#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.

[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.

[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.

[merowkittie]

imagine price as your sugar daddy and his main rule he established before you two began this relationship was to not fall in love with him.

he’d given you so many reasons like how he’s always away from home, he won’t be able to care for a sweet thing like you, the age gap even though he saw how you tossed that out the window immediately (real asf), and he just doesn’t believe he’s the right one for you, that you can have men who you can easily beckon with a call over him.

so imagine the whiplash you receive when he’s so domestic towards you and acts as if you two are in a genuine relationship! it’s too hard not to fall for this man. he takes such a caring protective role over you, it’s as if he’s testing you to see if you’d really care for an old man like him. (he is and ps. you do.)

should i make this a mini series?? lmk!! ;)

[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.

[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

[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

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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

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

I’ve read a variation of soft and rough König and I’ve enjoyed both but I’d love to see your take on his character.

I can’t deny I have a preference for soft König. I think his size is a major concern, especially if his partner is on the smaller side, which leads me to believe he’d prolong the inevitable and the pining and anticipation would be off the charts on his end. But maybe his SO thinks he’s not as interested as she initially thought.

Add in the fact that he’s gone for long periods of time in which there is little or no communication and perhaps she considers moving on. The ol’ miscommunication trope if you will, with a happy ending. Thanks!

Overflow the Stars

Pairing: König x F!Reader

Synopsis: One more abandoned date night later, you're left wondering if the man you're infatuated with is really interested in you at all.

Word Count: 5.8k

Warnings: Angst, feelings of insecurity, body issues, allusions to König's past w. bullying & his anxiety, size difference, fluff, soft!König, happy ending

A/N: This is my apology to the German-speaking people out there - I think I butchered your language (feel free to correct me). I'm so sorry lmfao. But, Anon, this request was adorable to write, hope you enjoy it!

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

You wanted to say you were surprised when he didn't show up – really, you did – but in the back of your mind, you already knew he wouldn’t. It was hard not to feel disappointed when you swirled your tiny cup of Franziskaner tensely, watching the whipped cream sink away into the concoction of dark espresso and milk; calling attention to the same feeling in your chest.

König had a strange habit as of late, and with a delicate furrow in your brow and perhaps even a smidge of sadness in your eyes, you wondered what you had done wrong. Why had he been avoiding you so…violently? While you wouldn’t have called yourself perfect by any means, nothing you had done over the course of your meetings was strange or downright embarrassing. 

You admitted that the man had never been the type to run away from something, and sighed as you brought the cup to your lips and sipped. Caffeine sits on your tongue along with a bitter revelation as the rain begins to pick up in velocity outside. The small and quiet café where you’re spending your afternoon is warm and unburdened by the weather. 

Do you think…he’s even interested in me anymore? The sharp thought brings a pang to your chest, fingers over the warm cup flinching back as if struck with lightning. O-or he doesn’t like being around me?

Your relationship was still new, very new, and if you were asked you would say it wasn’t even dating yet. König hadn’t asked you to be his girlfriend. 

But it had still been going well.

“Or so I thought,” you take a breath, watching the fog on the window as the streets of Vienna are rapidly being emptied of tourists and locals alike. Your shoulders are painfully tight.

Aggressive rainfall like this into the cold seasons was unusual, but it wasn’t like mother nature cared about the whims of anyone but herself. It’ll freeze overnight, leaving a bitter chill that puffs from breaths and a shaky few steps out the door across hardened ice. You’d probably go out – alone – for a walk in the morning to clear your head, or try, at any rate.

Lately, all you could think about was the bear of a man that was supposed to be sitting in the empty seat ahead of you. The cursed wooden chair burns your eyes; its dark wood and red cushion stab your vision over and over until you’re sure you’ll bleed tears instead of water. 

He was supposed to be here.

Taking another shaky sip of your drink, one that König had recommended to you himself a few dates ago, the brief moments of warmth it brings to your bones does little to satisfy you. You doubted anything short of a hulking figure trying to stick their knees under the small table could do just that.

The giant man you called your possible future boyfriend was avoiding you, and your subconscious was breaking itself to try and understand why. As if that gracious plea had been heard above the glossiness of your eyes and the gentle hum of the café workers who shuffle about, the phone in your pocket jumps. 

You don’t want to admit how fast your hand snapped to your thigh, sneaking under the layers to draw out black metal. A single link to König when he was overseas or out of sight that you were told was unwise to use. He was rarely able to answer you, but for what it was worth, he always tried to call back later. 

Even if recently, it had been a brief state of events. 

“I-I can’t talk right now–”

“Forgive me–”

Your lips thin.

Pulling the phone out, you immediately look at the contact, though you already know the message before you read it. The sunken whipped cream finally falls under deep chocolate-colored waves.

“Sorry, Bӓrchen, I’m stuck in the building for the day! I swear I’ll make it up to you for missing–” You don’t bother reading the rest, thumb already scrolling upward to see the numerous times other excuses have been made. 

