#re stitch these wounds

[the-nation-of-today]

bvb albums + color palettes

[cocomeow]

She finally doesn't have to wear bodysuits anymore, her surgery wound healed up nicely 🤍

[sunlit-mess]

Okay, so I'm gonna try not to freak out, but uh.. I used to follow your art, and then my Tumblr went down, and I lost it.. the thing is I have you added on fb, and I'm ngl. I always thought your art looked familiar. Then I saw your Tumblr linked, and I honestly... cried. Your art always brought me so much comfort, and I was devastated when I couldn't find it anymore.. holy hell, I'm so excited. I can see more art now! I wanted to ask how you're holding up. I know life can be rough, and honestly, it's not nice more than half of the time to people who honestly deserve love. I hope you're gone from your old situation, though, and tbh I'm super happy I can see your art again! Though, tbh I'm nervous about messaging you anywhere since I'm not exactly... a friend or anything QwQ I hope you're doing okay, though, and I hope you have a nice day/afternoon/night!

Hello!! Welcome back!!! Glad that you enjoy my content still huhu 🫶

[silentgrim]

love the invalidation when u openly express ur concerns 🥰

[howdoidecidethjs]

This girl is integral to Batman’s character, I wish their dynamic was played up more

an actual picture of stephanie brown's diary

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

You're my favorite writer, and König is my favorite aussie man, so OF COURSE im making you write for him, hal, BEAR W ME !

Alright, what do you think about König with the “You’re here late.” prompt? The reader is part of KorTac and always worked alongside König, since they both entered about the same time, because of the readers personality, they are always fighting, one of these fights are specifically bad, leading the reader to go on a mission with another KorTac member, to help out somewhere else and take their mind off things, when the reader face a problem on the mission and ends up arriving late, König is furious.

Moths Hit the Window

PAIRING: König x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Fights with König were always loud, but this time his comments went a bit too far.

WORD COUNT: 5.9k

WARNINGS: Verbal fighting, angst, high tension, blood & stitches, wounds, canon typical violence, guns/weapons, death, suggestive near the end, fluff, hurt/comfort, etc.

A/N: Huge thanks to @idocarealot for the German translations!! Also, König's wearing the arachnid skin in this because I love it sm - enjoy, Anon!

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

You seethe. If eyes could turn red yous would be a beautiful shade of crimson—bloody knives ripping out of the cornea to strike whoever happened to get too close. It was as if the very air boiled with the force of a raging tsunami as you stomped down the local military base’s hallways, covered in blood and guts. Never had you reconsidered working for KorTac more than at this very moment. 

Maybe I should just become a mercenary, you rip at the torn-apart gloves over your hands and jerk your arm out. Passerbyers quickly avert their eyes as you shove them into a garbage can and continue on with a growl. No shitty rules, no regulations—no fucking partners.

If people happened to slide past without noticing the steam coming out of your ears, they would have immediately locked eyes on the pure elephant of a man trailing fast behind. König’s eyes were goring into the back of your neck, gray and tan garb swaying as the packs and flash grenades on his combat vest bounced with every step. Accents of red do nothing in comparison to his visible flesh—the section of his eyes uncovered by his mask and head rig alight around his obsidian gaze. 

 König was muttering to himself far under his breath, curses and harsh comments all in German that he wouldn’t say to your face. At least not right now in view of others. 

“I can hear you, you dimwit,” you hiss over your shoulder, grinding your teeth as you both make your way to the armory, “curse me out quieter!” 

“You are making a scene!” The beast grunts, that heavily accented English striking your eardrums with its harsh dialect. 

“Oh, jeez!” You raise your voice even higher, turning back forward and clenching your hands into fists as blood and guts drip off your gear—none of it yours. “I’m just so damn embarrassed, König! I’m making such a large and obnoxious display. Whatever will I do?!” Sarcasm like a valuable drug is injected into the waves of your voice. People from open doorways look out with shock, brows pulled up. 

Everyone quickly darts back away when you snap your head in their direction and send them a scathing glare.

No one was surprised to find you and the Austrian going at it again but knew well enough to stay out of the crossfire. Lest someone get roped into it.

“Fuck off!” You spit the last curse into the burning air and shove past a soldier ahead of you.

König’s dark eyes flash dangerously, lips under his mask twisting into a sneer. The man’s shoulders seem to dig in even farther, spine curling over as if a brooding child. 

This had all started the second you’d joined up with KorTac. Fresh out of the military and eager to get back into the game after a good vacation the PMC group had been at the top of your list. But if you’d known you’d be paired up with this damn mountain every chance there was just because he’d got into the game at nearly the same time as you, you’d have put in your luck with SpecGru. 

“I do not see how this is appropriate behavior,” König follows as you place your palms on the black metal of the armory door, pressing with your shoulders. “I did what I was tasked to do—”

The masked man is cut off as you whirl on your heels, the door slamming shut as his body is shoved into it with strong arms. Dark eyes go wide in surprise, feeling the dig of your nails on his abdomen as your form presses into him and the chill of the door on his spine. You feel his skin bunch under his thick shirt and even if you want to stare him down that’s just not an option. Your warm figures shuffle together with panting breaths and dangerous glints in your eyes. 

“Bull,” you drag out the word, growling it right up into his neck; sniper hood caressing your chin. König’s breath hitches with shakes of swirling emotions. “Shit.”

Shoving once more so he gets the point, you push off of him and stalk away like a feral wolf, already unclipping grenades and medical packs from your vest. 

“You’re the damn reason the target got away!” Gear is thrown haphazardly to the long table in the center of the room. The Austrian watches with predatory eyes, hands clenched so hard that they quiver. He stays still, watching, as you send scathing glances. “The reason we’re going to be here for ten times longer than we’re supposed to be!” 

“It is not my fault you failed to properly check the perimeter before you rushed in like a fool.” Volatile couldn’t be used to describe this…this was nothing short of volcanic. It was as if there were two sides of a scale filled with bullets and gunpowder—fire in the middle that was equally heating both piles as they raised and lowered erratically. König’s voice grates over the air, “I did what I could to fix your scheiße plan!”

“Don’t you shit on my plan!” You point, voice bouncing off the weapon racks as you rip the rifle strap from over your chest, chucking it away. 

“I will shit on it—it was…it was…!”  König’s voice cuts out and he can’t find the words. The Austrian descends into visceral German ramblings. “Es war so ziemlich der schlechteste Plan, den ich je gehört hab. Welcher halbwegs vernünftige Mensch geht in eine heiße Zone ohne vorher alle Zielobjekte richtig zu markieren?! Ich kann dich und deine Rücksichtslosigkeit nicht mehr leiden — du bringst mich um meinen Verstand! Hast du überhaupt ein Gehirn in deinem Schädel?”

You shake your head to yourself, heart pounding. “You’re still the one that was supposed to focus on the HVT. I rushed so he would flush out, but, no,” taking out the magazine of the rifle you hold it in your hands like an accusatory ruler that a teacher would hold. König shoves off the door and stands to his full height; arms tensed and straining before they coil around his chest in a soothing gesture. 

He hated the fighting—the constant strain between the two of you. But when you were together it could never amount to anything else. The room felt like it was a million degrees.

Your eyes stab at him, “No! You had to go and focus on me! I hate to break this to you,  König,” feet come forward and you once again find yourself close to him—breathing the same air and taking in the scent of gunpowder and blood. You point the tip of the magazine into his chest. His unseen lips pull; jaw clenching with held-back fire. “But I am not your damn mutt to keep on a leash. I had it under control.”

It’s as if you don’t realize the Austrian could snap you in half with a single kick of his leg, as if the sheer size of König had slipped your mind as a whole. His hands could snap your neck in an instant, but that was only if he got ahold of you. 

But that was a line the both of you were never planning to cross. Words were one thing in this profession, actions another. If you ever got into a physical fight, you’d both kill each other, no doubt. 

You’d like to think you’re a bit above that, but perhaps not.

König’s chest rises and falls deeply, taking in calming breaths as he tries to get his temper under control. “You didn’t,” he jeers out, “I saved your life, you Heißluftgebläse. And if you wanted to be treated less than a dog,” he grunts to you, head pulling down close to your face, harshly whispering out, “You could have simply asked me, yes?”

You both snarl at each other's throats like rabid animals, the world disappearing all around the obsidian eyes that match with yours; for a moment you get lost in the shining bits of silver in his iris that seem to burn with chilled iron. What little skin you can see is flushed and tight—hawk nose nearly poking out your eye as you’re leaned over like a giraffe near a bush.

Body vibrating, you sharply breathe, “I’m not even going to ask what that fucking means, you tool.”

“Good.” The words are bitten and fast, “because I am not telling you.”

“Great!”

“Perfekt!” You both were arguing like children. Hot faces and unwilling to let the other have the last word. If you got along it might have been funny. 

“I’m going to dump all of your Einspänner out on the tarmac.” Your sure voice echoes with a definitive promise to the tone. 

Pale lids widen in horror at the threat to the Austrian's favorite beverage, comfortably sitting in the Base’s fridge. 

“You would not,” König’s tone is deathly serious and you smirk, eyes dancing. “You…” a guttural growl meets the air, mind translating words and giving meanings, “beast of a woman!”

“Oh, is that the best you can fucking do?!” You yell, splaying your hands out widely and moving away from him. “Now that’s really a show stopper, König, I’m shaking in my damn boots.” 

“Ich komm mit dir nicht mehr klar.” König yells, moving back and placing both of his hands atop his head, knuckles white. “You’re rude—you do not even try to get along. You are loud and disrespectful; how do you live like this?!”

Your eyes slightly widen, watching the Austrian.

“Don’t try?” You echo, scoffing loudly. “What do you mean don’t try? I was the one to try and smooth things out between us in the beginning.”

“When?!” König spreads his hands out, knees slightly bent. “Because I have no recollection of such events.”

“Well of course you wouldn’t!” The heat was meeting a breaking point—words were getting more personal, sharper. Like a blade being honed for the kill slowly; being sharpened by rocks and whetstones of conviction. 

König points a finger at you, voice going low and thin, “I’ve had enough of you, yes?” His sniper hood moves rapidly with his fast ricochets of breath. “Just about enough. Would you have wanted me to let you die?”

“I had it,” your lips spit, nose scrunched, and forehead tight. The man’s chest vibrates with a mute growl. 

In all actuality, you’d never seen him this worked up before. König wasn’t above giving your quips back even if he obviously disliked it—most of that was due to the strange familiarity between the two of you. In large crowds, the man preferred to stay silent. This only added to his almost deadly aura with others, though you knew the muteness was because of social anxiety and not some built silence. He wasn’t shy per se, just afraid he’d say something wrong; mess up the conversation. You did most of the talking in meetings and you never minded it. Added him in when the topic was something he knew a lot about.

Your mind had addled it up to thinking it was cute, actually. How his feet would shuffle; his half-lidded gaze and his intense eye contact to let them know he was still listening. When he’d have to remind himself to look away with a pinch to his thigh because it was starting to seem threatening. It was endearing, even.

But around people König knew, well, he was going to speak his mind. No matter how long it takes his brain to catch up with his lips.

The only thing the two of you were good at was being moths—hitting the metaphorical window over and over on the same topics and tension points. Slamming heads and flapping wings. You were at the end of your rope just as he was.

“I should have never taken you as a partner!” He calls, feet splayed. “Should have gotten out of this the second you were assigned with me. Gott, ich hab wirklich versucht, dich zu verstehen — Ich hätte gleich aufgeben sollen.” Your lips thin, lungs stalling as all the air vacates the room. You stand still and listen to what he really thinks, fingers shaking.

König’s large form towers over all, great sparks of electricity flying out. His gear shakes as he moves, thigh straps pushing fabric to shift and conform to his body. Your blood pumps with brewing hesitance. 

Maybe this had gone too far. I’ve never seen him like this.

“I can’t stand you any longer! Pathetic squabbles that mean nothing, absolutely ludicrous plans that make little headway.” Your head bursts with aggression and what little warning signs you have are squashed. “I can’t keep saving you because you can’t do your job correctly!”

“You don’t have to save me at all!” You scream. “You can’t keep your damn eyes off of me for five seconds, König.” Feet move away quickly from the armory door as if someone had come to put away their stuff but thought better of it. The next words burst from you before you can think of the contents. “It’s like you fucking love me or something!”

König doesn’t miss a beat, but for months afterward, he wishes he had.

“Oh, do not make me laugh—” he scoffs ferally, adrenaline making him talk, “as if anyone could ever love a woman like you in the first place.” 

Twin eyes widen and both parties immediately fall silent. A sharp inhale.

Too far.

Under the hood, König’s face goes an embarrassing shade of red all the way down to his chest. Fingers freeze. Jaw slackens.

You feel like your heart was just grasped in his grip and ripped out of your ribs with one violent motion—one sentence out of all the others enough to knock down the rebuttal that had formed on the tip of your tongue. Your throat closes up as you blink in shock.

“I-I…” König stutters, mind blanking as he struggles for words. But anger was easier than pain.

Numb fingers rip off the last of your weapons and belongings as you let them hit the floor with defining thuds as warm shame floods your cheeks. Shaky puffs of breath like a panting dog. Dark eyes watch with regretful panic, heart jumping and eyes flinching. The adrenaline it…it made him forget himself on occasion—how to properly act when not on the battlefield. It was like that with everyone but…but he hadn’t meant that.

Shame that it’s already too late.

Your fisted hand slams into his chest, brutal and unforgiving. König lets off a grunt but does nothing as you slither past, hissing into his ear, “Find yourself a new punching bag.”

His hand snaps to his breast where you had slammed your KorTac patch right into his heart, catching it. It’s many moments before he can think enough through the alarm; form words.

“I…I didn’t…oh, du blöde Kuh!” 

By the time the man composed himself, panicked tears burning in his eyes, the door had already slammed shut. His feet squeaked over the tile to an empty audience. 

—

Private Military Companies don’t have ranks. There are no Sergeants, Lieutenants, Generals or Colonels. Just people. Beyond the orders you’d been hired on, there was nothing keeping you in line with König on this mission. And those orders were loose at best.

Adhere to policy and listen to the Base’s COs. Shut up and get the job done. 

The Austrian and you weren’t due out for another week because of rotations. Since you’d failed to capture or kill the HVT that you were assigned, another group had picked up the tracks in the meantime. Like an oiled machine, the gears of this operation kept whirling. 

Evolve, or die. 

“Lieutenant!” You call to the geared-up man on the tarmac—the one heading that very same group. It had been only a few hours since the incident in the armory. You needed a distraction; blood was still running high and brain pounding for release. There were only so many times you could bruise your fists and legs on a punching bag before people started giving you nervous looks. “Need an extra hand?”

Your voice sounds strained, even to you. The man looks you over once and narrows his eyes. Nods not moments later. 

“Get tired of your big friend? Okay, how fast can you be ready for me?” You feel your shoulders loosen, a relieved sigh exiting your lips.

“Three minutes.”

“...get to it then. We move in five.” 

So that was how you found yourself backed into a corner five hours into the op from hell—bloody knife held tightly in your grip and mouth open in ragged pants. 

“Fuck,” your vest is torn and riddled with bullets; your entire chest must be bruised by now because it surely aches like it is. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

You really are reckless, just like König had said you were. Maybe you’d just never realized it because he always seemed to watch your six. This…this was really bad. The comms were awash with screaming orders and panic, ringing out across the abandoned mining factory that exploded with light from gunfire and the sounds that accompanied it. You knew for a fact three soldiers were down; two KIA. 

The Lieutenant is one of them. 

Your hand snaps to the radio strapped to your chest, one eye squinted in pain at the ragged slice across your left brow line. At your feet, two heavily armed men lay dead. 

“Pull back! They knew we were coming!” But your word didn’t carry weight here. Your face twists between pain and rage. König’s comment still rings in your ears as the onset of tinnitus does, as if anyone could ever love a woman like you in the first place. It wasn’t ideal to be thinking about this now—it was detrimental that you didn’t. 

But König and the things he did often stained your brain. No matter how much you tried to distance yourself from that fact. 

Snapping the knife in your grasp down in an arch to dispel the blood from the blade, you take a steel-laced inhale and shove off the wall. Limping, but moving. Sprained ankle. Nothing you hadn’t dealt with before.

The concrete under you is splattered with crimson viscera and you stumble over spasming bodies riddled with bullets. With a subdued shink you slip your knife into its thigh sheath, grabbing the FTac Recon strapped around your chest after slamming a fresh mag into it. With a numb calm overcoming you, you slip your forefinger into the trigger guard, poised over the easy press of the trigger itself. 

The long shadows spread over you; your head illuminated by the dull sheen of the moon as you pass under a stretch of open sky to slink into the building across the empty street. Feral yells still bounce off the air and you go to them readily, purpose settling in your veins. 

Pain flies to the back of your mind, displaced by adrenaline and the rabid puffs of breath that fall like grinding thunder from your lips.  

