”
He meets your gaze without blinking. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”
There’s a moment of silence. Then you lean back and stretch your arms behind your head, spine arching slightly; a casual, feline gesture that betrays zero tension. Like you live in your body and everyone else just rents theirs.
Half Light: They’re testing you. Seeing how far they can push before you blink.
Logic: This is behavioral mirroring. They’re mirroring you.
“So,” you say, tone unreadable. “What’s your plan, Lieutenant Kitsuragi?”
The way you say his full name is not mocking, but it’s… deliberate. Like you enjoy how it sounds. Like you’re collecting the syllables as they roll off your tongue.
Kim levels a look at you. “My plan is to examine the transmitter origin point. And for you to follow orders.”
You raise one eyebrow, just slightly.
“Cute,” you say. “But I’m here to collaborate. Not play fetch.”
Kim narrows his eyes. You grin.
Empathy: They’re not mocking you. They’re inviting you in. Careful.
Inland Empire: There’s something strange about them. Something familiar. Like an echo of someone you once trusted too much.
He closes the folder and turns to the collage on the adjacent wall. The case board is a half-collapsed cork slab nailed to the poorly painted wall.
Photos are pinned with mismatched tacks. A crude sketch of the harbor, drawn in red grease pencil, bisects the board diagonally; this is Kim’s own handiwork. The transmitter schematics sit off to one side, annotated in his tight, elegant handwriting.
You move in front of it, hands in your pockets, rocking back slightly on your heels. You point finally, not to the explosion site, but the exit path drawn beneath it.
“This route,” you say. “They knew where the security gaps were. Either inside help… or they’ve done this before.”
Kim considers.
Logic: They’re right. The access route was deliberately chosen.
Drama: Are they showing off?
Suggestion: Test them. Push.
“What was the time gap between ignition and fire department arrival?” he asks, eyes sharp.
You don’t look at him. You stare at the board.
“Seventeen minutes,” you answer. “Too fast for a civilian call. Someone inside must’ve pulled it.”
Kim’s jaw ticks- it was the smallest movement. You didn’t even pause to think. You shift your weight, glancing sideways at him.
“I read your notes,” you say. “Before I got here.”
“You read fast.”
“You write clearly.”
Kim doesn’t respond. He just walks past you, toward the desk near the wall. You follow.
There’s a moment where you’re standing just slightly too close behind him, close enough that he can feel the edge of your coat brush his elbow when you lean in. You’re reading over his shoulder; or pretending to- but your gaze isn’t fixed on the documents. Not really. He can feel the weight of it, a slow, curious kind of attention. Just... rests. On his shoulder. The line of his jaw. The slow, precise movement of his hand as he makes a final note in the corner of the page.
Your presence registers to him like heat.
He doesn’t shift away.
He could, but he doesn’t.
“Nice handwriting,” you murmur. The thought is low, casual, like it just occurred to you.
Kim closes the folder with one hand, slowly, with the kind of precision he applies to most things. Not dismissive. Just final, like drawing a line.
“I learned calligraphy when I was twelve,” he replies, tone dry as gravel.
You blink once. “That’s weird.”
“Yes.”
That’s when your eyes drop.
Not to the folder. to his tie.
And Kim notices.
Of course he does.
Perception (Sight): Three seconds. That’s how long their eyes linger. Too long for aesthetic critique. Too short to accuse them of anything.
Electrochemistry: They like how you look. That, or they’re trying to picture you without the coat.
Composure: Do not react.
“You always wear brown,” you say quietly.
Kim’s response is flat: “It’s burgundy.”
You chuckle once. “Sure, Lieutenant Kitsuragi.”
He turns his head sharply. Catches your gaze. Your expression is unreadable.
And then, as casually as someone asking for a cigarette- you say, “Do you mind if I drive?”
Kim stares.
Half Light: Say yes and lose control. Say no and start a war.
Authority: Don’t let them take the wheel.
Inland Empire: Let them. Just to see what happens.
“No,” Kim says finally. “I’ll drive.”
You raise your hands in mock surrender. “As you wish.”
The stairs down from the RCM’s upper offices creak in strange places. It’s an old building, temporary headquarters, technically. Everything is temporary in Revachol.
