keekszer0

[keekszer0]

OMG MY TWO BAESSSSS RAAAAHHHHH

🏃💨❤️‍🩹

[keekszer0]

Jean Loo x my oc Misty 😋

[keekszer0]

JEAN LOO X JOHNNYS SHIP NAME SHOULDVE BEEN GOLDEN SHOWER FFS YALL AINT READY FOR THIS CONVERSATION.

[keekszer0]

🍷Red Wine & Gunpowder

Pairing: Russell Adler x Male Reader

Fandom: Call of Duty Black Ops

Genre: Espionage, Noir Erotica, Psychological Tension (?)

Rating: Explicit (18+), but deeply emotional and atmospheric

He arrived like a ghost from an old war.

The rain had come down all day. Not a cleansing rain, but the kind that seeped into everything… your boots, your bones, your memories. It slicked the sidewalks and turned the city into a half-lit mirror of itself. Berlin in winter was nothing but rot dressed in gray… the Cold War’s favorite mistress.

Your apartment was dim, deliberately so. You’d unplugged half the lamps and let the record player fill the space with Chet Baker’s brokenhearted trumpet. A single glass of wine sat untouched on the coffee table. You hadn’t smoked in weeks, but tonight, a half-full pack of cigarettes lay waiting beside the matches. Like you knew he’d come.

You sat in silence for a long time, waiting. The rain was constant, your only companion.

Until it wasn’t.

The knock was a single, deliberate tap. A rhythm you knew too well… like the click of a safety switch in the dark.

You didn’t move to answer.

The door opened anyway.

A silhouette filled the frame… coat soaked to the knees, scarf loose around his neck, a cigarette already lit between his lips. He didn’t speak. Just stepped inside like he’d never left, like the last three years hadn’t happened in gunfire and silence.

You stayed where you were… slouched on the sofa, legs sprawled, head tilted back just enough to catch his gaze beneath your lashes.

“Russell.”

He closed the door softly. Didn’t take off his coat.

“Didn’t know if you’d open it,” he said.

“I didn’t.”

He half smirked. Just half. That same scar tugged at the edge of it, like it was holding on to something he couldn’t name. He looked older, but not in the way most men do. It wasn’t time that aged Russell Adler… it was knowledge. He carried the weight of a thousand classified sins in the lines of his face.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stood in the center of the room, dripping, smoking, and watching you like a man trying to decide whether to kiss you or shoot you.

You gestured toward the bottle.

“Wine?”

He took a drag. Exhaled slow. “You’re offering me wine now?”

“You used to prefer whiskey. But you also used to lie to me.”

The smoke curled between you, thick with things unsaid.

He stepped forward, slow… like every movement cost something.

“What are you doing here, really?” you asked.

“I needed to see you.”

“Bullshit.”

His voice dropped low. “I did.”

That stopped you.

You sat up, finally. Elbows on knees. Let the silence stretch until it felt like skin over bone.

“I should kill you,” you murmured.

“You won’t.”

“Why not?”

He finally removed his coat… slow, deliberate… and set it over the chair by the window. His gun, holstered under his arm, brushed the edge of the fabric as it fell. You noticed. You always noticed.

“You think I came unprepared?” he asked, voice dry as his matchbook.

“I think,” you said, rising, “you came here hoping I wouldn’t be.”

You were close now. Close enough to see the flecks of steel in his eyes. Close enough to smell the smoke on his coat, the rain in his hair, the familiar cologne he hadn’t worn since the Tehran op. Your fingers itched.

He poured his own glass of wine. Sat across from you.

You didn’t speak for a long time.

The bottle lowered. The glasses touched. A silent toast to everything unspoken.

“I read the file,” you said finally. “All of it.”

His throat tightened. The muscle jumped in his jaw.

“You weren’t supposed to.”

“I know.”

His voice was almost a whisper. “Then why?”

You looked at him for a long, long time.

“Because I needed to understand what they did to you. To us.”

He went very still.

The tension between you wasn’t violent… not yet. It was worse. It was intimate. Familiar. Like standing too close to the edge of a cliff and remembering you’d jumped once before.

“Do you remember Kuwait?” you asked.

He nodded slowly. “The hotel. The rooftop.”

“You touched my hand. For just a second.”

He looked away.

“I remember,” he said.

“You pulled back like it burned.”

“It did.”

That silence again. A lover now. It crawled up your spine and settled at the base of your neck.

You stood. Walked over. Stopped just in front of him.

He looked up at you with a gaze that flickered between hunger and hesitation.

“I don’t want your pity,” he murmured.

“Good,” you said. “Because I don’t have any left.”

You reached out. Fingers to his jaw. Just barely touching. You felt the stubble, the scar, the man underneath.

“I want you,” you said. “Not the mission. Not the lies. You.”

He didn’t kiss you.

Not at first.

He stood slowly, and your hands met at the same time… his sliding over yours, tentative, as though expecting you to vanish. Your foreheads touched. Breath mingled. It was the most contact either of you had dared in years.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t hungry.

It was reverent.

Like prayer.

The wine lay forgotten. The record turned to static. You sank into each other like men drowning. His fingers threaded into your hair. Yours clutched his belt. The kiss deepened, a tide neither of you could stop.

You broke only to breathe.

His voice was hoarse.

“You sure about this?”

You rested your forehead to his. “No. But I want it anyway.”

When he took you to bed, it was slow. Focused. Like he was memorizing each sound you made, each part of you that flinched or gasped or sighed under his mouth. There was no dominance, no power play. Just discovery.

Two ghosts trying to remember how to feel human.

He whispered your name against your shoulder.

You said his like it was something sacred.

And when it was over… when the rain had slowed and the city had gone quiet… you lay beside him in the dark, fingers brushing.

No words.

Just breath.

Just warmth.

And the realization that maybe, just maybe, you were both still alive after all.

Hellooooo!!! Just a short lazy one today sowwy 😫 and reminder: my requests are open!! Feel free to request whatever u want!

[keekszer0]

Forced to have a diverse set of favourite characters…..

Born to love Adler and Adler only.

Anyways here are some of my favourite characters in mediaaaaaa

[keekszer0]

💧No Easy Days

Pairing: John “Soap” MacTavish x M!Reader

Fandom: Call of Duty Modern Warfare

Genre: Action, Survival, Erotic, Hurt/Comfort

Rating: Explicit(18+) for Combat violence, injuries, PTSD implications, swearing, explicit scenes

Summary:

You and Soap are deep in Eastern Europe on a covert retrieval mission. The target: stolen nuclear intel. When everything goes sideways, you’re forced into survival mode… together, injured, hunted, and forced to finally confront everything simmering beneath the surface.