You wonder what König’s thinking right now—he’d without a doubt noticed that you were gone. He’d even probably gone to your barracks room to try and apologize and found it empty. That was just how he was. 

Would he be happy? You wondered. Relieved to see you out of his life? You’d both done nothing but fight, but there were moments of peace. Understanding. 

Shared meals and comfortable, yet sarcastic, comments; soft glances when the other wasn’t looking. Heat in your face and obviously shown on his when shy hands brushed. 

Your hold tightens on your gun, brows dripping with sweat as it dribbles down along with the blood. Gunfire flashes. 

Closer now.

Shadows scream on top of a raised walkway attached to an in-mountain compound, targets with trigger fingers firing on your fellows who take cover behind crumbling walls. Pinned down. You watch, unseen, from a broken window as dust and moths collide. 

Your eyes lock on the closest hostile and you raise your weapon slowly, barrel resting on the frame between shattered glass. You clock the distance and adjust accordingly; breaths falling steady. 

The small insect that keeps hitting the window plays in your mind over and over—drowning out the yells; the fire. 

Just a moth readily willing to smash into that barrier until it dies. You hum under your breath and rest the gun into the crook of your shoulder, cheek to stock. 

Your finger slams into the trigger. 

—

You stumble out of the loud infirmary with a bloody rag pressed deeply into your forehead, medical pouch under one arm. You hear rushing feet and barked orders from nurses and doctors just before the door closes, cutting off as you stake out on your own.

Limping, you reason there were others with more severe wounds than your own; as blood drips from your flooded rag, your feet take you deep into the base one broken step at a time. You’d figure it out yourself. 

Plus, the silence would give you time to think. Think about König. 

You just gritted your teeth and decided that was better than taking up space in the infirmary. 

In times like these, the Austrian would fix your wounds for you, just as you did his. While you had your disagreements and heated fights, he’d never made it as personal as he had hours beforehand. Never made it hurt. 

“Jesus,” you mutter, rubbing your other crusty hand over the mud along your chin. Everything ached and you don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing. 

Flinching along like a downed bird, you shove through into the last door into the barracks; thoughts now stuck on finding a chair to sit down on before your legs gave out. The darkness of the common area was deep—staining your eyelids as you grunt, bumping into the back of the couch. 

It’s almost funny the way the lamp flicked on mere moments later. 

You hiss, eyes snapping shut as the rays attack your sight, rendering you blind for a moment. The shaking hand on your dripping rag tightens before the spark of pain makes you lighten the pressure. 

There’s a dark grunt just as you open your eyes back up.

“You are late.” König. 

He sits in one of the chairs—sniper hood still over his head yet only clothed in a large compression shirt and casual camo pants. Like a disappointed parent, the Austrian’s arms were crossed over his chest; feet resting out and crossed at the ankles. With such a big stature the look could strike fear into anyone. 

Anyone but you, that is. 

König’s dark eyes rove over you, stopping immediately on the fabric you keep to your forehead. The previous, furious, tone stops and the flash of very real concern takes precedence. His hands tighten on his biceps, thighs tensing over the cushion; spine just a little bit straighter. 

You watch and say nothing—dead-faced. 

Your heart suddenly skips beats, stuck into the framework of the man’s eyes. König’s brows peel back and a timid stutter stays in your breast.

“...Vögelchen?” Lids blink rapidly, and before you can register anything because of your blood loss and fatigue, you’re being dragged to the couch and forced to sit down. 

Strong hands encompass your shoulders and small breaths flutter in front of your face as König peels back to kneel in front of you; spying the medical pouch in your under-arm. 

“What is this?” He mutters to you, vision flinching along your body but always dragging back to the bloody rag on your face. “What did you do to yourself?” 

Scarred hands raise before pausing, obsidian eyes staring deeply into yours as if in frantic question. Your own gaze keeps him close, spying on his veiled fear at the sight of your blood and your disappearance. He’d heard about the mission, then, that much was upfront because of his earlier comment. 

The humvee had been late arriving back. Half an hour. 

“Fuck off,” you utter, shoving off the couch before you’re captured in an unyielding press again, shoved down. Your anger spikes along with your unease, “König! I don’t have the patience—”

“I’m sorry.” The fight leaves you. 

Fingers squeeze your biceps, hold lightly shaking with nerves. “I did not mean it.” Obsidian pierces you, “Please, Vögelchen, I am sorry. Utterly. I speak so fast I misplace words—get far more,” words fail as you stare so intently at him, a strange feeling swirling in your gut. König’s face was going crimson again, though not from anger. His tone was deep and honest, accent becoming more whole with emotion. The hands on your skin stay. “Rude than I intend. It is not an excuse, but…”

In the horizontal oval of his hood, you spy the dots of tiny freckles; the whispers of auburn hair. That hawk nose still points violently from behind the fabric. König never finishes his sentence, just takes a large breath and looks to the side after a moment of silence. 

Then he steals the medical pack from your grip and opens the zipper with firm fingers, taking out gloves and gauze. Needle and sutures. It’s all placed on the side table as the bear of an Austrian stays on his knees for you—bending and shifting as the bottom of his shirt rides up. 

It’s a tense affair of touching skin; warmth and hissed curses. Gentle shushing. But you say nothing through it. Until he’s up in your face trying off stitches with forceps and a needle holder, breath making his hood lightly caress your bloodless face. His fingers are large and firm, never second-guessing or stuttering over the course of directing tools that dig a needling and thread into your flesh. 

He’s warm and every motion elicits shivers. You see his form from the side of your eye; his face’s outline as the lamp light illuminates the hood’s fabric. Shadowy silhouette of König’s strong jaw that shifts with every other breath from his wide chest. 

“You’re an asshole for saying that to me, y’know.” you slip your gaze away just as he snaps over. “Adrenaline or not.” 

The needle pauses and a swift nod is given. 

“I…I know it was. No amount of apologizing can explain how very horrible I feel. It was like I was so…so…” An annoyed grunt was leveled at himself.

“Pissed off?” You offer quietly. 

“Yes! Pissed off.” Amused glances were shared, the air slowly smoothing out between the two of you. Dark eyes quickly look away from yours and König clears his throat terse-like. But softer, steadier, “I…could not bear it if I were to see you in harm and be unable to assist you. That…is why I was watching. Why I do watch you.”

Inside of you, it was like there was a pot of water on the stove, steadily boiling under the heat. Your eyes are delicately wide when the man’s hands leave your face; kneeling body still tall enough to stare into you.

“You are…” König pauses, but not to find the words. To ready himself. He takes a long breath. “You are special to me, my Vögelchen. I can not see you hurt,” a gesture to your forehead and creased eyes. As if your pain was his own. “Not like this.”

“What are you saying, König?” You whisper, face twisted with hurt and confusion. Apprehension. “You’re giving me mixed signals. We always fight with each other. I’m not saying I’m blameless, but…c’mon, now. Look at us.” 

“Not…always.” He grumbled like a child, tools placed away and hands dripping blood before he slips the gloves off. They meet the side table with a tiny toss. The Austrian leans back onto his ankles, butt to heel. He begins to look at your forehead and you can practically hear his heart break. “I do not like arguing with you, you know that, yes?” 

“Me neither,” you whisper, fingers fiddling as a sheen of anxiousness sets in. “You just,” you pause, “confuse me.”

 König blinks in surprise, head tilting and large eyes shimmering. Your mind flashes to a curious cat and you try to explain with a burning face and fast lips.

“You say we’re partners but you never act like it,” he stares and listens. When had you both had a conversation like this before? “You make it seem like you can’t trust me to do the simplest task. I’m not,” your voice betrays you, cracking, “I’m not that useless, am I?” 

He freezes, muscles going taunt. 

“U-Useless? Nutzlos? No, no,” A hand comes to capture your chin and you let him move you where he wishes. Creased eyes lock on yours. “That is not right. You’re not useless to me—how could you be?” Pained brows move in, “did I make you think like this? Like I did not appreciate your skills?” 

Your eyes burn, and the aches from your wounds mix with the pure fatigue in your flesh to leave your emotions running between sanity and sadness. A moment later you’re turning your head away. 

König recaptures it, hands finding both sides of your cheeks. He looks shaky; desperate. 

“No, please, Vögelchen, please. I need you to look at me.”

“König, I don’t—” You close your mouth before you let out the beginnings of a sob. “I can’t keep fighting with you.”

“I know, oh, I know,” his hands are so grounding it’s like you’re the inner pages of a book, and his grip the thick leather cover—leather laced with shared scars and the same that had stitched you up countless times. This push and pull had to end. “I cannot fight with you either—it tears me apart. Oh, du weißt gar nicht, wie sehr es mich schmerzt, dein wunderschönes Gesicht anzuschreien. Mit dir zu streiten bedeutet, meinen Verstand und mein Herz gleichzeitig zu brechen.” König’s thumbs run up and down your skin, still bloody with dried flakes falling to the ground. He seems not to care a bit. 

“What can I do to fix this? Anything. Anything to get us to stop doing this to each other.” You stare into his eyes, both creased and glazed over. 

There’s a brief moment where you wonder if anyone truly even knew you as well as König did—there was no one else that you shared such a deep connection with. Years upon years of being stuck at his side. 

And someone else’s hands had never felt as good as his. They were hard and callused over but cupped your face as gently as one would cup water from a rippling stream. His eyes were stars; visible skin like porcelain, his breath raised a large and wide chest with a fast-paced heart. You could sense his throat trapping air. 

König kneeled to you and bared himself. 

Anything, he had said, to fix what he had said. To stop this. 

There was one way you could think to stop this—it might not have been smart, certainly not, but…hmm…You gradually raised your hand raised from your lap and slipped it under the front of König’s hood. 

Slowly, with all the delicateness of a glass dragonfly, your fingers strayed to the side of his neck to press into tight flesh. A rapid pulse.

The man goes to stone. It’s like you’ve stolen his nervous system. Dark eyes stay locked onto yours as you gaze back, hand dragging nails up with a light pressure near to the speed of a slug. 

König whispers your name into the empty space and the oxygen seems to dry up. Warm light from the lamp cast phantoms on walls and over skin in a small moment of foreign discoveries. The Austrian swallows saliva and you feel his neck flex. You don’t answer him, just watch and feel his own hands tighten on your cheeks in warning. 

But you never listen, do you? Reckless you were called. And König had been right.

You were reckless.

Your hand had now explored like a map the indents of hidden facial scars; long and short over jaw and lips. The hand that was doing this had hiked the sniper’s hood up around your wrist so that the man’s lashes were twitching as the fabric got too close to his eyes. And you watched. And so did he. 

A twin pair of moths hitting a glass window, staring from opposite sides at one another until they realized the break in the frame. 

“Anything?” You ask in a loose tone, barely heard above the flood in both of your ears. 

König was breathing heavily but didn’t pull away. Pupils wide and body heavy to your touch. His spine briefly straightened, until he realized he had moved back slightly and immediately hunched again if only to keep your hands on him. 

“I…” he grunts, “A…anything.” Fingers touch his nose, they spread under the hood to trace the bumps and marks he keeps hidden like buried treasure. Your vision takes in the otherworldly hue on his visible skin; the glaze of rapture in his eyes yet still that ingrained heat. 

Your body shivers at the gravel in his accented English. 

Fingers stall over his lips, hood showing you the pale being of König’s strong chin and jaw. You shift your touch to the side and find chapped lips revealed to you, a small palate scar that had healed to nothing more than a line up to his nostril. 

You spare it nothing more than a glance before you look back into obsidian. Dark ether and dead galaxies devoid of stars. Swallowed in a sea of pasts and futures. You look for hesitation; for disgust. 

You find none. 

“You said that no one could ever love someone like me,” your head leans in, and your breath mingles together with an intimacy that had never been shared between this type of partners. König, as if broken from a spell, takes down a swift inhale of air into his stiff lungs. He stares with far back lids. Flashes of unidentified emotions. “Why did you say that?”

A moment of silence and of rabid hearts. The man’s lips twitch over yours as he answers slowly, not breaking eye contact for a moment. As if he did he’d be turned to rock. As if he’d miss something amazing from happening. 

He speaks with a whispered confession.

“Because if they did—I would have to kill them. Because no other than I would be able to love you more.” Your world slows and your ears strain with the breathy words. 

Face burning your lips part with shock and awe. Violent to any other, but to you this was a confession from a man that could meet you blow for blow—calm you and infuriate you all in one. Challenge you, but knew when he’d gone too far and how to properly apologize. 

He’d waited in that chair for you all night, you’d realized. 

For you to come back to him. His partner. 

You press your lips to his and hear his pitiful sounds of gasped reassurance. Slipping your tongue into his mouth, you let saliva drip off of your chins to splatter onto bent knees and shaking thighs.

König’s arms cage you; capture your waist and draw you closer, lips breaking apart before you both share a wide-eyed look of momentary pause. There was no room to breathe; to think. Chests hit together and fingers tighten to a tendon-visible hold.

The man's growing smile is wide from where you still hold his hood up by his nose, and with a lick of his red and wet lips, he reconnects your awaiting mouths. 

This time, you’re the one to gasp.

“Lass mich zeigen, wie leid es mir tut, Vögelchen.”

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[shotmrmiller]

1.8k of what was supposed to be a drabble, oops. same au as this just different situation.

there he is.

the titan the crowd calls Ghost. a creature who seemed to have crawled out of the abyss itself, rage etched into the very marrow of his bones. scars crisscross his arms, chest, and back— souvenirs of battles both won and lost. no one knows much about him. no real name, no past, no future. blank.

a void.

just like his sunken eyes, the only thing anyone can see from behind the midnight black skull balaclava that clings to his face like a second skin. (does he even remember what he looks like underneath?) he stands in front of the club's owner in ragged clothing: a tattered wifebeater that's been stitched, torn, and re-stitched. his pants have strained seams and patched knees. his boots are high cut, made of worn, scuffed leather with laces in the front, pulled tight. functional.

he's terrifying. most here come to fight for glory, for redemption, for escape. not he, though. reverent whispers claim this is all he knows. that he fights like a cornered, wounded beast, with no discipline nor strategy. just primal hunger and unmatched ferocity.

and that's who your idiotic, egotistical boyfriend wants to fight. granted, he's a pretty damn good boxer. not that you'd know much about that, you're simply parroting what you've heard his coach say. but this isn't boxing. no one here wears a padded helmet, with comfortable gloves and silky shorts. the fellow with the mohawk currently fighting isn't even wearing a mouthguard, for fuck's sake.

there are no fucking rules, no referees, no honor, no mercy.

your shoulders rise up to your ears as you tense at a nasty blow the pretty one you've come to learn is named gaz gives mr. mohawk. it splits his lip instantaneously, crimson dribbling down his chin and onto his barrel chest. he should be in pain, but there's only a glint of madness in those bright blue eyes of his. the crazed smile he gives gaz is all blood-stained teeth.

your boyfriend taps you on your shoulder, making you jump. "i'm gonna go talk to mr. price now that he's no longer busy."

what?

"no! you can't be serious!" the metal chair you were seated on screeches as you shoot up and run after him, feet slipping on the mud-slicked floor. "hey! wait!"

he reaches the tall, burly man(broker?) with the antiquated mutton-chop beard before you do. the tailored suit clings to his large frame, molding to his mountainous shoulders and tapered waist. his polished shoes are pristine, unlike the surface he's standing on that's littered with wager slips and sodden with cheap beer.

"don't. be smart, fight smart. you can't possibly— did you see the way the one with the mohawk took a hit to the face without flinching? he's insane! they all are!" you flick your eyes to mr. price. "no offense."

he chuckles low. "none taken, sweetheart. soap's a vigorous man, is all."

soap. gaz. ghost. they've all got bloody fighting nicknames. meanwhile, the only thing your boyfriend's ever been called is dearie by his elderly neighbor.

"your pretty girl's right. i'd steer clear of the pit. this ain't no place for a sheltered bloke such as yourself." his eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled, yet it felt like a facade. the evenness of his tone had dread crawling up your spine.

"boss." you squeak at the deep voice that comes from beside you— accent thick on his tongue.

mr. price waves a hand dismissively, the rings that adorn his fingers glinting under the dim light of the overhead lamps. "it's nothin' but a couple a'folk placin' their bets."

the look of unfettered stupidity flashes on your boyfriend's face as he turns his head and realizes just who mr. price was talking to. "if it isn't the masked specter himself."

stupid. stupid stupid stupid. god, your boyfriend came in one piece but he's going to leave in bloody pieces if you don't stop him. "stop," you hiss. "this ridiculous stint of yours is over." as is this sorry excuse of a relationship. he'd been a sweet guy at some point, or maybe you were just blinded by his good looks. "sorry for the bother, mr. price. we'll be taking our leave." tugging on your boyfriend's sleeve, you try to lead him away but he stays anchored in place, posturing like a peacock; chest out, shoulders squared and head held high.

he looks at ghost as he challenges him. "name your price. anything, i can meet."

how he can be so blasé in the presence of this bastion is beyond you. ghost stands tall, his shadow engulfing you whole. you can feel the weight of his presence, a crushing force pressing against your sternum. he doesn't speak; and honestly, he doesn't have to. ghost's silence spoke volumes.