You walk beside Kim now, not behind. He keeps his gaze forward, hands tucked in his coat pockets.
“Your precinct supervisor gave no detail on your background,” Kim says. “Is there a reason for that?”
You hum lightly. “Maybe I don’t have one.”
He glances at you.
You glance back, smile dry. “Kidding. Mostly.”
Logic: Deflection. They’re deliberately keeping their past vague.
Empathy: But not from fear. From habit. This is someone who knows how to be unreadable.
“You worked with the 41st recently, didn’t you?” you ask.
Kim doesn’t respond immediately. “Briefly.”
“What was it like?” you ask, casual. “The rumors are wild.”
“What rumors?”
“That your partner solved a murder in his underwear while high on speed and speaking to inanimate objects.”
Kim stops walking. Just for a second.
You stop too and tilt your head.
He looks at you like he’s trying to decide whether you’re mocking him. You aren’t.
“They’re not wrong,” he says finally.
You nod. “It’s impressive.”
Kim resumes walking.
Volition: You’re not laughing at him. That’s… rare.
Suggestion: They’re probing. Measuring the temperature. Seeing how honest you’ll be in return.
“So,” you say after a beat. “What’s your take on the moralintern?”
Kim exhales through his nose. “Which part?”
You shrug. “All of it.”
Kim doesn’t answer.
You wait, but he doesn’t fill the silence.
“Do you always answer questions with questions?” you ask.
Kim glances at you again. “Only when I don’t want to answer.”
There’s some stillness between you. The kind that could be awkward if either of you let it.
Instead, you nod, like that’s a satisfying response. “I’m here to learn,” you say. “Not to lead.”
“Good,” Kim says.
Then: “But you’re not here to be silent.”
You smile, wider this time. “No. Definitely not.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Outside, the rain is still falling — thinner now, more like static than drops. The garage is half-flooded — a shallow gleam of water pooling around old tire marks and oil drips. The overhead lights buzz against the dark like something wounded. You step out first, hood low, hands in your pockets, breathing in the scent of wet concrete and ozone.
Kim locks the door behind you both with a mechanical click and leads the way to the assigned vehicle: an RCM motor carriage, matte grey, the paint slightly peeling near the front bumper.
Your footsteps echo through the garage like a conversation neither of you are having.
Kim opens the driver’s side door but doesn’t get in. You stop beside him. Close, but not enough to breach professionalism. One body’s worth of space. Half a thought’s distance.
Then, you reach into your coat, pull out a bent pack of cigarettes, and tap one into your palm with a flick.
Kim watches. Neutral.
You light it with a tiny silver lighter, fast, one-handed. The flame catches. The first inhale is deep, deliberate, like drawing smoke into something hollow.
You exhale out the side of your mouth. Not away from him, just… not toward him, either.
Then, with no particular ceremony, you offer him the pack.
He doesn’t reach for it.
“Suit yourself, Lieutenant,” you say, voice soft with that same neutral inflection that always sounds like you’re hiding a joke somewhere in it.
Kim studies your face. Not your eyes this time. Your mouth. The way it presses slightly around the filter. The faint twitch at the corner. You’re watching him too, through the smoke, like it’s a part of the conversation.
Inland Empire: They’ve already decided what kind of man you are. But they’re waiting for you to surprise them.
Empathy: They don’t push. That’s the part that makes it worse.
Electrochemistry: They’re attractive. You’ve noticed. Stop pretending you haven’t.
Kim steps back and opens the trunk instead, checking the equipment. Standard issue: field file, emergency flares, one poorly folded RCM windbreaker, a flashlight, two canteens, one radio.
“You always do an inventory before departure?” you ask.
Kim doesn’t look at you. “It prevents problems.”
You take another drag. “You ever stop problems before they start?”
“Sometimes.”
“Ever stop a person from being one?”
He closes the trunk firmly.
Then, after a beat, looks at you directly.
“That’s what the cuffs are for.”
You chuckle. It’s a short, soft noise that rolls out of your chest. “And do you think I’m going to be trouble?”
“I think you already are.”
Your smile doesn’t fade.
The engine hums to life when he starts it. You flick your cigarette to the side, the ember hissing into a puddle near your boot.