Bucharest, Romania

The night smelled like cold stone and cordite.

Rain fell in a steady curtain across the alley as you pressed your back to the wall, heartbeat deafening in your ears. Footsteps pounded on the cobblestones behind you, shadows flitting in the broken glass of the windows above.

Across from you, Soap signaled… two fingers, then a sweep. Clear. You nodded.

“We’re not makin’ it to exfil, are we?” he muttered through clenched teeth.

“Not like this.” You jerked your chin to your leg… a deep graze, bullet wound, muscle torn. “We need to hole up. Regroup.”

“You’re bleeding out.”

“And you’re limping.” You stepped forward. “Let’s call it even.”

He gave a breathless, half cocked grin. “Romantic.”

You didn’t reply. Not yet. The tension had always been there… underneath the bravado, the sarcastic banter, the long nights cleaning rifles side by side in safehouses. But tonight, it had weight. Not a joke. Not a maybe.

Tonight it might be the last thing you ever say.

Abandoned Apartment

You slammed the broken door behind you and pushed an old cabinet in front of it. The building creaked… old Soviet bones… but it would hold for a few hours.

Soap dropped his kit with a groan, pulling off his vest, shirt soaked in blood… not all his. He ripped a strip of gauze, crouching beside you.

“Leg. Now.”

You hissed as he wrapped the wound tight.

“Sorry,” he muttered, softer now. His hands weren’t shaking, but they were tense. Too careful.

“You always apologize when I get shot?”

“Only when I was supposed to stop it.”

That made you pause. Your eyes met his. Rain dripped from your jaw. The world outside was hunting you, but here… now… he looked like the only thing real.

“You did everything right,” you said.

“Then why’s it feel like I’m losin’ you?”

There it was. Not sarcasm. Not shielded by a joke.

Just truth.

Two Hours Later… Still Breathing

The storm had passed. The city was quieter now… just the low hum of distant sirens and the occasional bark of a dog. You sat in the corner, leg propped up, weapon in your lap.

Soap sat across from you, staring out the shattered window.

“If we don’t make it—” he started.

“Don’t.”

“I need to say it.”

You looked at him. Really looked. The tension wasn’t just about the mission anymore. It was about every stolen glance, every lingering touch when patching each other up. Every time one of you almost said it.

“Say it, then.”

He turned to you, jaw clenched.

“I think about you when I’m not supposed to.” A breath. “I want more than this. More than near death and sarcasm…. I want you.”

Your chest ached in a way no bullet ever caused. You crossed the room in slow, limping steps. Stopped in front of him.

“You have me.”

And then you kissed him.

It wasn’t perfect… too much pain, too much adrenaline… but it was real. Soap gripped your shirt like he’d die without it. You pulled him down with you to the old mattress someone had abandoned in the corner. The city could burn… but here, in this room, you were finally alive.

The Heat

You stripped each other with urgency… clumsy, bruised, aching. But nothing could’ve stopped you. Not now.

His skin was warm under yours, all scars and strength. He growled low in his throat as your teeth grazed his neck.

“God, I’ve wanted this—fuck—” he gasped, grinding against you.

You kissed down his chest, mapping his body like a battlefield. And when you reached down, stroking him slow, deliberate, he shuddered.

“You gonna be good for me, Johnny?” you whispered against his skin.

He nodded. Desperate. Wild-eyed.

You lined up, fingers slick from spit and sweat, and pressed inside slowly… too slow… but he clutched you tight, breath shaking.

“More,” he begged.

You gave it to him. Rocked into him hard, deep, finding rhythm through the pain, the pleasure, the unspoken promise between you.

Soap let out a sharp, guttural moan, fingers clawing into your back like he needed something to hold onto… and you were the only thing anchoring him to earth.

“Christ, you feel so fuckin’ good,” he choked, breath hot against your collarbone, hips tilting up to meet each thrust.

You moved slow at first… not teasing, just savoring. The way he stretched around you, welcomed you, held you. Every thrust was a pulse of electricity between your bodies, a silent conversation built on every missed chance, every staredown, every moment you’d come too close and pulled away.

Not anymore.

Your lips found his neck, biting just hard enough to mark, to make him gasp. His head tipped back against the mattress, throat exposed, eyes fluttering shut as you thrust in again… deeper this time, grinding your hips down until he whimpered.

“Look at me,” you whispered.

His eyes snapped open, glazed and burning.

“I want to see you.”

His chest heaved under you, muscles trembling as you started to move faster… a brutal, rolling rhythm, hips snapping forward as his body jolted with every thrust. The old springs of the mattress creaked violently beneath you both, drowned by the sound of his moans and the wet slap of skin on skin.

“Fucking hell, mate—gonna make me lose it—”

“Then let go.”

Your hand found his cock, slick with precum, stroking in time with your thrusts. Soap bucked under you, mouth falling open in a silent cry. His hands scrabbled at your sides, then dug into your hair, pulling you down into a messy, bruising kiss.

Tongues clashed. Teeth scraped. You swallowed every desperate noise he made, gave him every inch he begged for.

“You’ve got me,” he gasped between kisses. “Take me. Fuck—just—take me.”

You did.

You fucked him like he was yours, like the world could end in the next heartbeat and this would be your last moment… and it would be enough.

He clenched around you as you drove into him, harder, deeper, feeling that dizzy pull of release starting to crest.

Soap came with a hoarse shout, cock pulsing between your bodies, thighs shaking, his whole body arching off the mattress.

The way he clenched around you as he came dragged you over the edge seconds later.

You thrust one final time, burying yourself deep, biting down on his shoulder as you spilled into him… a wave of white heat, a rush that left your muscles trembling and your breath gone.

Soap’s breath slowed beneath you. His arm draped across your chest, thumb drawing small circles against your ribs.

“You’re warm,” he mumbled.

You ran your fingers through his hair. “You’re clingy after sex.”

He snorted. “Aye. And you love it.”

You did.

Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten. The world would find you soon. But for now?

You had him. And he had you.

And that was worth surviving for.

This was my first time writing for Soap so excussseeeee meeee if this is toooooo ooc…..

[keekszer0]

🐺 To Tame a Beast

Chapter 2 – The Law of the Wild

Pairing: Jacob Seed x M!Deputy

Fandom: Far Cry 5

Genre: Toxic Romance, Survival, Psychological, Slow Burn

Rating: M (violence, obsession, control)

It was the sound of metal on bone that woke him.

The sharp, wet crack of a blade splitting marrow. He didn’t bolt upright… he’d learned not to waste energy like that. He just opened his eyes slowly, watched the fire flicker against the cabin walls, and listened.