His parents were needing some help moving furniture, he was drowning in post-operation reports, or simply just too tired. You weren't stupid. But every time you had stuffed down your pride and responded cheerfully, dressed to the nines and standing in your living room while your fingers shook over the keys.

Holding back tears. 

It would hurt less if he’d just tell you to your face what you were thinking. Maybe all of this was just… 

Your thoughts trail off. 

But that didn’t make sense – König was never malicious!

Placing down the phone, you leave him on read, feeling the pitying eyes of the baristas burning into your skin like a brand. They knew as well as you did that he wasn’t showing up.

When he calls sometime later, you shut the device off completely. Staring out the window at the dimming light, you lean your head into the glass and try not to cry as you watch couples rushing for cover from the rain; laughing and holding the other close. 

The empty chair stays motionless in the corner of your eye.

—

The first time you met König, you were left gaping at the sheer size of him. 

Towering over ninety percent of the other patrons in the art shop, he had looked down at the package of charcoal pencils in his large, scarred, hands. Turning them over to read the description on the back like an expert with delicate eyelashes that you’d kill for. 

You yourself had been cast in his shadow quite by accident, looking along expansive shelves for a sketchbook – your friend had gotten into a watercolor phase lately, and what better to give her than a birthday present she could actually use? The only problem was that you had no idea what was considered good quality or not, but had a strange suspicion the man beside you did. But what a happy accident it all turned out to be.

König had a black surgical mask on, but the milky-white scar that ran up his right eyebrow and disappeared into his auburn hairline was still starkly visible. Expressive dark eyes blink down at his object from a surprising height. Between picking up multiple books, running your fingers over the paper and whatnot, you can’t help but stare at the pure strength the man emanates. Compared to you, he was utterly gargantuan in both mass and height. A bear and a bee, you thought with a stifled giggle.

He blatantly appeared to know more about this stuff than you did as he placed the charcoal pack down and picked up another.  

“Erm,” you begin, and his head snaps down to yours immediately, head of hair falling into gentle curls near the ears. He had looked partially surprised to hear you speak to him, and his eyes had flickered around instinctually. But it was only the two of you in the aisle. “I’m sorry to bother you, Sir, but you seem to know a helluva lot more than me about art supplies.” Your voice was cautious, and you were afraid you’d seem rude for disturbing him, but all he did was stare and wait for you to finish speaking. Feet every so often shifting, or his hands twitching as if he never was able to stay still; he blinks a few times like a rabbit. “Any suggestions for watercolor?” A small laugh meets the air as you move your hand to show off the wall of possible options for paper. “I’m not much of an artist, but my friend’s birthday is coming up – thought I’d get her something she’d actually use this year. She wasn't too enthralled with the plant I got her for her twenty-third. Killed the thing in a week.” 

A nervous chuckle is softly met and your face heated as his own did. There’s a moment of a clearing throat before the man nods carefully, and the sparse freckles over his forehead shift. His biceps flex.

“O-of course, Ma’am,” his accent is quite strong, and you like the guttural raspiness of his tone. “I prefer Saunders Waterford, though I don’t manage to use it often. Better, eh, was ist das Wort?” He stumbles for a moment over the proper descriptor. “Beständig. Durable.”

A tilt of his head later, and you’re beaming, picking up the large pad with careful fingers, testing the weight in your palms as one would an apple. 

“Wonderful! It looks like I owe you one, eh?” Looking back up, you watch his eyes widen as you notice him blatantly staring. Face crinkling into a shy display of heat and curiosity, he slightly moves back, a large hand going to scratch at the base of his neck as his sweatshirt bunches. 

Chest tight, you stick out a hand and offer your name with a smile. It was only customary, but the action was pure instinct more than thought-out. All the while restraining a shiver, his limb encompasses yours so completely and radiates a large amount of heat.

“A pleasure,” your voice wavers, but it’s not so much nervousness as it is genuine intrigue. For a man so blessed with the tall gene, he really had a considerate hold – barely squeezing your skin in fear it would break. 

The action makes your chest squeeze.

“Ah, guten tag,” he utters, nodding with a firm shake, though his eyelashes caress his cheeks as his eyes rove away, “König.” 

A bit awkward, isn’t he? You have to ask yourself. Not that it was a bad thing – in fact, you found the nervous tensing of his thighs to be cute, along with that red tinge that was over his pale ears. So very opposite of how you expected him to act.

That was when you noticed the dog tags, as well, though you found no purpose to say anything. But everything about this man had caught your attention as a large billboard would, and the comparison has you practically bending in laughter. He probably could be a billboard with a build like that. No doubt he’d catch a lot of attention.

You tilt your head and release his hand, nodding to König’s charcoal pencils. 

“I bet you can make some killer drawings with those things, huh?” The beast twists them in his hand and turns down to stare at the supplies as if he’d forgotten they’d been there at all. “You draw often?”