He watches the red spiral out.
You slide into the passenger seat, lean back, and fold your arms.
Kim Kitsuragi gets behind the wheel and drives. You don’t speak.
Here are some cheat sheets with general information about the Greek Gods which you might find useful in worship but not only!
There is plenty of information I did not include. These are just simple cheat sheets. I could not fit everything in there but this might come in handy if you’re just starting out or want to get to know the Hellenic Gods.
For more information about them, I highly recommend you check out the websites or books I listed in sources!
PSA: Some of the things listed in offerings and associations section are more modern, thus could be regarded as UPGs/SPGs
⚡ The Olympians ⚡
Zeus
Hera
Poseidon
Demeter
Athena
Apollo
Artemis
Ares
Hephaestus
Aphrodite
Hermes
Hestia
Dionysus
Mount Olympus - Home of the Gods
Hyperborea
🦴The Underworld🦴
Hades
Persephone
Hekate
Hypnos
Thanatos
Erinyes
House of Hades & the Afterlife
🌱 Minor deities & daimones 💫
Nemesis
Eris
Phobos & Deimos - bonus info
Eros
Nike
Asklepios
Pan
Iris
Hebe
Priapus
Amphitrite
Aristaios
Thetis
Tyche
Mousai [Muses]
Moirai [Fates]
Charites [Graces]
Anemoi [The Winds]
🌾 Titan & Primordial Gods 🌌
Helios
Selene
Hekate
Eos
Leto
Themis
Rhea
Cronus
Nyx
Gaia
👑 Heroes & deified mortals ⚔
Achilles
Heracles
Asklepios
Ganymede
Dioskouroi
Adonis
Hyacinthus
If you like my content consider supporting me on: https://ko-fi.com/screeching0wlet
My longest work yet! 22k and counting. Welcome to a new kind of dreaming :) I’ve been obsessed with The Sandman since season 2 came out, and had to write until every inch of it is ripped from my head.
XReader, Slowburn
✦•················•✦•··················•✦
You travel across the ocean to study myths, ancient gods and forgotten symbols. But you didn’t expect the myths to notice you back, and when it does something stirs beneath the city, behind the fog, and within you.
✦•················•✦•··················•✦
“She was here again,” Lucienne says, matter-of-factly.
“Yes.”
There is a pause. Lucienne’s silence is not empty. It is always full of the things she chooses not to say.
“She is not like the others,” she says after a moment, eyes glinting.
He nods. The admission costs him more than it should. “No. She is not.”
Lucienne’s voice tightens. “You cannot let this continue.”
He still does not look at her. “I am not letting anything.”
“You are not stopping it, either,” she says. “You know what happened last time. You know what it cost. If she is pulled deeper into this realm—”
“She is already here,” he interrupts. The words come low and final.
Lucienne narrows her eyes. “Then perhaps it is not her being pulled deeper, but you.”
When Price retired everyone knew what to expect. He would find a rustic cabin somewhere in the woods, settle down with a pretty bird and maybe pop out a few babies while he still had it in him.
The cabin was the easy part. John was quick to make the secluded lodge home. Deep in the woods, but still a reasonable drive to the nearest small town for any supplies he couldn't get himself. Something about chopping a log for his fire made him feel more masculine than any shot he had ever fired. It was peaceful.
But rather lonely.
John was just too old now for 'dating'. He didn't understand the apps. And any of the eligible ladies in the nearby town were pushing eighty.
Then you showed up. John spotted you on a monthly shopping run. You had just moved into town. A bit frazzled, out of place, but still the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. He managed to chat you up by the till. And every time you would giggle so sweetly at his lame jokes he could feel his cock twitch in his pants.
He just had to have you.
Despite having been a few years out of the military, his skills hadn't faded. And it was nice to have a mission once again. It was only a matter of days before he knew where you lived, your daily routine. Even that you barely knew anyone in town, no one would notice. Everything he needed to snatch you out of the monotony.
It was almost too easy to break into your little flat. He picked through your belongings silently. Pocketing anything he thought you might want in your new home with him. A nice photo of you and some friends on holiday. A well used mug on the shelf. A book you had left lying open on the couch.
