#cod mw fanfiction

[pokechbi]

🎀König’s fave positions🎀

NSFW 🔞

Although he loves to watch your face contort with pleasure as he slides his long, thick meaty cock in and out of you, he can’t help but submit to the idea of watching the fat of your ass jiggle against his hips as he fucks you doggy style. This can also be said for reverse cowgirl.

He loves to watch your cunt grip him from behind, relishing the view and sounds of your soppy walls squelching around him.

The main reason he loves to fuck you from behind, has to be because he can easily slip a thumb right into your virgin ass, handling you like a bowling ball as he pumps into you. He’ll use his thick thumb to control your speed, not allowing you to throw your ass back onto his dick and drive him crazy like you know you do.

König is obsessed with having you on top of him, your back to his chest and your feet propped up on his knees as he drills into you mercilessly. He can easily reach around and wrap his big hand around your throat, play with your nipples and ferociously rub at your clit. You love this position too, savoring the feeling of him moaning into your hair.

He often finds himself unable to contain himself from slipping into you during spoon-time, holding your leg up with one hand as he chokes you with the other. Cuddle time leads to this more often than not, but you weren’t complaining. His insatiable appetite for your sopping cunt was the reason you both couldn’t last long while embracing each other.

The mating press is also among his favorites. He favors the way your breathing restricts as he presses his weight into your thighs, folding you like a lawn chair. It also allows him to get so deep into you, filling you up to the brim with his hot cum. He can feel the way your body jolts with delicious pain as he slams into your cervix, practically feeling your womb graze the tip of his fat dick. He loves the way this position fuels his breeding kink.

[lundenloves]

dad!simon masterlist | taglist | masterlist | request info

dad!simon who will near fall asleep on the sofa, sat upright with wide legs and his arms crossed, only opening one eye to pretend he’s listening while one of his daughters rambles about school drama.

dad!simon who scoffs when another monthly subscription or amazon payment goes through his card, brows knitted together after asking just why the house has to be subscribed to four separate streaming services.

dad!simon who never remembers his kids’ friends names. it could be his daughters best friend of seven years and he still wouldn’t remember.

dad!simon who visually could not care less about the gossip his daughter waffles about, mumbling “mhm” every so often to appear engaged though shrugging when called out on his evident boredom.

dad!simon who tsks at all the parcels that come through the door day-to-day. living with three daughters and a wife, it’s constant. he detests being the only one home and having to sign for something — will actively ignore a knock on the door when there’s other people in the house.

dad!simon who (when drunk) is the height of amusement for his eldest. many snapchats exist of him being handed the phone already recording and goofily grinning into it while looking up at her “what am i supposed to be looking at?”

dad!simon who sticks post-it notes in bold handwriting to the fridge whenever anyone has an appointment due the following day. “don’t forget.” complete with a fullstop and a harsh underline of the time in military digits.

dad!simon who replies sarcastically to almost every obvious question with his natural glare, something each of his kids had genetically taken: “don’t ask stupid questions and you won’t get stupid answers.” he loves them really.

dad!simon who silenced the family groupchat as soon as he had figured out how to, only replying every other day with a thumbs up reaction or more likely a thumbs down.

dad!simon who side eyes his kids. he doesn’t mean it, yet it happens. watching throw away tv? side eye. talking too loud on the phone? side eye. wearing a questionable outfit? side eye.

dad!simon who has a firm routine. he fucking detests being interrupted, and or spoken to from the hours of five till seven in the morning. he’ll get up, have food and go to the gym all in this time frame before anyone can dent his peace.

dad!simon who sighs avidly. a long and painful sigh after any merely simple question is asked or he’s to pick up one of his kids from a night out. “fucking well told ‘er not to expect me past twelve.” while accidentally slamming the door behind him, keys jingling around his finger.

dad!simon who struggles to show affection in any other way than a short pat of the shoulder or a one armed hug, pulling his kids into his chest for mere seconds before stepping back.

dad!simon who groans whenever anything gets moved in the house. his military mind in favour of keeping things in one position, untouched and moved for preferably ever unless he was told. though, having kids didn’t quite work like that.

dad!simon who: “do i ‘av to do fucking everything in this house? eh?”

simon ‘ghost’ riley taglist: @vamppxncess @crowbird @tallrock35 @fluffmonster @islanderr @blueoorchid @lea3773 @coldflapjack @rayhawk05 @han11dh @liishook @melovetitties @fallonx @rvjaa @fuckmelifesucks @bhayatsara @takeomisbitch @local-spidey @konigsblog @penutjuice @babychoi03 @sheluvzeren @sparklingtragedy @maviee @wiserebelpartypie @daddylorianisastateofmind @bhayatsara @mistydeyes @writingmysanity @johfaam0 @idkbbyx3 @gressseyy @fwibblefwobble @shibble @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @airghostlyfox @hotgirlsshareaccounts @simpxinnie @dilfdotgov @cliosunshine @bloobewy @lazybutsmexy @maki-z @yyiikes @tieflingteatime @cosmoscoffeee @lilvampirina @cinnabeanz @bubbyblob

˗ˏˋ university is still kicking my arse into next week. i joined the football team too, fuck knows why i’m making myself busier than i have to be. alas here we are, and i’m feeding the pigeons! aka sprinkling dad headcannons until i get traction again. pls love me, pls follow me, pls reblog, pls validate me.

the reason i tag this as ‘x reader’ as it’s ur fuckin family with him. no one bite my head off man i can’t be bothered tonight.

[stanfordswifey]

König being your boyfriend

I got bored, enjoy! Edited: something triggering at the last part (consenual somnophilia)

Okay first of all, he's gentle. Very gentle. He knows he's strong and his hands would break necks within seconds, he would use those hands to gently caress your cheek, trying his best not to hurt you.

Mans would cry if you got hurt because of him, even if it was an accident.

Wouldn't let you work, doesn't want to risk you being called by some other men when he's not around.

Scary dog privileges.

During movie nights, he would definitely pull you closer by pulling your shoulder, would def kiss your forehead too

Probably would take him atLEAST a year to take off his mask around you, and when he does, he would shower you with kisses.

Makes up for the time he's not here with you by buying you stuff online, sending you flowers, letters, clothes etc.

Mans would carry a picture of you in his wallet at all times, in battle he'd hide your photo under his bicycle helmet.

LOVES arts and crafts, he would give you homemade things like paper roses, paper rings and etc. (Stan taylor swift)

Since he gets socially anxious, he makes up for the fact that you can't go on fancy dates and he would do everything in his power to make you two dinner, flowers, tables, he's got everything.

In the mornings, he would probably hesitate letting you go and pulling you in for a hug, spooning you closely so you can't move. Eventually you give in and hug him back, making him smile.

Very dumb at times, man would probably try to wash the microwave by rinsing it with water if you're not there.

Would pull you closer to him and death glare the person if someone so much as dared to smile at you

Personal bodyguard.

Would probably fuck you when you're asleep, finds it fun when you unconsciously squirm under him.

[ghostaholics]

𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑

➸ PAIRING: Lieutenant Simon 'Ghost' Riley x gn medic!Reader (same reader from here, but this is a stand-alone) ➸ SUMMARY: You kiss Simon's very minor injuries. And then some. (Or, alternatively: He's not actually wounded. He just wants to see you.) ➸ WARNING(S): some graphic descriptions of old injuries ➸ A/N: Need to preface that this isn't smut despite how the title and summary sound. Anyways, Jo knows I listened to Hozier's Other Voices 2020 version of "Work Song" for a week straight while writing this. ➸ WC: 2k

❝ 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍' 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐋𝐃, ❞ he admits, low-timbered. It feels intimate, especially coming from him. Simon's sitting on the cot; it sags under his weight. He curls his hands over the edge of it as he leans forward. No casualties post-mission means he's got free rein to pick wherever he wants in the medical tent.

"Oh, yeah? What about?"

"That I should probably do my best to avoid injuries so I don’t keep pestering you. Can always just tell me to fuck off, y’know.”

“You’re gonna break my heart if you stop coming around.

“Mm,” he says in agreement. “Can’t have that can we?”

You nod your head earnestly. “I like your company.”

“Tryin’ to say that you’ll miss me?”

“I would.” More than he knows.

It’s routine now. He gives you just enough room, adjusting his position. You step into the space made between Simon’s splayed knees, his massive legs nearly bracketing yours with how close they are. He’s bigger than you. Well, considerably more mammoth-like in his proportions compared to an overwhelming majority of the soldiers that you’ve encountered, to be quite honest.

Simon acts as though he’s acutely aware of his size. You suspect that he purposefully makes himself smaller in your presence. Like now, how his shoulders are rounded forward, the column of his spine not as straight-arrow in that standard, militaristic posture most servicemen have adopted. As if he doesn’t want to appear too intimidating. Not that Simon could, to you. Hours doing his stitches and idle chitchat on your part have taught you that he’s much less ruthless than people seem to paint him as. But you appreciate the thought anyway.

You conduct the assessment – a typical evaluation normal for combat casualty care, more in-depth than the one you’d done when he initially stopped by and you did a quick once-over for any obvious injuries. Though given the complete vacancy in the medical tent, you find it hard to believe that you’ll come across anything on him since the mission went that smoothly.

The first thing you notice this time: he doesn't smell like spilled blood. It's different. Not that sweet, rusted iron of wet tackiness – the one that reminds you of a generous stack of two pence coins held between a pair of hands cupped together. He comes in that way a lot. Reeks, because war means that he's no stranger to charging through a shower of copper and lead-forged bullets out on the field. Everything else is still there, though. Maybe a dying campfire – crackling logs and blackened earth. Soft dirt excavated from a foxhole for cover while under enemy fire. All gunpowder and Marlboro Lights and diesel-fuel smoke. Fresh rain and a blue-violet sky after a storm. Victory without consequence.

You'd breathe it in if you could, pull the collar of his jacket up to your face. At this proximity, it’d be easy.

He drops the act when he’s in front of you. Lieutenant. Ghost. Battle-hardened, gruff. A natural-born leader. The kind of person to rip this world apart brick by brick – scraped up palms clutching onto broken pieces – to make sure that the plan is executed accordingly, no matter the cost. It’s hard for him to shed that layer. A drop in the bucket of information that you’ve gathered about this man.

You’ve seen him at his best. But you know him at his worst.

The laundry list of injuries over the years: blows to his torso and his back and his limbs that were brighter than technicolor – purples and reds and sickly yellow-green shades – deep, blotchy medals of violence decorating his skin like some kind of fucked-up kaleidoscope that was nothing to be proud of; when some bastard drove a knife right into his upper thigh, that dirty blade wedged through tissue and muscle which was sure as hell going to induce the nastiest infection without serious TLC and a tetanus shot; rib fractures 7-9 because he aborted an exploding heli, seconds to spare before landing on his side wrong from a height that was equivalent to three stories tall; old GSWs dotting his body the same way you’d shove push pins into a paper-flimsy map to mark the places you’ve been to.

And then there’s no contest for the top contender. 𝐆𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐭'𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐈𝐧𝐣𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐭 #𝟏: when he was rushed in on a stretcher, barely clinging to life. Lower abdomen shredded by exploding shrapnel. He was outside of the window of opportunity. Too far beyond that golden hour, so his chances of surviving plummeted to a single-digit percent.

He’s more than just a patchwork of scars. There’s a complex person underneath the surface. A miracle in the flesh to have toughed it out through all of that. Resilient. Perpetual. His callsign makes sense. Ghosts really do live forever.

Several seconds pass before you speak again. It’s a silly comment, teasing – poking fun at him. You don’t have any reservations when it comes to picking on Simon; he’s good about taking these things in stride. Funny, actually. He’s got a dry sense of humor. “I think… you like the idea of someone taking care of you.”

His response isn’t immediate. It’s delayed, said with intention. He doesn’t ever waste words. “Not just anybody.”

You nearly reel back at that. Warmth floods your face. You aren’t quite sure what to say, didn’t expect it. So you let the comment hang in the air between the two of you, busying your hands with slipping off his tac vest, triple-checking for hidden wounds, doing anything to keep yourself occupied while you stand this close to him in the wake of that remark. You’re engrossed in your work, in search of a distraction.

(He’s a distraction, isn’t he?)

And then your eyes stop in their scan. Right there: a small nick on the exposed sliver of skin between his glove and sleeve – open to the direct path of some wayward debris that happened to graze him. So tiny. You’ve seen paper cuts more harrowing than this – wouldn’t have even registered on your radar, especially if it’s being dwarfed by other critical wounds that hold decisive sway over somebody’s fate when it comes to your average life-or-death scenario.

Of course, you take your job very seriously.

You feign a sharp inhale. “Ah,” you say solemnly, guiding his arm up to your face for a closer look. “Found your problem.”

“I’ve got a problem,” he echoes, voice laced with amusement.

“See, you came to the right place. Anybody else would’ve missed it.”

“The verdict, then?”

“So terrible. Earth-shattering, in fact—”

Simon starts pulling away. “Alright, that’s enough of you takin’ the piss outta me,” he gripes.

You chase his arm to recapture it into your grasp. “Wait!” you say, huffing out a laugh. Your mouth sprouts into a wide grin that makes him roll his eyes.

“You gonna treat me or what?”

Your humor bubbles away as you come back to your senses. Those once-loud peals of laughter start to die down when you take his question into consideration. Because there’s really nothing for you to do; he doesn’t need you.

The realization is slow-moving. It washes over you, rolls like waves as you finally begin to sober up.

Simon wants to be here, and he’s looking for any excuse to stay. He just can’t find the courage to own up to it.

“I dunno. Might be unconventional,” you throw out casually, playing along. “Risky, maybe – never been done before.”

But he’s undeterred. “Sure. Whatever you gotta do.”

You pause for a beat, fingers still wrapped around his forearm because you haven’t managed to let go yet. His skin is warm under your palm. You’re not sure what exactly possesses you to do it – emboldened by his encouragement, given complete carte blanche; he’s leaving this to your discretion. So you press your lips to that area where the cut is, right over his pulse point. If you had lingered for longer, you probably would’ve been able to feel it thudding, that solid rhythm and easy strength reminding you he’s alive.

You expected him to withdraw his arm in bewilderment. He should’ve kicked up a fuss about you violating his boundaries, should’ve told you that you overstepped. Something, right?

But he doesn’t do any of that. Simon’s studying you. Dark pupils. So chasm-deep that the ground beneath your feet might slip away. Ocean trenches, midnight-black like the charcoal smudged around his eyes. When they land on you, his gaze goes molasses-soft. He’s fond; there’s little room for doubt. The way he looks at you says everything. None of that usual coldness he harbors during an op. Instead, relaxed and more human than you’re used to seeing – all of his attention focused solely on you.

“Where else, Simon?” you whisper.

He’s thinking – carefully weighing his options – the same expression that he gets when a crossroads lies ahead of him and he knows his make-it-or-break-it decision will invariably affect the outcome of a mission.

After several moments, his hand comes up. Simon’s fingers curl underneath the hem of his mask; he’s been wearing the fabric balaclava more often since you’ve fixed the stitching on it. Then he lifts – not the entire way. Just to reveal the bottom half of his face. There he is. Sandpaper-rough stubble. The sharp cut of his jaw. A mouth that you’re convinced wears a scowl 24/7 behind his mask but is now slightly twitched up.

Even though you’ve seen it before, the sight of him never fails to steal your breath away. Feels like meeting him for the first time again. With how rarely he does this, it might as well be – that slow, heart-melting sensation is steadily filling the cavern of your chest.

And you lean in. Your lips brush against his; it’s a chaste thing – the kiss – if it can be called that. Gentle. Like how you’d stitch up his wounds with a light touch and kind intent. He’s built of sterner stuff, but if there’s anything you’ve learned about him, it’s that he’s capable of breaking just as easily as everyone else. You always handle Simon with care: unequivocal compassion and empathy when there’s so little of those left on this side of war – privileges that he’s never taken for granted.

“Better?” you ask quietly, tipping your head in question.

Simon hums his approval – this pleased, low sound in his throat. His hand slides across your lower back. He tugs you towards him. “Wouldn’t mind some more attention,” he murmurs, before slotting his mouth over yours. And then he kisses you like it might heal him from the outside in.

[lycheedr3ams]

MDNI

if you haven’t listened to this NSFW konig audio, do it now………… 😳

HIS MOANing

WHEN HE CALLS ME A GUTES MÄDCHEN

(Meme made by me)

The fact I’m posting about this with a straight face while in the doctors office lobby (dw no one can see my phone)

https://href.li/?https://soundgasm.net/u/wagnerfirst/M4F-Bilingual-Fun-with-Your-German-Boyfriend-BFE-Cunnilingus-Ass-play-Vaginal-Sex-Creampie-Dirty-talk-a-little-Teasing-and-Teaching-You-Words-Kissing-Mouth-Sounds-Moaning-Laughing-Stereo-Audio-2615

[merowkittie]

simon would like to dream for a few minutes longer. a few weeks longer, but that’s not realistic. he wants to be able to smell your scent for a while longer. to feel your silky hair and soft skin against his stubbly chin and rough cheeks.

he’s still experiencing his honeymoon phase. still stuck on the morning kisses, the breakfast in bed, the sex in the shower. simon doesn’t know how he’ll survive without any of it. how can a man leave his awfully doting, motherly, and sensitive girlfriend (which he should’ve changed to wife by now) alone?

though, he knows that when the time comes, you’ll make him his favorite breakfast with a cup of earl grey. wash his uniform and prepare his last homemade lunch for a while, before kissing him at the door and sending him on his way for however long he was called for.

but simon will think about that in a week from now, or maybe a couple of days. for now he’ll just enjoy the tight embrace you have on him as you use him as a teddy bear for the night.

[sageyxbabey]

Hospital Food | COD x Reader

MDNI

Summary: Your ex-husband (the biological father of your daughter) shows up when said daughter is admitted to hospital. Your current partner (and your daughter) put him in his place.

aka: stupid man gets verbally wrecked by a 17-year-old girl and a SAS soldier. Inspired by the time my stepdad and i roasted my bio dad.