“Ja,” his eyes brighten, and the crinkling of his eyes tells you that a small smile pulls at his lips. “Whenever I’m able. I,” König pauses before his shoulders move in a soft movement akin to a shrug. “I…find it calming.” 

Your ribs move in reaction to an interested sound. 

A bear that likes to draw.

“You’re better than me, I’d just get frustrated if something doesn’t look right.” A deep laugh echoes off the shelves before a lapsing silence settles like a bird’s wings. Overcome by a sudden urge to speak, yet having no other words to say, König’s voice meets your ears before you can find something to say.

It’s slow, the tone, bathed in hesitation and even a smidgen of armor; like the outcome of your response was already measured and taken as null compared to the giant’s own thoughts.

“I…don’t suppose I could show you some if you’d be interested.” At your widening lids, his twitching hands come up to his sides, eyes blinking rapidly as a vermilion hue blossoms like a flower over his visible skin. Dark eyes like broken obsidian pay more attention to your shoes than your face.

“N-not, eh, scheiße, I only meant I–” Watching him stutter was similar to what a high schooler would do when he was called out during an assembly. Though, your giggle makes him clear his throat and pause with a stiffening spreading to his legs. His body seems to deflate, taking your reverence for his soft inward nature as making fun or at worse, a blatant rejection. The delicate makeup of his psyche was on display, though you didn’t know. “I’m…I’m sorry, Ma’am–”

“I’d love to see your artwork, König,” you begin, pulling the watercolor pad closer to your body instinctually, cheeks hot. The man perks up, and you can see his heart hammering through his clothes when his eyes blaze with light. “How about I give you my number and I’ll text you a day I’m free and we can work something out? A local café or library sound good?”

“I…yes, that sounds wonderful.”

—

You throw your soaked coat on the hook as you shut the door, hating how the frigid rainwater had wetted your hair, though still holding it as a blessing. At least no one could see the tear tracks as you walked back to your apartment. 

Kicking off heavy boots and peeling the slick layers of fabric from your chest with a sloping sound, you flick on the lights with a shaking finger and a sniffle. Wet footprints are left over the rugs and hardwood as the phantom shuffles over them, beelining to the bathroom to strip. 

Your mind was preoccupied as you slipped out of heavy fabric, the pile already on the floor creating a large puddle that you threw a towel on and left as it was. 

“He…he’d tell me if he didn’t like me anymore, right?” Whispering, the broken words meet air as you toss on a large shirt – the hem meeting your knees as a pair of thick sweatpants follow. 

Quite the look for someone who was having an internal battle. Your friends would say you looked like you were minutes away from grabbing a tub of ice cream and sobbing over a rom-com. The quick-witted part of you confessed that the idea wasn’t even that bad if you threw in a glass of beer. Preferably the shitty kind so you could complain about it and distract yourself.

“Get it together…” You would not cry over a guy that hadn’t even asked you out officially, but with that familiar sting in the back of your eyes, you hissed that König wasn’t just any guy.

You’d really liked him, and for what it was worth, your heart would have exploded if he had asked you out. 

He was kind – respectful. Utterly adorable when he was speaking so passionately about his artwork and his parents who he held on a larger-than-life pedestal. König’s heart was just as big as his body, that gorgeous, bear-like body, and…oh, you’d wished he would like you just as much as you liked him. 

Before you could stop the wave of hopelessness, the tears were already dribbling down your face, and the dark apartment was echoing with the barely-there sobs that hit the walls.

—

When you hadn’t answered him in the next two hours and his calls were going to voicemail, König was hit with a train’s worth of worry. Feet tapping faster than unusual and eyes were finicky as they passed over documents.

Although his contract with KorTac wasn’t exactly like his own had been in the military, the hyper-vigilance was still ingrained bones-deep. The Austrian man held his personal relationships tightly – and if someone wasn’t answering him, the anxiety reserved for large, uncontrollable, crowds reared its ugly head. König wasn’t sure when it had happened, but you had entered that loyal group consisting of his parents and a few work friends in an incredibly small amount of time. 

He really should have bit the bullet and gone out with you today, the man acknowledged as he slipped out of his office and tried once more to get in contact with you. König watched the icon of your smiling face go straight to the familiar voice that in any other circumstance, he would have wanted to listen another moment too.

“...Thanks for calling! I’m not able to speak with you right now, but go ahead and leave a message–”

“Come on, Bӓrchen.” König lightly growls, hanging up and stuffing the infernal device into his cargo pant’s side pocket. 

His usually hidden face was twisted up with worry, so commonly lit with bloodlust on Ops now left in a state of unknown. It was stupid to think like this, but how could he not? In such a small amount of time, you’d made him fall for you like a bird does the sky; that thin line between falling and flying caught underwing. 

That was why he’d been making excuses, you see. 

You were so…good…that he’d been worried about the way he carried himself; second-guessed small actions like a hand on the small of your back in public, or a comment about how nice you looked. 

Did she take that the wrong way?

Why did I tell her that?