You didn't even wake up. Eyes only fluttering briefly as he placed the chloroformed rag over your mouth.
When you finally wake you're groggy. Looking around the unfamiliar room. Your vision so blurry you almost miss the figure sitting near you on the edge of the bed. It takes a moment to focus on him.
"John?" You mumbled, confused. Barely recognising the nice man you met a few days ago. You start to sit up but can't get far, realising your wrists are cuffed to either side of the bed.
John shushes you gently and pecks the top of your head.
"Relax, love. I've got you."
He does take care of you. Feeds you the most wonderful food, helps you bathe, brings you just about anything you could ever need. It would be nice, if you had asked for it.
Part of you pitied this man. He was clearly lonely. But that didn't excuse his actions. At least he never forced himself on you. Though his teasing words and light touches weren't much better. Despite yourself, your body reacted. You spent much of your time embarrasingly wet in your panties. Still he never went further than teasing.
He wanted to though. Boy did he want to. Every time he looked at you he could feel the ache. The need to claim you fully and totally. Maybe put a baby in that belly of yours. But it had to be right. He had a vision.
It had been a few months since John had taken you away from your old life. He knew you still wanted to escape. You were just biding your time until he let his guard down. Silly bird. He had given you everything. The perfect life. All the pretty dresses you could ever want. He loved to dress you up like a doll. Make you a proper wife. But he couldn't have that yet. He needed to make sure you knew you could never leave.
One day he left the keys to the front door unattended. All he had to do was wait. Soon enough you had slipped out. Sprinting into the woods in your lovely heels. He gave you a head start, checking his watch as he pulled up the tracker on his phone. Watching as you stumbled your way through the trees. Silly doll. You couldn't run from him.
When enough time passed he set out after you. Hunting rifle with him. He would never hurt you, never. But he needed you to understand he wasn't playing around. He loved you. Well and truly.
You would love him too.
He fired into the air, just to freak you out. Chuckling as he heard you running ahead of him. You terrified squeal as you dived for cover behind a tree.
He caught up with you easily. Of course he did. He was trained for this sort of thing. It came as naturally to him as breathing.
A firm hand tugged your hair, drawing a cry from your lips as you were pulled to the ground. John's large form gripped you from behind. His breath heavy and hot against your ear.
"Sweetheart..." he growled, and fuck if that didn't make you clench. He sounded amused. "Where do you think you're going..."
He rolled his hips upwards and you gasped. Trying desperately to squirm away from him.
"Can't let my pretty wife go running out in the woods all on her own..." He continued. Shoving you down so your face was pressed into the dirt. Back arched so your ass was pressed against him. He was obviously rock hard. Excited by the hunt.
"Stupid thing..." he mumbled. More to himself than to you as his flipped your skirt up to expose you. "Don't you love me?"
He tugged your panties to the side. Grinding his clothed cock against your bare cunt. The rough fabric of his jeans making you sob.
He was getting greedy. Quick to unbuckle his pants and rub the tip of his cock through your folds. Chuckling roughly at the slick gathered there.
You hated yourself for being so aroused by this. You hated him for turning you on so much. But when his cock notched at your entrance you whimpered. Rocking back against him without thinking. He laughed. Both of you knowing how useless it was for you to fight.
He held you still, hands firm on your hips as he slid in slow. The stretch was almost too much. But he did give you time to adjust at least. Resting inside you. The sound of both of your heavy breaths filling the silent night air.
It was you who caved first. Starting to press back against him. Unable to handle the stillness any longer. You needed him.
The second you moved he was off. Bullying his cock deeper with every thrust. Fucking you into the mud. All you could do was frantically claw at the ground and try your best to keep your mind in one piece.
You were quick to cum. The adrenaline, fear, and his incredible cock too much for your body to handle. Sending you reeling over the edge. Going totally boneless as he fucked you through your orgasm until you were crying and begging him to slow down.
He ignored you. Making sure to hit each thrust as deep as he possibly could. Fully intent on cumming straight into your very womb. He had to make sure it stuck. You couldn't possibly leave him if you had his baby in you.
The thought alone was enough to make him stall. Pressed deep inside you as he came. Leaning over you to hug you close, one hand running over your stomach.