For @the-californicationist 's Nameless Challenge! This means you have to guess which of the delicious war criminals I'm writing about below. (This has inspired a series, so you'll find out who I was thinking of when the second one comes out. ;) )

WC: ~700 words (oops, forgive me cali)

Pairing: f!reader x tf141 member (but who? 👀)

Your ex-husband stood at the foot of his biological daughter’s hospital bed, watching her tap salt out of the little sachet onto a piece of buttered bread. His face was full of condescension, and you knew yours was full of barely contained disgust as you stared at him. God damn the child support agreement that required you to tell him when she was admitted to a hospital. At least you had otherwise full custody of her, you’re sure your ex would’ve been murdered by now if you’d been forced to see him semi-regularly – either by you or your wonderful (deadly, military-trained) partner who hated the man in front of you almost as much as you did.

God, you wish he was here right now. Unfortunately, he was wonderful enough to have gone down to the cafeteria in search of lunch for the both of you – and something sweet to sneak back in for your little girl. He spoiled her rotten, and it made you love him more every time he did. 

“That’s a lot of salt,” your ex rumbled. If looks could kill, the stare your 17-year-old daughter levelled him with would’ve evaporated him where he stood.

“Yes. It is,” she spoke. 

Tap tap tap, she resumed shaking the sachet.

“They put salt in bread when they make it. White bread is about 3% salt,” he said. As if there was some important point your daughter was missing.

“I know. I’ve made bread before.”

Tap tap tap.

It was taking every fibre of your being not to laugh with sheer joy and vindication as your daughter, the blood of your ex-husband, so casually eviscerated him in the middle of this tiny white room.

“Which is to say, you don’t need to be adding salt to it.” You didn’t think the man could sound any whinier. You were about to step in, but your daughter let out a deep sigh beyond her years (definitely picked up from the soldier who shared your home) and threw the empty salt packet onto the bed tray.

“Tell me, why shouldn’t I eat that much salt?” Her arms crossed in front of her, your ex-husband looked to you for help. He would get none.

“Because… it makes your body retain fluid and raises blood pressure–”

“Correct. I am in this hospital because I have low blood pressure caused by a low volume of fluid in my blood. They give me the salt packet on purpose. I am prescribed literal salt tablets,” she shook the bottle in the man’s face, “because I need to raise my blood pressure up to normal levels.”

Silence. Blinking.

“So I am going to eat this bread because it is what the doctor ordered.” Her head snapped to you, with a chaotic glint in her eye only teenage girls could possess. The next words out of her mouth would stay with you until your dying breath;

“Hey, Mum. When’s Dad coming back?”

You could not fight the grin that spread across your face, the elation jumping in your stomach. A quick glance at your ex-husband’s sour face made it clear that your daughter’s point had struck true – You are not welcome here. I do not need you. I have a real father where you failed.

You opened your mouth to reply, “He’s–”

“Right here, love!” The warm, gravelly voice of your partner filled the room, your daughter’s eyes lighting up with his presence. He stopped to press a tender kiss against your cheek, passing you a toasted sandwich, before he made his way to stand over the shoulder of your precious daughter.

“And I got you something special,” he whispered playfully, “Don’t tell the nurse.” He pulled a poppy seed muffin out of the bag he was holding and placed it on the bed tray in front of her. 

“Sorry mate, who are you?” Your partner turned and cocked his head at your ex. 

Your man knew exactly who the snivelling creature across from him was. Your boyfriend was just deciding to be a little shit, and it was one of the sexiest things you’d ever seen him do. 

“Dad, this is Marcus. You know, the man who got Mum pregnant with me?” Your daughter’s voice was poorly disguised venom. 

“Oh, right! Of course. I suppose I should thank you for your part in creating my wonderful daughter.” He stretched a hand out to your ex-husband who, for once in his life, made the smart choice to shake it and give some poor excuse for why he was needed elsewhere.

As soon as he was out the door, you had your arms around your lover, pressing endless kisses to his cheek as your daughter laughed. 

“Did you hear what I said, Dad?” 

Your partner leaned down to hug the girl – his girl – tightly. He grinned.

“Every fucking word.”

----------

I LOVE MY STEPDAD SO MUCH HE'S MY REAL DAD and my mother and he are truly couple goals. I was on the phone with him the other day when I asked if he remembered this happening. he let out the most fatherly cackle of pure, shit-stirring joy I've ever heard. It was magnificent.

forgot the TAGLIST: @frogtowne @teenagellamaangel @universitypenguin

[sentientcave]

Retirement Party

Price has retired from Military life, and he's not handling the change well. But on the one year anniversary of him hanging it up, his boys bring him something special to help keep him busy. You.

Chapter Two - An Understanding

< Prev Chapter - Next Chapter >

Contains: No Y/N (Reader is an OC), Kidnapping, Forcible relocation, Generally creepy behaviour, Alcohol mention, Smoking mention (Tobacco), I guess this might count as human trafficking?, Dubcon everything because Reader is terrified (non-sexual), plus-sized reader, fem/afab reader, There is something fucking wrong with these guys for real, More reader details given, but we're still pretty vague about it. Even though it is hard for me. No promises for future chapters though.

~3.8k - MDNI - Dark fic! Please mind the content warning above

The captain looks at you for a long moment, dark blue eyes wide with surprise as he takes you in. You have to admit that he’s handsome, dark brown hair and well-groomed facial hair (muttonchops, no less) flecked with silver, and a nice nose that skews to the large side. It gives him a friendly, approachable demeanour, despite the weight of his stare. His heavy attention shifts from you to the other three, and his expression turns serious. “Lads,” he says, his voice a rumble that you can feel through your own body. “Please tell me this isn’t what it looks like.”

“Weeeel. It might be,” Johnny says apprehensively. “But I did my research, sir. She’ll be perfect for ye, ye’ll see.”

“She’s a good girl,” Ghost adds. “Sweet as can be. Won’t be any trouble for you.”

“Already moved her in and everything.” Gaz gestures around the room, looking rather too proud of their work.

The captain nods slowly, taking in the new additions to the space. “So you did. And did this pretty little thing agree to having her life upended, or did you lads just decide for her?” His arms shift around you, and you feel almost protected, oddly enough, even though by the size of him, he’s just as dangerous as the others. Probably even more dangerous, the way they defer to him, standing in a line like cadets, eager for his approval.

“Not… Not exactly,” Gaz admits. “I mean, we didn’t ask. But this’ll be better for her. She was living in a real rat hole before. Tiny little apartment in a shite neighbourhood. Was only a matter of time before something bad happened. We’re just looking out for her.”

Johnny shuffles his feet. “Dealt with a few neds while I was doin’ reconnaissance, even. Poor lass coulda been in real trouble if I hadna been there. Bawbag employers would ask her to stay past the last bus to watch the bairns an’ no’ even offer her a ride or ta pay fer a cab.”

“It wasn’t that far a walk,” you protest, glaring at Johnny. As if it’s any of his business. “And they did offer to drive me, I just wasn’t— It doesn’t matter! You had no right—”

The captain shushes you, and your words wither on your tongue, your cheeks turning hot under his stern blue gaze. He cups your jaw and turns your head to face him again, the rough pad of his thumb stroking your cheek gently. “Sweetheart, you and I will talk in a moment. Soap’s right about that not bein’ safe, and you know it.”

Your stomach flutters nervously. He gives you a little smile, and his crow’s feet deepen, the lines fanning out further. There’s a moment where you’re tempted to smile back, but his legs shift under you, and you wince sympathetically instead. “Sorry, I should get off of you,” you say quickly. “I’m heavy.”

“I won’t stop you if you’d like to sit somewhere else,” he says, that cheeky smile deepening more. "But you’re not heavy, and I'd like it if you stayed put."

"Told ye he'd like her," Johnny whispers, loud enough that it shatters the isolated pocket of reality that, for a moment, housed only you and the captain. "Hasna even introduced himself an' he's flirtin' like mad."

"Soap!" Gaz hisses back. "Shut up."

Ghost scruffs them both. "Let's finish getting dinner on. Give 'em a minute to talk."

Johnny grins at you and gives you two thumbs up as he circles around to the kitchen, as if you’d actually been a willing participant in all of this.

"I'm John, by the way," the captain says, calling your attention back to him. He drops his hand and settles it on your knee, his fingers curling around the joint. "You alright, doll?"

A loaded question. "Well. Not really."

"You're keepin' it together real nicely, all considered. Wouldn't blame you if you were hissin' and scratching."

"I'm not much of a fighter," you admit. "And even if I was, I don't think it would do me much good."

John chuckles, squeezing your knee lightly. He's gentle, but there's power in those hands, the kind that comes from years of hard work. There's scars all over it, from his the tips of his calloused fingers up to the leather band of his watch, etched in evidence of violence. If there are scars further up his arms, their hidden by the buffalo plaid flannel. "No, it probably wouldn't."

"Are you going to let me go home?" you ask.

He sighs. "The thing is, doll, the boys have put me in an awkward spot here. If I let you go on home, you're going to get them in trouble, and I don't want to see that happen."

"I promise, I won't say anything, I just--"

He shushes you again, and you shut your mouth, biting your lip. "Let me finish, sweetheart. You're being so good right now because you're scared. But that's not gonna last, is it? And worse, it sounds like you don't really have much to go back to."

"I'll find a new job. I always do."

"With another family who doesn't appreciate the work you put in? That doesn't make you feel safe?" His fingertips toy with the edge of your skirt absently, but his eyes are on your face, studying your reaction with rapt attention. This is how a rabbit must feel, pinned under the stare of a grizzly bear, frozen in place and hoping that no claws come down on top of it. "I can read between the lines, doll. That man you were workin' for made you feel so uncomfortable that you'd rather walk through a bad neighbourhood at night than get into a car with him alone."

You can't dispute it, although you're surprised he can glean so much information from half an outburst. "It wasn't like that-- He wasn't that bad."

John hums. "You're tellin' me you've had worse?"

A dozen jobs with a dozen managers or coworkers that took your silence as permission to stand too close, or put their hands on you flash across your mind. Mr. Kinsey was just the latest of many. You know that the thought is displayed on your face, from the way his eyebrows pinch together just slightly, not angrily, but concerned. You try to deflect with a little laugh. "Oh, well. I suppose I have. But hasn't everyone?"

"Soap had a bad lieutenant once and locked the man in his own car when he was just a private. Just because you have a bad boss doesn't mean you have to take it." He looks at you so seriously as he speaks, his fingers dancing distracting circles against the top of your knee, rough fingertips catching on the nylons just slightly. The heat from the arm curled around your waist bleeds through the fabric of your dress, his hand twitching slightly, like all he wants to do is take a handful of soft flesh. “You should speak up when you’re not comfortable, doll. You just need some practice standin’ up for yourself, don’t you?”

If a statement could have teeth, this one would, and you’re not sure if agreeing or disagreeing will have him closing his jaws around you. He’s probably right, you do need to do a better job of standing up for yourself. But you’re certain that he doesn’t want you to start by standing up to him, or his three attack dogs either. “I’ll work on it,” you say meekly. You test his commitment to the statement by gently picking his hand off of your knee, although there’s nowhere to really put it either.

“We’ll work on it,” he agrees, lacing your fingers together. When he rests your now-entwined hands, it’s a little further up your thigh. “You want a drink, darlin’?”

“Oh, um, no thank you.” You wouldn’t mind another tea, but you don’t think that’s what you’re being offered.

The scrutiny he puts you under is intense, like he’s determined to figure out what every microscopic shift in your expression might mean. “You sure, doll? You gotta ask if you want somethin’, or you won’t get it.”

“I would like a tea. But I can make it, I don’t want to be trouble.”

“Nonsense. Lads?” he tips his head back slightly.

“On it, sir,” Gaz replies cheerfully.

Ghost leans over the back of the couch to hand John a tumbler. Whiskey or scotch, by the sharp smell that hits you. John pulls his hand away from yours to accept the glass. “Thank you, Simon,” he says pleasantly. "Good lad."

“S’your party, sir. An’ you’re busy, ain’t you?” Ghost rests his hands on the back of the couch and studies the pair of you, dark eyes gleaming with pride. The man has the demeanour of a cat that’s brought in a helpless little bunny to his master, while it’s still alive and struggling.

“Gettin’ to know our pretty guest.” John smiles at you over the rim of his glass as he takes a sip. “She’s a sweet girl.”

“Isn’t she just?”

“Could I, um, sit over there?” you ask, glancing at the chair. Somehow John had managed to distract you from the idea of moving for a while, but you were still eager to get a little space from him, especially with Ghost looming over both of you.

“Of course, sweetheart,” John’s arm loosens, and you quickly get up and move to the chair.

You almost feel cold, without the heat that radiates off of his body. His attention feels weightier now too, or maybe it’s just that his body isn’t shielding the stares from Johnny, Gaz and Ghost, and you’re subjected to all four of them watching you, like you’re either fascinating or delicious (or both). You cross your arms over your chest and shrink into yourself as much as possible, eyes wide.

"Here's yer tea, hen. And may I just say, ye've go' a fantastic rack from this angle." Johnny hands you the mug and sits on the arm of the chair, leaning over you. "Weel. Ye've go' a nice rack from any angle. Nice arse too. Captain's lucky I like him so much, or I'd've gone for you myself."

You breathe in steam, wrinkling your nose slightly. It doesn't smell quite right. "Did you put something in this?"

"Aye. Finger of whiskey. Ye look all stiff and peaky still. Need a pick me up, don't ya?"

You look at him reproachfully. He sighs and plucks the tea from your hands and takes a big sip. "There's nothin' else in there, if that's what yer askin', ye suspicious wee daftie. A little whiskey ne'er hurt no one." He hands the mug back to you, smile crooked, doing his best to be charming, but he's too intense, too fervent, to be anything but unsettling.

“Got Johnny checkin’ everythin’ for poison, do you?” Ghost asks, chuckling. “Can’t say I blame you.” He nudges John with the back of his hand. “She’s smart, worth keepin’ an eye on that. Know’s ‘ow to ‘old ‘er tongue, but she’s listenin’ and payin’ attention.”

“Of course she is! Wouldna choose a lass withoot a brain in her head. Wouldna be worth the captain’s time. Weel, maybe worth a wee bit of time.” He winks down at you. “But no’ wife material, ye ken. Chose her because she’s delightful, no’ just ‘cause she’s bonnie.”

The few times you’d spoken to Johnny before you’d thought that he was so nice. Laughing and joking with you in the pick up line while you waited for the children you were respectively responsible, greeting his niece and nephew with big smiles. And Finn and Rory were always so excited to see him, you’d chalked him up as harmless. Clearly you hadn’t been paying enough attention then, too focused on the Kinsey kids and your job, maybe. You hadn’t noticed that he was appraising you like a piece of livestock, judging your value like you’d been put up to auction.

The whisky-fortified tea is a bit on the strong side, but you take a few sips anyway. Getting drunk would be unwise, but you’re so tense that your whole body is starting to ache, and that’s not doing you any good either.

“Dinner’s ready,” Gaz announces, untying his kiss the cook apron and setting it on the counter. “Hope you’re hungry. Soap made a cake earlier too.”

John raises an eyebrow. “You can bake?” he asks, surprised.

“Aye, picked it up while I was gettin’ rehabbed for the big fuck-off hole in my head,” he replies airily. “Was goin’ mental putterin’ around Kirsty’s waitin’ for the bairns to get out of school, so Ah picked it up. Isnae so hard. Just chemistry, aye?”

“He did make a big mess,” Gaz says. “Had to wash about fifty dishes before I could get started on dinner.”

“Everyone’s a fuckin’ critic,” Johnny complains. “See if I bake ye a cake for yer birthday, Garrick. Ye’ll be sorry then.”

“Oh no, how will I survive?” Gaz clutches his chest like he’s deeply wounded by the statement, laughing. “I have two mums, I’m still pretty much guaranteed a cake.”

“Always braggin’ abou’ that. Thinks he’s more evolved than the rest of us just because his da’s a woman.” He hovers next to you as you get up, and sticks close as you walk over to the table. You don’t choose a seat, in case there’s an order to things you’re not aware of.

“Pretty sure the whole point is that he dun’t ‘ave a dad,” Ghost says. “Now sit down, mutt. Yer not sittin’ next to the bird. You’re botherin’ ‘er.” He points at a chair, and Johnny sighs and slinks into it.

“Here, sweetheart,” John says, putting his big hand on your back to guide you the last few steps and directing you to a seat. He slides the chair in for you too, masquerading as a gentleman, and sits next to you.

Gaz settles in on your other side, all smiles. “Feeling better?”

They keep asking you how you are, as if the answer is going to change. Like all you need to adjust to the reality of being kidnapped and relocated to some stranger’s house in the country is a little time. Like you’re going to be just fine, if you just get a few more minutes to adjust. “Not really.”

"Ah, don't worry, doll. Captain's gonna be real good to you. You'll get there soon enough. Probably'll feel better once you've had a proper meal."

At least they don't try to make you talk much at the table. They fall into easy conversation between them, and let you eat roasted chicken and potatoes and carrots with some kind of sweet and mildly spicy glaze. Ghost pulls the mask down to eat, so you're able to watch when he goes slightly pink from what barely qualifies as spice. Gaz gives you a little side-long glance, and you almost laugh. There's some solidarity to be had, even in a situation like this one, something funny about how a little more spice could probably straight up kill the other three men at the table. Maybe that would be the key to you freedom: Murdering John by feeding him something full of chilies.

Admittedly, you do feel begrudgingly more charitable towards them after eating. You could maybe blame it on the tea too, which, against your better judgment, you do end up finishing.

John stops you from helping clean up when you stand automatically and try to stack Gaz's empty plate with your own. "No, sweetheart. C’mere." He guides you to the door and out into the chilly evening air. You wish that Ghost had let you put on a sweater over your summery dress, but he had been so keen to show you off, and you’d been too scared to insist. You curl your arms around yourself for warmth, and keep quiet, watching as John trims and lights a cigar, looking out into the darkness beyond the porch.

Fear has morphed from pressing terror to something that gnaws at you from the pit of your stomach. You could try to run for it, but you’d probably roll your ankle wearing the stupid red heels, and you have no real idea where you are, or how far you are from someone who could help you. Outrunning John would be a feat anyway. He’s older than you, but he’s in better shape, nearly perfect shape, broad and strong, that long military career not yet forgotten.

There’s a bench by the door, so you sit down to take the heels off. You’re not used to wearing them, it’s so rare that you have anywhere to go that calls for spicier footwear than your comfortable, worn in trainers.