"he's not interested, see? let's just go before we're thrown out on our arses."

but your boyfriend doesn't concede. if anything, it only adds fuel to the fire. "not good enough for you? eh? is that it? think yourself untouchable just because you're king of the underbelly?" he goads.

your cheeks are hot, scalding with embarrassment. he's starting to garner attention from the audience that's supposed to be watching the current fight.

and then ghost breaks said silence. "i don't want your money." his rich voice reverberates through bone and marrow; it rattles your very core. "you didn't work hard for it, i can tell. golden spoon runt."

your boyfriend's eyes ignite with anger. for a moment, you thought he was going to swing on the spot, but then, like a wisp of smoke, it dissipated. his fists unclench, his jaw relaxes. "what do you want, then?" he questions.

ghost tips his head your way as he keeps his gaze on your boyfriend. "her. i win, she's mine."

you should've known your now ex would agree. nothing would keep him from accomplishing his goals of 'putting the big dog down' as he so eloquently put it. now you're firmly sat right next to price on the stands (because you will not be calling him john anytime soon, no matter how many times he corrects you) essentially as his hostage.

"nothing personal, sweetheart. i'm a businessman, after all, and the prize walkin' out the front door would be bad for business. hope you understand."

no, you don't. so you tell him as such.

"tha's alright. simon'll take good care of ya, i promise."

"is there any particular reason you're so cocksure of your simon winning?" you manage to ask, your voice fragile.

he takes a thick inhale of his cigar before answering. "unfortunately for you, i've seen it all— the broken bones, shattered dreams, and—" you watch tendrils of smoke unfurl from his mouth, "adversaries who never walked back out."

spectators have already begun to huddle around the cage, puffing on cheap cigarettes. they all look desperate, eyes gleaming with greed. this time the one collecting wagers is a blonde woman, older in age, with her hair in a low bun and a puffer vest. "that your wife?"

he curls a large hand around my shoulder before twisting to look at— "laswell? no. don't swing tha' way." price gives you a gentle squeeze.

oh. you can feel warmth creeping up your neck. "sorry. didn't mean to- er. i didn't know."

"'s'alrigh'. her wife's nice enough. you'll like 'er.'' her wife? the confusion must've shown because he rumbles out a laugh. "no. it'd be me barkin' up the wrong tree. i—" he tightens the grip on your shoulder, "like whatever's pretty to look at." his words from before resounded in your head.

'your pretty girl's right...'

the heat that'd receded now stung the tips of your ears. whatever words you want to say are lodged in your throat but thankfully, you're saved by the bell. literally.

the rusty thing tolls and the crowd hushes their voices and stills their restless shuffling. first walks in your ex (idiot), looking exactly like what ghost had called him earlier— a golden spoon child. his shorts are glossy, even under the flickering, sickly light that falls over the cage. his boxing gloves are a vibrant red, pristine as if right out of the box. (you don't remember soap getting his pretty face broken by hands with gloves, but whatever.) he looks perfect, like something out of a hollywood movie.

and so out of place.

unlike ghost who's just stepped into the ring— who commands the attention of all within the hazy room. he fits right in with the rats who scurry around in the bowels of the city. he moves like the shadows that cling to the dark corners, his steps silent as whispers. a haunted being— one the world above with its neon signs and bustling crowds has long forgotten— has made his home down here.

ghost bumps his mma gloves with your ex's boxing ones, in a show of surprising sportsmanship.

the bell tolls once again, and the fight begins.

and just as quickly as it began, it ended. you blink, momentarily displaced, because there is no way what just happened is real. there hadn't been no real fight. it'd been one devastating blow to the side of your ex's jaw that ended everything. he hadn't stood a chance. it—

"'s done. sorry, love. but simon's headin' this way to claim his prize." price gives you a sympathetic pat to your back. "i swear it on my life he won't harm a hair on your head."

what?

ghost barrels through the roaring crowd and comes to a stop before you. "you're with me, now. best get used to it." shock blurs your vision, or maybe it's the fact that you've been hoisted up and thrown over a shoulder that did it.

it doesn't matter. the one you came here with is currently lying limp on the stained mat, his mouth hanging open a little awkwardly. is he broken? you're put down on a bench in a large dressing room that has only one tall locker in it with a tiny ghost sticker on the front.

"did you... is he dead?" you ask, pulse quickening.

"no. either dislocated or broke tha' jaw of 'is only."

you sputter when metal clinks on the surface of the wooden table he's currently leaning his weight against. dusters? "you used fucking dusters?"

he turns his head and looks at you, piercing and intense. "you and i both know i didn't need anythin' to knock his teeth down his throat, isn't tha' right, pet? eh?"

his knuckles are calloused and heavily scarred, the little finger bent at an angle even when straight. "don't worry 'bout him, you're with me, now." he shrugs on a plain, black jacket and heads for the door. "try to leave and i'll jus' find you again. don't make this any harder than it has to be."

welcome to the rat king's domain, sweetheart.

[blackssuunn-mandoandyodito]

.

[yeetus-feetus]

one day Tim gets shot in the shoulder. The bullet goes straight through so he doesn't bother anyone about it. He hates bothering people with his injuries when there's people more in need than him. He goes home and collapses in bed, he'll deal with it tomorrow.

When he wakes up though, he finds that someone has already come and fixed him up while he was asleep. The area surrounding the bullet wound has been completely numbed too. What the fuck?

There's a flattened bullet hanging from his neck, and Tim wonders if it's the same bullet that went through him. It must be right? Why else would whoever fixed him up give it to him?

The bullet hangs on a shiny gold chain, and Tim stares at it in the mirror. Rubbing his fingers over it and coming to the conclusion it must be real gold. He'll check, just to make sure.

He also needs to investigate who the fuck has gold and expensive pain relief to waste on him. Why they did it. And how the hell they knew Tim was not only injured, when he told absolutely no one, but also found the bullet used on him.

What the fuck.

But this keeps happening, and Tim continues to be confused. He gets injured badly and tells no one, and the next day he's patched up and gifted gold.

Thing is, he can't really tell anyone without admitting he's been hiding his injuries. He can't stand to see Dick's worried expression, or listen to Bruce's disappointed lecture. There's more important things to worry about in Gotham.

He breaks his hand on patrol and when he wakes up the next morning it's been bandaged and put in a splint. Fuck. That was his dominant hand too!

His other hand feels heavy and when he brings it up to examine it as well, his fingers are adorned in various rings of gold.

A deep cut into his flesh and he passes out on his own floor, only to wake up in bed with perfect stitches and a burning sensation coming from his ears. He looks in the mirror groggily too see he's been completely wiped down off the coagulated blood that was surely clinging to his skin before his mystery nurse came to visit.

Not only is he clean and completely patched up, but there's gold hanging from his ears. Both ears are double pierced with perfect hoops of gold threaded through all four new punctures, well- 2 new punctures and 2 re-punctured.

His ears burn. It stings. But the earnings look so pretty, he looks really nice with them.

He smiles.

Then, his mug breaks. His favorite mug. And it's the cherry on top of a horrible, exhausting week. He'd been so stressed and overwhelmed and all he wanted was something to drink! Why did everything have to go wrong? Why did Bruce have to yell at him for doing what he knew he needed to do!? It wasn't fair... and everything just came crashing down all at once.

Tim crumples to the floor and begins to sob uncontrollably, cradling the broken pieces of his mug in shaking hands.

He wakes up in his bed.

It's odd, because he doesn't remember taking himself to bed last night. He's pretty sure he cried himself to sleep on his less-than-clean kitchen floor.

But he's used to this by now. Passing out somewhere and ending up tucked into bed by some mysterious being that Tim still hasn't managed to figure out.

It's nice.

It's really nice actually. It's comforting to know something is caring for him and keeping him safe and he doesn't have to embarrass himself by asking for it.

Except... the space in the bed next to him is warm. That's-

That hasn't happened before....

When he pads into the kitchen it's been cleaned, top to bottom. And his mug is waiting for him on the counter.

Except it's not broken anymore.

There is his favorite mug, whole again and full of steaming tea. Tim scrunches his nose at that, he'd much prefer coffee. But the aroma is nice, soothing, and he carefully picks it up to run his fingers over the lines of gold that glue the shattered pieces together.

Kintsugi.

And then it hits him.

The hair on his neck stands up, a small shiver running through him.

Someone's been treating Tim as their personal art project. Someone's trying to mend him with gold, trying to piece all that's left of him back together like he's fractured pottery.

He doesn't know how he feels about that...

A conflicting mix of dread and warmth settling heavy in his gut, bordering on the edge of uncomfortable and pleasant fullness.

But it's not like he has the words to describe the odd sensation. ..But he likes it.

[heartpiratedrabbles]

Indifference Part 2

Part 1 ~~

Sanji X Fem Reader

Sanji let to door shut behind him as soon as Chopper said you were stable. Heading to the edge of the deck to lean over the railing, the sun long gone and the only light coming from the stars in the sky. He grabbed a cigarette and his lighter, his hands noticeably shaking as he brings the items closer to his mouth.

         His eyes were dazed over as he attempted to light the nicotine in his fingers, wanting any sort of comfort compared to what just happened the past few hours. Finally succeeding he breathe in the sweet release as smoke fills his lungs. The feeling grounding him ever so slightly as he lets his head fall, staring at his hands.

         The feeling of warm blood enveloping them as he tried to stop the flow on your back, the transfusions that happened quickly while Chopper got to work stitching the wounds. His hands slowly turning sticky and dry, his shirt covered in the red liquid. And your face, his mind kept replaying the look you had given him just before you fell. The pale, worried, confused face. He didn’t know if you had tried to say something or if you were just trying to breathe, but the last gasps that escaped your lips before falling unconscious haunted his mind.

         His throat tightened slightly as he flicked the butt of his cigarette into the open water below him, quickly lighting another while trying not to clench his teeth. How did no one notice? What happened that your back was targeted? His hands clenched the railing underneath him; how didn’t he realize you had been hurt?

         During the fight he had been so focused on not looking at you. Deciding instead to focus on beating more marines than Zoro. Didn’t you cry out for help? Why was your back undefended? Wasn’t anyone fighting with you?

~~~

         You woke up the next day with Chopper fretting over you. Crying and yelling at you for not telling him you had gotten hurt. In the corner of the room, you could see bloody bandages piled into the bin, the lights just slightly too bright for your liking as you attempt to sit up. “What do you think you’re doing?! You need to rest,” Chopper ran back over to you, pushing you down as he heard you wincing.

         “It can’t be that bad…” You mumble trying to think back to the moments before you passed out. It was difficult to think of anything at the moment, your throat was dry and your body felt heavier than normal.

         “Not that bad? You nearly died!” Chopper cried, lecturing you while you stopped listening. The scolding voice going in one ear and out the other as you glance around the room. The reindeer fretting over every movement as he checked over you again.

         “I’m alive.” Your voice was re-assuring as you placed a hand on his shoulder. Even with such a small movement you could tell how tired your body was. “I hope I didn’t cause to much trouble Chopper.” You attempt to smile and it seems to cause the cotton-candy lover to cry. The water works coming out as he yells about how worried he was.

         Robin is the first one to enter the room upon the commotion being heard. Giving you a bowl of soup, “You gave us quite a scare back there.” And just like that everyone visited you as time went on. Never being alone but also not being allowed to get up when you want.

         This biggest thing you noticed though was the lack of Sanji. You could hear him through the wall, prepping food and yelling at crewmates sneaking a taste. Yet he’d never made his way in to check on you like the others. The aching pain in your back almost feeling good compared to your heavy heart.

~~~

         Sanji kept replaying that night in his head. Or really that day. Maybe the past few weeks. His heart sinking further into a pit as his thought about what he could have done differently, what would have been better if he had handled the situation better.

         He never meant to grow feelings for you, and when he felt his heart beat faster, he had thought it was the cigarettes catching up to him. Your cute voice filling his usually empty kitchen as you insisted on helping him. It’s not that no one else offered, it’s that you were just insistent on coming. And who was he to turn a pretty lady away?

         As time passed, he started trusting you with more and more. His normally quiet evenings filled with meal prepping turning into spending time with you. Telling stories of adventures you had had, without the other. Soon enough he had you tasting his food prematurely, something he hadn’t done before, something only Zeff had the pleasure of doing as he honed his skills. He wasn’t sure why but watching as truly taste his food, putting in your thoughts for potential seasonings filled him with joy.

         Even when your alone time together was interrupted, he was more than happy that you were able to fend off the main course while he fixed the others a quick snack. Making sure Luffy didn’t get too many bites of the unfinished food.

And of course, he noticed how you would sneak candy out of the kitchen for Chopper. It was his duty to make sure everyone had a well-balanced nutritious diet, and while he’d scold you from time to time, he always made sure to leave the healthier candy in a easy hiding spot.

Your laugh was another thing, your voice like angels singing in his ears as he drew closer with snacks prepared specifically with you in mind. The appreciative look on your face as you’d take the item from his trey sending him over the edge.

         But that’s the thing. His heart racing was normal. Any women that walked by made him shudder, yet there you were. Seemingly making his heart race to the moon, faster than he’d ever felt it. The almost painful beating in his chest making him begrudgingly go to Chopper to make sure he wasn’t getting sick.

His shock when Chopper said he was as healthy as ever, going on his normal spiel to cut back on smoking but that the moment nothing had changed. It took him another week or two to realize what was causing the increased heart rate. You had been talking to Zoro, laughing with a smile on your face, and all Sanji could feel while watching from afar was a pained beat hammering away.

         He thought he knew what love was. But clearly, he was in fresh waters when it came to you. And despite his bravado, his chivalrous behaviors and language of love, he was scared. Zeff had only ever taught him how to treat a lady, Sanji would see women come and go, but none that held onto his adoptive fathers’ hand for long. And Judge hadn’t a paternal bone in his body when it came to giving advice for the few years Sanji had spent with him. For once, he felt completely unprepared.

         As Sanji smokes the last of his cigarettes, he lets out a frustrated sigh, tossing the empty carton to the side as he starts to chew on his thumb nail instead. His mind twirling with how he should have dealt with his own feelings differently.

         His decision to stay away came hard to him. His heart telling him to follow you to the ends of the world, yet the pain in his chest of being truly rejected, turned down by the first person he’s truly wanted stopped him from pursuing you. He made a conscious effort to stay away as much as possible, but still believing your cooking time together could be his own secret heaven.

         But as time went on, he realized your reactions to him, your delightful noises when you’d finish a task, your happy laughter filling the air of his kitchen, was making him day dream more. The seemingly secret rendezvous in his mind taking precedent in his every waking moment, getting distracted through out the day until you’d find him in the kitchen once again.

         And so, he started to actively ignore you in the kitchen too. Maybe, if he stopped talking to you, his feelings would settle down and his feet would stop turning cold. It worked for a while; his heart settled as it didn’t hear your delightful tones ringing through the air.

         Yet it didn’t last for long. The more measures he put in place to stop his feelings from growing, the more he seemed to fall. So, he swallowed the lump in his throat that fateful day. Not turning to you as you entered the kitchen to help him once again. He uttered those words without looking at you. He knew if he saw you, his resolve would break. His back was tense, waiting for a response from you, and yet it never came.

         Instead, he heard your feet shuffle away, the door closing behind you as you didn’t utter a single word to him. And somehow, that hurt worse than any rejection Sanji had expected. Anger, confusion, anything, but silence? He grits his teeth as his heart pounded like never before, praying that it’d settle down soon, that these feelings he’d never known before would disappear without a trace.

         Sanji bites his thumb, snapping himself out of his thoughts as he stared out into the ocean. He didn’t want to remember the fight with the marines. He didn’t want to remember the trail of blood, leading him to your pale face. He didn’t want to remember as his hands became drenched in your blood, your body turning cold underneath him as Chopper fixed you up. He didn’t want to remember how close you had come to deaths door before you finally turned around to dance on the fence of the afterlife and the living realm.

         “Sanji…” The voice he had dreaded hearing called out to him, anchoring him to the present, the now, as you stood staring at him with some concern in your eyes. His heart froze, seeing you standing, walking, talking felt like a miracle that made it feel like he could breathe again. “I guess I should thank you,” You laugh out lowly, ignoring the own pain in your heart.

         Sanji’s heart sank, your laugh sounded empty and bare, it wasn’t you. He focused on your body, it was too frail, too pale for your complexion as you stood there. “I didn’t think my wounds were that bad…” You trailed off, making light of your own injuries despite your back now littered with stitches soon to be deep scars.