"Can't way till you're swollen with me..."
The gruff, fucked out tone of his voice made you shudder. You didn't want this. But you couldn't deny that the idea had some kind of insane appeal.
He was making you crazy.
"Let's go home, luvie. I'll draw you a bath before we go for round two."
“Little fuckin’...” Ghost groaned softly, voice strained from the pain. Holding you in place for a few moments before releasing you. Dragging you up by your hair and pressing you against the wall of the small bunk. “That’s a mean right hook you’ve got…”
High praise from the usually so stoic man. But you didn’t have the thought to dwell on it as a firm thigh slotted between your legs. Pressing upwards hard until you gasped.
---
Angry at what they had done to you, you decide to show them you're not such an easy target.
---
idk how good this is i feel like i wrote it in a stupor. have fun pervs
---
All my fics are also on AO3
Not Beta Read. Rating: Explicit. Length: 3275. Ship: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x You x König . Fem!Reader. Tags: Overstimulation, P in V Sex, Konig is a huge creep, Simon and Konig have huge dicks, Cock Stepping, Cunnilingus
Part 1
The flight back to base was, to say the very least, mortifying. Sandwiched between your superiors. Feeling Ghost’s cum still pooling out of you into your panties. König pressed his leg against yours insistently. As if urging you to do something. Tell him off perhaps. You knew he was grinning below his hood. The bastard.
On more than one occasion his hand would brush your thigh. Playing it off like he was simply adjusting the gear placed around you. But the firm squeeze every now and then told you it was very much on purpose. You knew if there weren’t other operators in the chopper he probably would have had his large fingers in your cunt by now.
Thank goodness Ghost was being as silent and bloody eerie as usual. Staring straight ahead. You wondered if he was aware of what the sergeant was doing next to him. Surely he was. That man was aware of everything around him.
As soon as the chopper landed you jumped up. You were the rookie, so luckily you wouldn’t be needed for debrief. Rushing past Price, earning a raised eyebrow from the captain, and hurrying to your barracks. At least you were sure they wouldn’t follow you. You had about an hour or two before they were out of the debrief. Would they come for you? You wouldn’t put it past König to try something on base. Perhaps even in front of other soldiers. But Ghost, he was an enigma. Maybe he would avoid you like he avoided everyone else. Nothing out of the ordinary.
But the more you thought about it, the more you wanted them to come find you. Back you into a secluded room for another go of it.
Not because you wanted them, no. Because you wanted to put all your training to good use if, when, they tried it again. They had caught you off guard last time. You had been at a disadvantage. But now you would be ready. They were both much larger than you, but you were quick. And you had anger fueling you. How dare those men use you like that. They were supposed to be your superior officers. They were supposed to protect you, train you, ensure you were ready to join their special little task force when the time came.
You stormed into the showers. Your glare dark enough to scare off the only other rookie in there, leaving you alone in the tiled room. You had to scrub their touch off you. Let the hot water wash away the filth they had left on you. And the longer you stood under the cascade the angrier you got. Fury bubbling in your stomach. Tears pricked in the corner of your eyes but you pushed them down. Focused on the rage. Fuck it. You would find them. You would find them and make them sorry.
König was practically buzzing. Dick already leaking as he followed Ghost into his private room. The second the door closed behind him he started to palm himself.
“Oh, sir, her face, so red. Mien Gott… We must play with her again… mein Engel…”
He shuddered, leaning back against the door with a sigh that was almost wistful. Like he was imagining a long lost love rather than a woman he had essentially assaulted just a few hours before. Just the thought of her squirming below him. He would do anything for that again.
“I have to have a turn…”
“König.” The quiet voice drew him out of his fantasies.
The Austrian gazed at him through half lidded eyes as he rutted into his own hand needily.
“Fuckin’ hell…”
Ghost sat at the edge of the bed. Slowly. Deliberately. He patted his knee and König was on the ground in front of the man in an instant. Hands flat against the Brit’s thighs as he gazed upwards with those pretty blue eyes.
“I can still taste her, Leutnant…” He whined, licking his lips under the mask. Rocking his hips against the air as he remembered how he had gagged on Ghost’s fingers. The taste of sweat and metal mixing with his pretty Angel’s juices. A strained whine left him.