“Here.” John slides his flannel shirt off and drapes it over your shoulders, and kneels down in front of you, cigar clamped in his mouth, pulling your heels off for you. Smoke curls around you for a moment, thin and blue in the scant light, before a breeze carries it away. He leans on his one leg and studies you, but he doesn’t stand. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

You put your arms through the sleeves of the flannel, humming noncommittally. You know you’re pretty enough, by most standards, but you feel like his interest— And the interest of the other three— is disproportionate, too intense.

“I’d like you to stay a while, doll,” he continues. “I won’t force you, I’m not that kind of man, but I’d have a hard time letting you go back to living paycheck to paycheck in a bad nieghbourhood, workin’ for creeps that don’t know how to keep their hands to themselves. You deserve better than that.” It’s as though he doesn’t even hear his own words though, or imagines himself better, because he absently runs his hands over your calf, squeezing the tense muscle gently.

“I have to work,” you protest, biting back a moan. You didn’t need to encourage him, even if you weren’t quite brave enough (or willing) to stop him. “I have student loans, and I send money to my lola in Vigan. I can’t afford to just disappear off the face of the earth.”

He nods thoughtfully. “How much?”

"Three hundred pounds a month to Lola. I know it might not seem like a lot, but it goes a lot further there."

"And the student loans?"

"Sixteen thousand. Not that much, I worked through my degree, and I inherited a bit of money from my parents. But I still have to--"

"I'll pay for both. You'll stay until you find a good job, and a safer apartment." He says it like it's a final edict, no room for argument.

You pull your leg out of his grip, tucking both further back under the bench. "No, John, I don't want to owe you either--"

"You won't. My boys kidnapped you and disrupted your whole life. I'd pay a lot more if it keeps you from going to the police over it. Least I can do is make sure you're better off when you do leave here, hm?"

You bite your lip. Starting over with a clean slate is tempting, but you're not sure you can trust John. He seems so earnest, blue eyes clear and guileless, but he can't be much better than the other three. Unless he was just holding their leashes tight as their captain, and had to let them loose when he retired.

"Can I think about it?" you ask.

"Of course." He puts his hand on your knee to steady himself as he leans across to ash the cigar in the ashtray that sits on a little table next to the bench. "But I think you'll say yes. You're a smart girl, hm?"

You're tempted to say no, just to test weather or not he's being honest about not forcing you to stay, but there's a niggling worry in the back of your mind that the veneer of civility will evaporate if you push him on it. He's nice enough now. And maybe that niceness isn't a show, maybe he has no darker side, maybe it's all just paranoia on your part. Perhaps the worst thing about him is his predilection to protect his "boys", even though all three are clearly insane.

Military is like that, isn’t it? The whole brotherhood thing? Maybe fighting for your life beside someone changes how you see them forever.

“How long did you all serve together?” you ask. “Johnny mentioned that he was SAS before— I asked about the scar once.” You tap the side of your head, the same spot where Johnny has a nasty bullet scar.

“Long time. Hand-picked Gaz and Soap for my taskforce about ten years back. Simon and I served together longer. He’s a captain now, even if the lads still call him LT. They’re both lieutenants, and Gaz’ll be a captain himself before long. Probably would’ve been already if he’d transferred out of the 141.” He gets up with a grunt and settles onto the bench beside you. “Don’t think Simon’s long for it. He’s only still in because he wants to keep an eye on Soap. Man’s a bloody romantic. Live together or die together.”

“I didn’t realize that they were together at all.”

“The way Soap’s been droolin’ all over you, I’m not surprised.” He puffs on his cigar thoughtfully. “But Simon’s just like that, as far as I can tell. The world’s divided into three categories. Enemies, his people, and everyone else. Enemies ‘n’ everyone else can’t touch what’s his, but he’s never given a damn about Soap sleepin’ with Gaz, or me.”

“I’m not his people.”

John looks at you and shakes his head. “Course you are, doll. You’re one of our people now. They might’ve gotten a bit overzealous, bringing you here the way they did, but those lads would do anything you asked of ‘em now.”

A bit overzealous. You laugh, but the sound comes out bitter.

"Relax, doll. I know you're determined to hate them, but they're good lads. Their hearts are in the right place." He pets a big hand over your head and rests it on the back of your neck, warmth seeping into your bones, relieving some of the ache from all the tension of the day. John has a way of soothing that terrified little animal in your chest that would otherwise threaten to kick it’s way free from your ribs and flee into the dark trees. “Lookin’ out for me, in their own way. Lookin’ out for you too. If your situation was a better one, they wouldn’t’ve plucked you out of it like that.”

There’s hope in his eyes when you look up at him, hope that you’ll forgive and forget, that you’ll come around to some kind of understanding in time. His thumb brushes a sensitive spot behind your ear, sending an awful, irrefutable thrill through you.

You’re worried that he might be right.

My favourite John Price to write is the sneakiest, most charming, manipulative bastard on the planet. I definitely take a lot of inspiration from 391780 's portrayal of him. The Rear Window and Neighborly have been forefront in my mind while working on this (Largely because I think my John would have taken a similar approach if the lads hadn't jumped the gun. The Rear Window is dark, so be warned! Early writes delicious dark fics, but that may not be everyone's cup of tea, so mind the tags.)

Image Credits: Banner

Dividers: 1 - 2 - 3 by @/Cafekitsune

[charnelhouse]

Thinking of ghost as a dad makes me think of red taking her toddler son shopping for Halloween decorations and seeing a skeleton and the sweet boy is pointing and bouncing up and down like “it’s dada!”

A/N: Ghost x F!Reader (Red Fox). Pure fluff. This ask made me curl up with joy.

She’s a little late. Only ten minutes and it could be anything: traffic, an additional errand, a parking lot shoot-out. Simon’s fingers twitch as his cell phone sits on the coffee table.

It’s only ten minutes.

Ten. Minutes.

He’d lost her in Ecuador for four fucking days, and she’d been fine. Well, relatively fine. Alive.

She can survive anything. He knows this. He feels this. But he cannot shake the belief that one day, his past will catch up to him and take her away. 

Don’t be a fuckhead, Simon. If it’s anyone’s past, it’s going to be mine. 

That makes me feel better, duchess. 

We’re sharing the burden, babe. Lucky for this kid, he’s got two spec ops, hot-ass parents. 

Yah really love a finger gun, don’t you? 

It’s called levity, dude. You’re too damn broody. 

“Don’t call her.”

Simon startles before side-eyeing Johnny, who is spread out on the far end of the couch. “I wasn’t gonna,” he growls defensively. 

“You’re staring at that phone like it’s a bomb.”

“She’s late.”

“She’s running errands with your enormous toddler. Yah know how hard it is to lift that kid? Try wrestling him into a car seat. Took me half an hour.”

Simon scowls. “Of course, I know. I do raise him.”

Johnny wiggles his eyebrows. “He takes after me.”

“Yeah, my enormous son is definitely your kid, tiny.”

“I’m six fuckin’ feet. Thank yah very much.”

“You’re still here?” 

Simon twists around to see Red standing in the doorway. She’s got their son on her hip and an orange plastic bag in her other hand. She leaves him breathless. Her skin dewy, her hair falling in her face. Stunning in a way that burns him. He still wants to shove her over a table and wreck her, but that desire is now weighted with something far more tender. She’s carried his baby.

He knew she’d be a good mother, but he didn’t expect her to excel at it so...perfectly. She can handle a tantrum and peel a man’s skin off.  She can silence him with a look.

“Simon said I could stay for dinner,” Johnny declares.

“I did not,” Simon refutes as he stands, rolling his shoulders. Their son’s tiny lips peel apart into a toothy grin, he claps his chubby hands together. 

“Dada,” he squeals as he opens his arms. 

Ghost smiles back, unable to blunt the joy that unfurls in his chest. Sometimes it’s all too much. 

“He got you something,” Red says as she places him on the floor. When she straightens, she presses her hand to her lower back. “Jesus - that kid is heavy. Remind me to stop having your babies.”

“Uhuh,” Ghost says dutifully. “Of course.”

She’d threatened to leave him a thousand times when she was giving birth. Their son’s head had not been easy to deliver. 

Red pulls something from her bag and hands it to their son, who waddles toward him. Simon crouches and sweeps him up in his arms. The boy squeals again delighted. 

“What have you got there?” he asks as he nuzzles his nose into the down of his son’s head, the soft velvet curls. He smells like Red’s perfume.

“Dada!” he giggles as he lifts a plastic skeleton. Soap barks with laughter. 

“He saw it in the store and lost it,” Red says as she walks toward them, placing a hand on the boy’s back. He shakes the skeleton before hugging it close. “Kept calling it dada. Got a lot of weird looks.” She cocks her head, her tongue darting over her lower lip. “I just wanted everyone to know that I’m getting it from a really hot skeleton.”

“Yah got a filthy head, Foxy.”

“You don’t even live here, Johnny.”

“Dada,” his son murmurs as he burrows his face into Simon’s throat. The skeleton is clutched against his chest, and he feels the boy relax, his damp, milky breath puffing against him as he nods off. 

Simon clears his throat, blinking a few times. There’s a raw snag of emotion in his throat that he can’t seem to swallow. Simon tries to pull the skeleton from the boy’s hands to look at it, but his son yanks it closer. 

“Typical,” Red remarks, her lips quirking in amusement. 

“What is?” Simon smirks because he already knows.

“Do you know how hard it is to shake you off when you’re asleep? It’s like being spooned by a bull slash octopus.”

“It’s true,” Johnny interjects in an empathetic tone. “Remember Siberia?”

“That was a life and death situation!” Simon snaps. “Sub-zero temperatures.”

Red’s eyes widen, her expression intrigued. “Give me the details, Johnny, and I’ll make you dinner.”

[sunflowersoldat]

Good Fuckin Girl

Little Drabble I had stuck in my brain a couple days ago. These two boys have me in a chokehold. (Seriously not kidding)

18+ only! Minors DNI, Warnings: Smut and language.

Ghost x Reader & Soap x Reader (Reader’s nickname is Kit)

“Easy Darling, open up, I wanna see those beautiful eyes.”

Ghost’s hand squeezes your thigh as he picks his head up, liquid amber eyes meeting yours, before diving back down between your thighs.

You mewl as he flicks his tongue over your sensitive bud, “S-Simon, no m-more… I c-can’t.”

“Shhhh, easy love, just listen to Soap’s voice. You can give me one more.”

Your back arches off the bed, breaths coming in quick shallow puffs, Soap gently caresses your cheek, pulling your attention his way, his lips sealing over yours.

You feel lightheaded, your brain is fuzzy as his tongue swipes into your mouth, Ghost growls, sending a shock through your body, “I said talk her through it Johnny, I wanna hear her.”

Soap chuckles deep in his chest, you whimper as he breaks the kiss, his blue eyes sparkling. A smirk lifts his lips as Ghost pulls another moan from your lips. 

“You heard the Lt., Kit just one more. Breath through it with me…” he makes a relaxed face as he takes a deep breath, in through his nose- “In.”  and out through his mouth, “and out.”

You scowl, but it quickly turns into something entirely different with what Ghost is doing to you.

“Just like defusing a bomb Kit, just listen to the sound of my voice. Can’t have you passing out on us...” Soap’s voice is soft, like the soft spring breeze, focusing the fire in your veins lower as he anchors your hand to the bed, his fingers intertwining yours. His thumb gently tracing its way along your palm, sending a shiver down your body, goosebumps littering your skin.

“Can’t have the team asking questions now can we Darling?” Ghost’s voice rumbles through you, giving oxygen to the roaring fire under your skin, causing you to squirm, but his heavy arm comes to rest across your lower belly, firmly pinning you to that spot.

Between the two of them, it doesn’t take long for your release, the molten heat in your veins reaching its breaking point, even under Ghost’s weight, your back arches off the bed, your head is thrown back. Soap is in awe of the scene unfolding before him, but he is quick to cover your mouth with his gloved hand. His soft voice is your only tether to reality as you tumble down from your high.

When your body finally relaxes, Ghost is there, his giant bare body stretching over you, before his lips seal over yours. All Soap can do is watch as you eagerly accept the massive man, both of you like hungry wolves, as if the three of you didn’t just fuck eachother senseless. You take everything they give you, and they in return take everything you offer them. The three of you are close, dangerously so, the rest of the 141 doesn't even dare to point it out. 

Normally attachments like this are dangerous for other reasons, distractions and the like, but the three of you are dangerous, because there is nothing and no one that can keep you apart. Come hell or high water, death and destruction, there will always be the three of you.

Ghost’s thick voice breaks through Soap’s thoughts, “That’s a good girl Kit, such a fuckin good girl.”

Your heavy eyes meet Ghost’s then Soap’s, “Only for you.”

[kukuuu]

Ghost napping with his roommate

[lundenloves]

SIMON TAKING HIS DAUGHTER TO BASE

{✧} dad!simon once again, no one faint i don’t have insurance coverage. soap may be able to fireman lift you home.

{✧} i just wanted to write something with his work and daughters combined and thought, hmm the idea of war, blood and death doesn’t quite match up to a five year old. therefore, this was born. if you don’t fw it don’t tell me, i’ll nosedive into a pit of lava without hesitation. happy reading, kids.

taglist | masterlist | dad!simon masterlist | request info

↳ no warnings | 1.3k | dad!simon

“Right,” Simon crouched down to his daughter's level, taking her small hands in his. “You stay with dad, yeah?” His finger tapped the side of her nose, the two of them stood by his jeep outside of the base. This was not allowed. He knew that.

But — today was dedicated to paperwork in his office, that was the sole purpose of coming in on his time off. The only issue being, it was a day off for someone else too. His kid. “Can you do that for me?” Thumb smoothing across her cheek, standing back up upon her nod. 

“What are we even doing?” She took his extended hand and swung her arms, watching as he swiped a pass through a reader and pressed down on the bar of the door to open it. “How long will we be?”

“It shouldn’t take long, lovie.” He looked down at his little girl. “Just stay with me. Don’t let go of my hand.” Her grip tightened and Simon crossed through seemingly endless corridors and rooms to little eyes, each passing soldier giving her father a firm nod followed by an utterance of ‘sir’ in acknowledgement. She found herself looking into every crevice she could find on their voyage, straying from his side a few times to touch things. 

“Where’s uncle Soap?” For every two of Simon’s steps, five of her own were taken, little feet switching between hops and skips each time. 

“Not a clue.” Simon mumbled more to himself, looking around corners and turning his shoulder with every voice. “He’s here somewhere. ‘M sure he’ll find you first, kid.” She nodded, trailing her finger across the wall until they had reached his office. “Right,” He continued, fumbling in his pocket for a set of keys. “We won’t be long here, alright?” 

“A’right.” She said enthusiastically, her own accent mirroring his and following him into the room. Simon hung by the door for a moment, arm above the threshold to hold himself out. 

“Johnny.” He shouted after a group of men, his sergeants mohawk a dead give-away. Soap turned around instantly, something between a respectful soldier and a puppy. Ghost nodded back to his office, planting a hand on his daughter’s shoulder when she had stood next to him, on her tiptoes to see over the passing men. She was barely up to Simon’s waist. 

“See him?” His hand moved to her back, eyes flitting between her own and Soap who was wrapping up a conversation, her smile growing to a grin when he had crouched down in the now clear corridor — slapping his knees before holding his arms out. 

“C’mere you.” His hardy Scottish accent echoing in the bleak narrowness. She ran toward him, shrieking laughter as he tickled her sides, undeniably gathering a fair amount of attention from soldiers in close proximity. “Alright sweetheart?” Johnny picked her up, holding her against his hip and walking back to Simon’s office. “Is she allowed to be here?”

“No.” Simon answered, holding the door wide for him. 

“No one’ll say anything anyway.” Johnny let her down. “Ae, missy?” 

She shrugged, moving behind Simon’s desk and climbing onto the seat, small hands fidgeting with the pens that were lying around. Ghost placed his hands on his hips. The dark hoodie he wore was usual, minus the bulky tac vest and belt. “You busy?” 

“Will be in,” Soap held his arm up, checking his watch. “Fifteen minutes.” 

Simon nodded, looking toward his daughter who had found post-it notes, clicking a pen and doodling across multiple of them. ���If you see Price, tell him I'll only be twenty. Maximum.” His eyes hadn’t left her, nodding in approval once she had held up her drawing to him. A stickman.

“Will do, Lt.” Soap crossed his arms over his chest and shifted in his stance. “She’s looking more and more like you. Getting big.” He mumbled the last part, shaking his head slowly as if time had passed like he was a pensioner. 

“Hm,” Simon grunted in response. “I’ll see you before I leave, yeah?’ 

“No bother.” Soap saluted the little girl, taking a post-it she had held up toward him. “Is that me?” He pointed toward himself, folding it and slipping the note into the pocket of his tac vest after she had nodded. 

“You’re leaving?” 

“I have to darlin’.” His thumb caressed her cheek, taking the discarded pen and doodling his own drawing of her. “Whose that?” He smiled, sliding the post-it toward her. 

“That’s not me.” She giggled, pushing it back toward him with a grin. “You’re bad at drawing.” 

Simon tsked, moving behind his desk and picking her up to sit on his lap. “Eh! That is so you!” Soap’s accent bounced off the walls causing an eruption of laughter from the little girl and Simon turned the computer monitor further toward him. Thick arms huge next to hers that clung onto them to get a better view of the desk. 

A short knock sounded through the room and Johnny moved from the door, hands clasped together as Price walked in. His eyes and demeanor instantly softened at the sight. “Kept this one quiet, Simon.” He chuckled, taking short steps forward to pass him some documents stamped with red classified text. 

She smiled at Price although shyed into Simon’s neck, “What is this?” He asked, bouncing his knee up and down to subconsciously entertain his daughter.

“Read it later.” He instructed, nodding once at his sergeant. “Johnny, aren’t you on drill today?” Price stood with his legs a good distance apart, thumbs slotted into his pockets to splay fingers wide over his thighs. 

“Ten minutes, sir.” 

“And Simon, you’re eh— you’re off aren’t you?” Price continued, smiling at his daughter who was staring up at him with small hands clung to her dads neck. “Take it you’re not here for long.” 

He shook his head, leaning back in the chair with hands behind his head. “Just ten minutes or somethin’, finishing these off before Monday.”

“Right.” He nodded. “Mind and not stay for long, yeah? You’re scheduled off for a reason.” Soap held the door open for him, watching as he left with a cautious look on both sides of the corridor before stepping out. 