Outside, the storm had passed. Inside, it smelled like copper and smoke.

Jacob was at the table, sleeves rolled to the elbows, carving a deer with mechanical focus. The knife moved with precision… not fast, not hurried. Just efficient. Like he’d done it a thousand times. He probably had.

The Deputy didn’t say anything at first.

He just watched.

And something inside him… small and quiet… liked it.

The calm. The certainty. The violence with purpose.

It was better than the chaos of the county. Better than pretending the law still meant anything while people burned churches and hung sheriffs from overpasses. Better than radio static and false hope.

Here, at least, everything was honest.

Jacob didn’t look up.

“Get up,” he said.

The Deputy pushed himself upright, blanket falling from his shoulders. Every joint ached. His ribs were healing crooked… he could feel it. But he stood.

Jacob slid the blade through the deer’s ribs like paper. “We’re going hunting.”

“What for?”

Jacob’s mouth twitched. “You.”

They walked in silence.

Snow up to the knees. Pines black against a grey sky. The kind of cold that seeped into your teeth.

Jacob walked ahead, rifle slung across his back, calm as ever. The Deputy followed… no weapon, just a pack slung over one shoulder and the dull ache of survival in his bones.

They were hours from civilization. Maybe days.

No signposts. No safehouses. Just wilderness. And Jacob.

“You think I brought you up here to die?” Jacob asked eventually, not turning around.

The Deputy didn’t answer.

“I could’ve left you where you fell,” Jacob went on. “Let the wolves have you. Easier.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

Jacob stopped.

Turned.

There was snow in his beard. Red on his gloves. His eyes were unreadable… not kind. Not cruel. Just… sharp.

“Because I saw something in you,” he said. “Something the others don’t have.”

He stepped closer.

“You fight like an animal. You survive like one. You think that makes you different than me?”

“I’m nothing like you.”

“You’re worse.”

They reached a clearing by mid-morning. Blood in the snow.

A kill, recent. Wolf carcass. Still steaming.

Jacob crouched beside it. Ran a gloved hand along the wound.

“Do you know why wolves kill?” he asked.

“For food,” the Deputy said.

Jacob shook his head slowly.

“They kill to test themselves. To cull the weak. To remind the pack who leads.”

He looked up.

“And when one forgets his place… they tear him apart.”

The Deputy met his gaze. Didn’t flinch.

“You think I forgot my place?”

“I think you never knew it.”

Later, they found the trap.

Rusty. Primitive. Human-made.

A scream still echoed faintly in the trees… the last remnants of whatever creature had stepped wrong.

Jacob knelt beside it. Examined the blood.

Then looked up at the Deputy.

“You want to make yourself useful?”

“What do you want me to do?”

Jacob’s voice was flat. “Track him.”

“Him?”

“The bastard who left that trap,” Jacob said, standing. “Wounded something and walked away. Coward. Lazy.”

The Deputy hesitated.

Jacob stepped in close… close enough that the wind cut around them.

“You say you’re not like me,” he said. “Prove it. Show me what you are.”

They followed the trail for hours.

Broken branches. Dots of blood. A torn length of fur snagged on bark.

The Deputy slipped into it easily. Too easily. Moving low. Quiet. Head down, eyes sharp. He stopped thinking in words. Started thinking in signs. Smells. Distance. Instinct.

He didn’t notice the change.

Jacob did.

By the time they reached the man… a lone poacher, rifle slung, campfire dying… the Deputy’s heartbeat had already slowed. Not from calm. From focus.

The man barely had time to turn.

The Deputy didn’t hesitate.

He tackled him hard, drove him down into the snow, fist against jaw before the guy could speak.

The poacher screamed once, but it didn’t last. Not after the Deputy slammed his head against the ice… once, twice, three times… until Jacob’s hand caught his shoulder and pulled him back.

Not to stop him. Just to remind him who was watching.

They dragged the body back through the snow in silence.

Halfway home, Jacob said, “You didn’t have to kill him.”

The Deputy didn’t answer.

“You wanted to,” Jacob said. Not a question. Just fact.

The Deputy stared ahead. Snow in his lashes. Blood on his hands.

He didn’t say he regretted it.

Because he didn’t.

That night, by the fire, Jacob said:

“I’ve seen killers before. Soldiers. Monsters. Men who snap under pressure.”

He handed the Deputy a tin cup of water. Watched him drink.

“But you… you’re something else. You don’t snap. You choose.”

The Deputy didn’t respond. Just stared into the fire.

Jacob leaned in, voice low:

“That’s why I kept you.”

A long silence.

Then, finally, the Deputy spoke:

“And what does that make me? A project?”

Jacob’s eyes flicked to his mouth. Then to his hands.

“No,” he said.

Then, quieter:

“A prize.”

They didn’t touch.

Not yet.

But something shifted between them.

Not warmth. Not comfort.

Just heat. Quiet and constant.

Like two animals circling the same kill.

[keekszer0]

Masterlist

Started: 20/May/25

Last Updated: 10/June/25

Be aware that the fandoms listed below aren't the only ones I write for!! they're just the ones ive written for so far!

CALL OF DUTY BLACK OPS

Russell Adler

Smoke and Embers

One Way Out

Red Wine & Gunpowder

CALL OF DUTY MODERN WARFARE

Phillip Graves

Target Acquired

John “Soap” MacTavish

No Easy Days

FAR CRY 5

Jacob Seed

To Tame a Beast: 1, 2

[keekszer0]

🥃One Way Out

Pairing: Russell Adler x M!reader

Fandom: Call of Duty Black Ops

Genre: Slow burn, Cold War, action, flirtation, enemies-to-partners tension, mission setting, suggestive ending

Rating: T for non graphic violence, suggestive tension, flirtation

The city stank of wet concrete and fear.

Your boots hit the pavement like punctuation marks, steady despite the chaos unraveling just a few blocks away. It was the kind of city where the walls listened, where secrets seeped up through the floorboards, and trust was a luxury no one could afford.

Especially not with Russell Adler watching your back.

You didn’t trust him.

You liked him, though. And maybe that was worse.

He moved beside you now… silent, composed, always one breath from violence. His trench coat flared behind him like a shadow, and his expression hadn’t shifted since you both were dropped into this situation.

You broke the silence first.

“You ever smile, Adler? Or did the Company beat that out of you during orientation?”

His eyes flicked toward you… just a glance beneath those dark sunglasses.

“I smile when the job’s done.”

“Guess I’ll have to earn it, then.”

He didn’t respond. But you saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Small victories.

The safehouse was a corpse of a building tucked between bombed out walls. No door. Just a curtain of dangling chains that jingled as you stepped through. You swept the interior quickly… bare room, warped floorboards, a table missing one leg propped up with bricks.