Above him, Ghost watched silently. Watching as König worked himself up. He didn’t even have to do anything to help. Just sit there as the taller man rutted against nothing like a dog.
Ghost slowly raised his hand, sliding under the sniper hood and grazing the back of König’s neck. Careful enough for the man to stop him if he went too far. Both of them understood the significance of the mask. Though often König reveled in being revealed by his superior. The Brit tugged his hair until his head was forced back and he keened. Before pulling the hood off entirely. Gazing down upon his bared face. Flushed and sweaty. Lips parted in a desperate pant.
“You’re fuckin’ pathetic…” Ghost mumbled. Watching as König’s face twisted in pleasure. He half expected him to cum in his pants at just that. It wouldn’t be the first time. “You want to play with her? You wouldn’t believe how perfect that cunt was… think you deserve a tight cunt like that?”
He couldn’t help the smirk that spread across his lips as the Austrian’s head ducked lower. Nodding as he rolled his hips, using the mild pressure of his pants against his cock to get off.
You were on a war path. Storming through the halls to 141’s barracks. Earning concerned, and some fearful, glances on your way. But no one tried to stop you. You steeled yourself outside Ghost’s door. Picturing that stupid mask of his. Fist’s clenched, you barged inside without knocking.
And immediately froze. Brain short circuiting as you took in the scene before you.
König, unmasked, very obviously rock hard in his pants, kneeling before the Lieutenant like he was worshipping him. He most likely was worshipping. Hands stilled in their movements to unbuckle Ghost’s belt as they both turned to look at you.
“Oh look, Leutnant… Engelchen came to join us…”
He was handsome. And you despised yourself for thinking it so quickly, but it was true. Face slimmer than you expected, given his stature. Hair longer than was typically allowed on base. Sweaty strands hanging over his face. Eye black smudged down his sharp cheekbones. He looked a bit like a wet dog. Pathetic in a cute kind of way. Ghost’s voice drew you out of your musing.
“Didn’t think you’d be back for more so quickly, Angel.” He sounded amused. And all that rage came rushing back to you.
You stepped inside, letting the door shut heavily behind you.
“I’m not here to join you bastards.” You narrowed your eyes at the Brit. You’d deal with König later. “I’m here to punch you.”
You had expected some kind of reprimand. Threatening your superior. Maybe even a laugh. But instead Ghost stood from the bed swiftly. Brushing König aside, making him fall heavily on his side. He stayed there, propped up on one elbow and watching Ghost stalk towards you. For a moment you thought he would grab you, hurt you and punish you for daring to threaten him. But he stopped. Just within arms reach. Leaning down slightly to give you easier access.
“Well go on then, luvie.”
König was, once again, palming himself. Was there anything that didn’t turn this man on? He bit his lip, legs twitching where he lay.
“Hit him hard, Engel. Make him bleed. He likes it…”
You rolled your eyes. Shifting from foot to foot as you took a breath. Then you swung. Harder than Ghost was expecting because he staggered back, clutching his jaw where you had hit him. But you didn’t let him move far. Stepping in, grabbing his shoulder and kneeing him in the stomach. Relishing in the pained grunt elicited from the much larger man. You moved to swing again but he caught your wrist, twisting your arm until you cried out and fell to your knees.
“Little fuckin’...” Ghost groaned softly, voice strained from the pain. Holding you in place for a few moments before releasing you. Dragging you up by your hair and pressing you against the wall of the small bunk. “That’s a mean right hook you’ve got…”
High praise from the usually so stoic man. But you didn’t have the thought to dwell on it as a firm thigh slotted between your legs. Pressing upwards hard until you gasped. You shoved at his chest. But it was about as effective as pushing at a brick wall. He didn’t budge. The restraint in his voice when he grunted in your ear through grit teeth made your heart race. Unsure whether he wanted to fuck you or hurt you. Probably both. Preferably at the same time.
“You know it wasn’t even me… that bastard started it…” He jerked his head towards the Austrian on the ground behind him. “Should be punishing him… He couldn’t keep his hands to himself. I jus’ had to finish what he started.”