I hope she doesn’t think that I’m rude…

You were messing with his mind with every turn, but it wasn’t even all that, either. His size also played a part. Your form was so small as it trailed beside him on walks through the city – it fit in the clutch of his arm easily. 

König was just scared he might break you, he’s never had to be…gentle so often before. It was against everything he’d been taught in the last decade or so.

Pushing open the front door of the KorTac: Private Military Contractor building, the man pushes on with a frown over his scarred lips and a drawn-in expression. He hadn’t even noticed he’d forgotten his surgical mask in his office, along with a jacket, and braved the volatile winds and slapping rain in a slight jog, an athletic shirt tight across his chest. 

By the time he’d reached your apartment building, his hair was dark and stuck to his skin, slight puffs of breath escaping his lips and wracking shivers along his spine. König ascended the stairs in double steps, agile as his heart pounded. 

Being ex-military left him with an undeniable state of readiness.

With heavy knuckles and panting breath, his hand quickly rasps against the door, and after a second of no sound, he does it again. 

“Bӓrchen, it’s me. Are you there?” König’s shoulders are set, ready to batter the door down at the barest hint of something wrong. He calls your name but like a voice on the wind, there’s no answer. Not even a shadow under the barrier, a whiff of your shampoo.

Grunting, strained eyes going grim, the man’s hand encompasses the handle, arm and body going parallel to the wood. His hips tense, feet grinding over the floor as they set. But the nearly missed footsteps that his ears twitched at gives him pause. 

After a few moments of intense listening, his body stone-stiff and eyes spaced out, there’s a clicking of a lock. 

König moves back swiftly, hands going to rest at his sides, and when your face graces his vision, a large weight is lifted. Until he realizes that your eyes are red-rimmed. His lids go startlingly wide, fingers coming up to curl into themselves near his middle, but you speak before he does.

With a hatred for interrupting others, König keeps his lips sealed and watches with a concerned once-over and nervous lungs.

Your hand is clenched over the door frame, the muscle of your tongue licking at your lips as beads of water fall from your locks. 

“What are you doing here, König?” With a voice more hoarse and dry than a desert. The man itches at the side of his hawk nose, hesitant about what he sees. 

You’d never been like this before – always so happy. 

“I…” He trails off quietly, seeing your eyes unwilling to meet his own. “Are you…alright?” 

The Austrian’s fingers jerk when you laugh, and a surprised blink later he’s coming closer to check on you, hand almost outstretched before he sees the size difference and thinks better of it. He just taps on your cheek instead, delicately, like a hit from a flower. 

“Sweet one? Please tell me what is wrong. You weren’t answering your phone.” He wants to beg for you to look at him, plead. “It made me worry for you. Why did you not respond?” 

“So you want me to respond when you’re obviously bailing on me for what,” you pull back, disappearing partially behind the door. König watches with a still body as your arms go to wrap around your waist, dread creeping up his throat. “The third time? Fourth? I guess I’ve lost count.” 

The man’s lips go thin, eyes crinkling as an expression of pure self-hatred takes hold. He had stupidly hoped you wouldn’t notice that. When times got tough for him in the past – whether with the schoolyard bullies or an operation on wrong, avoidance was usually his best tactic; it was one he had fallen back into time and time again without fail. But he’d never told you that. 

And now he looked like a proper Arschloch. 

But you’re not done yet. When you leave the door open and disappear inside the dark apartment, König follows after like a lost puppy, water still dripping from his strong chin and stuck in his stubble. Cursing himself out in his head. 

“Ach, du Depp, jetzt hast du‘s getan. Die eine gute Sache ruiniert, die du hattest, oder...?" He mutters, slipping out of his boots and frantically looking after you as your form goes to the couch. König closes the front door and stays in the foyer, fingers twiddling and mouth opening and closing. 

You hadn’t even looked at him yet, and you’d barely seen him without a mask on. 

The Tv was on, playing some show that he’d never seen and he doubted you were watching. Your body plops to the couch with a shrieking of springs and bouncing of pillows. A small huff escapes your lips, though you speak no more. 

König clears his throat again, a nasty nervous habit along with the fidgeting, as he takes a few steps forward. The finger of his right hand goes to spread through his hair, pushing the strands back like a red wave and unintentionally slicking them to his skull. The clicking of his jaw reverberates in his ears as he resets it, picking at the palate scar under his left nostril. 

He opens his mouth to speak but closes it fitfully and already his face is reddening. König looks away from you for a moment, breathing before shuffling over like a guilty child would on drowned socks. He places one leg on the floor and kneels down in front of you so he can better look into your creased face. 

“Bӓrchen,” he liked calling you that – little bear – because the comparison was enough to make him smile every time it passed his lips. It was such an endearing term that it became difficult to look past the blatant harm he could inflict on you if he wasn’t careful. While his size made him perfect for the field, home life was, well, let's just say he could easily force his way through a crowd. Not that he would, of course. But at any rate, that was what you were to him – a little bear. “I…I have to confess to you that I have been avoiding you, yes? That much has been,” a stiff breath is taken in. “Obvious.” 