         Sanji’s blood ran cold as you continued to awkwardly joke about the situation, your way to cope with nearly losing your life. You still felt a little light headed when you came out to get fresh air, your breath being taken away when you saw Sanji, and you couldn’t stop yourself before you started talking. And now it seemed as those you couldn’t stop talking, dry laughter leaving your mouth as you attempt to get the man in front of you to speak a single word to you.

         Then, without a second passing, arms were wrapped around you. A tight, yet careful squeeze holding you in place as Sanji buried your face into his chest, his hand resting on the back of your head, lightly stroking your hair. The sudden embraced shut you up, you breathe caught in your throat and your mind going blank as heavy emotions hit you, yet time felt still.

         “I’m sorry,” Sanji whispered, only audible to you, “I…” Sanji choked on his words, his chest jumped a bit as though choking back a sob, unspoken words being conveyed from his actions as tears finally fall down your face. A small wail erupting from your throat as you pressed your face into his dress shirt, your hands bawling the fabric of his shirt as you cried. His soothing hands holding you as you finally let your emotions out into the man you trust the most on the crew.

Tag List: @crocodilethesir @ultraviolencezs @littleleelee @akaashi-todorki @cynwing @tinyweebsstuff @someobsessionrequired @vvyeislazzy @mk-and-her-reblogs @suga-tofu @random-iix @peachycat17 @atinymonbebestay @theladyofmanyfandomsfanfiction @69cocktimusprime @secretlife028 @bankaixx

[the-nation-of-today]

50 Follower Special Surprise

Hihi besties, so I've officially hit 50 followers which may not seem like much but the fact that there's 50 of you that listen to my insanity is wild so first off, thank you all!!

Second, I promised a surprise, and I am following through. So for those of you who don't know, hi I am currently studying fashion. I have been for the past four years, and in my studies, one thing we've learned is how to do flat sketches. I found that I loved doing these, so sometimes I do them on my own for various ideas I have. One of these ideas that had come to me was to make gown concepts based on all of the BVB albums and eventually the EPs, so, that's what this is. You can view the full collection below, and under the cut are close ups of each gown and some insight into my thought process for each, enjoy!

First up is We Stitch/Re-Stitch These Wounds. Since these albums are companions to each other, I wanted to make one gown that combined aspects of both. Fun fact this was actually one of the last gowns I conceived because oh boy did I struggle with the silhouette on it. Anyway, to the gown itself, the most obvious motif is the lacing calling back to the idea of stitches, featured on the side panels, the neck, and on the corset belt. Then, on the detachable cape and matching choker are embellishments made to look like eyes, which relates to the eye motif found on the original We Stitch cover. The colors are then picked from the Re-Stitch cover, since by the point I did this gown I had already done quite a bit of black and wanted to go in a different direction.

Next is Set The World On Fire, or as I have lovingly dubbed this gown, Set My Computer On Fire because Adobe Illustrator crashed a grand total of three times while figuring out this gradient. Now my ORIGINAL plan for this one was to have the entire gown be one gradient from black at the top to fire colors at the bottom (think Katniss' Mockingjay dress but like mid-transformation). Illustrator uh... did not like that because each of those wing shapes is separate and complicated, hence the crashing. Instead, each wing shape has the fire-colored gradient which I ended up liking better. Obviously the wings are a reference to both Fallen Angels (obviously) and The Legacy ("on leather wings"). Then, the sort of tattered belt and choker are there to be callbacks to the acrylic paint the band wore on their bodies during this era.

Next is my beloved Wretched And Divine. For this one, I didn't take inspiration from the album cover so much as I did the Wild Ones' outfits, particularly the Prophet (to the surprise of no one). In those outfits you obviously see use of mainly black with a lot of asymmetrical elements. The collar of the gown, for example, references the collar of the Prophet vest in the In The End MV. The armpiece, on the other hand, is a twofold reference. It references both the strips hanging off of his belt in the In The End MV but it also references the feather armband Andy wore during I believe it was Download 2012 if I'm not mistaken. This one was very fun to play with the various elements and just kinda go nuts.

Next is Black Veil Brides from 2014. I will be the first to admit I struggled heavily with this one. I feel like this album is one of their most stripped back, so I was struggling on how to represent the different aspects. I eventually turned to the album cover again for inspiration. The tired skirt is a reference to the rubble pile that the gargoyle stands on, while the mesh sleeves and chest are reminiscent of the skyscraper ruins in the background, using a large, square mesh to evoke that building skeleton look. Finally, the silver belt with the circle clasp is a reference to the eclipse happening on the cover, and the color scheme is evoking the album's grayscale.

Next we have bestie beloved Vale. Now stick with me, this is the most conceptual of all the gowns. So with Vale, whenever I listen to it, I always get two kinda ideas from it: the idea of feeling like a ghost and the imagery of being chained down to something. It’s hard to translate into 2D but if it were real, it would be made of some really light and flowy fabric (something like a semi-sheer chiffon for anyone else who knows fabric) and each layer of fabric is a different color from the album cover (you can see it at the bottom there as well as on the open sleeves). This is where that "ghost" idea comes in, that weightlessness. Then, being weighed down is represented by the chain belt, with the sleeves are connected in the back to that top chain detail on the collar and I imagine there would be chains back there too. Essentially, I wanted to play with those dualities of feeling like you're floating away while still being chained down by something.

Finally for the full albums is The Phantom Tomorrow. This was actually the first gown that I made in this mini collection because I had such a clear idea of what I wanted since TPT has some of the most obvious visual motifs in the form of the scarlet cross. This gown is actually two parts, the gown itself and the cape/collar. The silhouette is based off of both the girl's dress in the TPT music videos and of Andy's jacket in the Scarlet Cross MV. You then obviously have the motif of the cross cutting through the center of the gown. The cape is then a result of me wanting to allude to the idea of wings (because of the Blackbird) without wanting to do something obvious like feathers. Then, of course, I needed to incorporate Andy's slutty priest collar as a crucial element. Finally, the rosary belt was added to both break up the red and to add a little extra blasphemy because we can always do with more (sweet) blasphemy (Get it??? Wrong album I know but I had to)

Now, onto the EPs. So I actually did not do these at the same time as the albums. I did the albums in October 2022, before The Mourning came out. Once I finished those, I didn't really have any ideas for the EPs so I just let them be. Then in March of this year, I had basically an epiphany about them, like I got out of bed specifically to do a janky sketch so I wouldn't forget my ideas. So, here they are.

First off is, of course, Rebels. Since this is Rebels, I wanted it to look different from every other gown so far, hence the silhouette. The asymmetrical skirt and sleeve allude to going against the grain and not being perfect (y’know, rebelling). The damask pattern on the top of the skirt and sleeve comes from the Coffin video, the women with the candles wear veils that look like they have a sort of damask (tbh, couldn’t tell exactly but they’re Ornate). The center panel of the bodice also has a distinct coffin shape, while the slashed stripes across the bodice reference the chest paint they all wear in that video, it’s sorta striped and almost looks like a ribcage. Hard to tell on here, but it would be almost sliced open with like a peekaboo black fabric beneath it. The colors of the rest of the bodice are then color picked from the jacket on the EP cover. Finally, the chain details come from the chains on the EP cover, and the upside down cross allude to both the crosses in the Coffin video and the fact that Unholy is a song on there, y’know the upside down cross being the opposite of a right side up one.

Next up is The Night, aka the first one I had an epiphany on in regards to this set. The purple comes from the EP cover and the videos, obviously. The chains are a part of Andy’s outfits in both MVs, which is also where the crosses on the hem come from, both are on his jacket in both videos. The neck piece is a callback to the streaky paint/makeup Andy has on, and then the X on the bodice is a reference to Lonny’s makeup since it was his first record with the band, I wanted to ensure there was a reference to him. I wanted the X to be a little sharp and almost look painted on. This whole EP has always sounded very sharp to me, so I wanted to channel that in this gown. Kinda just went with the vibes on this one, ended up with this gothic armor sort of look for the neck piece, but it slaps so we're sticking with it.

And last but certainly not least, The Mourning. I wanted this to be a very big and ornate gown, almost looking heavy. The color scheme, obviously, adheres to the grayscale of both the cover and music videos. The skirt is made to look like panels or pieces of a stained glass window, referencing the rose window in the Saviour II video. The neckline is a modified sweetheart, with the two extrusions made to look like devil horns (cause, Devil, get it). Then the sleeves are twofold- they are reminiscent of angel wings (both Better Angels and the angel on the EP cover) and they represent Saviour II because they’re meant to be big and sweeping, like the song is. Finally, the studs are taken directly from Andy’s jacket in the Saviour II video

And that's it! I hope you guys enjoyed these. I am very proud of how these all came out, definitely one of my biggest projects to date but one that I'll always love!

[millieisawriter]

Stitch you up

arthur morgan x reader

summary: a fanfiction where arthur finds your own journal where you wrote about him

wc: 1.2k

english isn't my first language

♡this wasn't requested, but if you wish to request something you're more than welcome♡

all pics are from pinterest

You had joined the gang recently, and immediately noticed him. Arthur Morgan. The big, bad mystery of a man. Soon enough you learnt that he had a past more wounded than anyone you've ever known, and you wanted to help him.

God, you wanted to help him so badly, stitch up the wounds he hid from everyone else, light up his darkness even at the cost of your own light. But you didn't know scaring the shadows away won't be easy. It was as if he didn't let you do it, scared it will break you. Little did he know, the rejection hurt you like a gentle hammer to the heart.

You could be a bit scatterbrained at times. Like that one time when you left your journal god knows where. Writing down your thoughts always seemed to help you feel better, but now there was a risk someone could find it and read it.

Arthur never planned on finding your journal, nor had he intended to read it. He saw it abandoned by the tree where you often sat alone in the evenings, writing while the others laughed and drank by the fire. His hand hovered over it, hesitating. He knew he should leave it be, or better - return it, but curiosity twisted tight in his chest.

Your handwriting was delicate but hurried, with little mistakes probably caused by you glancing around from time to time, checking if no one is looking into the journal over your shoulder. Arthur knew he shouldn't look where he didn't belong. But he kept flipping, kept glancing over the words like he was pulled by a higher force.

Until that one page...

I tried to stitch you up with thread from my own skin, thought maybe my bones could be your bandages. I couldn't fix you and broke myself in the process. But you stay empty and I stay broken, a ruined sacrifice for a love that never wanted saving.

Arthur stared at the words, re-reading them a few times. He felt it in his core, even if no name was mentioned, he knew well who you wrote about. Too well.

His heart was thudding when he shut the journal closed. He had known you had a thing for him, but he thought it's just an infatuation that will eventually pass. Now it turned out your feelings ran deep.

He searched for you, intending to give back the journal as if nothing happened, as if he hadn't read a single word. But from the panic in your eyes, even if the rest of your body tried to remain calm, he knew that you knew.

"I uh... found this by the tree," he muttered, helding the little journal out to you.

You took it, your gaze dropping to the ground in embarrassment, and instead of thanking the man, you said, "I'm sorry."

Arthur looked away, swallowing his words. He should be the one apologizing. You did nothing wrong, developing feelings wasn't your fault. Reading your journal, however, was Arthur's choice.

"Nothin' to be sorry for," he managed to say, "I shouldn't have read it. I– I don't know why I did."

He didn't meet your gaze. Instead, now he was the one looking at the ground. As if he wanted to dig a hole and dug all his guilt and embarrassment there.

"I didn't mean for anybody to see this," you still felt the need to explain yourself, "I know what I wrote must seem so foolish to you."

He shook his head and finally looked at you, "Ain't foolish. Just... I ain't the man for you. Truth be told, I ain't the man for anyone."

That was exactly what you wished to prove him wrong. You wanted him to believe he could be loved. He was worth it, even if he couldn't see it. You wanted to make him see it.

"Says who?" You asked.

He sighed.

It was his concious decision. Nobody had to tell him. He knew he can't be a bad man and expect good things to happen to him. The past had told him enough.

"Says me," he muttered eventually, "I know what I am, I know what I've done. You, on the other hand, you–"

You interrupted him, "Don't give me that, Arthur. I know what you are, too. And so what of it? You're not a bad man, you're just... broken."

"And I won't burden you with fixin' me. Don't do this to yourself, don't go gettin' hurt over someone like me."

"What if I want to be burdened with it?"

That was foolish, way too foolish, to love someone for such a short period of time, but the feeling for some reason so strong you wanted to be their bandage, their stitches, their cure. It didn't make sense, but has love ever made sense?

But, damn it, Arthur would be lying if he said he didn't want it. He had lied so many times already, saying he doesn't feel the same, but his heart ached for you. He wished he could touch you, kiss you, feel you, fully convinced it could fix him so easily.

"We're both fools," he said, his eyes meeting yours and in them you could see the truth. He could reject you as many times as he'd like, but his eyes were longing for you in ways you wished for.

"Maybe," you agreed, your lips curling into a sad smile, "but if being a fool means having the chance to love you... then I'll gladly be one."

Not letting you love him was what broke you, but he was scared letting you do it, would be even worse. But this time, he didn't pull away when you moved closer to him.

Maybe in his eyes, he wasn't worthy of you, of your feelings, of being fixed, of any of what you were willing to give him. But in yours... he was worthy of way more than what this life could offer.

You reached up, your palm landing on his jaw, the stubble nicely tickling your soft skin. This touch was something he longed for from the moment he knew you wanted him the way he wanted you. Your touch sent a weave of warmth through him, as if it had any healing powers.

He closed his eyes, partially because he couldn't quite bear the weight of his own feelings, and partially because he wanted to stay like this for as long as possible. To memorize your touch in case this will never happen again.

"We're both fools," he repeated, his eyes opening, and he gently took your wrist and moved your hand so that he could place a kiss on the back of it, "but if you're willin', then I reckon I am too."

There was just something about you that made this man feel like maybe misery isn't something he's sentenced to for the rest of his life. Maybe there was a flicker of hope, too. Maybe for once he could love and be loved in peace, if he tries to deserve it.

[merlinmarvelandother-oneshots]

Sorry, I meant to send an ask yesterday, but I got carried away 😅

So what about ut, us, uf and ht (you can ignore the last one if you want to don't worry) and how they would be with a reader that hides the fact that they're physically hurt.

Maybe they went hiking with the skellie, and they tripped and pretended that it was only a little scratch when days later they see quite a big wound that's infected.

It's a bit gross, so it's okay if you don't do it, don't worry :)

Have a good day/night and be safe

-💀

UnderTale, UnderSwap, UnderFell, and HorrorTale skellies react to a reader hiding that they're injured

you had gotten in a little tussle with a fallen branch walking home. you were completely oblivious, and tripped right over it. it hurt to walk on, and you soon noticed it swelling. it wasn't... sprained, right? nah, of course not! you brushed it off, thinking that it would be just fine in a day or two.

but until then, you might want to put some ice on that.

and so you did. for three days, with no sign of improvement. you tried keeping it a secret, but then your s/o came home while you were putting ice on it, right on the couch beside the door, and...

UnderTale:

Sans:

-he walks into the house, immediately heading for the couch.

-"hey, y/n, i'm ho- you alright? what happened to you?"

-"oh! sans, hi, i didn't expect you home so early!" you wave frantically to draw his eyes away from your ankle.

-"yeah... work was slow, so i came home. whats going on? you're acting weird."

-"pshh, don't be silly, nothing's wrong! absolutely nothing!"

-he sighs.

-"my whole shtick back in the underground was that i can see peoples stats. your HPs lowered, you're acting really awkward about your leg, and you're trying to hide an ice pack from me. i know, i saw it when i walked in. so, im gonna ask you again. whats going on?"

-you sighed. he caught you, he always did.

-"i dont know what's up. I tripped a few days ago and my ankle just started swelling. I'm gonna give it a few more days before I see a doctor, just to see if it heals on its own."

-"alright then," really? that's it? not going to insist you see someone? well, that's great for you! "I'm going to grillby's. wanna come?"

-you nodded your head.

-"cmon, let's take a shortcut."

-he took you to the fucking ER.

Papyrus:

-you look up after hearing the door open and you heard a crash.

-he had gone grocery shopping, apparently, because his bags were sprawled on either side of him on the floor.

-his jaw was only half hinged, that's how bad you scared him.

-as in it dropped. almost fully.

-he suddenly runs to your side (re-hinging his jaw on the way) and kneels by your side.

-"HUMAN, what ever is the matter? is it serious? does it hurt? will it need stitches? should i take you to-"

-"Paps! i'm okay. i think it's just sprained, i'll be alright," you tries to reassure him.

-"SPRAINED? oh, HEAVENS no, i must take you to the doctor right away!"

-you sigh. "Papyrus, it isn't that big of a deal. i'm sure it'll be alright in a few days."

-"absolutely not! what if it's worse than you think? it could kill you!"

-he really thought a sprained ankle could kill you? he may be clueless about human injuries, but at least he cares!