He let go, shoving you over to König where he lay. “So go on. Beat the shit outta him.”
König was a sight to behold. Grinning up at you. Brows knit close together as he struggled to keep his composure. Still shamelessly groping his cock. Getting off more to your anger than actually touching himself. You scowled. This perverted monster had touched you in your sleep. Even if your body had responded, he was still a beast.
“My turn in that pretty cunt, Engel?” He cooed.
With a sneer you knocked his hand away with your boot and pressed down hard. He jolted. It must have hurt. But the broken whine he let out almost convinced you it felt good. So just for good measure you pushed harder. Crushing his cock under nearly your full weight. Behind the fog of pleasure in his gaze was a mild fear. As good as it felt he wasn’t sure he wanted to get some kind of permanent injury. So why was he rutting up against the hard soles of your combat boots.
“You think you deserve my cunt? After what you did? Why would I let a depraved freak like you have the fuckin’ honour of bedding me?”
His eyes rolled back into his head. The painful pressure, degradation, and heated gaze from Ghost over your shoulder too much. His body seized. Pathetic whimpers escaping his lips as he came in his pants. Rolling his hips helplessly. He hissed through his teeth when the pleasure subsided and all that was left was the pain. But you still didn’t let him. Leaning over him with a cruel smirk.
“You seriously came from just that? I barely even touched you.”
His face flushed bright red. The post orgasm fog was still heavy in his mind. His head rolled back against the floor as he panted heavily.
“Bitte… too much.” Tears rolled down his face. A truly pathetic image. This giant man crumbled to helpless sobs as you ground your heel against his poor balls.
You tutted softly. Finally stepping back. Allowing him to suck in a deep breath, clutching his sore groin as he twisted onto his side.
Ghost placed a hand on your shoulder and squeezed gently. You could hear the smile in his voice. His dark gaze never leaving König’s curled up form.
“You handle him well…” He moved closed, pressing against you from behind. Slow. Surprisingly gentle. You had earned his respect. Not the typical, fake submission he gave his superiors when they were talking crap. Real respect. He knew he had hurt you. And in response you got angry, defended yourself, proved yourself worthy of all of him, not just the brutal parts.
One hand snaked around your waist, splaying over your stomach and pulling you back against him. His chin tucked comfortably against your shoulder. You didn’t tense, or fight back. Despite yourself you relaxed a little in his hold.
“I’m still mad at you.” You growled.
His laugh was low. A pleasingly gruff noise that rumbled from his chest against your back. Nosing gently against your neck. The rough fabric of the mask tickling your sensitive skin.
“Can I make it up to you?”
“Better be bloody good.”
You sighed, rolling your eyes. But you still smiled. Allowing him to haul you off your feet and press you against the bed. You could feel König’s hazy gaze tracking you across the room. But you no longer cared. Not when Ghost was tugging off your fatigues and running his hands down your bare thighs. His big calloused hands were much more gentle this time. Pressing in places that made you shiver happily.
He didn’t fuck you gently though. Of course he didn’t. But he at least gave you time to adjust. Carefully prepping you with two, then three fingers. Drawing needy whines out of you no matter how hard you tried to hold them back. The stretch was nowhere near as painful as last time when he finally slid in. Taking it slow. Inch by inch until your thighs were shaking. It had been less than twenty four hours since you had last had his cock. And still you weren’t prepared for how much he filled you. It was dizzying.
He allowed you plenty of time to get used to him. Chuckling when eventually the stillness wasn’t enough. You started to grind against him. Eager to get him moving. He watched you struggle to make him start for at least a full minute. Relishing in how desperate you were to be fucked.
Then he pulled out, slow. Till the tip was barely inside. Just when you thought he was about to pull out entirely his hips snapped forward. The strangled cry drawn from your throat echoing around the small room. His pace was brutal. Relentless. This position allowing him to thrust faster, harder, and so much deeper than the night before. In just a matter of moments you were practically crying. Incomprehensible begs spilling from your lips as he fucked you for your forgiveness.
The bed dipped next to you and through the tears on your lashes you could just about see König. Leaning close to brush the hair out of your eyes.
“He is good, ja?” He mumbled as he peppered kisses across your cheeks.