Adler secured the perimeter while you checked the gear drop. Nothing fancy: a pair of untraceable radios, a few magazines, and a map with three exit routes drawn in thick black ink. All of them risky. One suicidal.

You whistled low. “I love when they leave us options.”

Adler entered from the back, brushing his coat free of dust. “They’re not options. They’re delays.”

You slumped into the lone chair, stretching your legs out. “Always the optimist.”

He said nothing, just lit a cigarette, watching the smoke curl toward the crumbling ceiling.

There was something about watching Russell Adler smoke that felt deliberate. Controlled. He wasn’t just killing time. He was claiming space.

He turned to you. “We exfil the target in under thirty. You handle the stairs. I’ll take the fire escape.”

“I like it when you take the dangerous route,” you said, grinning. “Reminds me you bleed like the rest of us.”

His expression didn’t shift, but you knew he was annoyed. That was half the fun.

By the time you reached the target’s apartment, the city had come alive with flashlights and boots… state police sweeping streets, Soviet backed dogs barking in the distance.

The stairwell reeked of piss and rust. You took it two steps at a time, ears tuned for trouble. Adler’s voice crackled low through the comm in your ear.

“Three guards. One at the door. Two in the hallway. You’re up.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

You counted to three.

The hallway exploded into motion… your knife buried in the first man’s neck before his shout could form, the second dropped with a shot to the thigh and another to the chest. The third ran. You let him. One witness, one warning.

Adler was already inside the apartment when you burst through, gun raised. The defector stood frozen… wire thin, sweat pouring from his brow.

“You’re late,” he said in German, voice shaking.

“Clock’s ticking,” you said. “Move.”

Adler had the window open, rifle aimed, eyes sharp. “Two more coming around the south. We need to go. Now.”

Gunfire chased you down the fire escape like angry gods. You grabbed the defector by the collar and shoved him toward Adler, who didn’t miss a beat… covering your retreat with controlled bursts. You slid down the last flight, boots slamming into broken glass, then ducked as bullets cracked past your head.

A van screeched around the corner, headlights blinding. Not yours.

“Run!” Adler barked.

You did.

The next five minutes were a blur of turns, alleyways, and breathless coordination. When you finally reached the secondary safehouse… a gutted bar behind a laundromat… the three of you were bleeding, coughing, alive.

The defector was picked up a few minutes later, dragged into a nondescript car and vanished.

Job done.

But neither you nor Adler left.

You sat behind the counter, your bloodied hand wrapped in gauze you’d ripped from a first aid kit. Adler stood by the window again, same pose, smoking again.

You broke the silence, voice low.

“You saved my ass back there.”

He exhaled smoke. “That’s the job.”

“No,” you said. “It’s not.”

You stood, body stiff, and crossed the distance between you slowly.

“I’ve worked with guys who would’ve let me bleed out just to make the exfil lighter.”

Adler turned toward you, slowly. “I don’t work with people I can’t count on.”

Your mouth quirked. “So we’re partners now?”

He took a drag. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you meant it.”

Another silence. The kind that made your skin buzz.

Then: “You’re reckless,” Adler said. “Too cocky. You think quick, but you move faster than you think.”

“And you’re cold,” you shot back. “Paranoid. You’d rather break your own ribs diving through glass than let someone else cover you.”

He stepped forward. “We’re both still breathing.”

“Barely.”

The silence wasn’t sharp now. It was thick. Dense. You were standing close enough to see every scar on his face. To hear the faint crackle of his cigarette burning too low.

Your voice dropped. “Tell me something, Russell.”

His name landed with weight. You rarely used it.

“You ever let yourself want something?”

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t blink.

Just looked at you like he was trying to carve out the answer with a scalpel.

And then, with no warning…

He grabbed your collar and kissed you.

It was rough. Controlled chaos. Hands at your chest, breath warm against your mouth, years of tension exploding into one sharp moment of contact. You didn’t soften into it. You met him with equal pressure, matching his heat with your own.

When he pulled back, your lips buzzed with it. So did your spine.

“Still think I don’t want anything?” he murmured.

You didn’t answer. You just touched the edge of his coat and leaned in until your forehead brushed his.

“Let me guess,” you said softly. “You’ll say this never happened.”

Adler’s hand tightened on your arm.

“No,” he said. “I’ll say it didn’t mean anything.”

You smirked. “You’re a terrible liar.”

He stepped back, picking up the cigarette again, re-lighting it with a flick of his silver lighter. His hands were steady. His jaw was clenched.

But you saw it now.

The wire in him… drawn tight, not just from the mission, not from danger. From you.

You turned, grabbed your gear, and paused in the doorway.

“Next time,” you said over your shoulder, “I’m not pulling away first.”

Adler didn’t look at you.

But his voice followed you like smoke:

“Next time, I won’t stop you.”

Request stuff guysssss!!!! Dw I won’t bite (unless you ask real nice) 😋 I’m open to any requests really! You caaaannn check out my wills and wonts tho!

[keekszer0]

🎯Target Acquired

Pairing: Phillip Graves x TOP!M!Reader

Fandom: Call of Duty Modern Warfare

Genre: slow, smut, masculinity, power play, cocky tension, light roughness

Rating: Explicit!!! (18+)

The heat settled like a weight across your shoulders as you stepped out onto the dusty compound, your tactical vest heavy with gear and sweat. Shadows stretched long across the concrete from the low sun, and the whole base buzzed with the post-mission lull… vehicles being checked, weapons cleaned, guys talking shit to blow off steam.

You spotted him before he saw you.

Phillip Graves, leaning against a Humvee with a bottle of water in one hand and a smart-ass grin like he hadn’t just gotten his team ten minutes off-schedule by improvising again. He was talking to one of his Shadows, tossing his head back in a laugh, cocky as ever.

You didn’t hate him, exactly. But the guy knew how to get under your skin.

Too smooth. Too confident. Always pushing it.

And worse… he knew you outranked him, but treated you like you were equals. Like you were part of the same damn game.

You walked up and dropped your gloves on the hood beside him. “You gonna explain why your squad was late to exfil or just hope I forgot?”

Graves turned, giving you that signature grin. “Well hey there, Lieutenant. Thought maybe you just missed me.”

“You were out of position,” you said flatly.

“Had intel that wasn’t in the brief. Figured you’d appreciate initiative.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling recklessness now?”

He stepped in a little closer, not threatening… just pushing that line like he always did. “You ever think maybe I just like making you come find me?”

You held his stare. “You ever think that attitude’s gonna get you benched?”