-you don't have too much time to reply before he picks you up, puts you in the car, buckles you up (because heaven forbid something ELSE happen to you, ESPECIALLY under his watch) and brings you to the ER.

UnderFell:

Sans:

-he literally did not notice.

-he grumbles a quiet, "hey," before trotting upstairs into his room.

-it isn't until several days later when the pain has worsened and you cannot walk on it that he asks what the fuck is going on.

-you explained that you had tripped a few days ago, and it got swollen, and you thought that it would just go away, but it's been getting worse and worse since it happened.

-"fuckin' idiot," he groaned. "i'm dating a goddamn moron! alright, get in the car. i'm takin' you to a hospital."

-he's groaning the entire way.

Papyrus:

-as soon as he lays eyes on you, he sighs.

-"what did you do this time?"

-what the hell did he mean, 'this time'? he CANNOT be holding you accountable for that one time you got a concussion! that was HIS fault!

-"hey! you BETTER not be talking about-"

-"about the concussion," he cut you off. "yes, yes, i'm aware, you believe that incident to be my doing. however, i can GUARANTEE that this is not! now, tell me what happened. i expect a full explanation."

-you rolled you eyes and told him, feeling a little pissed off about his crossed arms and tapping foot, although you couldn't fully blame him. the whole situation WAS a little silly, now that you have to say it out loud.

-he scoffed when you finished talking. such a silly thing! why the HELL didn't you immediately see a doctor? swelling is NEVER normal!

-how did he, a skeleton monster who had gone most of his life without so much as seeing a human, know more about human anatomy than a fully grown human adult?

-and how did he, an esteemed member of the royal guard, end up in a relationship with such a fool?

-"get yourself looking decent. we are visiting the hospital to get you proper treatment."

-'looking decent', you looked fi-! no, you didn't, nevermind.

UnderSwap:

Sans:

-"hey, y/n, Alphys let out training early, so i'm back! what are you doing?"

-you scrambled to hide the ice pack and hike your pants back over your ankle. "oh, uh. . . nothing," you said sheepishly in reply, a fake grin appearing on your face.

-"oohhhh, no no no. i know that look. you're hiding something. best be honest now."

-damn him! how DARE he know you so well!

-"i think i did something to my ankle," you muttered.

-"hmm. . . let me see."

-he walked over and inspected your ankle for a few moments.

-"it looks sprained. when did this start?"

-"a few days ago. i tripped and it started swelling."

-he gave your ankle ankther quick look.

-"and why didn't you tell me?"

-"well, i thought it would go away at first. i was going to tell you, if it didn't. i was just going to wait a few days."

-"well, there's no need! i'm taking you to a doctor."

-he helped you stand and let you use him as something like a crutch, so you wouldn't have to put too much weight on your injured foot.

Papyrus:

-you look up to see him standing, eyebrows furrowed (you know what i mean sans does it in the main game) looking at you.

-"anything you want to tell me?"

-"ah, nothing. . . i'm just gonna go to a doctor if this doesn't start getting better."

-you knew the look he was giving you. he wanted to know what happened.

-"i tripped a few days ago and my ankle started swelling. nothing major. it's just a little sore."

-"mmm. i'm sure. you have five minutes, then i'm taking you to a doctor," he said as he laid on the couch beside you.

-"no, Paps, there's really no need-" you were interupted by snoring. but you knew that didn't mean you were off the hook. he would be awake in five minutes EXACTLY, whether you were ready to go or not.

HorrorTale:

Sans:

-he kinda just stands there for a few moments after he sees you with the ice pack.

-ice pack means something's wrong, because he doesn't see food around, but his skull injury makes figuring anything else out difficult.

-ice pack. . . on your ankle. . .

-it doesn't matter what's wrong. he just knows something is. so, he comforts you! in the only way he knows how!

-which is a BONE-CRUSHING hug.

-and because you're sitting, and he's standing over you, leaning down to hug you, it's a very awkward angle. leading to a lot of bones jabbing into uncomfortable places.

-you know you can't really do anything to get him off of you, so you just wait it out.

-"i'm alright, Sans. it isn't anything major. i'm about to go to a doctor!"

-he was going to tell you to anyway. you just got that part out of the way.

-his time in the underground under Undyne's rule made him very paranoid about the health of those he loves, so no matter how big the injury, you MUST see a doctor.

-it's not up for debate.

-he drives you because he doesn't want you to have to put any more strain on your ankle.

-(should he even have a drivers license? questionable...)

Papyrus:

-he has a puzzled look on his face.

-that. . . he suspected that wasn't a good sign.

-"y/n. . . i don't suppose you want to tell me what is going on?"

-"oh," you nervously laughed. "no biggie. just tripped a few days ago, it kinds hurts. if it doesn't feel better tomorrow i'm seeing a doctor."

-"hmm. i shall hold you to that."

-you laughed. you bet he would.

-spoiler alert, he did.

(a/n: sorry if this is totally inaccurate to having a sprained ankle, it just seemed like a good scenario, and i was too in the writing groove ((once i actually started)) to do much research)

[niki-phoria]

폭풍처럼, you're my favorite / 후회 없이, baby

pairing: leon kennedy x gn!reader (no pronouns used) genre: fluff word count: 845

notes: randomly had an idea for a leon fic so here you go, set in the re4 castle, debated using a gif but i think i like the header more tbh, don't expect re fics regularly lol, not proofread !! pls forgive any mistakes <33, title from nct 127 - favorite (vampire)

you swat a cobweb out of your face, grimacing at the sticky feeling that lingers against your skin. the warm light from your flashlight occasionally flickers, making you curse beneath your breath. “it’s so dusty in here,” you murmur as you shine the light across the room.

straws of hay crunch beneath your feet as you begin to wander around. the wooden pillars leaning against the wall are beginning to rot, sagging beneath the weight of the stone floors they hold up. vines decorate the edges of the room - overgrown and unruly. you can faintly smell the natural ivy smell they emit. it’s admittedly a nice change from the usual earth and blood that lingers in the rest of the castle. 

LEON KENNEDY smiles, stifling a quiet laugh beneath his breath. your flashlights dance across the stones, fighting against the darkness of night. “it could be worse,” he says. his fingers twist around the hilt of his knife as he tucks it back into the small hoster on his waistband. the barrel of his gun taps against his thigh with each step, a sharp reminder of your mission. 

you hum, shoving your own gun back into your pocket. your pants are covered in patches of dirt and blood, staining the fabric. leon’s gaze lingers on a cut stretching against the back of your bicep, deep enough to leave a scar. 

his laces bounce against the sides of his boots as he takes a step closer. leon gingerly reaches up, tugging your arm closer to examine it. “you’re bleeding.” 

“oh,” you shift, turning to glance backwards at the wound. “i didn’t even notice.” 

leon gives you a resigned nod. adrenaline must have prevented you from feeling the injury. it was a common enough occurrence that you had both grown accustomed to giving and receiving stitches. 

“it’s not too deep,” leon concludes after a few minutes.  setting his flashlight aside, he rips some fabric from his shirt before you can protest. he mumbles a small apology at your wince as he ties it tightly around your bicep. “try to keep it clean for now.” 

you nod, thanking him with a soft smile. leon makes a note to search for some bandages later. for now, he’ll just have to hope that his shirt sleeve will be enough to protect the injury. 

setting your flashlight against the floor, you wander over to the least-dirty looking wall. a yawn escapes your lips before you can prevent it. leon follows after you, leaning back against the large stones. “tired?” he asks, stretching his legs out. his muscles ache at the feeling; his body silently thanks him for the break after running around all day long. 

“a little,” you sigh, pulling your knees up to your chest. you shuffle closer to him before leaning your head against his shoulder. he unconsciously stiffens at the contact before he sighs, smiling softly. “it’s been a long day.” 

wrapping his arms around you, he tugs you even closer until your body is resting against his chest. “get some rest,” leon murmurs. his voice is raspy when he whispers; his breath ghosts against your skin. glove-clad hands meet your own when he reaches out, intertwining your fingers together. “i’ll keep watch for a while.” 

“what about you?” you whisper lazily. the darkness seems all consuming. you blink harshly, fighting against your body’s natural urge to succumb to the need for rest. 

leon chuckles. the sound reverberates around the room, instantly easing some of your nerves. he gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. “you worry too much,” he teases. 

“of course i do.” leon pauses. his gaze wanders to the stone walls surrounding you. cracks run through the stones like spiderwebs. they look like they’re falling apart - as if a breeze too harsh will cause the entire castle to crumble into dust. a layer of grime has settled deep into the cracks. the consequences of not being cared for, he supposes.

moonlight shines in through the gaps between the bricks, illuminating the stray dust particles floating throughout the room. you shift slightly in his arms, breaking him out of his daze. you tilt your head to look up at him. “i’ll be okay,” he finally says. his voice is so full of sincerity that it makes your heart skip a beat. “i just want to protect you. i won’t stay up long.”

you smile softly. even in the dim light, with bloody hands and messy hair, you never fail to make him nervous. you shift just enough to hold your pinky finger out. “you promise?”

leon laughs. a soft, genuine laugh. heat floods his face, tinting the tips of his ears an embarrassingly deep pink. he sends a silent thanks to the universe that the darkness is concealing his blush before he intertwines his finger with yours. “i promise.” 

satisfied, you take a deep breath, finally allowing your eyes to flutter shut. he traces miscellaneous shapes against your skin; the steady rhythm of his heartbeat slowly lulls you to sleep, safe in leon’s arms. safe, for now.

if you enjoyed this fic, please consider leaving a like, comment, feedback, or rebloging !! and if you want to support me, consider checking out my resident evil masterlist <3

[moody-alcoholic]

Decisions

MDNI +18 content

Summary: 4.3k words. Ghoap x Reader, throuple. Reader is female (she/her), army nurse, non descript physical features, names used: Ashe.

CW: MDNI +18 content Smut, PiV sex, blowjob, handjob, voyeurism (kinda), cum swallowing, cum play (kinda, licking cum of a persons body), cum sharing, slight over stimulation. PTSD, choking, PTSD induced attack, mentions of nightmares, hurt/comfort, mental health, descriptions of injuries, death, use of weapons, assault, Physical violence, kidnapping, mentions of drowning, mentions of suicide, murder. Wow what a total 180 of content warnings amirite…

Previous parts - masterlist - next part

Enjoy <3

“Are you sure about this?” Price asks as he pulls the car into the empty car park by the river. 

“I hurt her Price, I could have killed her.” Simon replies.

“You didn’t though, I can take care of this.” Price says sympathetically. Simon shakes his head.

“It has to be me.” He says pulling his mask down and getting out the car.   —————————— 

36 hours earlier. 

You picked Johnny up from the hospital with Simon. He was more then happy to leave after a week of being on the ward. Some complication with his liver, he wasn’t happy being told he couldn’t go home a day after major surgery. Conveniently it was the same day you had to get your stitches removed. You were going to have a nice scar on your cheek, but it had healed well and at least it wouldn’t re-open every time you ate. 

“I think it looks hot.” Johnny said as you came back into his room with the bandages off for the first time. You shake your head at him helping Simon pack his bag while you sat down for the long wait for the discharge. Johnny was almost skipping to the car insisting on driving which Simon wasn’t too happy with, especially since it was dark now. Simon agreed though, sitting in the front to watch him, his hand nervously tapping on his thigh.

When you get to the apartment Johnny is all over you and Simon. Taking any opportunity to touch or kiss you, his hands slipping up your shirt, on Simon’s neck as he called the lift.  

“Johnny you have bullet wounds.” You say while he’s kissing you all over your face and neck. 

“They’ll still be there when we’re done.” He says. You laugh as you stumble into the flat, Simon guiding you as Johnny is almost picking you up in his arms. 

“I’ve been waiting a week for this, dreaming about this.” He says between kisses. You can’t help but smile as Johnny half drags you to the bedroom. 

“Simon you coming?” Johnny asks you turn back to see Simon carrying Johnny’s hospital bag, you smile at him over Johnny’s shoulder. 

“You really should take it easy.” He calls.

“I’ve been taking it easy for a week, I’ve missed you two.” Johnny buries his head back in your neck. You don’t mind letting him take you through to the bedroom. 

“Will you lie down at least. I don’t want you doing anything crazy.” You say as he lets you go and jumps on the bed. 

“Simon get in here she’s being mean!” Johnny calls. Simon appears in the doorway smiling. You crawl on the bed kneeling over him. 

“I’m not being mean.” You scoff sitting down on him you can feel his hard cock through his pants, you almost want to grind up against him. 

“You’re being so mean ‘cause I’m still clothed and you’re sat on top of me.” Johnny says with a cheeky grin on his face. His hands squeezing your thighs. You hear Simon put Johnny’s bag down behind you as you turn to look at him. He walks up to the bed his hand resting on the small of your back.

You turn back to Johnny as he squeezes your thighs before you know it his arms are round your back as he flips you over in the bed. Now he’s on top of you. You let out a yelp as your head hits the pillows and you can feel his weight on top of you. You hear Simon sigh as he grabs Johnny’s shoulder pulling him off you so you’re laid side-by-side. 

“Take it easy Johnny or I’ll strap you to the bed.” Simon says.

“Is that a promise?” Johnny says winking. 

“You’re a menace.” You laugh resting your head on his chest and rubbing his stomach. You can feel the bandages under his shirt, the ones he said you would change for him when the nurse asked if he knew how to do it. You look up at Simon who’s standing at the end of the bed. 

“Maybe I should leave you two.” You say your eyes flicking between them. 

“Don’t be silly lass.” Johnny says. Sitting up in the bed a bit and throwing his arm over your shoulder pulling you up to his face. 

“Si, c’mon.” Johnny says gesturing for Simon to get in the bed behind you. Simon smiles walking round the bed as you hear him take his belt off. Johnny presses his face to yours humming in your mouth, your hand rubbing his stomach. You feel Simon scoot up behind you pressing his back to you. His hands slipping up your shirt to your breasts, you moan in Johnny’s mouth enjoying Simon’s hands squeezing your nipples.

Your hand slips from Johnny’s chest to his pants as you manoeuvre your body for Simon to have easier access to you. His mouth is licking your neck, his lips tickling each spot. Your hand is deep in Johnny’s pants now rubbing his bulge as he hums. You lean back looking in his eyes glossed over as you rub his cock in your hand. He’s almost trying to move and shift his body closer to you.

“He said he’ll tie you to the bed.” You joke with Johnny. 

“I’m okay with that.” Johnny breathes his hand stroking your face. 

“I’ll move.” You smile shifting your body so your head is aligned with his hips. Simon moves too taking the opportunity to be closer to Johnny as well. Laying next to him where you once where so he has easy access to Johnny’s body. You know Simon has missed him, spending as much time as he can at the hospital, visiting twice a day while you distracted yourself cleaning the flat from top to bottom.

You would visit Johnny in the evenings and sometimes Price came too, giving Johnny updates on what has been going on. Price didn’t know much about what was happening with Jack or the rest of the family. The Met were still scouring through all the stuff they had taken from the house, it was going to take months.

Simon’s hand squeezing your ass pulls you back to reality, you look up at Johnny who’s smiling as Simon nuzzles into his neck. You swing your body right around so you’re crouched over Johnny’s legs your hands pulling his sweat pants and boxers down. Before you have a chance to grab his now freed cock Simon’s hand is there rubbing the bead of precum off the tip with his thumb. You look up at Johnny his eyes glistening as his head flops back on the bed. 

“You really have no patience.” Simon almost growls into Johnny’s neck as he squeezes his hand up and down Johnny’s cock in front of you. It makes you smile, it makes you wet and desperate to have it in your mouth. 

“A week of being surrounded by hot nurses.” Johnny says between breaths. Simon smiles taking his hand away and pushing his thumb into Johnny’s mouth. You take this as an opportunity to move up and take him. You hear him moan as you lick the head, wetting it with your lips before thrusting your mouth down.  

“Easy, almost had my thumb off.” Simon says. You smile taking Johnny as far as you can before you hit your gag reflex. You’re trying not to pay attention the aching in your pussy, to distracted by watching Simon making out with Johnny, who now has his shirt off, somehow.

Simon is running his hand over Johnny’s chest, every now and then pinching his nipples. Each time he squeezes one Johnny twitches in your mouth which makes you go deeper for him. You can hear the kiss getting sloppy as Johnny becomes more needy his hips almost thrusting into you.

Simon rests his hand on Johnny’s stomach to keep him in place. You want him to be inside you, now you’re feeling desperate. You pull off Johnny as he lets out a long frustrated moan. Simon smiles at you as you hop off the bed quickly ditching your clothes, almost too eagerly. Johnny watches you straddle over him realising what you’re about to do, you’ve never seen him smile so big.

His hands grip your thighs as you ease yourself down on him. It feels good, he feels good and your head tips back as you moan bouncing up and down. You start slow making sure you’re not causing him any pain. The noises he's making are enough for your pussy to flutter with each call of your name. He’s almost babbling incoherently, telling you how much of a ‘good girl you're riding him so well’. The praise makes you smile as you look down at him. Simon is still rubbing his chest, kissing his neck.