Your head turns to the side, knees brushing his own as you hold your hands in your lap. Behind König the show continues to play, spreading a silver light over the living room and the continuous droning of voices.  

Not knowing whether it would be frowned upon or not, and with a steadying breath for confidence, the man loops a cold finger under your chin; bringing you back to him and finally setting your glossy eyes ahead. 

He sees you blink in surprise when you find him maskless, and a faint smile flicks over his lips when your expression goes shy. Cautious like a bird.

“It was of no fault of your own, Sweetling, I ask that you believe me. I’ll try to explain the best I can, Ja? If you’ll let me, though, I know that I don’t deserve it.”

“If you don’t like me anymore, you can just say it…Stop dragging me on, please.” His heart stops, mouth still partially open before a sharp breath is sucked in. “I don’t know if I can take that anymore.” The pang in his chest hurts immensely, like taking an arrow and peeling back skin. You look at him so hopelessly, broken beyond belief as though a piece of you was being ripped out.

“W-why do you say that?” König tries to desperately stop the wetness of your tears from falling, shaking his head and cupping both of your cheeks, rubbing at the flesh in agony. “No, no, no, Dear One. That’s not what it is at all, I beg of you to listen.” In the fever, he switches between his native tongue and English, fingers shaking though not from the drenched clothes. “Meine Schöne, oh, meine Schöne. Bitte hör auf zu weinen.“

He takes quick breaths and finds in himself that he would do anything to stop you from crying – take a bullet, run a marathon, or learn to fly. Name it, any of it. Anything to wipe away the sadness that lives in your expression as if it even belonged there in the first place

“Do not cry over me, please, I-I,” König’s tongue trips over itself, but he persists, a similar burn in the back of his nose. “I…You scare me, Bӓrchen,” that gets your attention, creased eyes and a loose jaw going to give him full observation. 

What?! Your expression screams.

Face on fire, the Austrian continues with intense eyes, dark obsidian awash with pure light that reflects stars. Overflowing with anxious tears that he refuses to let fall. 

He can’t lose you. No, no, not you. You were the best thing to happen to him in a long time. Damn him – damn his own consciousness that’s more of a betrayer than Brutus. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go… 

“...What?” Your voice wavers, nose twitching so adorably that the man is momentarily stunned. 

“I am afraid of you, my Dear. Utterly and wholly.” König sucks down a breath, now the one unable to continue the stare-off. His foot shifts. “I am afraid of what you do to me. Your smile, Gott, your smile. A-and the way you speak, how you react so honestly to my paintings like you care with all of your heart.” He laughs wetly when you smile dimly, continuing as he caresses your skin. “Everything down to your very bones is like…like…” König’s words fumble, because comparing you to something earthly was impossible to him. 

“Ever since I met you in that art store, I cannot string together words with any semblance of meaning when I am around you. Bӓrchen, you have entrapped my mind, and I am afraid.”

He watches you breathe in slowly, tears no longer falling, though the evidence still haunts him. The man’s chest lets go of a tightly wound knot, the anvil on the other side just narrowly missing his heart as the sweat on his brow evaporates.

“A-and,” König sighs, shaking his head and moving his hands to tightly hold your own in your lap. How could he explain the last part of this dilemma? He bluntly states, “you’re small.”

A brief moment of silence bleeds like a wound, long and slow, until a tiny snort echoes. Full-blown laughter emanates not even a second later, and he watches your body heave forward and slot itself with your nose in his shoulder. König’s blush stains all the way down his neck, but minuscule giggles also fall from him in retaliation to yours. His great arms wrap themselves around your waist, dragging you slightly closer as he breathes deeply. 

Your scent pulls him under like a ship at the water, riding great waves with sea beasts under the waves guiding the vessel along its course. 

“Everyone’s small compared to you.” Your mumbling in his shoulder makes his grip tighten, side-eyeing your visage as his head tilts down. “Not my fault you got every gene that made you sprout like a damn tree.”

With your lips caressing his neck, he blinks softly down at you, amused, as his breath mingles with your hair. He lets you speak, getting it all off your chest and feeling stupid for how he had been avoiding this.

“You’re afraid because you’re so big, then? That you might hurt me?” 

“Ja.” Your hands circle around his shoulders, and with a sigh that leaves the man short of breath, you shimmy back and face him, fingers playing with the base of his neck; pulling at tiny hairs. 

“Don’t you think being worried about that means something? And, c’mon,” you smile lightly to him, and he watches closely, fingers moving along your spine. “With how conscious you are of your body, it’s hard to imagine anything ever happening.”

Hands grasp his neck, and with a bobbing Adam’s apple, König yields to your pull, angling his head to you as your back straightens. Watching with awe; your silhouette bathed in silver light and eyes fatigued, though never more beautiful. You’re beaming.