Graves smirked. “You’d miss me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You don’t gotta say it, sir,” he said, voice dipping just low enough to make it not a joke. “I see the way you look at me.”

You chuckled once, dark and amused. “If I’m looking at you, it’s usually because I’m wondering how the hell you haven’t gotten court-martialed yet.”

Graves leaned back against the Humvee, still grinning. “Well damn. That’s practically a compliment.”

You were stripping down your rifle at the bench in the corner of the barracks, fingers moving through the motions more from habit than focus. The op was over, the heat had died down, and the room was quiet except for the occasional creak of a bunk or the metallic click of tools.

You didn’t have to look up to know Graves had walked in… you could feel it. That smug fucking energy he carried, like the room owed him something just for breathing in it.

“You still pissed about earlier?” he asked from behind, his tone all smooth, lazy Southern charm.

You didn’t answer right away. Just slid the bolt out of your rifle and started inspecting it. “Still trying to figure out if you’re reckless or just dumb.”

He chuckled, stepping closer. “I got the job done.”

“Not how it looked from my angle.”

“That right?” Graves leaned against the lockers next to your workbench, arms crossed, watching you like you were the entertainment. “’Cause from where I was standing, you looked real interested in how I handled things.”

You glanced up at him… just once. “You really think this is flirting?”

He grinned. “Don’t have to think. You’re still standing here talkin’ to me, aren’t you?”

You sighed, set the bolt down a little harder than necessary. “You ever shut the hell up?”

Graves pushed off the lockers and stepped in closer, lowering his voice just enough to stir something dangerous. “You ever admit you like it when I don’t?”

Your jaw flexed. There was heat now. Not just irritation… something else. You rose to your full height, turned to face him fully, and you didn’t bother hiding the challenge in your stare.

“You gonna keep mouthing off,” you said, voice low, “or are you finally gonna do something worth my time?”

There was a flicker in his eyes, like a switch flipped. Not fear. Not surprise. Interest. He wet his bottom lip just slightly, and the corner of his mouth twitched into that cocky smirk you’d come to hate. Or maybe crave.

“Gotta admit,” he said, stepping even closer, “I’ve been wonderin’ how long you’d let that chip on your shoulder do the talking before you’d finally try to fuck it outta your system.”

You didn’t hesitate this time. You grabbed a fistful of his shirt and shoved him back… firm, controlled, into the lockers. He hit with a dull thud, eyes wide but lit up like you’d just given him a Christmas gift.

You leaned in close, breath brushing his cheek. “You want it rough?”

His hands came up, not to fight… but to grab at your belt, dragging you in. “I want it real.”

You pushed harder, pressing your body against his. “Then you better shut up and follow orders, cowboy.”

Graves just grinned. “Finally. Some goddamn leadership around here.”

You didn’t say another word.

Just fisted his shirt again and dragged him through the barracks, past the rows of empty cots, straight into the back supply room… the one that barely locked but had just enough privacy for what you were about to do.

Graves let you shove him in first. The door clicked shut behind you, and before he could say anything smart, you pinned him against it.

“Hope you’re not expecting gentle,” you muttered, hands already at his belt, knuckles brushing his hardening cock through his pants.

“Would’ve been disappointed if you were,” Graves said, voice breathless but still laced with that smirk.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair and pulled his head back, just enough to look him dead in the eye. “You talk too much.”

“And you like the sound of it,” he shot back, hips twitching into your touch. “C’mon, Lieutenant. Show me what that rank’s good for.”

You shoved his pants down with one hand, the other pressing against his chest to hold him still. His cock sprang free… half-hard, twitching already under your touch. You wrapped your hand around it, firm, slow.

That wiped the grin off his face for a split second.

“Still cocky?” you asked, stroking him with cruel, deliberate rhythm.

Graves bit back a groan, jaw clenched, but his eyes were lit. “Gonna take more than that to shut me up.”

“Good,” you said, voice rough, pushing him back against the door with your hips. “I don’t want you silent. I want you loud.”

He cursed when you jerked him harder, grinding your clothed cock against his thigh as you worked him. His hands grabbed at your shirt now, bunching it in his fists.

“Fucking hell,” he muttered, head thudding back against the door. “Didn’t know you had this in you.”

“You didn’t know shit,” you growled, finally undoing your own belt one-handed. “But you’re gonna learn.”

He looked down, breathing hard, cock dripping now under your touch. “You gonna fuck me standing like this, or—”

You cut him off by grabbing his jaw again, thumb dragging over his bottom lip. “On your knees.”

Graves hesitated… not from reluctance, but from challenge. You saw it in the way his lip curled, the stubborn set of his shoulders. Then he sank, slow, steady, never breaking eye contact as he dropped to his knees.

You stepped forward, cock finally out, thick and heavy in your hand.

“Open up,” you said.

And he did… mouth wide, tongue out, eyes glinting with something damn near hungry.

You slid in slow, hand tight in his hair, Graves humming around your cock like he wanted to be ruined, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

He gagged a little, but didn’t stop. Kept going until you hit the back of his throat, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes, hands gripping your thighs now like this was where he belonged.

“You’re better with your mouth full,” you said, pulling back just to watch his spit trail down your shaft.

He looked up, grinning around it, voice hoarse when he could speak again. “Guess you finally figured out how to use me.”

You yanked him back up by the hair, spun him toward the door, shoved his upper body against it. He gasped when you kicked his legs apart.

“I’m not done yet.”

You spit in your hand, slicked yourself up fast, one hand on his hip, the other holding him steady by the back of the neck.

“No prep?” he rasped, breath hitching.

“You can take it,” you said, already pushing in. “Big mouth, tight ass… figured you’d be used to stretching for the job.”

He groaned, loud and guttural, as you buried yourself in him… tight, hot, nearly choking on the stretch. But he pushed back, like he wanted every inch.

“Fuck,” he panted. “You feel like trouble.”

You grinned against the back of his neck. “You are trouble.”

And then you started to move… slow at first, hard thrusts that knocked the breath out of both of you, building fast as Graves braced against the wall, grunting every time your hips snapped into him.

“Harder,” he growled.

You obliged.

“Faster.”

You drove into him, pace brutal now, your hand wrapping around to jerk him in time. He was leaking, breath ragged, hips jerking back into yours like he was chasing every second of it.

But you didn’t let him come.

Not yet.

You pulled out, flipped him around, shoved him onto a stack of gear crates, legs spread, cock hard and red and twitching between you.

“You’re mine tonight,” you said, guiding yourself back in.

Graves laughed… fucked-out but still cocky. “Then claim it, Lieutenant.”

You slammed back into him, deeper this time… angled just right. Graves choked on a curse, hands scrambling behind him for something to hold on to as you fucked him into the stack of crates. The gear shifted beneath him, the whole room creaking under the weight of it.