Soap leaned out of the door, eyes following the captain until he was out of view, spinning back on his heel to Simon. “Open it.” Came his intrusive thoughts, nodding toward the classified envelope that had been tossed to the side. 

“No.”

“Aw c’mon, we’re both 141.” He slid a seat out in front of the desk, “Just open it.” The letter opener was spun across the desk. “Ae?” Face scrunched up in a convincing nod toward Simon’s daughter. Although, she was busy attempting to climb onto the desk, and would’ve had her fathers hand not prevented it with one swoop. “Tell your dad to open the wee letter.” 

“Open the wee letter.” She repeated, maneuvering onto her back across his lap and slowly sliding down onto the floor.

Johnny held his hands out in a way that proved his own innocence, as if that saying was her own doing. “The boss has spoken.” He gestured toward the little girl who stood on her tiptoes to look out the small window. 

“Haven't you got drills to run?” Simon said bluntly, dotting his pen and blankly staring at Soap.

“Oh shit.” He pushed the chair in haphazardly. 

“You’re leaving now?” 

Johnny nodded toward the small girl who held her fist out for him to bump his on. A habitual thing learnt by none other than the Scotsman himself, much to Simon’s unreasonable displeasure.

“Shit.” She mumbled to herself.

“Johnny.” Simon scowled. 

“Catch ye, Lt!” 

i’m clawing the walls for price.

simon ‘ghost’ riley taglist: @vamppxncess @crowbird @misshoneypaper @tallrock35 @fluffmonster @islanderr @blueoorchid @lea3773 @coldflapjack @rayhawk05 @han11dh @liishook @melovetitties @fallonx @rvjaa @fuckmelifesucks @bhayatsara @takeomisbitch @local-spidey @konigsblog @penutjuice @babychoi03 @sheluvzeren @sparklingtragedy @maviee @wiserebelpartypie @daddylorianisastateofmind @bhayatsara @mistydeyes @writingmysanity @johfaam0 @idkjoequinn @gressseyy @fwibblefwobble @shibble @maladaptivedaydreamingbum @airghostlyfox @hotgirlsshareaccounts @simpxinnie @dilfdotgov

as always comments are reblogs are greatly appreciated! if no one pats me on the head every now and then i’ll sit in a hole.

↳ requests are open for dad!simon stuff although see the masterlist for more info.

[pokechbi]

Worthy (The Holy Trinity: Pt 2)

Summary:

König x fem reader!

Highly NSFW, so MDNI!!!

Not proofread bc my meat taco wrote this while my brain sat back and laughed

Creds to the artist of the cover photo <;3

Word Count: 8.7k!

Breeding kink, size king, age gap (implied), posessiveness, somnophilia, missionary, mating press

Enjoy ;)

The night Konig made her his, he had no intention of ever letting her go. He was in love with her. Infatuated with her. Obsessed with her. He had left her apartment for work with the other two men at approximately 5:30 in the morning, not without fight. He stayed lying down next to her a moment longer than Ghost, taking in her sleeping form and pure, raw beauty as she rested. Before he knew it, her trance had pulled him along for the ride and he almost lost himself to the peaceful bliss of sleep, threatening his strict sleep schedule he had worked years to perfect. But that's just what she did to him. She plagued his mind, his habits. Her scent still wrapped itself around his senses even hours later. In his mind, he was never to share his woman again. He needed her, craved her like an oxygen starved animal, his body now naturally gravitating to her as if it had a natural radar for her and her only. The image of her flushed cheeks and glistening, sticky skin ice picked its way through the tough wall he had built up with his work thoughts. It was driving him uncomfortably crazy. The thought of him having to share his now bred woman made him nauseous, made him want to viscously maim anyone who would try and so much as breathe in her path. 

He knew that he wanted to win her over, in the case that he had gotten her signals mixed up and she was only just reciprocating what she was receiving that night, and not in love with him the way he was with her. His heart splintered at the very thought of his desire being for naught. He had made it a personal goal before he even put his cock into her to stand out from the other two. He knew there was at least some competition between him, Ghost and Soap. Ghost was no womanizer, but his mysterious, dark aura in pair with his high rank made him feared and loved. The two things that made a woman absolutely fall head over heels for a man without even knowing him. Soap was the ultimate pussy magnet. Something Konig had never learned how to be. Soap was confident, knew exactly what to say and when to say it. Konig didn’t. He stuttered and stared blankly until the right words came to his head, no matter how long it took. And he loved her because this is what she seemed to admire in him. Soap said what he said and had not a care in the world about it. His charming carelessness and smug attitude wasn't hard to fall for. These were the traits he liked in them as teammates. But now, there were new matters at hands and these were characteristics that made him absolutely despise them. The memories in his head of his sweet girl being fucked stupid by the two most desirable men on base making his skin crawl and his fists ball. 

The thought started to boil the blood in his veins. How could he be so careless? How could he agree to such a thing and not try to stop them? But he had his answer. And looking back on it, it was embarrassing for him to admit. It's something that happened more often than he'd like to admit. He liked her, loved her even, and knew that for sure. He had always known she was special. Since she was assigned to their wing of the base. But when she took her seat at that table in the bar that night, and how Soap had taken an instant notice of her, he knew this wouldn't end well for him. His social anxiety didn’t stand a chance. He hadn’t been able to speak up to the two men, or rather, down to them. His size had nothing to do with his mental toughness. Sure, he was a Colonel, but he wasn’t a flashy one.  He was quiet. A leader, but a quiet one. A man with many, many desires, but quiet about them. In no way was he socially deprived, but it seemed more a matter of not finding the right people who understood who he was and knew how to handle him. But he knew she could. She would. She would welcome him with open arms, squeeze him with her little hugs and wrap her thick, curvy legs around his waist after a long day. She’d be the center of his world. Her pleasure his priority. Her comfort his number one concern. He’d fuck her so hard she’d go absolutely dumb on his dick, then suck and lick at her pussy so gently she won’t be able to reach her orgasm until he’d let her. He’d ruin her. He’d fuck her like he hated her guts and love her like he’d rip his own heart out and give her his. She’d make him feel like the King he was named after. And he would make her his Queen. But the world wasn’t always nice to him. His obsession with her stemmed from her being too good to be true. He wanted to hold on, to never let go. To make all his advances while he could and prove his dedication to her. The lack of empathy society had given him was the same lack of empathy and emptiness he possessed on the battlefield. He knew had his ways of becoming a bit…obsessive when it came to the women he began to love. The last girl he found himself infatuated with had been when he lived back in Austria, being 7 years old and finding out about the joys and thrills of romance. She found him creepy since his size made it hard for girls his age to find him attractive. They often found him weird, and thought he was older than what he was. He shook his head from the thoughts of what once was and focused on his task at hand. 

The soft fabric of her torn pink lacy panties scrunched around his nose and laced around his fingers as he inhaled her scent off of them like a wolf on a scent trail. His lungs filled with her as his large ungloved hand wrapped around his shaft, furiously jerking his cock to the smell of her pussy. The back of his helmeted head thumped against the stall wall with every stroke. He remembered how wet she’d been just 8 hours before, soaking the very piece of fabric in his hands with her delicious essence. He remembered how well she had taken his cock, legs spread wide open and squirting everywhere, just for him. In his mind, he’d blurred out the other two figures that weren’t supposed to be there. They were intruders to his imagination, to his reality. His grunts and whimpers drip from his lips, bouncing off the walls of the bathroom. He had been sitting in his office, still reeling at how a man of his stature had managed to get away with sneakily stealing the worn underwear he had torn off of her earlier in the night. No one noticed a thing as they all left the apartment, and all morning he wanted nothing more than a minute to himself to celebrate his victory heist with a reward: Jerking his dick to the smell of her pussy, all while reliving the moment he spilled hot ropes of his seed into her. He whimpered at the idea of filling her belly up to the brim with his hot, steaming cum. Seeing her become round and fat with his child— “O…o-ohhh scheiße, gottverdammt.” He groans, his breath stifled and his voice coming out strained as he brings the panties to his dick, finishing himself into the small bunch of pink lace material. His knees shake as he smiles, imagining that it were her sucking his milk right out of the tip of his shaft with her warm, wet lips. 

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It had been almost twenty minutes since Konig abandoned his paperwork and made his way to the bathroom, hell bent on violating himself in hopes to soothe his hunger, and to tame his pure, raw starvation for her. He slumped back down in his chair, staring at the door in front of him. The violent jerking off to the smell of her still hadn’t managed to prevent her from crippling his every thought, even if only for a little while so he could get some work done. She was taking him over. His body, his mind, his soul. And he didn’t have the slightest idea of how to fix it. Not that he necessarily wanted to, anyway. He loved the feeling of losing complete control over himself, the feeling of surrendering every inch of his body, every thought, every breath, just for her. He sat with his head in his hand, thinking about what he could do to possibly show her how devoted he was to her. And as if a lightbulb went off in his head, he remembered the panties and bra that he had viciously torn off of her in a fit of passion. He recalled the surprise on her face when his sexual impatience got the best of him and he savagely ripped the piece of fabric off her body. He wasted no time and smirked to himself as he stood from his desk, making his way to the door of his office. He ducked his head on the way out, locking it behind him. He eagerly made his way outside and to his car as he basked in the afternoon sun. 

He looked at his digital watch. 11:38AM, it blinked. She should have been awake and at work by now, so he didn't have to worry about her being home when he went to drop her little surprise off. He contemplated giving it to her by hand, and not breaking into her apartment like a complete creep. But his eye twitched at the idea of approaching her with this certain kind of gift. He was terrified of the possibility that she would find it weird, although it was highly unlikely considering how he'd basically sexed her to sleep just last night. They were much past first impressions. That was the thing about his anxiety. It took a simple situation and blew it so out of proportion that he wanted nothing to do with it anymore. His brain came up with such wild scenarios and insanely improbable outcomes that ran fear through his blood. As he got into his car and turned the key in the ignition, he pulled his phone out and clicked it on. He opened his Maps app and got the directions of the nearest mall. 

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After purchasing the lace underwear set for her, König parked his car outside of her apartment building and sat in it quietly, contemplating going inside or not. The women at the shop gave him the dirtiest of stares. A 6 '10 man wearing a sniper hood and a military grade helmet shuffling through the different types of panties and bras they carried, he wasn't sure why they hadn't called the police on him. He also wasn’t sure how his social anxiety had managed to allow him to do that. But love conquers all, it seemed. It was a never ending mental fight, and he wanted it to end. He needed her to know how much he wanted her. How she had plagued his mind and body ever since he’d left that night. But in his head were the thoughts of her gently letting him down, telling him how she’d fallen in love with Ghost, and not him. Or that she’d fallen for Soap, and not him. He cringed at the thought, gently banging his forehead on the steering wheel and shaking the helmet on his head. He groans, physically unable to get himself out of the driver’s seat. He looked at his watch. 12:37PM, it blinked at him. She wouldn’t even be home, he thought. What was he so scared for? What was the worst that could happen? He couldn’t even bring himself to answer that. He let out a sharp breath, and opened the door to his car, quickly stepping out of it and slamming it behind him. He walks up to the lobby door, and inputting the code he had seen her enter the night he was here. 

5365#

The little green light on the panel flashed green as a loud beep rang through the air. He walks in, shutting the door behind him, quickly finding the elevator and praying nobody would run into him. With the small, pink bag in hand, he rings the elevator and steps into it. He pressed the button to her floor and waited as the doors closed. As the elevator approached the floor her apartment was on, he strutted out and walked to the right and down the hallway, stopping at her apartment. For the first time since he’d started wearing it many years ago, his sniper hood felt like it was suffocating him. He felt hot, wanting to rip it off and breathe the fresh air. God, what was he doing? He collected himself quickly, not being able to turn back now. He let out a sharp breath as he pulled the pocket sized folding lockpicker out of his wallet. He got on his knees and began fiddling with the lock, the pink bag of lingerie at his side and both of his hands on the lockpicker. In no time, he heard a faint click as the lock gave way. He froze in place, waiting to see if anyone had heard it from the inside. He shook his head at the weak locks on her front door, making a mental note to bring it up to her later on. He mentally slapped himself for his blatant stupidity. How the hell would he bring this up to her? 

Hey, I was breaking into your apartment earlier and your locks gave in very easily. You should call someone about that. 

He stood from his knees, ducking his head as he entered her apartment. The smell of her permeated the air and shoved its way into his nostrils. He inhales her scent, her smell turning into pure and raw lust as it makes its way into his balls. He walks through the apartment, looking at her decor and cute little trinkets littered on every surface. He loved how her apartment expressed who she was, and how he was getting a look into her very soul. He smiles to himself as he makes his way to her bedroom. As he approaches the door, the smile falls from his face as if it weighed a hundred pounds. He hears gentle breathing coming from the crack in the door. Putting his hand over his mouth, his eyes widened in horror as he realized she was still here. What the fuck was he thinking? He looked from the door to the pink bag in his hand, contemplating his next move. 

Konig wrapped his fingers around the doorknob quietly, gently pushing it open. He feels his heart jump into his stomach as the door creaks. He pops his head in, his eyes softening on her sleeping form. She was still naked, the white sheet wrapped around her curves and soft skin. The room still smelled of sex and arousal. He smiles as he ducks his head and opens the door the rest of the way. He's careful where he steps and makes sure to not open the door all the way, needing to keep it from creaking as much as possible. He looms over her silently, listening to her quiet breathing and restraining himself from reaching out and caressing her. He puts the bag on the opposite side of her sleeping head, smiling down at her. He didn't dare whisper, in fear of her waking up to find him creepily watching her as she slept. If he was invited, he was sure she would be into the idea of letting him take her as unconsciousness still blanketed her senses. But he wasn't, and he had committed a crime to get in there. So he kept his lips glued shut. The thought of him pushing into her as she was still asleep, and fucking her awake caused a hot white flash of arousal to shoot through his veins and settle in the had of his cock. He ran his palm over his hardening erection, stepping closer to her as he squeezed the base of himself through his cargos. Just then, the sound of a car backfiring could be heard outside of her window, resembling a loud gunshot. He freezes as her gentle breathing stops, and she groans softly. Before she could think of turning around, he slips out from the room silently and out of the front door, making sure not to close it loud enough for her to hear. It had taken him years to master being silent on his feet. It wasn't easy considering his size, but he needed to. His KorTac Captain made sure he was prepared for situations where he needed to be stealthy in close quarters with enemies. Or sneaking out of a woman's room who almost caught him watching her sleep, like a stalker. He made his way down the stairs, too nervous to wait for the elevator in case she heard him striding away and decided to follow. As he flew down the stairs and out to his car, he stepped on the gas and peeled out from his parking space in front of her building. 

His foot never left the gas as he drove the short drive back to the base. His colleagues stared at him concerned as he rushed back to his office, hands glued behind his back. As soon as he got inside and plopped down in his chair, he ripped his helmet and mask off in hopes to replenish his blood supply of oxygen. He felt as if he would vomit right there, almost having been caught by the woman he was trying to impress, not have a restraining order against. He felt naked having his mask off anywhere other than his apartment, but he was driving himself crazy. He stood from his desk, marching up to the window and staring out of it, spacing out completely. He prayed and prayed that she would never find out that he had been there, and if she had, that she wouldn't banish him from her life from being a complete jackass. 

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╚═══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

Her smile widens as she reads the card, bringing it up to her chest. König had bought her a new bra and panty set, seemingly more expensive than she would ever pick out for herself. She looks down at her body, the flashbacks of last night hitting her like a truck. And for some reason, the only one she managed to envision vividly when she felt the soreness in her legs and the pressure in her hips, was him. Not the other two men who had simply chewed her innocence up and savagely spit it out. But he was the only thing on her mind. She rose from her bed, making her way to her cell phone in her bag that was strewn about the floor. She shivered as the cold air nipped at her naked skin. She stopped in her tracks, feeling an indentation in her plush carpet. She looked down, the dirty indentation resembling a boot track. She got down on her knees, curiously running a pointer finger over the dirty boot mark, the off white material now littered with specks of dirt. She smiled to herself, knowing this was recent and not from last night, or this morning even. The carpet would have shapened itself back up had it been from more than a couple hours ago. She felt giddy as she realized he had been here, without her knowledge. The thought of him looming over her, watching her naked body sleep and touching himself to the sight of her being so blissfully unaware of him. She couldn't believe the new things she was feeling. How these men had managed to fire something up in her that she didn't even know resided in the deep depths of her core. She stood up from her knees and walked over to her bag. She reached into it, feeling the small rectangle graze her fingertips. She clicked it on, revealing tons of messages from her friends, Bal and Sophia. 

They all ranged from “Are you okay?” to “Did you take one of them home?” and some lightheartedly joking about taking the three of them home at the same time. She smiled to herself, knowing that Bal and Sophia would never expect such a thing from her. She still didn't know if it was something she’d take to the grave, or tell them. She giggled to herself, thinking of their reactions. She got the sudden urge to call König, just to hear his high, husky accented voice. She needed him. She needed his touch, his breath caressing her lips again. The way his touch left that warm feeling on her skin. The way his voice caressed her womanhood and drove her absolutely insane to the point where her knees felt as if they would buckle at the thought of him. She imagined his hands around her throat, using her as his fuck toy as he pumped his seed into her, moaning and slurring out German expletives in her ear. She scrolled through her contacts. She facepalmed, forgetting to ask any of the guys for either of their numbers. Specifically König. Sure, they could all have their cocks in her holes but not their numbers in her phone. She kicked herself, her lack of priorities making her scoff. She knew he would be the only thing on her mind for the rest of the day, month, year, as long as she was alive. There was no way in hell she couldn't think about him constantly. She took another look at the bra and panty set spilling out of the gift bag on her bed. She smirked to herself as she rummaged through her closet for something to wear and made her way to the shower.  