You see what Johnny has been distracting himself with fisting Simon’s cock with his free hand. Christ thats hot. You bring one of your hands to rub your clit which only makes you move faster as Johnny's free hand squeezes your thigh.

You’re hot and sweaty, you’re close as you press your fingers harder on your clit. Johnny is thrusting his hips, driving himself into you hitting your cervix as you're clenching around him. His nails digging into you now, he must be close too. Simon has stopped kissing Johnny’s neck instead just bucking his hips into Johnny’s hand as his cock twitches. You can hear Simon whispering things in Johnny’s ear as his head tips his back arches.

Simon Presses his stomach down which makes him curse Simon as he cums. You squeeze round him, your fingers rub your pulsing clit as Johnny throbs inside you. You almost don’t even realise Simon’s cum too until you look down seeing his seed all over Johnny’s chest. Simon had moved up in the bed at some point while you were distracted riding Johnny.

You bend down over Johnny in your post orgasm haze licking his chest collecting a tongue full of cum before going over to kiss him. Johnny moans wrapping his arms round you as his tongue licks yours clean. It makes your pussy flutter round his cock as the kiss becomes a desperate sloppy mess. He pulls away moaning from the over stimulation hands gripping your waist. You laugh and get up off of him. 

“That what you needed Johnny?” Simon asks also getting off the bed. 

“Aye.” Johnny says as he lets out a long breath. You smile going into the bathroom to get a towel, you bring it back in and throw it at Johnny so he can clean up. 

“You okay?” Simon asks you as you meet him in the doorway. You smile looking up at him and plant a kiss on his lips. He kisses you back as his hand wraps round your waist. You take a long breath breathing him in. 

“That was nice.” You say smiling. You look over Simon’s shoulder to see Johnny with his eyes closed and the towel covering his stomach. You can’t help but chuckle, gesturing for Simon to look. You hear Simon sigh as he rolls his eyes which makes you chuckle more. 

“Go take a shower, I’ll sort him out.” Simon says kissing your head. You nod turning back to head to the bathroom. 

Simon joins you in the shower which turns into more of a another make out session. Simon has been tense since Johnny has been in the hospital, waking up in the middle of the night, having nightmares. Sometimes you’ll wake up and he’ll be asleep on the sofa or in the other room. Telling you he didn’t want to wake you.

He seemed more relaxed, you let him wash your body, he takes his time by the time when he’s done the heat from the shower has you sleepy. When you get to the bed Johnny is softly snoring so you change then lay up against his back hugging him from behind. Simon gets in behind you his arms resting over you on Johnny’s waist. 

“I love you,” You yawn.

“I love you too.” Simon says kissing your head.            

  —————————— 

You don’t know why but you dream you’re drowning. You’re in the middle of the ocean and something is pulling you down. You keep gasping for air and nothing comes, each time you inhale salty water blocks your nose and mouth. You’re trying to swim up your legs and arms kicking. Each time the pulling gets harder, its getting harder to reach the surface for the pitiful gasps of air. You can’t breathe as you’re pulled under the water into the blackness.

Your eyes fly open, there’s pressure on your chest. It’s Simon towering above you his hands round your neck. He looks angry, your eyes flick around his face. It’s almost like he’s not there, his eyes hollow looking through you. You can’t breathe, Your arm moves to slap Johnny who you’re surprised hasn’t woken up. He groans and you hear him turn as your vision goes fuzzy. 

“Fuck! Simon!” You feel Johnny push him off you with such force he’s thrown off the bed. You gasp for air throwing your body upright, your hand flying to your neck. 

“You okay?” Johnny asks trying to pull your hands away so he can see. You’re confused sucking in gasps of air as you look over as Simon pulling himself off the floor, rubbing the back of his head. 

“What happened?” He says getting up and turning the bedside light on. He blinks looking at the scene before him. All the colour is drained from his face, his expression switches from confused to horror. He backs up hitting the wardrobe behind him. His mouth is moving but words don’t come out then he’s rushing out the room. You hear the bathroom door slam. Johnny’s rubbing your back. You don’t know what to say.

“Let me see.” Johnny says pulling your hand away from your neck you let him, turning to see him tears welling in your eyes. He brushes them away with his thumb. He looks sad, like he’s about to burst into tears too. 

“You okay?” He asks, you nod you don’t know what to say. Johnny swings his legs out of bed you hear him sigh before he gets up.

“Stay here. I’ll talk to him.” Johnny says. You watch as he leaves the room. 

“Si, can I come in?” You hear him say as he knocks on the bathroom door. There’s no reply, you get out of bed hugging your arms as you look through the bedroom door to see Johnny with his hand on the bathroom door handle. 

“Simon, let me in please.” Johnny says, there’s an edge to his voice you can hear him trying really hard not to crack. You walk up next to him gripping his shirt as he lets out a breath. You look up at him and knock on the door. 

“Simon.” Your voice catches in your throat, the door doesn’t have a lock. You want him to know you’re okay. It’s not his fault. You know about this, it’s common with soldiers, you’ve been taught how to deal with things like PTSD, nightmares. It’s part and parcel of the job, especially as a nurse.

You press down on the handle Johnny’s hand is on your back almost like he wants to pull you away. You push the door open slowly Simon’s stood hands braced on the sink his arms tight, knuckles white. You take a step to him feeling Johnny’s hand leave your back. He’s looking down in the sink as you step next to him. You reach out to slowly touch his hand scared he’ll flinch. 

“Simon,” you say quietly, gently squeezing his arm. He lets out a sigh. You place your other hand on his trying to get him to relax, stroking his arm, looping your fingers with him. You can hear the shaking in his breaths. He turns to look at you, his eyes filled with moisture, his eyes flick to your neck as his body turns towards you.

“It’s okay, Simon I’m okay.” You say moving your hands up to his face. Slowly pressing your body against him as he moves away from the sink.     

“Simon, hey look at me.” You say grabbing Simon’s cheeks in your hands, forcing him to look at you. He looks sad, you’ve never seen him like this before, it’s making you feel sad.  

“You’re okay. I’m okay. Johnny he’s always okay.” You press up against him, wrapping your hands around him. You hear Johnny move as Simon wraps his arms round your back. You close your eyes, you can hear his heart-beating rapidly in his chest. 

“You’re okay, I love you you’re okay.” You say into Simon’s chest as you feel him let out a long breath. Feeling his arms wrap round you. 

“You’re okay.” Johnny says kissing Simon’s cheek. You can feel Simon’s heartbeat slow. You squeeze him, Johnny rubs his back standing on his toes. You can hear Johnny whispering in his ear, as you wait for him to calm down. 

You watch as Johnny comes out the bedroom closing the door behind him. You’re sat on the sofa sipping on your drink. Johnny makes his way over and sits next to you. 

“How is he?” You ask, you lean up against him. 

“He’ll be okay. I made him take a sleeping pill, hopefully the rest will do him good.” Johnny says. You let out a sigh. 

“Has this happened before?” You ask. Johnny doesn’t say anything for a second his hand resting on your back.

“Once or twice.” Johnny says. “Usually after something major has happened, like the last week or so. What happened with you and me, Jack being out. He’s not good at talking about his feelings, lets the bottle up like this.” You swallow hard your throat still raw. You’ll be okay, you're more worried about Simon now anyway. 

“He needs to talk to someone.” You say hoping it won’t offend Johnny. 

“I know, but it’s like trying to get water out a rock.” Johnny says sighing. You relax up against him, you’re still tired you don’t know if you’ll sleep but you feel like you should stay by Johnny. Let Simon get some good rest maybe he’ll feel better tomorrow.   

 —————————— 

Simon sleeps until mid day then leaves the flat without saying a word. You can tell Johnny isn’t quite sure what is happening with the way he starts pacing the flat. When he does sit down he’s nervously tapping his foot and playing with his wedding ring. You try to distract him and yourself watching the TV to give you both some background noise. Around 5pm Simon comes back, he looks tired, dark circles under his eyes his hair messy.

He goes over to Johnny in the kitchen and whispers something in his ear. You see Johnny grip his arm turning to look at you then saying something back to Simon you can’t hear. You feel nervous like something bad has happened as Simon steps out the kitchen coming towards you. He stops and you turn round on the sofa to look at him. He bends down and kisses you on the forehead, you look up at him watching his eyes flick to your neck. 

“I’m so sorry.” He says stroking your cheek. You kneel up on the sofa and kiss him, pressing your lips to his as his hands wrap round your back. 

“It’s okay, I’m okay.” You say wrapping your arms round him resting your head in his chest. 

“It’s not okay but I’m going to make it okay.” He says as he lets you go. You look up at him confused. He strokes your cheek looking down at you with his big brown eyes. 

“I’ll be back later, keep Johnny company for me yeah?” He says. You nod as he walks away. Johnny is waiting for him in the hall and he gives Simon a kiss as he throws his jacket on. You look at Johnny frowning, he looks worried. What the hell is Simon planning 

It’s cold, wet, dark typical British weather. Simon takes a long inhale of the last of his cigarette letting it warm his lungs and calm his mind. It will be easier when Price gets here. It will be easier when all this is over. Price didn’t need much convincing when Simon burst into his office early afternoon to explain his plan. Price always understood, Johnny did too but Price understood in a different way.

Jack needed to go, Simon can’t function knowing the person who hurt the people he loves the most is still out there. Could be out there for a very long time. The nightmares had been ramping up, visions of him failing to save you or Johnny. Night after night of horrors, all leading up the the the worst thing Simon could imagine. He flicks his cigarette butt in the river as Price pulls up. He gets in the car in silence as they drive the short drive to the location. 

“Are you sure about this?” Price asks as he pulls the car into the empty car park by the river. 

“I hurt her Price, I could have killed her.” Simon replies.

“You didn’t though, I can take care of this.” Price says sympathetically. Simon shakes his head.

“It has to be me.” He says pulling his mask down and getting out the car. Ghost walks round the back of the car but waits until Price is out the car hearing the door slam. Price reaches him and opens the boot. Ghost holds his breath as he sees Jacks body is arms bound behind his back his mouth gagged, blood is running down his face. 

“Nice job.” Ghost says. Price nods. Jack looks confused, worried Ghost doesn’t care. They both reach down pulling him out the boot onto the floor as he groans in pain. Price slams the boot closed.

“What you wanna do?” Price asks as they stand over Jack. Ghost has had all day to think about it. Had all day to imagine all the different ways he could hurt Jack, breaking his legs and throwing him in the river was his favourite option so far.

Price was right though, they needed to make it look like they were never involved. Price walks to the side of the car opening the door and taking out a pistol wrapped in a towel. Simon bends down pulling the gag out of Jacks mouth. He doesn’t say anything at first just looking around taking in his situation. Price walks back over and hands the pistol to Ghost. 

“You really manged to piss a lot of people off.” Price says. 

“Please don’t do this I have a family.” Jack pleads.

“Should have thought of that before you went after my family.” Ghost says checking the weapon mag. 

“You know what it’s like then, you’ll do anything to protect them.” Jack says looking directly in Ghost’s eyes. Ghost doesn’t say anything. 

“Is he left or right handed?” Ghost asks Price.

“Left.” Ghost nods kicking Jack over so he’s laid on the other side. Price moves out the way as Ghost bends down next to Jacks head pressing the barrel against his temple. 

“At least let them find my body so they can get closure.” Ghost’s surprised, he expected Jack to put up more of a fight in the end. Guess he knew this was coming. Price told Ghost how the family would lose everything, they were planning on pinning the blame on Jack. Making him the scapegoat. How ironic. Ghost has nothing to say, he doesn’t want to say anything. He moves his finger to the trigger takes a breath in and fires the shot.

He stands back up handing the pistol back to price who wraps it back in the towel. Ghost doesn’t know what to say, there is no big finally, no gotcha moment, Jack even got the last word. He was gone that's what matters. He helps Price clean up his brain switching to autopilot. He just wants to get home, wants to forget this ever happened.   

 —————————— 

Simon sneaks back into the flat kicking his shoes off and pulling his mask over his head. The light is on in the hall but the rest of the flat is dark. He flicks the light off and walks towards the bedroom. He cracks the door open his eyes adjusting in the dark. He can see your body pressed up in Johnny’s arms. He leans against the doorway taking it in for a second.

The two people he loves the most resting peacefully, he almost wants to sleep in the other room so he doesn't disturb the perfect moment before him. He silently walks round the bed pulling his shirt and trousers off and slowly slips into bed pressing his chest up against your back. Johnny stirs his fingers finding Simon's face in the dark, Johnny’s fingers brush his lips and Simon kisses them.

“Feel better?” Johnny whispers. Simon lays his hand over you grabbing Johnny’s waist. He can feel you breathing, he can see Johnny’s eyes glistening in the moonlight. This is all that matters. 

“Yeah.” Simon says tears rolling down his face. Now’s the time to be emotional. That’s what Johnny taught him, let yourself get emotional around the people you love. Johnny must be able to tell as his hand comes up to stroke Simon’s cheek, brushing the tears away. 

“Yer a good man Si.” Johnny says rubbing his chin. Simon doesn’t believe him. He killed a man to protect the people he loves now he’s left someone a widow and a kid without a dad. It doesn’t matter, Johnny’s safe you’re safe and that’s all Simon cares about. He smiles at Johnny in the dark, letting himself get emotional. He can feel Johnny’s hand on his face, he can feel your heartbeat up against his chest. He closes his eyes listening to your breathing. 

“I love you Si,” Johnny says.

“I love you too Johnny.” Simon replies and kisses the top of your head.

“Get some sleep yeah?” Johnny says yawning.

“‘Course.” Simon replies his voice barely a whisper. He would get some sleep. For the first time in a week, he would get some sleep. Surrounded by the people he loved, in a place that’s safe he would sleep like a baby. 

Next

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

First off I LOVE your writing, I’m so happy you’re taking requests again so, may I please request something with Ghost? Like the reader is part of the 141 and Ghost has a soft spot for her and is very protective of her and both having feelings for each other but not saying anything bc both think the other one deserves better or just something like that🥹😮‍💨💖🙏🏻 feel free to keep practicing smut for this one!👀✨

You’re awesome 🥰💞

Blood Was Its Avatar

PAIRING: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Reader

SYNOPSIS: Getting close to you was never his plan, but when he can't stop his self-protective instincts from pushing you away, will he be able to repair your strange friendship? Or will his body have to speak for him? (18+)

WORD COUNT: 8.9k

WARNINGS: Angst, blood, wounds, stitches, death, smut, p in v, throat f-ing, degradation, dom/sub dynamics, implied pain kink, hair pulling, hate sex? but not really?, semi-clothed sex, vulgar language, fluff at the end, etc. just pure filth.

A/N: This is sub-par because I was up until 4 in the morning today and didn't have the energy to edit in-depth lmfao, but enjoy Anon!

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

All of Ghost’s problems started and ended with you. He was impressed with that fact, actually. 

They call you ‘Masque’ on account of the mission from years back, ‘07 Ghost recalls easily. When you’d been pinned down and surrounded, the dead bodies of your unit all around your feet. You’d chosen to act while the others had been yelling orders over the radio—rooting around the pooling blood on the ground and slathering your face with it; your body. 

You pretended to be dead. 

Quick thinking, Ghost had told you with a glint in his eye when you’d gotten back, those whites of your eyes ten times more noticeable. Like the moon hanging around a crimson-drowned sky. 

You’d cursed him out and said of course it was, quoting some poem from Edgar Allen Poe as a joke.

“Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood.” The Masque of the Red Death. Your claim to survival apparently, as you had just read it a day before.

Ghost said you were bloody fucking crazy and found his eyes darkly watching the way you smirked at him. How the dried blood on your lips would splinter at your loud chuckle as you both entered the C17.

As he knew—all of his problems started and ended with you. Today was no different.

“Damn! Lookin’ good today Ghost, are those new gloves I spy?” You were always so…bubbly. 

“Masque,” the masked-man greats blandly, not even sparing you a look as you enter the meeting room. The screen on the far wall was hooked up to Price’s computer—broadcasting its news out into the dim lighting with images of mayhem and a loop of a video containing the bombing of an embassy building in the Netherlands. 

Profile pictures stain the screen of wanted subjects; captured or killed in the crossfire made no difference here, anyone could see it. 

You drop down into the seat beside his own with a huff, body shed of your usual black gear, and wearing casual fatigues instead—your tags jump on your chest and Ghost sees them glint in the light.

Your face shifts into a smile, prodding with a bump of your elbow. The Lieutenant turns and glares dryly while you carry on, “I asked if you got new gloves; they’re nice.” 

“Needed ‘em.” Ghost drawls, seeing no way out of this as he glances around at the multitude of other free seats. No one else was here yet, and Price had needed to step out for a moment to grab another report from his office one floor up. 