“F-Fuck,” he gasped, eyes squeezed shut, sweat shining at his temples. “Goddamn, you’re—”

“Finish that sentence,” you groaned, hand tight around his cock again.

His hips jerked. “Gonna make me beg?”

“I don’t need to.” You thrust harder. “You’re already whining.”

That made him bark out a breathless laugh, teeth flashing even as his body trembled.

“You wish I was whining,” he panted. “You like it when I put up a fight.”

“You’re not fighting,” you muttered, grinding into him. “You’re taking it. Like I told you to.”

His moan was more of a growl… frustrated, fucked out, turned on. You didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. Just gave it to him rough and relentless, hand stroking him in time.

His back arched, legs shaking now as your cock slammed into that spot again and again. “Shit—there, fuck, there—”

“I know,” you said, tone low, steady, dragging your teeth along his throat. “I know exactly what you need.”

“Shit, shit—” Graves’ voice cracked as his head dropped back, neck flushed, mouth open. “Gonna come—”

“Then come,” you snapped, squeezing your hand around his cock.

And he did… groaning sharp and wrecked, spilling across your fist and his stomach, legs locking around your waist as he bucked into your grip. His body clenched hard around your cock, nails digging into your shoulder… and that was all it took to send you over.

You slammed in deep one last time, hand digging into his hip hard enough to bruise as you came inside him, breath caught in your throat, forehead pressed to his shoulder.

The air went still, broken only by the echo of your ragged breathing and the soft creak of the crates beneath you.

You didn’t move for a few seconds. Just stayed there… buried in him, chest heaving, one hand still on his waist.

Graves was slumped back against you, fucked out and breathing like he’d run a goddamn marathon. But when he finally opened his mouth, the smirk was still there.

“You pull rank like that every time?” he muttered hoarsely.

You let out a low breath, pulled out slow, watching him twitch from the aftershocks.

“Only when someone needs to be reminded who’s in charge.”

Graves looked up at you, face flushed, hair a mess, cum streaked across his stomach.

“Next time,” he rasped, “I’m gonna ride you.”

You grabbed his chin, made him look up at you, “You’ll try.” You grinned.

He grinned back, cocky and ruined. “Bet your ass I will.”

You didn’t kiss him. Just let him catch his breath, let the silence hang heavy as you pulled your pants back up and wiped your hand on a spare towel hanging nearby.

As you turned for the door, Graves was still leaning on the crates, voice thick and low behind you.

“Don’t wait too long, Lieutenant,” he called. “Next time I might be on top.”

You glanced back over your shoulder, jaw set, heat still simmering low.

“We’ll see,” you said.

Then you shut the door behind you.

Do people even like Graves like that?? 😫😫 I sure do RAHHGRAGRRFFAREAGHHFAGRH

[keekszer0]

Hiii good person!!! I just came here to tell you that your last writing (adler one) is one hell of a masterpiece!!!!! KEEP UP THE GOOD WORK❤️❤️

THANK YOU SO MUCH!!!!!!!!

I’m so glad people enjoy my stuff 😫 whenever I hit that post button I just think to myself “is this good enough?????” I try my best to give you guys fics I would love too…: romantic but IN CHARACTER.

I just woke up but I’m already smiling from ear to ear 🫣 you just made my day I love you ❤️❤️❤️❤️

[keekszer0]

🚬 Smoke and Embers

Pairing: Russell Adler x M!Reader

Fandom: Call of Duty black ops

Genre: Slowburn(?), romantic, spicy ending

Rating: M for violence, romantic and sexual tension, and implied physical intimacy (not too graphic)

The jungle was loud.

Not the birds or insects. Those you learn to tune out. What I mean is the chaos… the rustle of boots, the radio chatter in my ear, the distant echo of suppressed fire. Adler and I had been cut off from the others after the op went sideways. Extraction got compromised, and we were running low on ammo and time.

I kicked open the rotting door of a collapsed hut and ducked behind cover. Mud soaked through my jeans. My pulse was calm… too calm, considering we were probably marked for death. I raised my rifle and covered the perimeter.

“Two o’clock,” Adler’s voice cut in… sharp, low. I moved before he finished the sentence, lining up the shot. Target down.

He didn’t say “good shot,” but I saw the brief glance he threw me. Approval. Quiet. That was enough.

By nightfall, we’d hiked eight miles to a CIA safehouse tucked in the hills, soaked, bruised, and alive. Barely.

Now it was just the two of us.

The rain had followed us to the safehouse, hammering the roof in steady rhythm. I’d peeled out of my tactical gear and pulled on the spare T-shirt from my go-bag… black, stretched slightly across the chest, damp with sweat and rain.

Adler sat across from me, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers. He didn’t talk much… never did unless he had something to say. Most of the time, his silences were louder than his words anyway. He’d barely looked at me since we stepped into the safehouse, but I could feel it. That quiet weight in the air. Watching. Calculating.

“You should be dead,” he said without looking up.

I arched a brow. “You’re welcome for saving your ass back there.”

“I didn’t say thank you.”

“You never do.” I dropped into the chair across from him. “But you also don’t smoke unless something’s bugging you.”

He glanced at me from behind his shades. “You’re observant. That’s why you’re still useful.”

“Useful,” I echoed, leaning back. “Glad to know I’m not just eye candy.”

That earned a twitch at the corner of his mouth… almost a smile. Almost.

I watched the way the cigarette smoke curled around his fingers, and the way his jaw worked when he was deep in thought. Even bloodied and road-worn, he looked like he was carved out of steel and smoke. And I knew, without ego, that I was the only one he let this close.

“You’re bleeding,” he said eventually, not looking up from the smoke curling in front of his face.

I glanced down. A shallow cut along my forearm I hadn’t noticed. “Didn’t feel it.”

“You never do until later.” He got up and walked to the small metal cabinet against the wall. His movements were deliberate, efficient. The man didn’t waste anything… breath, time, or motion.

He stood and fetched the first aid kit, tossing it on the table. “Let me see.”

I peeled the fabric back. His fingers were calloused and clinical, but I caught the way his thumb lingered at the edge of the wound. Not hesitant… just… measuring.

“You always do this yourself?” he asked.

“Yeah. Never had anyone stick around long enough to give a damn.”

The antiseptic stung, but I didn’t flinch. He noticed. Of course he did. His hands were steady, but not gentle. Precision came before comfort. Still, there was something in the way his fingers brushed my skin… absent-minded, maybe. Curious.

“I’ve had worse,” I said.

“I know,” he replied, wrapping the gauze tight. “I read your file.”