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König bounced his leg up and down nervously as he haphazardly completed his paperwork. He knew he could have his ear chewed off for not paying close attention to his entries. But his eyes never left the clock since he had gotten back. At the end of his day, he would do it properly. He would make his way to her apartment, and continue where they left off the night before. He smiled to himself at the thought, his cock twitching at the memory of her sweet hole wrapping around him. He was addicted to her. Addicted to how her skin stuck to his in a sweaty, passionate embrace. His mind couldn’t stop thinking about her thick thighs, the silky soft skin on them and how easily they could bruise if he bit them. How they would wrap around his hips, beckoning him in more as he fucked the thoughts right out of her sweet little head. How she cried out in pleasure as he drilled his thick, fat dick into that weeping hole of hers. Her moans were music to his ears. It fueled him. He felt like a bike running on jet fuel when she sang her pretty little sexual song in his ear. At times when he first fucked her he felt like he would spontaneously combust and spill into her prematurely, and it took every fiber of his self control not to. He’d never felt this way when fucking anyone else before her, (not that there were many candidates) and he chalked that up to her warmly and wetly wrapping around him just. Fucking. Right. His cock grew harder with every thought of her. He groaned aloud, frustrated at his inability to not get any work done. He squeezed the bridge of his nose over his sniper hood, unsuccessfully trying to get his mind straight just until the end of the day. And as if the devil himself told him “No”, a knock on his door was heard. His head popped up as if he knew exactly who it was, his radar for her going off the charts. His heart leapt into his throat, as he called out to her. 

“Ja, come in.” He said, his voice coming out with a slight quiver. The door slowly widened, and a familiar head of brown curls popped its way in. She smiled brightly at him, inching her way in. His mouth hung agape as he took her in. She wore a plain t-shirt, snug enough to make out the outline of her bra. Her jeans hugged her waist and accentuated the curves of her hips. She wasn’t wearing her uniform, obviously since she hadn’t been at work. He shivered at the thought of her waking up right after he left. He prayed and prayed harder than he ever had before that she hadn’t noticed that he’d been there, and that here being in his office was just a mere coincidence. He smiled at her, noticing that she was waiting for him to say something. “What are you doing here, my dear?” He says gently, raising to his feet and walking over to her slowly. She bites her bottom lip and looks him up and down, seemingly seeing right through his little facade of wanting to catch up with small talk. He didn’t. He wanted her naked and bent over his desk as he bred her over and over again, spilling his hot cum onto her gripping, gummy walls. He cleared his throat at the thought, watching her as she stepped closer to him, a devilish look in her pretty eyes. His breathing got heavier as she got closer to him. “Thank you…for the gift, sir.” She purred up at him, deviously luring him in like a cat, big eyes and all. His cock twitched at the way she called him sir. He smiled at her with his eyes, lifting his hand and running a thumb over her soft cheek. She melted into his touch, breathing out a breath it seemed she was holding at his caress to her face. “You’re welcome, mein schatz” He said, his voice laced with complete and utter lust for her. “Do you like them?” He asks innocently, his eyes trailing all over her face, his body feeling a gravitational pull towards hers.

“I know you broke in, Konig” She admits, his entire body freezing like a statue. He felt as if he’d just stared medusa right in the eyes, his joints freezing and his mind completely shitting out on him. His eyes widen and his mouth hangs agape. His heart leaps its way into his throat as he begins to stutter. 

“I..I didn’t…I just…wanted to…” His heart shatters at her revelation, terrified that she was going to tell him off for being such a creep. He offers his hand to her as he continues to ramble on to her, trying to think of an explanation. She suddenly giggled and shied away from his hand, walking towards his desk in a proud, flirty stride. He was completely oblivious to what she was about to do, evident by the confused look written on his features. He stood where he was, turning around to follow her with his eyes as she stopped in front of his desk. He was scared to approach the subject, afraid he’d break whatever fragile moment that was going on between them. “Darling. Are you upset with me? For breaking into your home?” He asks quietly. She smiles at him and shakes her head. He feels the weight of the planet lift from his shoulders, feeling as if he can breathe again. He walks closer to her, but she stops him by raising her hand in front of her. 

“Did you touch yourself? I was still naked, y’know.” She says smugly, beginning to remove her shirt, exposing the soft skin of her stomach and cleavage, still littered with bruises and love bites from the night before. His breath hitches in his throat, quickly unfreezing himself and rushing towards the door to lock it shut. He stops in his steps, seeing the bra he had bought for her squeezing her breasts, pushing them up ever so slightly. He practically salivates at the sight of her, pushing away the sudden urge to get on his knees and worship her like a goddess. He also felt the sudden urge to absolutely wreck her, to rearrange her reproductive system with his fat erection. “I began to…until a loud noise woke you” He admits, stepping closer to her. “My my, Schön. You look…delicious.” He says, licking his lips as he approaches her small frame. His hands instinctively grab her face, bringing her face up as he bent down to meet hers. He lifts his sniper hood above his nose and smashes his lips against hers, in a way that's anything but graceful. He let out a soft grunt as she parted her lips, allowing him to shove his tongue in her mouth hungrily as their tongues wrestled in a passionate fight, licking and sucking each other. She took his bottom lip between her teeth and began to bite down and suck, causing his legs to shake and a fire to run through his veins and settle in his growing erection. He opens his eyes to look into hers, a mischievous smile splayed across her features. The taste of her on his lips drove him absolutely mad. He grabbed her hips and pressed her into him, rubbing his erection along her sternum, wanting to slide his cock in between her big soft breasts. Her small height made it nearly impossible to not want to fuck her like she was his very own sex toy. She moaned into his mouth, causing him to let out a low chuckle. She looked so breedable under him, his height making her seem so tiny. He parted from the kiss regrettably, and stood up straight as he looked down at her hungrily. She looked at him confused as he stared at her. “Du bist so klein…mein Schatz. Es macht mich hart” He smiled as he realized she could almost suck his cock standing up, and she would only need to bend the slightest bit. He chuckled to himself, reaching down and grabbing her by her thighs as he lifted her up onto his desk in a frenzy. She yelps quietly as he does this, spreading her legs on instinct for him and wrapping her thick, plushy thighs around his waist. Her feet rest on his lower back as he places himself in between her legs, bucking his hips so his half-hard cock rubs against her inner thigh. She lets out a moan at the sudden friction through her jeans. “König…I can’t understand German, I’m afraid.” She says breathlessly, firming her grip around his hips. He bends back down to meet her face again, whispering against her lips through his mask. He chuckled, his breath caressing her lips. “I said you are so small, my dear. It makes me hard.” He whispered, grabbing her hand and guiding it down to his still growing erection. She squeezes his shaft over his cargos, causing a grunt to escape from between his lips.Just then, she slides herself off of his desk, causing him to back up from her. She slowly gets down on her knees, readying herself to unbuckle his pants when she pauses. She suddenly breaks out into a small giggle when she realizes her mouth can’t reach his crotch from the ground. She cranes her neck in an effort to try, but Konig stops her. 

“My silly girl. You are just too small for that, aren’t you?” He says softly, caressing her chin in his hand. He beckons her up by her jaw, and she stands on her feet once more. He lifts her back onto the desk, running his big hands up and down her thighs, landing on her hips to unbutton her jeans. She raises her hands to grab his face as he does this, tugging at his sniper hood. She wanted it off? She’d get exactly what she wanted. He wasted no time in ripping the damned thing off his head, his helmet clattering to the ground with a loud thud. He smiled down at her as she admired him from below him with her big puppy-like eyes. He could not figure out for the life of him what she saw in him, the memories of her calling him handsome floating through his mind. He feels heat rise to his cheeks, biting his lip shyly as she parted her lips to speak. 

“My goodness. How did I get so lucky?” She spoke softly, her sweet voice warm and thick like hot honey. He dipped his head forward and kissed her forehead, scoffing at her. “Now that is a question I should be asking myself, hm?” He replies, his voice as low as a whisper. He looks her up and down as he continues trying to get her jeans off. He slides them down her hips, and past her thighs until they reach her ankles. He removes them from one ankle, leaving them hanging carelessly off the other. He takes in a sharp inhale once he sees the tiny, lacy panties that he bought for her. The way they hugged her hips in all the right places and complemented her skin tone so well made his balls pulsate with arousal. In a stupor, he gets down on one knee and parts her legs with his large hand. Her breathing speeds up as he comes face to face with her pussy. He moves her panties to the side, exposing her clit to the cold air. He smiles as she shivers the slightest bit, chuckling at her. “Are you cold, darling?” He asks, admiring the beauty between her legs. Every shade of flesh, every birthmark, the heavenly smell, he could stay in between her thighs forever. “A little bit, yes.” She replied giggling shyly, sitting up and leaning back on her hands. He looked up at her deviously as he replied. “Then let me make you feel warm.” Just then, he threw her legs over both of his shoulders as he dived into her pussy, licking a fat stripe from her entrance all the way to the hood of her lips. She cries out as his tongue makes sudden contact with her heat, causing Konig to reach up and slap his hand over her lips. He removes his tongue from her, sitting up and whispering in her ear, the smell of her thick on his lips. “My dear, be quiet or I’ll stuff my cock so far down your throat you won’t be able to fucking breathe. Understood?” He spat, his tone aggressive but his voice staying at a gentle volume. The taste of her on his lips caused a starved part of him to awaken. Her eyes go half lidded in pleasure, seemingly appreciative of his aggressiveness. She moved her hips in impatience, causing a look of amusement to splay across his features. “So…so greedy, mein Schatz." He chuckled as he let go of her mouth, lowering himself to her cunt once more. He flicked his tongue across her clit, causing her legs to twitch and her breathing to fasten. Her hand shoots down and she entangles her fingers in his dirty blonde hair. His stubble rubbed against her inner thighs, causing her skin to turn red and splotchy. He smiled at this realization. 

“You taste like heaven, meine Königin” (my queen)  he breathed against her. He continues sucking and lapping at her clit, and painfully slowing his pace every time she manages to make the smallest noise. He loved playing this game with her. He brought his hand up to her hole, and inserted his long, thick finger into her. His fingertip grazed the swollen walnut of nerves inside of her, and he chuckled when she shook with impatience. He curled his finger, thrusting it in and out of her painfully slow. She covered her mouth with her own hand, all while desperately bucking her hips. He wanted more of her, he needed more. He was sure he was getting himself off more by eating her out than she was. His brain melted at the noises she made, how wet her cunt became, how she clenched around his finger and how she desperately bucked her hips up. She practically rode his face from under him and he knew wouldn’t be able to hold back from fucking her if she kept on like that. He wrapped both his arms around her thighs, the thick ropes of muscles flexing under his skin as he held her still. She fought against him, to no avail. He was bigger, stronger, and hell bent on eating her cunt until she couldn’t take anymore. She whined quietly and breathed heavily against her hand. Konig felt himself losing control with every curl of his finger, and every clench of her hole. But he wasn’t a man who gave up very easily. He began to fasten his pace, curling and thrusting his finger into that very spot that made her swirl while he sucked and flicked her clit with his thick tongue. She mewled quietly, bucking her hips forward in sync with his movements. He felt her clench tightly around his finger, and a slight pulse in her clit that signaled her orgasm approaching. He suddenly retreated from her, kissing her thighs and squeezing the fat of her hips as she gasped. She stared at him stunned as she mewled under him. “K-könig..why?” She whined, tears brimming her waterline. 

“You didn’t think you’d get to cum that easily my little maus, hm?” He teased, rising to his feet and looking down at her like a wolf to its prey. She squirmed under him restlessly, pouting at the fact that he had just ripped her orgasm from her. He shushed her, bending down and pressing his lips to hers. She opened her mouth as he kissed her, the taste of her cunt still thick on his lips. She sat up on her elbows, watching him as he hastily unbuckled his cargos. She bent forward, assisting him in removing his pants. “Look at you, so eager for me.” He mumbled, watching as she impatiently pawed at his crotch. He slid his cargos down around his ankles, and she watched in admiration as he took his large shaft into his hand. She bent forward eagerly, taking the swollen tip of his cock into her mouth. He groaned as she wrapped her warm lips around him, bobbing her head, taking more and more of him with each thrust of her neck. He reached forward and smoothed his hand over her forehead, wiping her hair from her face. He entangled his fingers into her curls, collecting her hair into a ponytail and guided her head to his desired pace. He pushed her head forward, thrusting his hips slightly. He moaned aloud as he felt the tip of his dick hit the back of her throat, causing her to gag and moan against him. He felt her jaw relax as she tried her very best to take all of him without fight. “Ja…take all of me, sweet girl, You can do it.” He moaned, tightening his grip on her hair. It took every ounce of his self control to not pound her throat mercilessly, since he knew very well that the thickness and length of his shaft would be too much for her. She wrapped her hands around his forearm, squeezing it and digging her nails into his arm as she took him deeper and deeper with every thrust of his hips. The lewd sounds of her drooling and gagging against his thick cock rang throughout his office. With every tightening of her throat, he felt himself becoming closer and closer to coming undone. He would love nothing more than to spill his load right into her throat, shoving it deeper down with every thrust. But that would be a task for another time. He wanted to do her as many ways possible in the limited time they had. He groaned one last time as he slowly dragged his meaty dick out of her throat, causing her to gasp and inhale a sharp breath of air. He looked down at her as he did this, a glistening string of saliva still connecting them together. Her eyes leaked tears and her face was a deep shade of red, due to the lack of oxygen he had allowed her while she sucked him. He could almost drool at the sight. The sound of her heavy breathing stroked his ears gently as he watched her. 

“You look so perfect like that, my darling. You know how to take me so well.” He praised. He let go of her hair, wiping the spit and tears from her cheeks with the pad of his thumb as she smiled up at him. She watched deliriously as he brought his thumb to his mouth, sucking the salty tears from it with a devious smile on his stubbled jaw as if he was fueled by the taste of her tears. He gently pushed her on her back with a large hand. He took his cock in his hand and stroked it, still glistening with her spit as he groaned aloud. He approached her, leaning down and popping a breast out of that gorgeous lacy bra he bought for her. He took a nipple in her mouth, causing her to whine and whimper under him. As he flicked his tongue over her nipple, she reached over and entangled her fingers in his dirty blond locks. With one hand on his cock, he brought his free hand to her other breast, switching between them as he fondled her passionately. He chuckled to himself proudly as he drove her crazy with his mouth, tenderizing each breast. He got himself off more by pleasing her and hearing her mewl while he touched her. “Fuck, König. You drive me crazy. You drive me absolutely crazy.” She slurred, tightening her grip on his hair as she brought his head to hers. She smashed her lips into his, kissing him hungrily as if she couldn’t get enough of him. He smirked into the kiss, sneakily lining his cock with her entrance. He wanted to take her by surprise. He wanted to feel how she would fare against his lips as he slammed into her mercilessly. He was in no mood to be gentle at this point. He felt the tip of his meat throb and swell with every pump of his heart, unable to take anymore of this torture. 

He raised from the kiss as he still hovered over her, her puffed pink lips raw from his stubble rubbing against her. He raised a hand from her breast and brought it over her mouth, readying her as she was so blissfully unaware of what he was about to do. He pushed into her suddenly, meeting resistance only halfway. He knew she had to be sore and swollen after she had taken three large, hungry dicks just the night before. The thought suddenly plagued his mind and sent a wave of possessiveness through his blood. She cried out against his hand, and he smiled down at her devilishly, all feelings of gentleness suddenly vanishing from his brain. “Scheiße…du bist verdammt eng, mein hübsches Mädchen.” (Shit, you're damn tight, my pretty girl.) He groaned in her ear, a sweat breaking out on his forehead. Tears brimmed her eyes as he began thrusting roughly, fighting the resistance that his cock met only halfway. He felt her walls clench around him tightly, frustrating him further. He brought his free hand down to her lower stomach, pushing down against the plushy skin of her abdomen. As he pumped himself in and out of her, he could feel the skin around her abdomen grow and shrink under his fingers. He could feel how her cervix fluffed with every thrust, the feeling driving him mad. She whined and whimpered as he did this, the pressure now overstimulating her every sense and making her feel as if she would implode. She breathed heavily against his hand, fighting every urge to scream. Her walls relaxed as he pushed down on her abdomen. “Gooood girl. Relax for me, pretty girl.” He whispered. “I want you to feel all of me.” He groaned as he quickened his pace, his balls slapping against her ass with every thrust. “I’m going to fuck you raw, until your pretty hole remembers the shape of me.” Her eyes widened at his revelation, causing a shiver of power to raise the hairs on his skin. He removes his hand from her abdomen, now gripping the fat of her hips. He dug his nails into her skin, gripping her hips so tightly as he moved her on his cock as if she were his own personal fleshlight. He moaned into her skin, now glistening with sweat. 

The desk creaked loudly under them as he fucked her savagely, but in that moment he could not bring himself to care. Papers crumpled under her and slid off the desk with every movement. His office was now a mess, papers and pens flying off and clattering to the floor. She parted her legs wider as she got used to the thickness and length of him, now welcoming his roughness with open legs. His hand moved to the inside of her thigh, squeezing the skin roughly, surely to leave more bruises later on. He reached a hand down to her clit, thumbing it roughly and causing her plushy walls to pulsate around him. “You feel so fucking good, my dear. ‘s if you were made for me. Just for me, ja?” He growled, hsi voice shaky with lust. She nodded her head frantically, her voice muffled against his palm. He lifted his hand from her, letting her speak. “Mhmm. ‘m just for you, König.” She whined, her words slurred as his hips slapped against her thighs. “And who does this delicious cunt belong to?” he replies, slapping her breast by the nipple. She jolted under him, her voice stifling as she held back a moan. “You, König. ‘s yours. All yours and no one else.” she slurred, her words strained with passion. He raised his hand and peeled her hair from her face as he let out a low chuckle. “Good girl.” 

He groans into the air, his thrusts faltering as he feels himself getting closer to his end. The pace of his thumb on her clit goes out of rhythm. He feels the familiar tightening of his core, growing with every thrust and clench of her walls. He removes his hand from her mouth and brings her legs up to his shoulders, resting them on either side of his head, the new position allowing him to get deeper and deeper into her womb. “God…You’re going too deep König…feels so good. So good” She cried, barely containing her voice to a whisper. “That’s right, mein schatz. ‘M gonna cum so deep in you. Feel you get so full with my cum, ja?” He teases, feeling her thighs shake with overstimulation. She nods her head, letting out a string of mhmms and yeahs. “Gonna breed you ‘n feel you get so round and fat with my child. You’d be the best mutter to my kids, ja?” He groans, slurring his words as his thrusts get sloppier and sloppier with every pump. “Tell me you’d be the best mama. Tell me” He slurs desperately as he slaps her breasts over and over again, leaving deep red marks in its wake. “Mmm, König. I’ll be the best mama. I’ll be a good mutter to your children.” Just then, he feels her walls flutter and pulsate as she cums, her mouth hanging agape as her brain goes absolutely stupid with delirium. Her thighs shake and her stomach heaves as she cums, her thighs squeezing against his neck involuntarily as her moans ring out into the air. He growls and groans as he follows after her, his cock violently pulsating inside of her as he spills his hot ropes of sticky cum all over her womb. He stays inside of her, his knees shaking and eyes rolling into the back of his head as he leans down, pressing his weight into her thighs. Her breaths strain as he grunts, her knees pressed against her chest. “Scheiße. Mein Gott” Sweat drips from his forehead and around her onto the desk below them. His brain scrambled as he catches his breath. His cock grows limp inside of her as they embrace each other, reeling in disbelief at the powerful thickness of passion flowing through their veins. “What have you done to me, Meine liebe. How have I gotten so lucky” He breathes triumphantly, opening his eyes as he stares at her. He raises his hand to her face weakly, peeling her hair from her face and wiping the sweat from her forehead. Her cheeks are flushed red, her breasts tender and puffed from the brutal treatment they received from his hand. 