A small grunt echoes from his throat before his eyes dart back to yours. Shifting in his seat, his lax posture tenses before loosening. 

Raising a brow at Ghost, you stifle a laugh.

“That’s it?” He blinks at you slowly, those bright blues trapping you as they shine out from his skeletal visage; his great body hidden under layers of Kevlar and thick canvas cloth. Like some weird and deadly present. You tease him, “No attempt at a conversation, Ghosty? That hurts.”

You sarcastically put a hand to your chest. 

“Then suffer.” Ghost states like he’s reading the newspaper, stretching out one of his wrists by rolling it until it cracks the joints. Where was everyone else? “I’m not fuckin’ talking about bloody gloves, Masque.”

“It’s called a conversation starter!” Under the mask, he raises a dull eyebrow. You glower at him, but the smirk on your lips shows how much you enjoy this.  

“For who? Could have jus’ stayed quiet, then.” Scoffing, you roll your eyes and indulge him—pointedly going silent. Almost immediately an awkward nothingness covers the room with its metaphorical blanket and Ghost’s muscles slowly go stiff as he crosses his arms slowly over his chest. You bite your lip and stamp down a snort. 

A minute spreads like molasses. Two. Three. Five.

“Alright,” Ghost growls, breaking as you pick at your cuticles, humming horribly off-tune to a point where the Lieutenant’s ears were ringing and annoyance faired. “Fucking hell stop it, just say something already to shut up that noise. Sounds like my damn brakes squealin’.” 

You stop and laugh loudly, elbowing him again as he jerks away with a low grunt. Blue flashes, and his heart pounds.

“Jeez, Lieutenant, is my humming that bad for you?” The air rolls with tension.

“More effective than torture.” Ghost utters, his Manchester drawl violent and thick as it coats your ears. You take no offense—you’d been doing it on purpose, anyways; always the one to exploit cracks in the concrete. You'd found out a lot through your studies of the man beside you. Mostly, all of the small tics and unique qualities that made Ghost such a strange character. 

On the battlefield, the large man was resilient and patient. He could wait in one spot for days if he had to, sitting for a perfect shot. Nothing could break the line of purpose and authority he had over the units he was placed in or his fighting spirit. Gunbattles, torture, you name it he’d survived it. 

But he disliked anything below scalding hot tea, detested his objects and packs being messed with…and clenched his hidden jaw at small, repetitive, noises.

Low, horrible, humming, tapping fingers, tongues clicking over and over. You had no idea why, but the sight of making this experienced and handsome man glare at you with annoyance made your face heat up. 

You chuckle in the meeting room, eyes crinkling up at him before you reach for one of the pens and notepads on the table. Clicking the bottom, you shrug and start to scribble nothing into the side margins as blue ink bleeds like foreign blood. 

“What’s Price got for us today, then?” Your voice echoes, “We shipping out with the others or going Black again?” 

The Captain usually paired the two of you up for Black Ops for a reason—Ghost the strategic mastermind to your reckless bloodlust. Push and pull. 

Missions were rarely a failure. 

Ghost sighs, finally getting the sensation of control back into him. “Black,” he begins, “least for us. Old Man’s sending Garrick and Johnny out in hopes of drawin’ a few bastards out first. Netherlands. We slip in the back—off the books, ‘course.” 

He watches you from the side of his eye, gaze following your pen as you sketch out a small stick figure with a skull for a face. Ghost stifles a huff as he scratches at the side of his face.

“Well, of course,” you slyly tease, glancing at him before looking back to your pad. “Are we getting any soldiers?” 

“None. Just us.” 

“Ooo,” Ghost watches your lips curl and feels his body slowly still. “Sounds like fun.”

“It sounds like I’m going to have to babysit again,” you laugh again and dark blue seems to spark with some strange emotion. Ghost clears his throat and takes down a breath.

“Oh, please,” you chuckle, “I’ve saved your hide a few times before, Ghosty, be nice to me.”

“Nice isn’t in the job description, Masque.” 

“Well, it isn’t for you, grumpy. I think Johnny and Gaz are lovely.” Your nose tilts up teasingly as Ghost grumbles like a cat. “But that’s alright, I like you anyways.” Winking, you go back to your pointless scribbling as footsteps echo from the hallway. 

Ghost stares, his hands on the armrests slowly clenching into fists as he studies your expression. His eyes slid over scars and blemishes he’d already looked at a million times over, seeing in his mind’s eye the stains of blood and that every present smile—the burn of your presence beside him like a brand in his stomach. You never seemed to let him get too far away from you on Ops, but it wasn’t some form of obsession. It was worry; he’d seen it. 

You didn’t like it when you couldn’t see his back ahead of yours. Ghost guessed it had to do with your lost unit. He never pressed it. 

In fact, he’d noticed himself not eager to see you off himself. Had spent many a night in the onsite gym after missions because of it, where he’d given you the cold shoulder after. He didn’t like that feeling. That hesitation. 

Ghost knew only to trust people as much as he had to…so why did he like when you said nice things to him? His jaw clenches, shoulders rolling to dispel tension as he rips his eyes away from your body as if you were fire incarnate. Your head perks up at the sound of talking voices getting closer to the meeting room. 

Soap and Gaz enter a few moments later and Price shuffles in behind them. You smile warmly and greet them, shifting the notepad closer to yourself nonchalantly. 

Ghost grunts and stays stationary, straightening up when he realizes he's slightly leaned toward you during your conversation. His new gloves pull taunt over his knuckles and he suddenly wants to rip them off. 

—

You begin to wonder when you’ll be free from blood coating your fingers but know deep down you never will be. At least, not if this was how you’d be getting covered in it.

Sitting inside the hotel bedroom, you slowly extract a blood-coated bullet from Ghost's large thigh, grimacing when he grunts from over you. You’re in between his legs, kneeling, as the metal finally breaks free from the skin barrier—the entry wound is small but nonetheless dangerous. His pants were cut from thigh to knee, a long spit that showed pale, scarred skin. 

Keeping a tight grip on the forceps, you hum under your breath in satisfaction. 

“No bullet fragments—lucky you.” 

Ghost forces out, “Yeah, feelin’ proper lucky.” You chuckle, moving back and dropping the bullet to a food plate you’d put on the floor. Shuffling, you take up the rag placed over your upper arm and bring it back up. Patting the gushing wound, you frown and think back on the events that got you here as the Lieutenant shifts and bites his tongue. 

The intensity in his blue eyes burns into you, lungs deeply inhaling with a silent breath. Your fingers tingle, but you diligently press the fabric to the wound and try to ignore the heat from Ghost’s flesh or how his legs flinch with every trail of your nails. His muscles are pure iron around you, and you’re suddenly very aware of the position you’re in. 

Swallowing stiffly, you sigh and notice him slightly shiver when your breath caresses his upper leg. You stop immediately, lips going tight.

It had been fifteen minutes earlier when Soap and Gaz had set up in a far more open and less secluded hotel three blocks away—directly across from the base location for your gaggle of targets. As planned, you and Ghost would be off the books and go in when they were too distracted by the Sergeants’ in plain sight. 

Fire was supposed to be the cover story. Go in, take care of business, and set the place alight after the area was clear of civilians. But no one was counting on the targets being surrounded by three more friends. 

Of course, guns lead to bullets and bullets to flesh. You can still hear the ringing in your head when Ghost had jerked you to the slide and shoved you behind the far wall—skull snapping back to look in horror as his leg exploded with gore. 

Fucking bastard had been distracted by you and hadn’t had time to dodge. That wasn’t Ghost, but then again, Ghosty wasn’t quite the same, was he? Least, not to you.

“You’re a fool, you know that?” You huff, something swirling in your chest as your gloves peel the layer of cut pants farther down to see better. “You should have looked after yourself.”

“And what?” Ghost grumbles, letting you do what you wanted to him.  “Let you get fuckin’ shot, Masque—you have a bloody death wish?” His last word comes off with a growl as you press tighter into his thigh. 

His hand instantaneously snaps out to grasp the back of your hair tightly with an instinctual low groan. Naturally, a small whine exits your lips in retaliation.

You both freeze and the room jumps up to a hundred degrees; your lower body flips as your skin burns a million degrees. Fingers still, you feel your breath hitch when his calloused fingers scrape your scalp, your hair in his expansive palm. It was a pure reaction you knew, and when you’d asked him to let you help out with this problem you had thought this might happen—he’s a soldier after all, just like you.

But he hadn’t denied you. If anything, since six missions back, you were the only person who he wanted to work on him. He’d never said why. 

You look up at him from the side, eyes wide with shock and embarrassment. Ghost’s heart skips beats before he clears his throat, snapping his hand back immediately and slamming it to the mattress. A second of strained silence settles where you both try to forget what the fuck just happened.

“Keep bloody going then,” He says, deep and grating to a point where you shove down a shiver. Your head feels light off of his scent, and you have to ask yourself why you’re feeling so feverish all of a sudden. 

You bite your lip and nod, hand moving away to grab at the sanitized needle and thread with your forceps—dropping the rag back onto your forearm to let it hang. For once in your life you’re left mute by his actions. 

Mute to the fact that you’d liked them. 

Your face burns like a hidden fire; epidermis alight with the strength to rival the flames the two of you had started fifteen minutes ago. Lungs stutter and hands inside the gloves go clammy. It’s only after you were halfway done with the stitches that you mutter words.

“Shouldn’t have taken that bullet, Ghost.” He had been stone still the entire time, hands clenched beside him and his thighs like rocks. Feet firmly planted. It was like he was barely breathing, too. 

Ghost blankly stares, staying quiet as you continue. 

“You were distracted. That never happens.” His form was almost entirely shadowing you; great spanning shoulders from above tight like a looming statue. You dig the needle deeper with a push of the forceps, threading through yielding skin with quick punctures. He doesn’t even flinch. 

Ever since ‘07, there was an obvious aversion to partners stemming from you. You distanced yourself from forming close bonds with those who you hadn’t already known. In many ways, Ghost and the others of One-Four-One were the closest you could get to people now.

Ghost, you admit, was far closer than all the others combined. 

But this sentiment was known—both the aversion and the care you held. The Lieutenant wasn’t good with words, but he knew how to read you better than anyone; the way you carried yourself. He knew you didn’t like it when he got hurt in front of you. 

Ghost had to ask why he even bothered to shove you out of the way, regardless. You would have been fine. So why had his eyes gone wide and his iris flared with a dead glow when he’d seen the gun swivel in your direction? The man grunts at a deep dig from your sutures but you continue to mutter to yourself as he glares at the far wall, venom-like. 

His sin was that he had grown to care about you. His burden and his curse. 

This couldn’t continue. 

Ghost looks down at you with a sheen of distanced nonchalant-ness and when you lent back with a sigh of your lips, his body moved. You blink in surprise as you feel his muscles bunch and before you know it you’re being grabbed harshly by the arms and lightly shoved to the side. 

“Ghost!” You snap, eyes narrowing dangerously as he stands to his feet—blood training down his thigh and kneecap before disappearing back under the stained cargos. “What the fuck?! I’m not done with it.” 

Attempting to stomp closer, he swivels his head to you as his spine goes formal. Your feet stall from under you and your veins pump faster, forceps and slick gloves freezing mid-air. 

You blink. He’d only ever looked at you like that when you’d first met. 

Blue is a silent sheen of ice and cold death; black sockets behind his mask are more like voids holding chilled sapphires. 

Why was he looking at you like he didn’t know you? Once more you say, confused and suddenly small, “Ghost?” 

“Enough.” His voice was monotone and barky, the tone final. Your fingers tense at the sound. What…what was this? “You need to get your head back on, Masque. I can’t watch over you like a bloody Private every time you get stiff-legged, copy?” 

Your jaw slackens. Inside, your heart smashes itself into your ribs in a violent pang. There’s a moment of complete and utter silence in which Ghost remains standing with concrete tied to his feet. He sees the flash of confused hurt in your eyes, the way your muscles jump for a moment.

A suffocating wave of regret strikes him, but he felt like he had to do this—keep up boundaries. Even if his throat was closing in an attempt to make him shut up. 

Ghost’s accent makes him sound harsh and unforgiving. “Price’ll need us back in fifteen. Get your shit together.” 

He bends down and snatches bandages with a quick hand, beelining to the bathroom and closing the door with a firm hand. Blankly, you stare at the barrier as the wall rattles; face burning—unable to speak beyond a small sound in the back of your mouth. 

The two of you stay separated for the remainder of the time, not speaking, and not moving from your respective areas. 

When Ghost finally leaves ten minutes after he’d pushed back the self-loathing and guilt, freshly bandaged, he finds your stuff already gone. He glances around the area slowly, taking in the wails of the fire trucks from blocks away and the neighboring rooms of the hotel as residents speak in mutters from behind walls. The air is cold and lifeless. 

He grabs his things in total silence, swallowing down saliva paired with long breaths. Ghost’s eyes remain tight. Body wound and coated in rigidity that could rival a rhino’s armored plates.

Mind whirling, but still ever mute, he leaves the hotel and heads to the coordinates Price had given the two of you alone. The absence of your warm body beside his was more jarring than anything he’d expected to experience.

Ghost didn’t want to admit how many times his eyes trailed to the empty concrete at his left.

—

When you lose something in someone, you tend to lose it hard. Thus still, that was the case here. Ghost and you always jabbed at each other—it was in your nature to do so—but this was different. The Lieutenant could be cold, but…never to the extent to shove you away from helping him with his wounds. 

Both of you always did that with the other, if that be physically or just being in the same room, while getting fixed up. 

If Ghost didn’t want you around for whatever rage-inducing reason, you weren't going to grovel or beg. The sudden switch-up still stabbed you in the heart though. 

On the second week, it got easier. 

You passed by Ghost without a single comment, shifting into the meeting room once more. He grunts as you shimmy through the door right before him, his feet halting before he runs into you. 

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, Masque, you lost your bloody eyes or something?” You don’t answer, blankly walking to the end of the table and taking the single chair with steady steps; sitting down and dragging a notepad to your general area. 

Blinking, you look up at the projection and skim the small details they give over. 

Ghost stares from the doorway, clenching his jaw. After a moment, he slips inside and slowly strides to the table. 

The days had been difficult for him, struggling to re-situate himself to his isolation after you’d been with him for years. Sure he had Johnny, Gaz, and Price, but you were…

Ghost places a veiny hand on the back of a chair about four down from yours, knuckles white as he’d shed his gloves not five minutes ago. His eyes stay stuck to the tabletop, hips shifting. He hadn’t thought it would be this hard to push you out. Not only physically but mentally. 

He found himself thinking of your face at night. Like a phantom, it would snap into his consciousness when the lights went out and the shadows got long. Your smile and your skin. How your fingers would gently press into his flesh when you were threading a needle through him—shivers of pleasure and pain intertwined by the scrape of your nails. 

Ghost’s hand tightens on the chair, and you spare him a tense glance as he seemingly fights within his mind. 

The Lieutenant wonders at your willpower and your drive. He spent the weeks hating that he had gotten what he wanted, and then he hated himself more because of that fact. It was good to keep you away from him. Not only for himself but for you. 

You both were becoming too….attached. Ghost would have none of it. It had bled over into him using his own body to protect yours that was just…was just…

“...Those new tags, then?” You look away from the screen and shift your gaze to him as his voice bounces. 

Around your neck, the new reflective metal of your new dog tags glint. Your heart skips when he speaks to you, but he still doesn’t look your way.

“That an apology?” Deadpanning, your unimpressed gaze glares into his face as his hand strangles the chair. 

The room returns to strained silence. You huff.

“Pretty shitty one there, asshat.” Ghost’s shoulders roll under his gear, a great sigh quickly exiting him. Everyone had noticed the tension over time—it was becoming a detriment to the team.

The Lieutenant’s blue eyes darken, and in his body, a great heat was beginning to burn. Just looking at you provoked lucid and vulgar thoughts, and as the dim light from the projector makes shadows on your face, Ghost traces them with a chained desire. Being away from you was a physical pain to him, but he also knew that being around you was worse. 

All of Ghost’s problems may have started and ended with you, but they also grew in his own head. They’d been there in the back corners ever since he’d given you your nickname; found out he liked the way your face was wet with spilled blood and sweat. Your body. Your hands on the hard flesh of his upper thigh…trailing up... 

Ghost’s pants get tight as he stares without saying anything. Watching you scribble on your notepad. Glaring. 

“Why can’t I get you out of my fucking head?” Your ears twitch at the low growl as if coming from a beast; seconds later, your brain catches up to process the words. Your pen stops its pointless scrawling just as your breath does. Ghost spits out, seeing your form straighten in the chair, “Every bloody thought, you’re right there!” 

His boots stomp to the floor, and before you know it a hand is trapping the back of your head, fingers carding through hair to angle your chin up. Your breath gasps out as your wide eyes lock on Ghost’s, his hold tight but not uncomfortable; as if he knows the perfect amount of pressure to make your blood surge and your pupils expand.