A beat passed. Then I said, “You memorized it, didn’t you?”

This time he looked at me. Head tilted slightly. Eyes hidden, but the rest of his face gave away just enough. I hit a nerve.

“You’re not the only one good at reading people,” I added.

He leaned back in his chair, reaching for his cigarette again. “Careful. That almost sounded like you think you’ve got me figured out.”

“I don’t.” I met his stare anyway, even if I couldn’t see his eyes. “But I’ve been trying.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was heavy. Like he was weighing me. Like he wanted to say something but didn’t trust the words.

Then: “Why?”

“Because you don’t let anyone close unless you want them there. And you haven’t pushed me away.”

A long drag from the cigarette. Smoke curled around his face, softening the angles, hiding and revealing all at once. “Maybe I just don’t see you as a threat.”

“That’s a lie,” I said, softly. “You see everyone as a threat.”

His jaw tensed. But he didn’t argue.

The rain picked up. Somewhere outside, a car passed on the wet road, tires hissing. Inside, the room felt warmer than it had all day.

“You want a drink?” I asked, getting up and heading for the shelf. There was a half-bottle of something strong we hadn’t touched yet. Whiskey, maybe. Didn’t matter.

He nodded once.

I poured two glasses, handed him one. Our fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away.

We drank in silence. A little slower now. The warmth spread, but not just from the alcohol. It was something else. A pulse behind my ribs. A tension building… not dangerous, but deep. Focused.

“You ever stop pretending you don’t care?” I asked.

He exhaled through his nose. “And let you start thinking I’m soft?”

“I don’t think that.” I stepped closer. “Not even a little.”

He stood then, slowly. His glass was still in his hand, but his focus wasn’t on it anymore. It was on me. Entirely. Like a sniper choosing a target. Like he’d decided on something and nothing was going to change his mind.

“You know what happens when I let someone close?” His voice was quiet. Controlled.

“You don’t have to say it,” I murmured. “I’m still here.”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. Then he reached up, hooked a finger in the collar of my shirt, and pulled me in… not hard, but firm. His breath was warm, faintly spiced with whiskey and smoke.

“Say it again,” he said.

“I’m still here.”

He kissed me like he meant it. Like he’d waited too long and hated that he needed it. It wasn’t gentle… nothing about Adler ever was… but it was real. All in one sudden spark. His hands found my waist, fingers digging into muscle like he needed to feel something real, something solid.

We stumbled backward toward the wall, knocking over the empty glass. Neither of us cared. His mouth was on my neck, then back to my lips. My hands tangled in his shirt, pushing it up, over the scars and fire forged skin he never let anyone touch.

My mouth trailing fire along the line of his jaw, down his throat. His sunglasses came off, finally, tossed somewhere to the floor, revealing the full intensity in his eyes.

“You sure about this?” he muttered, voice rough, lips grazing mine.

“Yeah,” I breathed. “Are you?”

His answer came in the way he pulled me into him, the way his hand slid beneath my shirt, trailing heat over my spine. There was nothing hesitant now. Just fire… contained, focused, but burning deep.

We didn’t speak after that. Words weren’t necessary. It was all pressure and motion, breath and friction. Heat, tension, release. And somewhere between the haze of pleasure and the sound of the storm outside, I realized something:

He didn’t have to say he cared. I felt it in every inch of him. In every bruise his fingers left behind. In every breath he stole.

We moved like we’d done this a thousand times in another life. Every touch, every breath, every shudder was earned… not given. I felt his pulse against mine, rapid and unsteady. He didn’t try to hide it now.

Clothes hit the floor. Skin met skin.

And in the haze of that moment… his breath in my ear, my name on his tongue… I knew what this was.

This wasn’t a fling. Not with Adler.

It was fire, and smoke, and something deep. Something dangerous.

And it was mine.

RAHHHHHHH I LOVR RUSSELL ADLER I NEED HIM IN MY LIFE… 😫😫😫😫😫😫

[keekszer0]

Erm.. hi.

I don’t know how to do these things but uhhhhh introduction time I suppose????? 😪

Masterlist!

That right there… is me. My names Keiko aaaaand that’s it tbh. Erm.. I’m from Germany………. But my blog will be English speaking only (except if some character speaks some other language or smth).. I’m a dudeeeee… anddddd yah. Idk what else there is to say about me if I’m being honest!!! I’ve thought about like.. starting a REAL blog where I post fics for a loooooong time and I have so many ideas for different characters I want to write about… oh and requests are always welcome!! Just check out my wills and wonts (which are gonna be down below lol)

Will write:

- almost anything I think?

- male reader and gn reader

-MAYBE fem reader. But don’t expect anything since I don’t have any experience!!

-kinky stuff… gulp.

-steamy stuff…. Gulp.

-fluff, angst platonic… pretty much anything!!

-I will try my hand with hcs and alphabets although I’ve never written them!!

-series’s that have multiple chapters

-oneshots!!

-can’t think of anything else..

WONT write:

-disgusting kinks (sorry a little shaming but whatever) like poopie and barf or stuff idk

-necrophilia (did I even spell that right?? Ykw I mean…)

-characters I don’t know.. I won’t have a list telling you what characters or fandoms I’m writing for since that would be way too much andddd I can’t think of all the things I like… BUT if you do request something i DONT know I’ll let you know!!! (I’ll write for most things tho)

-anything too weird really…

Aaaaand that’s all the things I can think of. These are just off the top of my head so if there’s any more things I WONT write and you still request it, I’ll just ignore it or smth..

Aaaaanyways.. I think this is all.. feel free to leave requests and I’ll see what I can do! I have sooo many fics stored in my notes but up until now I was way too embarrassed to post ANYTHING..

Oh and please excuse any grammar mistakes… English isn’t my first language and even tho I try to run my fics through grammar checks… accidents happen!!

[keekszer0]

🐺 To Tame a Beast

Chapter 1 – The Wolf at the Door

Pairing: Jacob Seed x M!Deputy

Fandom: Far Cry 5

Genre: Toxic Romance, Survival, Slow Burn(?)

Rating: M for violence, dark psychological themes, and obsession

Cold.

It wasn’t the kind that stung.. not at first. It was the kind that sank in. Slow and quiet. The kind that bled into the marrow, curled around the spine, turned bones into ice. It stole the breath from his lungs before he was even fully conscious, made his jaw clench, his fingers twitch, his limbs ache like someone else had been using them.

When the deputy finally woke.. truly woke.. the first thing he registered was pain. Then the hard press of wood beneath him, and fur. Animal fur, rough and unwashed, bunched beneath his cheek like a makeshift pillow.