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

╚═══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

He helps her slip back into her clothes, caressing her hips gently as he stands behind her. “How are you feeling, my dear.” He says, gently brushing his fingers through her curls. “Satisfied like never before, my König.” She says, turning around to face him. She stands on her tip toes as he bends forward to kiss her, caressing her lips with his gently. “Good, I would never leave you any other way.” He replies. He brought his hands to her face, caressing her cheeks in his large hands. She looks to the ground, something seemingly plaguing her mind. “Are you alright, liebling? Was geht in deinem hübschen kleinen Kopf vor?” (What's on your pretty little mind?) He asks gently, speaking to her as if she would break if he spoke too loudly. She looks up at him through her lashes as her lips part, contemplating saying whatever was on her mind. “Do you really think I’d be a good mom? To your children?” She asks shyly, shying away from his gaze. He pauses at her question, a swarm of gentle love taking over his mind. He chuckles lowly as he brings her into a hug. He wraps his arms around her small frame, smiling into her hair as he kisses the top of her head. “One day, yes. I meant every word, darling.” He starts. She looks up at him and takes her bottom lip in her teeth happily. “I think you’d make the best little mutter. Waddling around, calling for me to help you like a little Babyhirsch.” (Baby deer) He smiles down at her, landing another kiss on her forehead. “Good. Sounds like a plan” She says eagerly, giggling softly as she parts herself from their embrace.

“I must get back to work, my dear.” He says sadly,  turning to look at his desk, papers and pens strewn about the floor. “Look at the mess we’ve made, meine liebe.” He turned back to her, still reeling at how he was deserving of this woman before him. He was deemed a battering ram by his colleagues, earning his rank of Colonel from his priceless skills in battle. He was a brick wall, impenetrable by the brutal forces of the battlefield. And yet, the goddess before him had managed to make him weak at the knees, her womanhood turning his brain into a scrambled mess. “How am I so worthy of your love, mein schatz”. 

@spaceboyfr1end @lonely-ofc

[eatmyassssssssz]

Captain John Price

warnings : age gap implied

tags : @lillianastuff @mysticalgalaxysalad @mionacaped @madamemelancholysstuff @mactavishwritings @chaos-reigns-bitches @scribblescubbs @wandasbitch22 @warzxx @wretched-horn-monger @yippeerrrs @applbottmjeens @bowieisbored @blingblong55 @simonrileyscockring

old man price who struggles to come, he can get it up, but he struggles to come, takes him ages.

hes retired by the military by now, youre his little house husband/wife.

you started to realise you guys have sex a lot less. and when you do, its not really sex. he doesnt get anything out of it. he always makes you come, then goes straight to aftercare.

you worry, maybe he's stopped being attracted to you as he got older. maybe his taste has changed.

you overthink one night, hes fast asleep next to you, snoring. you cant sleep, youre trying not to be too loud with your crying and hyperventilating so you dont awaken your husband (although, nothing could wake up that damn man).

then, you snap. you shake him. until he wakes up. you needed to ask him why he wouldnt have sex with you, when he had a pretty high sex drive a year ago!

was it because you put on a pound or two because of christmas incoming?

either way, hes awake, sat up, half asleep, looking at his partner, having a borderline panic attack next to him.

"whats-, whats wrong?" he says, hurriedly rubbing his eyes to get the sleep out him eyes at least a little.

"why dont you like me anymore!" bit blunt, but you weren't thinking very straight right now, you needed answers, and now.

no matter what the answer was, you needed closure. you needed something to let you decide what you needed to do.

was the "problem" you, or did he just fall out of love?

"what- what do you even mean?" he genuinely did not get what you meant.

"youve not had proper sex with me in ages!" you say, rushed, words not going through your head properly.

his face fades. a soft pink spreads up his neck and ears. "so, its about that.." he mutters.

"am i not attractive enough for you to fuck me anymore? you make me come, then skip the part when you get off, and we go straight to aftercare!" tears were rushing down your face, you hiccuped as you spoke.

"babe- its not you, its me." he says, face in his palm.

"please- nonono, i cant afford for us to split up! i love you- and, and- i dont have any qualifications, i didnt go to college so we could be together forever, john!" your head was rushing to conclusions, your breathing was fast, choked and panicked.

"no! nono, i dont want to split up- i...what i meant was, i literally- it is me thats the problem. i can't- yknow...come." his voice was low, his fingers were massaging his temples, his face was red with embarrassment over this.

"...youre joking? thats why we've not had sex? i thought you were fucking someone else and had nothing left for me or something!" you were relieved, to say the least. "no- babe, i would never."

you nod. "i know- i just..overthink." you admit. he nods. "im aware.." you smile softly. he did know you well. "so..you cant come?" you ask.

he mumbles a response, "i can- just takes...a while...yknow? i can still get hard like i used too- just...not come easily." you smirk hearing that. "so...its possible you can come, just takes a minute?"

"yup."

"..you wanna try that theory?"

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

So request kinda if not just sharing my thoughts in general.

Alex. My boy. What if reader is a civ or even another soldier in a different squad and the whole thing with him joining Farah’s forces indefinitely. I think this can really lend itself to some angst and that good old misunderstanding. Kinda leaning towards civ!reader just because the more miscommunication. I guess it’d have to be an angsty ending though 😳, but regardless-

Love your writing and, as always, feel free to change anything or do whatever gives you the most inspiration

World Caves In

PAIRING: Alex Keller x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Perhaps it would have been better if your husband had died - at the very least you could understand that.

WORD COUNT: 7.9k

WARNINGS: Angst, misunderstandings/miscommunication, hurt/comfort, vulgar language, abandonment?, Alex being an adorable husband, fluff, etc.

A/N: I was gonna make this an angsty ending but I got my period and thinking about that made me cry so here we are, lmao. Enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

When you’d been escorted out of work by two uniformed men, you knew the news wasn’t going to be good. Sitting in the back of a large black car, you spare nervous glances as the vehicle jumps, its wheels going over the last speed bump. Your work building begins to become a fraction of a memory and disappears faster than your resolve. 

The men sit on either side of you, silent, and the only comment is to the driver as you all enter the main road. Swallowing, you part your lips and mutter, plain dread in your tone, “Is he alive?”

All you get is a glance from the front mirror and nothing more. You hunch more in your seat and stew in agony, mind far off on the topic of your husband. 

Alex wasn’t overly reckless, you’d managed to snuff most of that out over the course of the many years you’d expressed concern to him about it, but a large chuck of the blond was still too selfless for his own good. It was hard not to think the worst. 

From training to advising, your husband was always off on one mission to another, far from your quaint and quiet home here—where you waited day after day for even a sliver of contact from him. Alex specialized in so many things that trying to wrap your head around it was impossible.

Even now, you only knew the bare minimum. 

The soft-smiled man worked in the SAD division of the CIA. He’s an Operations Officer. Currently, he’s somewhere across the globe. 

Away from you.

Thinning your lips, you take down a deep breath and settle back into the seat, pulse flying. The men were obviously Agents—you’d looked closely at their badges when they’d first shown their faces at the front desk and had kept within view of your work’s security cameras just in case this was a ruse. When you could find nothing out of the ordinary, you had tensely asked them what was happening. 

They would be holding his dog tags if he was dead, you had reasoned, desperately, a flag. 

It was frantic, the way you had thought that up; how could you not be like that? Alex was the light of your life! With him constantly putting his life on the line, it was inevitable for him to get hurt, sometimes seriously. It was ingrained into your mind the way you would help clean his wounds in the middle of the night when the pain woke him up with a grunt stuck in his throat. The way you would sit half-asleep in his lap and re-wrap bandages while he told you to go back to bed half-heartedly. His hands drifting over your warm skin like he was cascading his fingers up and down the spine of an old book.

You never listened. 

“It’s late, Bug, I can’t keep you up like this.” His drawl echoes in your ear as you rub a heavy palm into your eye. Alex’s hands are both on your hips, squeezing the flesh just below your tiny sleep shorts. You have him sitting on the floor, back resting on the wall and shirt discarded to the side only wearing loose gray sweatpants. A long cut up his left pec is the center of your blurry attention—a wet rag held as you dab at it. Blue eyes narrow at you. “I’m just fine with doing it myself, y’know.”

“You’re being stubborn again,” you utter, the soft light of the bathroom placed at half-capacity to at least try and keep some of the veil of sleep over your heads. “I told you to wake me up when you needed it cleaned.” Your skin brushes his and Alex shivers under you, sighing breathily. “And you’re not keeping me here—I’m helping.” 

A small flash of that full smile, mustache flinching up, “Well when you look so pretty sleepin’ I can’t just shake you awake and tell you to fix me up.” 

You take your free hand and pinch his nose, yawning as he grunts out chuckles. A delicate glance is thrown his way as the rag lowers from reddened skin. Like a butterfly's whisper, you study his face gently; reaching and cupping his cheek with your palm. 

Alex’s lids flutter, heavy weight falling into you as if waiting for this—lips pressing to your inner wrist in reverence. You hold back a tired giggle and feel the corner of his mouth pull up when he feels it.

“All that talk, and yet,” pressing a smooch to his forehead you take your hand back and hear the grumble he lets out after, “you still like it better when I’m the one that’s working on you.”

“Can’t complain too much,” he admits slowly as his head leans back to tap the wall, “my wife’s hands are way softer than mine.” 

Alex’s grip on your flesh tightens when you sipe away the last line of crimson from the wound, tattooed arms flexing. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, watching his eyes slightly awash with pain. “Got caught on a stitch.”

“Ah, well,” the blond sighs, shifting “I suppose I can forgive you.” 

Laughing quietly as the house settles, you shake your head and rest your forehead on his. 

“Such a saint,” your lips utter teasingly as Alex smiles wide, his hands moving higher to your waist. You lean into him, stealing his warmth as your tired eyes flutter; feeling his thumbs run circles over the flesh of your lower spine. 

A content breath escapes you.

“Go back to bed, Sweetheart,” Alex whispers, lips brushing yours like silk, the bristles of his facial hair tickling you. “I can do the rest, promise.”

“Know you can,” your mutterings are barely heard, but the man seems to register them, sea-glass gaze incredibly soft. He chuckles at your sleepiness, one hand leaving your waist to capture the back of your head; weaving into your hair and gently massaging your scalp. You practically melt into him, limbs going slack, slurring out, “Quit it. Wanna help, Alex.”

His laughter shakes you, and with a huff escaping, you bury your burning face into his neck and lean into him, careful of his wound even in your fatigued state. 

“No offense, Bug,” Alex shifts, grunting as he easily maneuvers you until you’re laying in his arms, inked forearms under your knees and behind your shoulders with vivid images of grim reapers, snakes, and angels guarding you close. A kiss is firmly pressed to your forehead as the blonde smirks downwards, “But you’re about as helpful to me right now as an empty mag.”

You grumble, trying to disappear into his skin and letting him dig his stubble into your cheek. 

“If you bring me back to bed before you’re done,” you yawn and close your eyes, “I’m divorcing you.”

He laughs deeply into your ear, body shaking as he pulls back and sends you an incredulous look. 

“Hell, we can’t have that, can we, Mrs. Keller? I’d lose my damn mind.” 

It’s a long drive, and you worry through the entirety of it. A primal, whole-body-shaking type of fear. You’d built a life with Alex and loved him more than anything or anyone that had come before. Even if he was gone a lot, that had never dulled what the two of you had—your marriage was nothing short of something you would find in a fairy tale; flashing pictures on pages with vivid colors and tender glances. The very cover itself is made of the finest leather and inlaid with gold calligraphy. 

Please, Alex, you plead in your head as you remember his loving gaze—his back as he makes supper in the kitchen and hums to himself. Please be okay.

The men hold open the car door when it comes to a stop outside a very obviously abandoned apartment complex near the outskirts of town. You get out quickly. Looking around, you take in the overgrown grass and the broken concrete with a knife in your lung; holding back the flood of anxious tears. 

Though, confusion takes president. 

“Where did you…?” You turn to look at the Agents, but they’re already clambering back into their car and snapping the doors shut. Wide-eyed and slack-jawed you watch them speed off as a cloud of dust drifts into the air. 

Pulse echoing in your ears, you watch the vehicle speed down the road and disappear. 

Swallowing, you whisper, “What the actual fuck?” Turning in circles, no one else is around. A part of you starts to worry less for Alex and more for yourself.

They were CIA, you reiterate, I checked their badges—Alex showed me the standard ones. Could I have missed something? 

Expression nervous, you shift on your feet before your stuttering legs take you closer to the abandoned building, not really seeing much choice here. You could imagine the scene from The Wizard Of Oz—when the man pulls back the curtain and all is revealed. 

That said, you could really only hope that was what was actually happening to you and you weren't getting kidnapped or shot. Taking a deep breath, you clench your fists and enter the building through the open front door. 

It was in the wide lobby that you locked eyes with Kate Laswell. You blank, mouth parting as the scent of concrete and decaying furniture get stuck in your nose. 

The woman seems highly agitated, brows tight and jaw clenched. Her white blouse had been flattened multiple times by rough hands, lanyard swaying on her neck like Alex’s dog tags would. She holds a file in her hands; the paper bulky as if holding something more than just paper inside its manila clutches.

“Kate?” You ask, confused, “What are you doing here? What’s all of this about?” Taking quick steps forward you splay your hands as your voice grows more serious. “Where’s my damn husband?” 

You didn’t know Laswell personally, in fact, when you had first got a glimpse of her here, you’d forgotten the older woman’s name for a moment. The first meeting between the two of you had been at a CIA get-together that Alex had been forced to go to because of his position—some celebration because a group of ICBMs had been taken back into US hands after being stolen. Your husband had introduced you to the Station Chief over a drink with a hand on the small of your back.

But it didn’t stop you now from talking to her like you’d known her for years. Not when fear was flooding your veins.

“What the hell is going on?” You say harshly, glancing around the room for any sight of someone else here. 

Kate sighs heavily but wastes no time in speaking, her professional tone and serious face leaving your already fast-paced heart racing.

“Alex isn’t coming back to the United States.” Your eyes blank, staring into icy blue. She holds out her manila folder, jaw tight. Blunt. “He’s a deserter.” 

It’s like your entire being halts; your skin suit feels as if it’s sagging on your bones with the weight of a cinder block connected by hooks to the floor. 

What did she just say?

Opening and closing your mouth you stutter, lids blinking rapidly. 

“I…” Fingers flinching in the air, an exhalation from your nose sounds more like a wheeze. Kate watches stiffly, taking a look at the floor before returning her attention to you; emotion flashes in her eyes. “...W-what?”

“Keller deserted his post—I tried to speak with the Colonel but there’s only so much I can do.” Laswell takes a deep breath as you continue to go through shock. Alex wasn’t coming home? How, why? “He’s staying in Urzikstan to fight with the Liberation Force.”

“Urzikstan?!” You gape, but the woman continues. 

“For all intents and purposes, I shouldn’t be here, but Alex asked me personally to hand these to you.” Again the manilla folder is shown to you, but when you only glare and fight the fear and confusion rampaging in your gut a sigh echoes out and it’s placed on a termite-eaten side table. “Even communicating with you could put you in danger now that he’s gotten on the bad side of the entire SAD and CIA branches. This is all I can do.”

“What the fuck,” you whisper to yourself, hand coming up to capture your mouth. 

“If Alex re-enters the states—he’ll be arrested and tried in a court of law. If he’s not shot on sight for what he knows.” Kate watches you closely, shaking her head in pity. “I’m sorry,” there’s a strained pause, “but he’s made his decision.” 

As she brushes past you, leaving the folder on the side table, you feel your wide eyes well with tears—confused and horrified. But he’s coming back to me, right? Alex…Alex wouldn’t leave me here alone.

It was common knowledge that over the last years the blond had gotten more agitated at his line of work; the orders that he didn’t want to follow but had no choice. No voice. But he can’t just abandon you...could he? You’d taken vows. Had a happy marriage and relationship. Loved each other.

He can’t just…he can’t…

Your hands shake and you’re unable to stop them, gaze locked on that unassuming manilla folder. Kate pauses in the doorway, peeking back and seeing your sickly-looking face, the agony written in the lines of your forehead. Like the picture of a loyal wife being told her husband was never coming home. And Alex wasn’t even dead. Resentment begins to burn. 

But he made his bed. 

“He told me to tell you that he wouldn’t be angry if you wanted to leave him,” was all she said, a final knife being stabbed into your heart and being ripped out like a live wire. Electricity makes your back go stiff in an instant. “It would be best to never tell anyone that we met.” 

You were alone, full body shivers and bile stuck in the back of your throat. Cold sweat coats your palms, a sticky mess of your barebones disturbance. 

“He…” your voice is hoarse, bouncing off the far walls. “Alex left me here? He left me.”

It was easier to say that the sun had exploded and you were waiting for the last beam of light to incinerate you. Inside of your skull your brain pounds as, in a mad dash of desperation, you rush to the manilla folder and rip it open with vibrating arms.

Having Laswell tell you that Alex wouldn’t be mad if you…if you…the hairs on the back of your neck rise and suddenly you’re angry beyond a sliver of a doubt. It was insulting.

“Alex fucking Keller,” the paper opens to the bulk of your husband's dog tags and a flip phone—reports like his own personal file and the patch that he had once worn so proudly on his combat vest. Red, white, and blue dig into your retinas; it was old, worn beyond measure, but that little patch was something that was never removed. Not even to be cleaned. 