“I’ve never felt safer than when I’m with you, okay? So stop worrying about it, you big dope – and stop ditching me!” The Austrian’s dark eyes are fastly moved from one spot on your face to another, cataloging every bump and pore to memory. 

He’d never been this close to you before, though he’d fantasized about it. And what you were telling him…it’s like his body deflates with relief, and a genuine, boyish, smile blossoms. 

“Safe? W-with me, Bӓrchen? Oh-oh, my…” A kiss suddenly hits his forehead, and if you continued doing things like this, he was sure he’d explode. His body was vibrating with pure bashfulness; it was so odd to be complimented and doted on by someone that wasn’t his close family. For someone to reassure him of his flawed concerns. 

She feels safe with me. 

How could he tell you how happy that made him to hear aloud?

“Hey,” hands cup his jaw, and his spaced-out eyes snap back to you instantly, blinking away the rose-colored fog. You shake his head back and forth until he’s chuckling, like a kid again, and his grip catches your wrists to make you stop. Your breath fans over his blazing cheeks like a wind sent from Zephyrus himself, and the sticking clothes to his body matter little. “No more leaving me hanging, okay? I miss you, König. I want to be around you.” 

The eyes that travel down his scarred and freckled face leave him slightly self-conscious, but as if sensing this, your lips curve. Before he could utter a grunt of surprise, your kiss had connected with the scar on his forehead, as well as the palate. Just brushing the top of his lips as his large nose poked your cheek. 

“Mein Gott.” König gasps, eyes fluttering shut when you pull back and a grin slashes your face. A whisper meets the room.

“Thank you for showing me your handsome face, mein Schöner, I’ve been wondering what you looked like.” Shyly scanning his features, the redhead lets your fingers trace his flesh, shivers left in their wake, and a soft sigh. 

If he opens his eyes, he’s afraid he’d start crying. So he lets you touch his scarlet flesh, nearly the same shade as his hair, though the auburn is more deep-set. Shivering every time you lay another press of your lips to a blemish; more addictive than drugs. 

“You’re going to kill me,” König pleads, “but if this is punishment for causing you pain, I will gladly bear it.”

“Sly.” You smirk, pressing one more peck to his nose, and pulling back. He grumbles in his throat before his eyes peel open slowly; pupils blown wide and mouth parted. “Are you alive down there?”

“Barely. Perhaps I’ll need another kiss to tell, yes?” 

“You’re horrible.” Looking at his clothes, your eyes suddenly go grim. Like you’d just noticed the state of him now that he was kneeling in front of you and struck by your beauty. “And shivering.” You huff. “Why didn’t you start by saying you were soaked to the bone, König?” 

He looks to the ground, and you try to shuffle past and grab him a towel, but his arms trap you. You find yourself in a chest faster than you can blink, hands splayed over a pec that jerks as you’re lifted up. 

König hears you squeak and laughs, throwing you up into a bridal-style hold easily. Laughing chest-deep, you curl under his chin and quickly comment, “what are you doing?!” 

“Hush, Bӓrchen,” the man squishes you closer, “I’ll find a towel, don’t strain yourself.” 

You direct him to the bathroom after he sets you on your bed, hearing the pounding of rain outside as he sneaks off. 

The room smells of your shampoo, and König takes a pastel towel from the wrack after half-closing the door, slapping it to his head and violently rubbing it back and forth. Lost in his elevated thoughts and happy demeanor, the knock on the wood is almost missed. He’s just about to take off his shirt and wring it out when he blinks at the sound. 

“König – I’ve got some spare clothes, but I doubt they’ll fit you well enough.” An amused twitch of his lips later, he’s opening the door to your soft face, staring down at it. Standing shyly, your eyes crease; head tilting. “Sleepover?”

The man looks at the pile of fabric and nods kindly, a lofty feeling in his bones.

“Yes, please. They’re perfect, vielen Dank.” It isn’t long before he’s coming back out, a shirt that barely fits over his wide chest and a pair of sweats clinging to his hips. But he didn’t mind. 

They smelled like you, and thus, he smelled like you. König quickly found out that drawing wasn’t the only thing that could calm him. 

An embarrassed smile and a sheen of giddiness never leave his face.

He slides into bed with you, and you quickly latch under his arm, limbs tangling with his own as his fingers twitch over the width of the base of your shoulder blades. An easy expulsion of air leaves him as your weight settles, back curving to the make of the mattress. 

The words leave him in the delicate silence; water hitting the window and during the exploration of souls. Cheeks hot and heart hammering. 

“Sei mein?” Be mine? 

He feels your grin, nose nuzzling his flesh like it was the perfect pillow, and his heart speeds like a shooting star.

“Mein Herz war immer deins. Ja.” My heart was always yours. Yes. 

He stays awake for a long while, listening to your breathing and staring at the ceiling, running knuckles over your spine and staying silent. 

Smiling.  

[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

[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. 