You didn’t have the brains to reply. They had long since leaked out of your cunt. Mixing with Ghost’s precum down your thighs and onto the sheets below.
You were growing steadily closer. The Lieutenant’s quiet grunts making that coil in your stomach twist ever tighter. But it finally snapped when you felt large fingers brush over your clit. You didn’t even know which one of them did it. Far too distracted by the mindblowing spasms that ripped through your body. You didn’t think it was possible to have another orgasm as strong as the one you had had the night before, but boy you were wrong.
A soft grunt sounded from above you as Ghost’s hips faltered. The rhythmic clenching of your walls too much for even his restraint. His pace stuttered before he pushed deep. Filling your sensitive cunt for the second time in the last day. He leaned down. Kissing you through the mask. You could only whine against the rough fabric. You could feel his lips moving against yours, but couldn’t taste him. It was an odd feeling. Senses filled with the musky scent of sweat and the lingering tang of cigarettes. Gross. Yet you still kissed back.
Your eyes fluttered open when he finally pulled back. Gripping König’s hair and pulling him in for another messy masked kiss. Before pushing the taller man down between your legs as he slid out of you. His cum following suit and making you shiver.
“Go on, mutt. Apologise to her. Show her you mean it.”
The Austrian needed no further urging. Diving into your cunt like it was his last meal. Lapping at the cum leaking out of you, then dragging his tongue up to your clit just to hear your whimpers. You reached down to tug at his hair, drawing his attention just for a moment.
“Do a good job, Sarge, and I just might let you inside me.”
He returned to his movements with renewed vigor. Tongue curling against your clit. He knew that was where you liked it most from your noises, but he couldn’t stop himself from dipping down to flick his tongue inside you. Tasting his Leutnant’s cum mixed with your own sweet arousal. He was obsessed. His own desperate huffs and groans against your cunt, loving it almost as much as you were.
You let yourself get lost in the sensations. It wasn’t rough or brutal. Just a steady buildup of wonderful pleasure as König worked over you. Reaching a peak that had you gasping his name, arching off the bed as you came yet again.
Before you had even fully come down from your high, König was above you, frantically unbuckling his pants. And bloody hell was he big. Ghost may have been thicker, but König was longer. If you could barely take the Lieutenant, how could you possibly fit all that inside you. He was too eager as he notched the tip at your entrance. Pushing in before you had the chance to chide him. You pressed a hand over his stomach to keep him away before he slid in past the tip.
“Ah ah…” You tutted, your blissed out smile turning cruel again. “That’ll do.”
And boy, you wished you had a camera so you could see the look of despair that broke across the Austrian’s face for the rest of your life. Devastated as he rolled his hips barely, but didn’t move closer. You jerked your head towards Ghost, not taking your eyes off König.
“Help him.”
Ghost raised an eyebrow below the mask, but followed your command. Shifting slowly behind König and gripping his cock at the base. His large hand just about covering everything that wasn’t inside you. The Austrian whined, dropping his head back against Ghost’s shoulder.
“Engel… bitte…”
His hips rocked forward to chase whatever pleasure he was given. But he couldn’t move far as Ghost wrapped an iron hold around his waist. Keeping him in place as he jerked the poor man off. Rubbing the aching tip through your slick folds. Dipping it inside you every now and then just to get a taste of what he was being denied.
König’s moans were loud. One hand gripping Ghost’s arm while the other held your thigh hard enough to leave a bruise, another mark to join the others. He came embarrassingly fast. A high whine breaking through his sobs. Shaking in the Lieutenant’s grip. He technically came inside you. But not deep enough to feel any of the pleasure he thought he had been promised. Overall an unsatisfying orgasm. But in that filthy little brain of his, that was exactly what he wanted.
You laid back, relaxing as you watched the giant man come undone. So easily too, you didn’t even have to do anything. You pecked the Austrian on the cheek when Ghost let him fall down heavily onto the bed. Receiving a small smile and a hum in return. Just as you started to stand, his large arms wrapped around you, trapping you against his body. He was sweaty, covered in cum, and by the smell of it, still hadn’t showered from the op. But you didn’t complain.
You’d just have to make him pay for it later.
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