“The dirtier it is,” Alex had commented on the American flag patch when you’d offered to mend it for him, cringing at all the blood stains and dirt flecking off it as he slipped his vest off in the foyer of your home. “The luckier I am.” 

“I think the stench of it alone will frighten off anyone who comes near,” you had raised a brow, smirking up at him as he walked over, laughing. A kiss is placed on your lips, Alex’s bright smile transferring over to you as if able to spread from his mouth to yours that simply. You sigh dreamily. 

He pulls back with a tiny wink as you gaze up at him, cheekily stating, “That’s the plan, Sweet Thing. Gotta make sure I come home to you in one piece.”

You brush your hands over it and think that maybe it would have been better if he had died. Then you could understand why he’s doing this to you. Anger spreads into rage. 

Looking next at the phone and dog tags, all you do is shake your head and slam the folder shut, bitter tears tracking your face. You can’t read anything—can’t see his name imprinted on that metal that used to press coldly into your skin as you both slept in bed. You don’t care about the phone or the files. 

None of it mattered.

“He fucking left me here,” it’s like you’re a broken record replaying over and over again. “You absolute bastard, Keller!” Yelling, you press your fingers into your face, hands spreading over your eyes and mouth to muffle your enraged sobs. 

“You’re still alive and you left me alone.” 

Only the abandoned building echoes your pain; replaying it back over and over again as your wails echo around the lobby like a symphony of laughing jesters. 

—

The phone that Laswell had given you had been going off at least three times every day—morning, noon, and at night. You had stared at it with fury, knowing exactly who was calling even if the thing was displaying an unknown number. By now you had steeped in your anger enough that you had found yourself snapping at friends and family alike when asked if you were alright. 

You wished Alex was here so you could hit him upside the head for being so stupid. So you could hate him until you had the pleasure to love him again.

Urzikstan. 

You’d looked up the country after you had spent two days straight in bed, afterward manically cleaning the house with a glare that could light fires. The far-off place was a land utterly divided by war. Russian occupation, a terrorist group; the force that your husband had joined. Mass against mass against mass.

Brick meets wall.

And Alex had chosen to stay—without a doubt because he’d seen the dire situation and had used that damnable good heart of his to empathize to the max. Forget donations, humanitarian work, or anything else, the man had fucking decided to join in a Liberation Force. 

As much as you wanted to say you hated him; had wanted to slam your gold wedding band to the table with a good riddance for betraying you like that…you still had his dog tags around your neck, and the ring was still on your finger. 

“Too good for his own sake,” you grumble, shoving dirty clothes into the washer like they had tried to attack you. “Deserted the fucking CIA, Jesus Alex. Do you even think when I’m not around?” 

There were only so many times you could curse his name until you felt a deceiving needle of pride slither itself into your skull. You could describe Alex as many things but he would always be steadfast in causes that truly needed his help. He often told you that the best missions were the ones where he could do so much more than take out a target—he strived to help the individuals he met. Form bonds. 

God forbid something came in between the blond and the ones he’d chosen to give his loyalty to.

You slam the washer shut and stomp into the living room after starting another cycle. Stress cleaning was really not a good look on you—the entire house was without a single spec of dust but you yourself felt like you’d run seven marathons. Clenching your teeth, you go and drop to the couch, a grunt falling from your lips as your head hits the pillow.

Staring at the ceiling, you finally take in the utter silence of the house—not a home, because it could only be that if Alex was here—with a pained crease forming on your brow. The pipes spit water, and the washer grunted its mechanical garble…but there was no humming man making food in the kitchen. No blond hair visible as a head rests on your chest; your fingers playing in the locks that act like silk as you part them, the man on top of you purring. Body a weighted blanket.

“Was it really that easy,” you whisper to nothing, lip quivering. “Was it really that easy to stay away, Alex? I thought…I…” 

Eyes wrenching shut, you hear the phone right at noon again as it sits on the coffee table. And you let it. 

There were voicemails, no doubt, but you hadn’t thought to listen to those either. This small act of rebellion was all you could act on but for the simple fact that it also harmed you. Barbed wire steadily digging deeper as it kept your hands wound to your sides—neck plastered to the pillow as bright silver spikes glinted. You stare at the unknown caller who really wasn’t all that unknown and watch the screen light, vibrating over the wood in steady intervals. 

What hurt the most was that if he’d asked you to come along—become an Expat just for him—you would have said yes. You could find a new job, a new place to call home. Humanitarian work would have been at the top of your list and Alex…well….he would still be fighting, just as he always had. 

But at the very least you would have been there to clean his wounds. Together. You’d both promised on that altar to do nothing less. He could’ve asked. He should have asked. 

Alex…

“Urzikstan,” you mutter for what seems like the fiftieth time. When the ringing stops a few moments later the new voicemail icon flashes. Placing your arm over your mouth, you clench your hand so tight it starts to shake, whispering into your skin, “Fine. I guess you did make your bed. And���and I won't be there to lie in it with you.” No matter how much I want to.

You slip the wedding band off of your finger and place it beside the phone before turning and burying your head into the cushions; feeling more numb than you ever had before.

—

It carried on like this for three months. The ring didn’t move from the coffee table and neither did the flip phone; the file had all but been tossed in the trash as it sat teetering on the living room desk. You carried on as well as you could, all things considered. 

Work was a blur, going out with friends even harder to enjoy, and any enjoyment of hobbies or activities was dulled to an almost gray existence. Like a ghost, you wafted through experiences with dog tags and a withering appearance. Eventually, you just stopped going out unless it couldn’t be helped. You still bought meals for two at the grocery store out of habit. You placed blankets where Alex used to sleep beside you. You went to work. 

And still, the calls never stopped except for a brief pause after the first month. You’d thought he’d finally given up, but no. Back at it.

It had gotten to a point now where the device was automatically deleting all recent voicemails—too little space in the inbox. 

Angry curiosity was tempting you. It would be easy, you reason, to simply play the first message and listen. The worst part of it was that you’d begun to forget Alex’s voice and perhaps that was why, on that dead-aired Saturday, you snatched the phone and brought it into the kitchen. 

Firmly planting it on the counter, you stand behind one of the island chairs and glare, hands tapping into the wood. 

“I’m giving you three minutes, Alex,” you speak as if he’s still here, as if his form stands right behind you, head tilted like a damn dog with that infectious smile and those sea-glass eyes. “Three minutes,” your fingers snap the device open and you go to your voicemails; jaw tight, “and if you don’t hear you groveling, Keller, I’m deleting all of them and chucking this phone into the sink.” 

You go down the line to the very first message, small buttons clicking, and before you can stop yourself you press play.

It begins with a small moment of silence. A cough. 

“Hey,” he says your first name, not one of your epithets. Your brows deepen their annoyed furrow, but you can’t help the uptick in your heart rate. Inside your flesh, the sinews of your throat close in on itself like a balloon. “I…I’m guessin’ I have a good enough ass-kicking waiting for me since you didn’t answer.” A strained laugh before another pause. You feel acidic tears boil behind your lids. “I’m not surprised—not really. Done some stupid things but never something like this.” You can hear him shake his head, voice going lower in defiance. “But they were asking me to leave Urzikstan in a worse place than when I entered it. This Liberation Force, Bug, it…they’re good people and what they’re asking me to do…” Alex huffs, growling under his throat. “I can’t stand by that. The man you chose to marry, he can’t stand by that. They need me here. I’m not asking you to not be angry—to not hate me for this. I know I damn well deserve it.”

You let your tears hit the counter, head slightly bowing over. That was your Alex. 

“You need a leash,” your strained voice hits the walls, bouncing off picture frames and your husband's cooking utensils. The small pieces that make up the whole picture frame of your life. “God,” you huff wetly, “you’re going to get yourself killed.”

“I know I should have talked to you first, figured out some plan. But, uh,” Alex’s throat gets choked up, and you snap a hand to your mouth when you realize he’s close to tears. He clears his throat. “Hell, I should have done a lot of things, Sweetheart.” 

You can hear shouts in the background, calls in Arabic. The pounding of a door and a woman’s voice.

“Alex, we need to move! Everyone is ready—Barkov’s lab cannot be left standing a moment longer.” The hurried hand to the line muffles the words, but you hear him anyway.

“Affirmative!” He comes back. “I don’t have time to explain more, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for… everything. I’d understand if you don’t use the passport Laswell’ll give you, but that doesn’t mean I’m just going to stop calling.” Alex laughs and your face freezes.

“Passport?”

“What kind of Husband would I be if I just let the most perfect woman in the world go without a fight, huh? I’ll be waiting until you call to tell me to shut the hell up and leave you alone or that you’re down in the airport waiting.” There’s a large sound of combat vests being clicked on—pistols being situated into holsters and a rifle strap slipped over a chest. Alex suddenly pauses and you stare at the phone blankly. “I know this is a big ask, Doll, and I know I’m horrible for even springin’ this on you when I’m half a world away from our bed. But I had to try, even if it was selfish. I just…I just really need to hear your voice telling me if I’m an idiot or not for thinking this up. Call me back soon…or when you run out of my clothes to burn in the firepit out back…I love you, okay? More…more than anything.” 

There’s a minute or two of nothing, just Alex’s ragged breathing, and then there’s an older man’s voice ordering him to hurry up. The line clicks. 

Your ears ring as it does, wide eyes dripping tears from your bottom lashes as your lungs chill over. Hand slowly flinching out, you ghost over the keys before clicking on the following voicemail. As it plays, your feet start to take you backward at a snail's pace, your spine flattering against the wall as blood drains to your feet. 

“Hey, it’s me again. I still haven’t heard from you—that’s alright. Take your time.” Steadying yourself with a hand, you look out of the kitchen and get a glimpse of the manila folder on the desk, its tan hide sucking you in. Pulse in your throat, you rush out to grab it as Alex’s voice echoes. “I know Laswell gave you the file, I trust her that much at least.” A sigh. “But even if it’s just to yell at me, please pick up the phone soon. Let me save some of my dignity and give me a chance to beg on an open line, huh, Sweetheart…? But I guess that’s all—gotta go. I love you.” 

You don’t play the next message because you’re ripping open the file with rabid hands, seeing exactly as you had when Laswell left it for you. Alex’s mission report; his patch. The dog tags around your neck clink together like a song, some brutal rhythm. 

“Passport?” Grasping the mission report you pick it up, flipping through the multiple pages of blacked-out words and more confused than ever. “Airport?” 

The words come out as whimpers, hands so shaky that the pages slip from your fingers. They slam to the floor in a flurry of bond paper and you curse loudly, snatching for the remnants futilely. Grasping on your hands and knees hitches build in your breath as your fingers dance rapidly before they slip across something distinctly not paper. 

Small, tiny, and blue. Laminate. 

Your very blood seems to stop in your veins. Pushing back one last piece of paper, you come face to face with a singular American passport. Gasping down mute breaths and licking your lips, you pick it up lightly, leaning back on your legs as if you’d just slammed your head into the concrete. 

“Alex…” you whisper to no one. 

Flipping the hard cover open, a small, palm-sized piece of paper slips out to your lap as your own face stares at you in image form. You blink for a moment before going to take the note and separate the ends. Formal script is inside, stiff lettering. Not your husband's handwriting, but you didn’t have to guess who’d written out these directions for you. 

Laswell.

There was a destination in fountain pen ink—an airport near the Urzikstanian and Georgian border. Seeing as Urzikstan was on the travel-ban list due to the turbulence of the government and terrorist threats, you wouldn’t be able to get there directly. 

But you supposed Kate had your back for that too. 

Georgian safehouse - wait for Keller there. It’s secure. More directions and then a small gap. A pause. Good luck.

You don’t know how long you stare at that paper—that passport. The first thing you think about is how could Alex ask you to do this. Uproot yourself with the snap of a finger. You wouldn’t be able to bring anything beyond what could fit in a few suitcases. No furniture, no large amount of clothes, or even sentimental items. You’d have to quit your job; leave behind family and friends to travel to a war-torn country.

But he’d said it was your choice, and he wouldn’t push you to make it. He’d said you could leave him if you wanted—keep all of this that you’d built here.

…But you’d built it together, hadn’t you? 

You think of Alex’s bright smile and his mustache. His tattoos. How he’d hold you so tight in the long hours of sleep that you half-believed he thought you’d disappear if he didn’t; nuzzling his nose into the back of your head and grumbling out nonsense. The way you could trace his scars and watch as he willingly submitted to your praise, delicate lips curving into sheepish grins as you place soft kisses on the raised skin. Red cheeks.

This place wasn’t a home without Alex in it.

You look over at the coffee table and lock onto the gold of your wedding band.

—

Getting into Georgia was a long affair of paperwork and screenings—not days but months of legal jargon that Alex had dodged entirely because of his desertion. By the time you’d landed in country, you were wholly exhausted down to the very marrow of your bones. You get through the checkpoints, pick up your bags, and look out at the entirely new world outside of the airport’s windows. 

“Okay,” you swallow saliva and nod carefully before looking down at Laswell’s directions to the safehouse. 

You slip the paper into your pocket after memorizing the address, tips of your fingers brushing the smooth surface of the flip phone. Clenching your eyes shut, you take your hand back out and go to try and hire a driver. You were here, but that doesn’t mean all of this was forgiven. 

After you find someone able to drive you to where you need to go, you end up standing with a quaint hostel ahead of you, home far behind. Gazing slightly nervous at the strange place you’ve found yourself, you think of Alex’s hand on the small of your back and sigh; caressing the cool metal of the ring around your finger. 

Walking forward, you hitch your bags over your shoulders and grit your teeth against the hot sun. When you meet the owner at the front desk you state your name and ask for a bed. 

The man’s eyes widen for a moment before he looks at something on his countertop, raising a brow in thought. Grabbing at a stack of papers he holds up a finger and begins digging. Too tired and overwhelmed to ask what was wrong, you just watch and rub at your face. 

“Ah,” the man snaps his fingers and laughs to himself, “here it is! I knew I had placed the note somewhere, Mrs. Keller.” You blink, confused, but the man just takes a key from the wall and motions for you to follow. Sparing a glance around for a moment, you slowly slink after, not really having a choice.

“I remember your Husband coming to me—the blond with the tattoos.” The owner looks back, making sure you’re following. He motions to his right side with splayed fingers. “Scars on the side of his head, to reserve a room.”  

Alex was here? How much had he done already pertaining to the chance that you would show up? 

“Y-yeah,” you chuckle stiffly, “that was him. Sorry for being so long I was…preoccupied.”

“You’re lucky he kept up on payments,” the man grumbles, opening a door with the key and motioning you inside. “My pleasure to finally have you, regardless.”

Entering the small and sparse room, you take the key from him with a thankful smile and a quick thank you before he closes the door. As the barrier thuds, you sway on your feet. Blinking. Breathing hard. You drop all of your bags with a heavy thump that echoes off the walls in a single instant. Heart pounding at everything that was striking you in an instant, you walk slowly back to the bed. You don’t bother to take a shower or brush your teeth; even change. 

You fall down on the mattress and pray you don’t have to dream about Alex sending money to this place every week simply on a suffocating hope that you’d come back to him. You pray you don’t dream at all. 

The phone wakes you up only thirty minutes later.

Groaning, you shift your body so your hand can snake into your pocket, grasping it and tossing it to the pillow beside your head. You’d never made it through all of the voicemails without crying, so you just deleted all of them and let the inbox fill back up again. 

Feeling the dog tags press against your chest as you form your chest into the bed, you shove your head downward and listen to it ring. 

Bring-bring, bring-bring, bring-bring

It happens in a flurry of a sleep-addled mind and a horrible desperation to see your husband after nearly a full year of no contact. You flip it open and answer with your nose pressed deeply into the pillow below you. Ears straining and pulse running like a starving cat after a mouse. 

Dead silence. 

“...Sweetheart…?” It’s pitiful how fast the tears flood you at Alex’s shocked and tiny voice. Tight breathing sounds over the line from his end and your other hand digs into your scalp. A small, cut-off laugh. “Hey…I—” 

You hang up with a vicious slam of the screen and let the silence settle again. People walk the hall; the sun dims as night sets in. This isn’t home. Dropping the phone back down to the pillow you curl into a tight ball and cry yourself back to sleep.

If you had to guess, you’d say the small curse was what woke you for the second time, though you didn’t register it until minutes later. That muffled ‘shit’ as a foot hits your dropped bags near the door. But then it’s silent again and your ears only twitch to the gentle sigh that brushes against your face; a thumb and forefinger caressing your cheek as hair is placed back over your ear. 

Perhaps the only reason at all as to why you don’t wake up screaming bloody murder is because of his calluses. They burn your flesh as they slide over it—as ingrained into your very being as your own heart is. As if Alex’s touch was another organ that was needed to survive. More important than a liver or a spleen. 

When your eyes slip open he’s leaning back in a chair he had turned to face you, built form shifting as the rickety wood creaks. No more than five feet away sits your husband, and all you do is suck in a tight breath and lock gazes with soft sea glass. 

Alex freezes at the same time, strong brow line peeling back and mustache stiff as his lips immediately thin. You both stare for a good while, a thread of tension entering the air. The night deepens. 

He speaks first, in the dense hours of confrontation. Your heart feels like it’s been stuck with a spear, vignette at the sides of your vision, and a blooming center of only Alex’s body and his messy hair. The scarf around his neck. The combat vest. 

Had he driven all this way to see if you were here? Because you’d answered the phone? But you hadn’t even said anything. Your head stays on the pillow, wondering if you were hallucinating.

“Hey,” Alex forces a chuff before he glances away, nervous arms crossed. “Hey there, Doll. Sorry that I woke you. I…ah,” your eyes bore into him, hand on the sheets slowly clenching into a fist. “I figured there was an off chance you would be here.” He clears his voice, throat closing on a trying laugh. “Guess I’m glad I looked. You should remember to lock your door, by the way.” 

At the sight of your rising glare, his tone drops, expression falling even more than it already was. Deep well of sadness grew in his eyes, lips pulling back in a strained agony. 

Alex’s gaze drops to the floor. 

“I know,” is what hits the air, “I know, Sweetheart. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t fucking cut it,” you push your body up as his large shoulders tighten—such an accomplished and strong man brought to a squirming heap when his wife’s sharp words hit him in the chest. “What the hell were you thinking, Alex?!”