╔═══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*═══╗

                    ╚═══*.·:·.☽✧    ✦    ✧☾.·:·.*═══╝

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?"

[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.

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↳ 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.

[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.

[rileyslibrary]

I love your sense of humour and have cracked up at your stories multible times. Maby you can find some inspiration in this:

Price ordering the team to an etiquette training so they know how to behave in case they have to go under cover in a more "fancy" environment (or the upcoming mission may require something like this). I'm thinking about Ghosts "sausage fingers" from the origami bit on a delicate litte cake fork... Or him needing to *converse* with someone.

I think putting these hard soldiers in a situation that's out of their comfort zone is always a fun read!

Thank you for letting us enjoy your fantastic writing! <3

Be gentle, man!

Relationship: TF141 x F!Reader with a potential Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader (platonic?) on the horizon. Also there’s an OC in the story.

Word Count: 1,598 (approx. 7-8 min reading time)

Notes: I began writing this last night as a joke, and couldn’t stop. Thank you SO MUCH for inspiring me to do this, anon. It’s a crackfic btw. (There’s a part 2 now here)

———————————————————————

The training room feels out of place compared to its usual purpose. Bathed in the soft glow of candlelight, the once-busy gym has been transformed into a classroom for an unlikely lesson—manners, of all things. Table manners, to be precise.

“Talk about Fitness Vs. Finesse,” Soap whispers, and you playfully nudge his side. The comment reaches Gaz’s ears, and he lets out a chuckle. Yet, Price’s death stare reclaims your attention and brings you back to focus.

You all sit around a long, polished mahogany table atop the gym’s boxing ring, admiring the delicate china and crystal glassware set before you. It reminds you of Aunt Claire’s preserved collection, which rarely leaves its cabinet. Lady Theodora, your etiquette instructor, assures you that each piece serves a purpose, and you will put them all to use. Every. Single. One of them.

Lady Theodora, the epitome of timeless confidence, moves gracefully around the table. Her silver hair is slicked back, framing a face that exudes years of wisdom and experience. Her Bordeaux-coloured shawl billows behind her as she glides, catching the gentle breeze her steps create. She pauses behind Price’s chair and reveals the reason behind today’s masterclass: an undercover operation.

“In the world of espionage, where appearances can mean the difference between life and death,” she says in a soft voice, “the art of etiquette becomes a weapon, a shield, and,” she concludes, resting her hand on Price’s shoulder, “your ticket to survival.”

“Bollocks.”

All eyes are drawn to the far end of the table, where a shadowy figure prefers to go unnoticed but isn’t afraid to express doubts. The only visible sign of life is a hand fidgeting with the butterknife.

“I beg your pardon, Lieutenant.” Lady Theodora says, and Ghost leans forward, revealing his unmasked—and visibly annoyed—face.

“We’re soldiers, not knights,” he claims. “Teaching us how to use all these,” he says, motioning to the various utensils before him, “is a waste of time, both yours and mine.”

Lady Theodora regards him gently as if looking at a child throwing a tantrum. She smiles and walks behind him, gripping the back of his chair.

“You seem quite certain of your own competence and doubtful of mine, Mr Riley,” she says, amused.

Ghost tilts his head to the side, partially facing her.

“With all due respect, Lady Theodora,” he replies, “I don’t believe you fully comprehend how such missions operate.”

Lady Theodora lets a light chuckle as she moves closer to Ghost’s face.

“My record of 25 confirmed kills, three of which were accomplished with a butterknife like the one in your hand, might suggest otherwise,” she admits. “Now, would you kindly move your seat forward, Lieutenant? I’ll show you how to act like a proper gentleman.”

Ghost’s Adam’s apple bobbles as he swallows hard. He returns the butterknife to its original position and pushes his chair forward with Lady Theodora’s help.

Gaz clears his throat and looks at Soap.

“Imagine her dinner parties,” he whispers so Price doesn’t hear him, “they must be perfectly executed.”

“Bet she makes a killer soufflé,” Soap whispers back.

You look at them and mutter, “You two are beyond help.” Unfortunately, it’s your own comment that catches Price’s attention this time, and he gives you a stern warning to behave.

“Let’s get started,” Lady Theodora says. “Projecting confidence and grace requires proper posture: sit up straight, shoulders back, and imagine a string pulling you upward from the crown of your head.”

You all adjust your posture, attempting to imitate Lady Theodora. Ghost used to a more relaxed posture, finds it difficult to maintain the required formality. His broad shoulders hunch forward, and he struggles to keep his legs straight.

“Excellent,” Lady Theodora remarks, catching Ghost’s struggle but choosing not to comment further. “Next, we shall delve into the art of dining. Each utensil on the table has a specific purpose, and it is essential to use them correctly.”

She points to the array of utensils laid out before you. Multiple forks, knives, and spoons of various sizes and shapes make the sight overwhelming.

“The outermost utensils are for the earlier courses, while the inner ones are for the later ones.” Lady Theodora says, “It’s like unwrapping a gift, one course at a time.”