A fire crackled nearby. The sound came before the heat reached him. And somewhere past that.. footsteps. Heavy. Measured. Like someone who knew how to make noise on purpose. A man used to his weight.

Then came the voice.

“You’re awake.”

He knew it immediately. No reason to turn. No need to guess.

Jacob Seed.

The deputy tried to push himself up, muscles screaming. His wrists were bound. Zip ties. And cold. His entire body shivered once, violently.

“You’re stubborn,” Jacob said behind him, tone unreadable. Calm. Like he was observing more than speaking. “Most of you break before the third night.”

“You could’ve just killed me.”

“I could’ve,” Jacob agreed, stepping into view, steam curling from the tin cup in his hands. His rifle hung from his shoulder, lazy but ready. “But then you wouldn’t learn anything.”

The deputy looked up through tangled hair, blood caked along the corner of his mouth. “Learn what?”

Jacob crouched in front of him, low enough for his shadow to stretch like a cloak across the floor. “What you really are. When no one’s watching. When the badge doesn’t matter anymore.”

The deputy didn’t remember the fall. Only the pain after. Cold and wet, and blood… his or someone else’s, he wasn’t sure. He remembered crawling. Trees that never ended. And then black.

Now he was here. Still alive. But not by accident.

Jacob watched him like a man studying an animal. Not cruel. Not kind. Just patient.

“You’re not a prisoner,” Jacob said, pulling the tin from his lips. “Not exactly.”

“Then cut the ties.”

Jacob’s eyes didn’t waver. “When I know you’re listening.”

“To what?”

He reached forward, pushed a strand of damp hair from the deputy’s face. The glove rasped against his skin.

“To yourself.”

The first time he killed someone, it was clean.

Clear shot. High tension. Justified. Everyone called it brave.

The second time… not so much.

That one was in an alley. A suspect resisting arrest. Close quarters. Fists. Then fists again. And again. And when the man stopped moving, the deputy kept hitting until a voice on the radio cut through.

It got written up. Explained away. “Adrenaline,” they said. “Fight or flight.”

But deep down… behind the badge, behind the press statements… he’d felt it: calm.

And on this mountain, buried under snow and silence and something far worse, that part of him was breathing again. Stretching its limbs. Remembering the taste.

He wanted to believe Jacob was wrong.

But that calm had never left. It had just gone quiet.

Jacob untied him on the second day.

Not because he trusted him. Trust had nothing to do with it. The cold did all the restraint work Jacob needed. If the deputy ran, he’d freeze. If he fought, he’d starve. If he begged… well, Jacob didn’t think he would.

So the deputy stayed.

He watched Jacob with a soldier’s caution… noting how he moved, how he ate, how his silence was more calculated than lazy. And Jacob watched back.

“I was trained to make killers,” he said one night, seated at the fire, cleaning his blade with slow, precise strokes. “Strip a man down to hunger and fear, and see what’s left.”

The deputy stared at him across the flickering orange light, hollow cheeked, lips cracked but steady.

Jacob’s voice dropped lower. “Most of the time, you find a coward. Sometimes, you find a monster.”

“You think I’m a monster?” the deputy asked, hoarse.

“No,” Jacob said. “I think you’re pretending not to be.”

Jacob disappeared sometimes.

Not long. Half a day. A full night, maybe. He’d return with blood on his sleeves and game slung over one shoulder, like it was no different than hauling lumber. Once, it wasn’t game. It was a body. A Chosen, mauled. Jacob didn’t explain. Just dragged it around the back and returned quiet.

The deputy asked nothing.

Because a part of him… the part Jacob spoke to, the part that listened even when he hated it… didn’t want to ask.

The longer he stayed, the more he caught himself tracking Jacob’s every movement. Not like prey. Not like an enemy. More like something… magnetic. The way he held himself. The sound of his boots. The way his hands looked too capable for comfort, even when still.

He wasn’t afraid of Jacob.

He was afraid of what Jacob pulled out of him.

One night, the wind howled like something alive. The fire danced violently, and the cracks in the cabin walls screamed with the pressure of it.

The furs weren’t enough.

The deputy curled in on himself, jaw clenched so tight it ached.

Jacob stood from his bedroll without a word, crossed the room, and tossed a blanket toward him. It landed in a heap.

He didn’t say thank you. Jacob didn’t wait for one.

But then Jacob stopped. Turned back.

“You don’t belong down there,” he said.

The deputy looked up.

“What?”

“Down in the county,” Jacob said, eyes sharp in the firelight. “Pretending your badge means something. Pretending you’re one of them.”

He stepped closer. Slowly.

“You’re not scared of me,” Jacob said. “You’re scared of what I make you feel.”

The deputy’s jaw clenched. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

But Jacob only smiled… slow and brutal.

“I know you’ve killed men for less than I’ve done to you. And yet here you are.”

Then he crouched.

Not to hit. Not to mock.

But to touch.

Two gloved fingers, pressed lightly against the deputy’s chest. Over his heart.

“I know this hasn’t stopped beating since I brought you here.”

The deputy wanted to pull away.

He didn’t.

He wanted to say Jacob was wrong.

He wasn’t.

Because deep in his chest, beneath the bruises and pride, his heart was hammering like a war drum.

And not from fear.

From heat.

From want.

From something worse.

He remembered the gas station kid. The one with the gun and shaking hands. He remembered how calm it felt after the shot. How clear the world became when there were no questions, only survival.

He remembered how this… Jacob’s voice, this fire, this game… felt the same.

“You don’t get it,” the deputy muttered, breaking the silence. “This isn’t love. Whatever this is… it’s not real.”

Jacob’s hand didn’t move.

“It doesn’t have to be real,” he said, voice low. “It just has to last.”

Do people even still read far cry fics?? 😫😫 do people even want x m!dep fics?? Should I just turn it into gen neutral so everyone’s happy?? 😵‍💫 help.

Chapter 2

[keekszer0]

PLEASEEEEEEEE FELIX X GN OR MALE READER PLEASEEEEEEE PLEASEEEEEE I CANT TAKE IT ANYMOREEEE IM GOING CRAZY

[keekszer0]

Hello Tumblr…. Haven’t been on here for a while… anyways..

COD FANDOM PLEASE MAKE MORE RUSSELL ADLER X GN READER AND MAKE FELIX NEUMANN X GN READER FICS I NEED THEM NEOWWWWWW PLSPLSPLSPLSPLSPLSPLS

[keekszer0]

Some disses are made for clout, or industry drama, or to further a career, build a rep, or promote an upcoming project. Others are made because you deadass fucking HATE a man. Drake is turning to the crowd for approval after every bar, Kendrick is holding direct eye contact and not blinking.