Heavy feet hit the floor as you stalk over, fatigue and tiredness pushed all the way to the back of your mind yet also enhancing your emotions. Bitter rage was sparking—held in far too long. Alex’s eyes don’t meet yours, so you grab him by the chin and angle his head up to you. 

At the sight of your red sclera and the baggy gaze he stills. Under your grip his beard tickles you, the soft grip of flesh that makes you want to wrap your arms over him and weep; make him promise to never leave like that again. 

“I…I wasn’t…”

“That’s the thing isn’t it—you didn’t think.” Sea glass floods over, going glossy; hurt etched into both of your faces as if carved from the same stone. But you don’t stop now, growling out as your skin burns. Alex isn’t sad that you’re angry, he’s sad he’s done this to you. “You disappeared, Alex. Laswell had to just drop all of this shit on me. I thought you had died.” You growl. “Do you know what that feels like?!” 

“Sweetheart—”

“Shut up! You let me talk,” he falls silent, hand delicately coming up to grab your wrist. Not to pull you away, just to hold you. To feel your skin and the heat of it. You sniffle and his eyes break. “And the worst part of it was that if you had just asked I would have followed you right then and there.” Alex sharply looks back at you. “But the biggest insult was that you thought I would leave you—that you even considered that.” 

Shock slowly gives way to a blank expression. He was confused, now.

Was that what you were angry about?

“You’re an idiot, Keller. Hot-headed. Cocky.” You shake your head, but a tiny smile begins to bleed onto Alex’s face. Watching you like you’d just sprung a million dollars on him. His grip slightly squeezes, calloused thumb running the span of your knuckles as you shake his head with your hand. “Damn nuisance to my health, is what you are.” Trying to remain angry is tough when he’s looking at you like that—starstruck—but you spit out, “It’s insulting that you thought I’d just give up on us that easily.”

“Most women don’t want a man who’s wanted for desertion, Doll,” Alex whispers, testing a smirk on his lips with his expression still strained. 

“Arrogant!” your voice snaps. “Not a single brain cell in his stupid little head.” You let go of his chin and grip the sides of his skull, feeling the dirty but still soft strands of hair before you huff at him. 

But he just looks at you and smiles, face smooshed. 

“...You really came?” Alex asks quietly. You fall silent and after a moment you deflate.

After the silence of trying to keep the sneer on your face, you let it drop, lips quivering slightly. Anger glints with pain. “I should hit you upside the head, Keller, for all the worry you’ve put me through,” you grunt, eyes flashing over every new bruise on his face—every cut you’d have to re-learn. He looks tired. 

Oh, Alex…

Before the blond can respond to you, you’ve captured the back of his head and shoved it into your chest; face burying itself into his scalp to bring forth that scent of dust and cologne. You whimper out as he grips you around the waist with just as much fervor, “Did you think that I would stay away?”

Alex says nothing, only the slight tremor in his bicep betraying him. You firmly kiss his skull and run your fingers through his hair, the both of you so tight together there’s barely enough room in your ribs to allow your lungs to inflate. 

But holding him was more important than air, a sentiment that Alex seemed to share entirely. 

“I’m so glad you’re here, Bug.” He mutters into your skin. “Feels good to be able to hold my girl again.”

You stay like that for a long time before you pull back and capture his cheeks, face pulling closer before you kiss him deeply. It’s not a fast-paced or desperate thing—no clashing teeth or tongue. That wasn’t what you needed right now. 

All that you needed was Alex. Your home. 

You both separate and the blond grabs the back of your neck, forcing you back so he can lay another on the side of your mouth; nose, cheek. Anywhere that he could reach as his mustache tickled you to a smile. Giggles worm out and you wiggle out of his grip to wipe at your cheeks, spreading away tiny tear tracks and saliva.

“Quit it,” you whisper, and Alex gazes up at you reverently from his chair.

“Negative, Ma’am,” he says, equally as soft, not even blinking. “Don’t wanna.” You roll your eyes, face hot. 

The seconds draw long of only watching one another before you shake your head and move your hands to shimmy out of the dog tags around your neck. Alex’s gaze locks on the metal swiftly, smile shifting.

“You’re horrible.” You huff, quietly, before shoving his dog tags at his chest. “Now put them back on.”

“But I’m not in the—” Your glare shuts him up. Alex clears his throat sheepishly. “Yes, Ma’am.” 

You nod and watch as they’re resituated around his neck. Right where they should be. When you take a step back to really take him in, there’s a moment where you skim over the state of his left leg. After all, the metal was barely noticeable in the dark. But when you do see it every little part of you shrivels up with confused pain.

Alex stands with a noticeable preference to his right and as he towers over you, fingers coming to grab at your face and slowly drag it back up.

A slightly apologetic look washes over him.

“I’m guessing you didn’t listen to all of the voicemails.” 

“Alex…” you slowly cut off. “You…” Staring at the metal limb instead of the real one, you gape. “...how?”

“Y’know,” he laughs, but you don’t find this funny. He notices and kisses your forehead, tapping his scalp to yours and saying after a contemplative pause, “I think it’s better if I don’t explain it. I’m alright, just...” Alex smiles cheekily, the spark that you love coming back easily as it shimmers in his eyes, “just a little more carbon fiber and aluminum than I was before.” 

You hug him tightly.

“I’m sorry, I should have come sooner—I was just angry, and I wasn’t—”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Alex sighs, grabbing you and maneuvering the both of you to the bed. He sits and you end up laying in his lap like that moment in the bathroom ages ago. “None of this is your fault, okay? You deserve to be angry. I shouldn’t have put such a burden on you.” 

You sigh in his arms, head under his chin and heart finally able to return to a steady pace. Licking your lips, you ask, “Does it hurt?” 

Sending a glance down, Alex’s lips twitch with a grin before it disappears. He hums.

“Sometimes.” Your hand grips his opposite cheek and you lay a kiss on his chin, caressing his flesh.

It’s a tentative kind of love. An understanding and a plea all at once. 

The blond leans back against the wall and pulls you closer, closing his eyes. Finally relaxing for the first time in what seems like forever. But his girl is in his arms, and he’s never been this calm.

“I have a home in Urzikstan,” he confesses lightly, fingers brushing your body and giving way to shivers. You listen, eyes fluttering at the vibrations of his words. “It’s safe—protected. I…want us to live there.” Alex nods against your head, swallowing. “If you’ll come back with me.”

“Yes,” your answer is immediate. “Anywhere, as long as you’re with me.” 

You feel his breath hitch, soft chuckles brushing your hair far better than any comb. There’s a small tremor in his voice as he says, “I love you. God, do I love you.” 

Your lips pull up, body growing heavy with a final sense of home.

“I love you, too.” Soft kisses and tight arms. Shifting tattoos. “But if you ever do something like that again without talking to me, I’m telling Laswell she has permission to put a bullet in your ass.”

His loud laughs shake your body, and you press your face into his neck to steady yourself; smiling.

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[clementine-thedestroyer]

Sometimes, I wish I was as important as your email inbox - John Price x reader

Warnings/tags: Hurt comfort, could be considered angst. Miscommunication(?) established relationship, fem!reader. This was supposed to be pwp... then it turned in to this unholy abomination of hurt comfort because I have daddy issues and can’t fucking do this.

In which, Price has been a bit extra busy with work, and reader feels a bit… alone.

You open the door and step out of the bathroom, tugging your towel tighter around yourself as the steamy warmth from your shower mixes with the relatively cold air of the bedroom.

Price is sitting on your bed, leaning against the headboard with his legs stretched out and phone in hand as he scrolls through the device- likely for something work related. When he sees you step out of the bathroom, his eyes flit towards you and a smile tugs at the corners of his lips. 

You hadn’t expected him to be home yet. For the past week, he’d been leaving early and getting back late. Usually, he left early enough that it was still dark outside, and that the only goodbye you’d get was a gentle nudge to wake you up and a kiss on the forehead- followed by a goodbye and a reassurance he’d be back before you knew it. You knew he had to go, it was some week-long training he was helping to administer- but that didn’t help to soothe the loneliness that came with an empty house and waking up to a cold spot where your husband usually lay. 

Most of the time, it was dark again by the time he got back. And he was too exhausted to do much more than shower, collapse into bed next to you, and mumble a few “love you’s” before tugging you against his chest and using you as a body pillow for the night.

Tonight though, he was home earlier than usual.

Not by much- it was still late, and had you been given another thirty minutes, you’d probably have been curled up in bed and- judging by how exhausted you felt- probably completely passed out. And of course- though he may be home earlier than expected… he wasn’t really free. The texts, emails, and paperwork were what most commonly followed him home from work- and it was stupid to be jealous of paperwork or goddamn Gmail. You knew that. You told yourself that constantly. You also constantly reminded yourself that you chose this, you knew what you were getting into with this man. But that didn’t help how starved you’d become for his touch and affection. And it certainly didn't help the nights where you would fall asleep next to your Price, yet feel more alone than ever- because there was something heartbreaking about falling asleep feeling cold, lonely, and unwanted, with the man you loved right next to you- but too busy with what felt like constant work.

Although… As much as you hated those nights, it was still better than when Price would come back with new injuries and guilt weighing heavy on his shoulder.

Today had been a bit of a rough day for you. Tiering, to say the least… especially now, as you realized tonight was shaping up to be one of the ones that hurt the most. And despite the guilt you felt at not even attempting conversation with Price after nearly a week of only goodbyes and goodnights, you really wanted nothing more than to put on your comfiest pajamas and curl up for sleep. 

You missed him dearly, but you were too emotionally and mentally drained to figure out what to do about it. Frankly, this was the only thing your exhausted self could think to do: go to sleep and hope that the rest of this (particularly) dreadful week passes quickly.

As exhausted as you may be… you also know that Price is probably about to stand up to take a shower of his own now that you’re out, and that by the time he’s done, you’ll probably be asleep- so you stifle a yawn and pad over to Price.

Once at Price’s side of the bed, you lean over to press a kiss to his forehead- a hand held over your chest to keep your towel from falling down when you do so. “Goodnight.” You mumble, stumbling a bit when you get a head rush as you try to stand back up.

When you start to sway, Price frowns and reaches out, placing a steadying hand on your upper hip. “You alright’, Love?” He asks, forehead knitted in worry.

You nod, ducking your head a bit and pressing a hand against your temple as you wait for the momentary dizziness to pass. “I’m fine, just stood up too fast.” You murmur, silent for a moment as you take a deep breath and start to straighten up.

From where you stand, you can see that Price’s phone is, in fact, open to his email inbox- and you can’t help the frown that accompanies the pang of dejection that shoots through your chest.

“You sure?” Price asks, his concern seemingly only growing as he speaks. “You look a bit off-color.”

You nod your head “yes”, trying your best to simply put Price’s worries to rest. You do know that you should talk to him, that you should take this opportunity to tell him how you feel, that you should stop this spiral you're in. But… you’re tired. Tired physically, tired mentally, tired emotionally- You’re just fucking tired, and everything feels like it’s all going shit. 

The hand on your hip moves upwards, and a strong arm wraps around your waist and gently tugs you down. You land with a bit of a bounce onto Price’s lap- his arm around your waist bracing you and keeping you upright as his other one comes up to press the back of his hand against your forehead.

“Bloody hell, you’re burning up.” Price says, the worry lines on his forehead deepening as he quickly drops his phone. “You sure you’re feeling alright?” He asks again, clearly not believing your early assertion of “fine”.

“‘Not sick, just took a hot shower.” You mumble, leaning into his hand where it still rests on your forehead- letting out a deep breath at the touch and letting your heavy eyes drift shut.

Price is clearly unconvinced- looking just as worried as before as he moves one hand to your upper back and the other to the nape of your neck- pulling you close and lifting your hair out of his way so he can check once again for a temperature.

The hand against your forehead must've broken something in you, because from that moment on you feel like a damn had burst. Like all the effort you’d been putting into hiding how bad you’ve needed this is violently swept away and forgotten. Even when you loop your arms around his neck and pull yourself against him, you’re not close enough. No matter how much of you is touching him, you need more. No matter how much you press your face into his chest or the crook of his neck, you can still see the lights from the bedside lamp, smell the soap you used in the shower, and hear the neighbor's dog barking at god knows what. And that’s wrong- because all you want in this moment is Price. You want to be held impossibly close to him, you want your everything to be only him, just for a moment.

You don’t hear what he says, but you feel him take you by the shoulders and gently to get you to look up at him.

In response, you only whine and squeeze him tighter, pressing your face deeper into his neck and shaking your head no. 

He gets the hint- a deep sigh leaving his body as you feel him relaxing beneath you. You feel him press a kiss to the top of your head and you feel two large, warm, calloused hands slip under your thighs and lift- moving you so you’re straddling his thighs.

“Comfortable, Love?” He asks- to which you nod, goosebumps rising along your body as the air from the fan, even on its lowest setting, feels frigid against your still slightly damp skin- your towel from a moment ago having fallen as Price moved you. A hand runs along your arm, warming the skin slightly as you feel Price shift underneath you in preparation to stand up. 

“Do you want me to get you some clothes?” He asks- to which you, again, shake your head in response. This time, side to side as a “no”.

Price chuckles, the vibrations of his laugh traveling between you as he sets a hand on his nightstand, using it to support himself as lifts you two and yanks the covers out from where he had been sitting on them- settling back down and pulling them up to cover the two of you.

The comforter on you two’s bed is big and fluffy- perfect at trapping body heat and warming you up quickly. It’s probably your favorite blanket in the whole house, and you’ve been known to drag it out of the bed and curl up with it on the couch whenever you’re sick or it’s cold enough outside that the heater can’t keep up. Being wrapped in it is enough for you to- gradually- begin to loosen your hold on Price. Eventually, you’re not so much clinging to him as much as you’re simply draped over him.

But even when you release your death grip, Price doesn't try to get you up. He lets you stay, keeping you pressed close against his chest and your head resting on his shoulder. He keeps one hand under the blanket, resting on your lower back- occasionally stroking at the soft skin with the pad of his thumb or idly tracing the dips and rises of your body as you drifted in and out of sleep. In his other hand, he held his phone. Likely going through emails or doing something or other work related. 

You drifted between varying levels of sleep and awakeness as he held you. Whenever your head would start to slip from where he’d propped it up against his shoulder, he’d pause from his work to gently set it back and make sure you were doing okay. He’d often press sweet, loving kisses to the top of your head, cheek, or temple, or give gentle, protective squeezes to your waist whenever he felt you stir awake, and he’d speak soothingly and stroke your hair whenever you started mumbling half-asleep words to yourself or him. 

At one point, you started drifting deeper and deeper to sleep- waking up less and having fewer moments of half-awake confusion after being moved or repositioned- only to later wake up flat on your back - now dressed in some pajamas- and with Price slowly pulling away from you.

You jerk awake, gasping for breath as you immediately latch onto the part of Price that’s closest to you- which turns out to be an arm. You immediately find him back at your side, tears running down your face as you beg for him to stay.

You have his right arm in a white-knuckled grip, and his other one is behind your back, holding you up as he looks down at you- the most worried you’ve ever seen him. 

“Shh, you’re okay- I’m right here.” Price says, his look of concern only worsening as you let go of his arm in favor of clinging to his torso.

“D-Don’t go!” You sob, the burst of adrenaline from waking up and thinking he was leaving flushing through your body and leaving you shaky and with a pounding heart.

“I’m not going to leave, Love.” he reassures you, one of his hands petting your head, his beard scratching at your cheek as he holds you close in an attempt to comfort you. “But you have to tell me what’s wrong.”

You don’t respond, hiding your face against him.

He pulls away, cupping your cheek gently and making you look at him. “Sweetheart, I’m worried. You wouldn’t talk at all once you got in my lap, and you freaked out when I tried to set you down. I need you to talk to me.”

You pull your face away, going back to hiding against his chest… but eventually nod.

Price is silent for a moment- thinking before he speaks again

“Did someone hurt you?”

A quick shake of your head “no” and a heavy sigh of relief from Price.

“Is it something that happened at work?”

Another shake of your head “no”.

“Is it something that I did?”

You hesitate… 

Your lack of answer tells Price enough, and a kiss is pressed to the top of your head. Had you moved your face from where you were hiding it, you would have seen not only the look of absolute love he was looking down at you with, but the thinly veiled guilt he held as he watched the way you clung to him.

“I figured, love.”

You hiccup, choking on your own tears as you do and starting to cough. Price rubs soothing circles into your back as you try to catch your breath.

“I know, I know. This training thing is hard, and I should've done better at making sure my girl was okay. I’m sorry, love.”

“Y-you don’t have anything to be sorry f-”

Price cuts you off with a stern look. 

“None of that, now. I should’ve made more of an effort to be there for you.” He pauses, kissing you sweetly before continuing. “I love you so, so much, and I’m so sorry I let you forget that and that I let things get to this point, okay?”

“I love you too- “ You say softly, sniffling and trying to wipe away some of your tears- only for Price to come in with a tissue and gently start to blot at your red and blotchy face.

“I’m sorry for not talking to you about it…” You mumble, your face heating up as you try to take the tissue from Price to dry your own face, but failing to do anything more than get him to laugh a bit and start teasing you by keeping the tissue away.

“Tomorrow is the last day of the training, I’m going to take the day after off, and we’re going to do something, okay?” He says, laughing softly before letting you have the tissue and kissing you on the cheek.

Price’s hand finds yours, and he laces you two’s fingers together before pulling your still interlocked hands up and pressing a kiss to the back of yours. 

“And I’m not just sorry about this week, I’m sorry about recently in general. I’m going to be better about making sure I make time and showing you how much I care for you, okay?”

You nod, giving one final wipe to your face before you started squirming in his hold in an attempt to sit up a bit more.

“I’m going to be better too- I’m not going to bottle things up… and I’m going to try harder to tell you when I’m feeling like something’s wrong instead of letting it get like this…”

Pride tugs Price’s smile wider, and he brushes a strand of hair out of your face- tucking it behind your ear before pressing yet another kiss to your face.

“Thank you, Sweetheart. I’m glad.”

You smile, feeling like a weight has been lifted after your cry and conversation with Price. You wrap your arms around his waist, squeezing him as tight as you possibly can in an attempt to convey how thankful you are. Of his patience, of his kindness, of him.

“I love you,” You say into his chest as you squeeze him

He lets out a soft “oof” at your squeeze, huffing in amusement before wrapping his own arms around you and giving you a (far from full strength) squeeze of his own.

“I love you too.”