You all nod and place the napkin on your lap to begin the process.

Ghost’s ingrained military habits take over when food is served, causing him to devour it quickly. He shovels forkfuls of food into his mouth without looking up and barely pausing to chew.

“Mr Riley,” Lady Theodora addresses Ghost, who shoots his head up to look at her. “I understand the military inclination to eat fast, but we must remember that the food isn’t going anywhere. Take your time, savour each bite, and enjoy your meal, please.”

“Sorry ’bout that.” Ghost mumbles with his mouth full.

Lady Theodora raises an eyebrow. “Mr Riley, it is impolite to speak with your mouth full,” she reminds him. “Please, swallow your food before continuing.”

Ghost swallows and clears his throat. “Apologies, Lady Theodora,” he mutters.

Lady Theodora smiles and nods at Ghost’s response. “Very well, Lieutenant Riley,” she says. “Remember, dining is about more than just the food; it’s also about the company and the experience.”

As the training continues, you witness Soap’s attempts to initiate a proper conversation, only to subconsciously bring up military strategies. Gaz, on the other hand, struggles with small talk and, when asked about his hobbies, blurts out his love of explosions.

“Kerosene is one hell of a—”

“No kerosene talk on the table, Sergeant,” Lady Theodora interrupts. “How about we talk about something more appropriate, like, for example, what did you do today?”

“You’re not going to like it.” He replies.

“Did it involve kerosene?” She asks and receives multiple excited nods from Gaz.

Ghost forgets about his napkin while using the finger bowl and instinctively flicks his hands to dry them. Droplets of water scatter across the table, and Lady Theodora steps forward with a calm smile. She retrieves his napkin and hands it to him. “Remember, Lieutenant,” she whispers, “the napkin is your ally.”

Throughout this ordeal, Price seems to be the only one who already has a natural fluidity in his movements. Like he already knows about etiquette.

You compliment his impeccable manners, but Lady Theodora intervenes before Price can respond.

“Oh, that’s because the Captain already received my services a few years ago,” she reveals, winking.

Price, caught off guard, coughs and sputters, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. After regaining his composure, he clears his throat and grins.

“Yes, well, Lady Theodora’s guidance has been, um, invaluable,” he manages to say and lowers his gaze to his plate. Gaz raises an eyebrow, and Soap gives a sly smile.

With the etiquette training completed, Price gracefully positions his utensils on his plate and folds his napkin. Lady Theodora hands him a file stack, which he distributes to you.

“These files contain detailed background information for your assigned roles,” he explains. “Study them carefully; familiarise yourselves with the personas you will embody, and don’t worry; with Lady Theodora’s help, you’ll have plenty of time to learn how to carry yourselves.”

He watches you all as you take hold of your respective files, scanning the pages and absorbing the details that will shape your performances.

“Gaz, within those pages, you’ll uncover the roadmap to shape your tech persona, along with essential contacts and valuable industry insights,” Price declares.

“A startup entrepreneur,” Gaz mutters and nods, “nice.”

“Soap,” Price continues, “your file contains the lineage and history of an alleged oil tycoon family; you’ll assume the identity of their sole son and heir to the business.”

“Why do I get the oil-moneyed spoiled brat?” Soap protests, “Gaz is the one obsessed with fossil fuel!”

Price looks at Lady Theodora, silently begging her to take the lead.

“Focus on embodying the demeanour of an heir, Sergeant MacTavish,” she comforts Soap. “Acquiring in-depth knowledge of the business is not a top priority now.”

Finally, Price shifts his focus to you and Ghost. His voice softens, and a smile appears on his lips.

“As for the two of you,” he says, “your assignment requires a convincing portrayal of a couple.”

You and Ghost exchange a brief look before returning your focus to the files in your hands.

“Laswell will provide you with a forged marriage certificate and photos of your alleged relationship,” Price continues. “The documents will serve as tangible proof if the need to validate your connection arises.”

“Any chance to let us know who or what we’re after?” Gaz asks, and Price shakes his head.

“Baby steps, Sergeant; we’re waiting for Laswell to give us more intel,” he explains, “but as far as we know, we’re dealing with people who can buy their way out of some very sketchy shit.”

“Language, Captain.” Lady Theodora reminds him.

“Please accept my sincere apologies, Theodora,” he says and turns to Gaz. “I meant sketchy things, Sergeant.”

As they continue discussing the mission, your mind wanders on the latest information. Ghost’s partner? How? You look at the file and then back at Ghost. You see Lady Theodora walking behind Ghost’s chair and leaning close to his ear. She looks at you and whispers to him.

“I told you, Lieutenant,” she says, “I’ll mould you into a proper gentleman.”

Ghost turns to face you as well. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Lady Theodora,” he replies.

But Lady Theodora smiles and touches his shoulder, “Oh, you’ll see, Mr Riley—you’re my gift to unwrap, one course at a time.”

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Part 2 ->