You stare into volatile blue with silver flecks, a skeletal mask stained from dirt and blood. Ghost’s thumb digs into your scalp. 

“Answer me, Masque,” he grunts, accent so thick you momentarily struggle to string the words together in your stupor. 

Ghost’s nose is close to yours; breathing in each other’s air as the temperature rises. Your throat bobs with a swallow. Below you, you feel your legs clench together as the Lieutenant's fingers lightly pull on your roots when you don’t respond—small sparks of electricity run down your spine that make it straighten instinctually. A soft purr flies from your lips; face on fire as your lashes flutter. Your hands clench at the dull pulse in your lower body.

The Brit’s dead eyes stare down at you, glinting; studying you deeply with growing satisfaction in his heart and tension in his boxers. 

You both glare half-lidded, panting, and flesh heated. 

“Is this your apology?” He tightens his hand and you bite your lip, small whine meeting his ears as he represses a groan at the sound. Your voice was breathy but smug. 

“You fucking wanted this, you naughty little beast,” Ghost growls, moving even closer to tower over you. “You’re playin’ me.” You mold into him as you still sit in your chair, your chin set onto his upper abdomen as the midsection of your breasts presses into his crotch; brushing against his hardened bulge firmly. 

You shiver at the feeling, your core leaking out slippery fluids to stain through your pants one second at a time. Every twitch of his fingers leaves you wanting to arch into him. Feel him.

Ghost feels your hands go to wrap his open thighs, nails digging into the back of his pants as his mouth opens under the mask to force out air. 

“You liked me in between your legs, didn’t you?” Your tiny, teasing, voice serenades him as he quickly begins to lose control of his composure. 

“Shut it,” Ghost grunts, mind yelling at him to move away, “Shut your damn mouth.” 

Those pupils were so wide his eyes were almost entirely black, feral chest moving quickly. 

“I already know why you snapped at me…” One of your hands travels back to the Lieutenant’s front, skin tingling at the scratch of a belt and the rough fabric of his cargos. You leave it over his crotch and add a tight amount of pressure; mouth lightly opening at the weight and size of him as Ghost grunts deeply, thighs jerking forward. 

Blinking at his glassy eyes you breathe out into thick air and the veiled threat of something more. His hand in your hair is so tight that you feel your pulse under the tendrils—you enjoy every second of this cat-and-mouse game. 

After all, no one knew who the mouse was yet.

You rub your hand up and down and watch Ghost’s clothed dick, feeling his muscles straining to keep himself in control. He lets you continue as he watches with a clenched jaw, his pants getting gradually wet with precum; hips twitching. 

“...You can’t get enough of me touching you, can you?” Your statement ignites something immediately, and you’re being grabbed by your shoulders and forced to your feet. 

Staring wildly, you cringe at the soaking patch under your clothes but let Ghost place your backside on the table. He presses into your hips to keep you there—legs opened and feet planted to the floor below on their tip-toes.

The man breathes like a lion, nose in front of yours. You slightly smirk at the far-off haze in his eyes, lust and pleasure blending and bleeding into the almost bruising hold he uses to press you down.

He watches you for a minute or two—taking in your scent and the rabid instinct that infects the both of you now that everything was on the table. 

You knew you were right; he knew you were right. Licking your lips you look down and stare at his blatant hard-on hungrily. Your brow raises slowly.

“You going to let me take care of that, Ghosty?” He’s up and locking the door after he slims it shut.

“This is it,” Ghost grunts, “one time, Masque. That’s fucking it, you hear?” 

“Awe,” You cue, swishing your legs as he stomps back over, hand grasping his belt and whipping it off with a flex of his forearm. Your core tightens, hips trying to press back into the table. “That's so cute. You think once is enough.” 

A hand captures your jaw, “I said,” he breathes, the other hand going to shift up the bottom of his mask up to his nose. You gasp at the sight of blond stubble and milky scars. A strong jaw wound like a spring. Ghost’s musk invades your nose and you feel your palms so clammy. “...Shut it.”

Hard lips slam into yours.

Like some game between the two of you, your mouths fight one another with aggressive grunts stuck in your throats, sharp inhales of air between partings. Ghost’s lips mold and conform to yours, clinging around the supple flesh—there’s a deep-rooted intensity, a hunger, and a desire mixed with sweet stubbornness. The tang of metal and old canvas opens to you just as your mouth does when his teeth bite down at your skin.

Quickly sucking down breaths, you feel his tongue push past layers and slip into your awaiting clutch; Ghost groans lowly and explores as his hands bare down into your hips, one making its way to grip at your hair again. Your own dig into his waist as he leans over you. 

He latches onto your hair and peels you back from him, tongue sliding out of your mouth as he moves to nip at your chin—angling your head whichever way he wants to. Your skin burns as the man bites down at your neck, hot saliva stuck to your lips as your chest pants fast with a low whine at the mixture of pain and bliss. 

Below you, your legs are wide to allow Ghost to stand between you, his firmness leaving your hips canting at every hickey he leaves behind and how he shivers into you as you move against him. It was addicting to him—your taste and how your flesh yields to him as he clamps down on it ruthlessly and rapidly. In no time he’d traveled the length of the area behind your ear and down the swell of your shoulder; shirt pushed back by his nose.

“Oh, fuck,” you breathe, eyes glassy as you blankly stare into the far wall over the Lieutenant’s shoulder; your panties are soaked through and the evidence can be felt. A long whine exits your chest when Ghost licks at the deep marks he left behind, blown eyes coming back to stare at you head-on as if in a trance.

His lips are red and swollen, mouth open with silent, fast, breaths. His large chest moves quickly over yours. He orders you in a hoarse voice; strained, “Get on your knees.” 

Licking your lips your widened gaze stays locked on his, the hand in your hair tight and keeping you away from slamming your mouth back to his. The air is electric, both of your bodies yielding to one another's even if you don’t realize it. 

As much as you wanted to scoff and roll your eyes at the comment, to make him apologize to you for what he’s done, you realize that your body has already complied with the request. Slipping off the table, Ghost watches like a hawk and backs up two steps—feet splayed as you move for him. Your knees slowly lower you down to the floor, connecting with the carpet as you sag, fists clenched and shaking. 

There’s a small, heart-pounding, pause. “...Good girl.”

Your jaw drops at the smirk on Ghost’s face and those flashing dead eyes of his, blood thumping with a newly ingrained need. You swallow and feel your throat bob; legs shifting to push back the inner-body itch that grows by the second. 

“Now you can listen to me, yeah? Such a slut for it.” Ghost’s hands slowly trail to his pant’s zipper, sliding the piece down the teeth with barely audible metal on metal. Your fingers twitch at every small pop; how the zipper itself had to move forward with the strain of his sizable erection. You can’t even look away from it—how his pants are stiff against tense thighs and the sleeves of his shirt are rucked up to show the black ink of tattoos.

Ghost had tattoos. 

When the teeth had run out and the man’s hands grappled for the waistband of both his cargo and his boxers, you’d found out you’d been staring the entire time, pupils so wide they matched Ghost’s and the black stain of his face-paint. 

“Fuckin’ hell, Masque,” he grunts, knuckles white and going still, “bet your pretty little cunt is soaked and I ‘aven’t even shown you my bloody dick yet, eh? Well, the thing’ll ‘ave to wait, I’m puttin’ that mouth to good use first. Teaching it who to listen to.”

You startle back, blinking away the burning heat on your cheeks that leaves you uncharacteristically stuttering at the vulgar degradation. But Ghost doesn’t notice, doing what he can to move the various straps along his thighs and his upper hips to be able to free himself quickly—eager and dripping to be down your throat. 

The throat and mouth he’d fantasized about for ages. 

Stiffing down a whiny moan, you finally see the veiny girth of Ghost’s cock as it comes free over the top of the tight white cotton of his boxers; a happy trail extending up his visible abdomen when his wrist snatches it out. 

“Put to good use?” You breathe out, “Christ, you’re going to make me fucking mute, Ghosty.” 

“Well, Sweetheart,” he breathes a sigh of relief as he plays with the leaking tip with his thumb. Your hands itch to brush against your achy clit, the pressure in your chest almost enough to make you sob at the sheer nothingness. Sweat glistens over your forehead. Eyes glare at you as you watch thighs tense and loosen. “That’ll be fine by me. Don’t need you speaking when I’m paintin’ your damn cunt with my cum, do I?” 

Jesus, you both were in the fucking meeting room. Going to fuck in the meeting room. 

You lick your lips and stare as Ghost stalks close again, gripping your chin and opening your jaw with his thumb and first finger. His dick was right in front of you, and you can smell sex and sweat like an animalistic aphrodisiac as it coats your brain with lust as you moan out. 

Your arms tense with a want to reach and touch it, watch as Ghost falls apart below the twist of your wrist. It was so addictive you feel yourself clench at the visual, your body shivering violently. 

“Oi, fucking focus.” Your tongue sneaks out and licks Ghost’s finger and he feels his grip tighten on you with a puff of hot air. “Little brat.” 

He stares into your mouth and breathes deeply as a smirk peels the edges of your lip. Blue swirls with anticipation. 

“Keep it open, then.” Ghost’s hand drops from you and you easily keep your mouth open as his hand goes back to his cock, grasping it firmly as the other finds the top of your head. You shiver and shift your thighs under you, your body striking like a drum to oxycontin and adrenaline. “That’s a girl…” The Lieutenant growls, and the tip of his dick slips into your saliva-dripping mouth with hidden fever. “Fuck.” 

Your eyes flutter at the taste, letting him maneuver your face closer to the base as your hands snap to his thighs—nails digging in and eliciting a sharp inhale as you press into the two-week-old wound under his pants. Ghost curses under his breath but watches in flooding pleasure at the image of his cock disappearing farther and farther into you. Inch by inch you tell yourself to breathe through your nose; feeling the make of his veins and the mushroomed tip traveling farther and farther back. 

Moaning in the base of your neck, Ghost instinctually jerks his hips at the sound, feral grunts trapped in his chest. Your eyes go wide with the prickle of tears, not from pain but from the surprise as you gag. His hold on your hair tightens and you mewl as he continues to lose himself to the feeling of your wet heat. 

He was so big it was like your throat was ripping new sinews just for him, and you reveled in every moment of the feeling of his predatory gaze.

“So bloody tight for me—can’t wait to be in that cunt of yours…can’t be better than this. Have to test it.” He talks more when he’s horney. 

Slightly gagging again at the sheer size, his palming hand presses you deeper and you take him as well as you’re able, still space between your nose and his pelvis as your knees dig harder into the ground. Ghost groans gutturally, head slightly lulling back and panting like a dog, looking down at your red eyes and far-off gaze. Your hands kneed his upper thighs and he smirks slowly. 

Without another word and with sweat staining him under his uniform, bits and bobs from his gear start to clink together and dance as his hips set a rough pace; you find your head being puppeteered back and forth with his thrusts as your scalp flames from his hold. Tears burn immediately.

“Yeah, that’s it—such a good little slut for me, Masque. Gettin’ it down, fuck,” Ghost pants, as you hollow your cheeks, back arching into you and leaving your nostrils flaring to take down air for your spasming lungs. The sight above you was sinful. 

Your Lieutenant in full gear, pants and skin-tight boxers stretching and shoved down just under the clutch of his crotch. With every back-and-forth motion, the zipper grazes the underside of your engorged throat as every vein can be undoubtedly seared into your esophagus like a brand. 

Ghost’s eyes flutter and flinch, but never once does his hazy gaze leave your mouth as he continues to jerk your head back and forth. Saliva drips drown your chin and the nearly painful burn in your navel lets you know how true this was a relief not only for Ghost but for you as well. You wanted to touch yourself, but you can’t stop touching the Brit—not for a second. Shit, you think you could fall apart just by looking at this; you were sure Ghost was thinking the same thing. 

“Look at that, makin’ such a fucking mess of you.” His abdomen tightens and rolls with every jerk and rut, and your eyes roll back with a deep whine in the back of your throat when he hits the back of your throat. Sweat splatters down your temple as the air is steeped with animalistic desperation. Ghost whines thickly in answer and seems to speed up as your hands claw at his thighs. “You like that, pet? Huh? Being my little cock-sleeve.” 

Your nails dig deeper into his flesh and he shivers wildly; eyes flash at the sight of himself disappearing into you and exiting just after as the slap of wet skin reverberates. The tension in his chest increases and he starts to desperately kneed at your hair. 

“If I’d known you’d take it down like this, I’d-I’d have made you hate me sooner, yeah?” Tension fizzles up his jaw and you know he’s close by how he bites down into his lip and tilts his head back. 

Instinctual tears travel down your sweat-slick face, the thought of being used like this vulgar and as dirty as the sounds that echo in your throat and strike down your spine. 

“Fucking hell,” Ghost gasps, and his pace stutters as he twists your locks. Your teeth graze along his flesh as you dig your thumb into his wound to steady yourself. Whining loudly, the action seems to get to the man using your mouth for his pleasure, as not three rough thrusts later the warm feeling of his cum splatters the back of your throat in thick, hot, spurts. 

Choking for a moment, the widening of your eyes meets Ghost’s fluttering lashes from above. His free hand goes behind you to slam onto the tabletop; back curved over you as he shakes and sputters as he rides out his high. 

Cum drips out of the seams of your stretched lips, and with a deep breath through your nose, your hand lowers from Ghost’s thighs as you carefully pull your face back from his pelvis. The sensation of his cock leaving your mouth and bringing saliva and his fluids with it was animalistic at best, they spill to the floor and off of your chin like a small river. 

Licking your lips, you swallow what you can and try to catch your breath as your chest rages. Blinking rapidly, your eye twitches as you bring a hand up to your sore and ragged throat, Ghost’s heaving body stiff and hunched as he stares at the table blankly. Sweat dribbles down the side of his nose, sneaking out from under the top side of his mask. 

There’s a long minute of nothingness as you both try to breathe and understand the gravity of what you’ve both done. And then you both lock eyes and stare. 

The air stills over as Ghost’s large pupils stare at the mess on your face—seeing it drip down your throat as you tilt your chin up to him. His chest purrs like a cat and you don’t even think he realizes that he does it. 

Two seconds later you’re being manhandled up to the top of the table, backside hitting it as a hand goes to your belt. Lips connect with yours and groan at the taste, the clinking of metal hitting your ears as you submit to his prodding tongue as it licks along your inner flesh. 

Your fingers snap to trail around Ghost’s neck, moaning into him as he slips his hands into your pants, pulling back and ordering, “Up.” Eager and filled with lust, you raise your legs and he rips them down to your knees, dragging you closer to the edge. 

“Good girl.” He smirks, black-smeared eyes creased. If you could speak you’d tell him to shut up and fuck you already. 

Your slick skin meets the air and you gasp, Ghost’s hands waste no time trailing up the flesh of your hips, pitching to make you jump. Glaring, you try to drag him back into you but he’s built like stone, clicking his tongue. When his fingers collect the fluids that drip out of you, you whimper at the stimulation—two calloused fingers getting entranced by that as they stop at your clit. You stare desperately into amused blue eyes as he pressed deep, your thighs tensing as they jerk. 

“Any more of this and you’ll stain the table, won’t you, Sweetheart? I get you this worked up, yeah? Bloody hell.” You pant, and lines form on your forehead at the indecent circling of his fingers; not being gentle as he sees your mouth open and your lungs gasp. Sharp spikes form in your thighs, and they move in tandem with Ghost. “Look at that…” 

Deep chuckles mock you, but you both know this has to be fast—and with how worked up you were, it would be. 

“Alright, then, brat,” Ghost takes his hand away and you whimper before he grunts and grips you by the shoulders. Your lust turns to confusion. “Suppose you did well. Let’s make this quick, eh? Got work to do.” 

Flipped around, you squeak as your clothed chest meets the table, ass presented as your feet scramble to connect with the floor. Surprised, you whip your head to the side to stare back at a highly smug Ghost as one of his hands goes to grab onto your supple flesh, massaging it before it sneaks to your hip. 

“Easy with it, I’ll take care of you, Masque.” In little to no time he’s lining himself up with your dripping pussy, so wet it’s easy except for the fact that he’s huge enough to make you mute by a blowjob. Your back arches into the table with a long moan as the length slowly spears you open, instinctually widening your legs as best as you’re able. 

Closing your eyes, you press one of your hands to your mouth to stifle your noises, thighs spasming as Ghost curses under his breath; gear clinking into each other.

“So bloody tight.” With a swift thrust and a knock of your pelvis to the edge of the table, your eyes burn with the feeling of holding Ghost in your most intimate area and the knowledge that he would completely wreck it for anyone else. Your lungs fight for air, but a long mewl exits your fingers as the man shakes over you with restraint. “Christ.”

Tight wasn’t the way to describe it—you were like a fucking noose. Your sensitive walls know every vein and bulge, the scrape and dig, far more intimately than your throat ever could. Like a carved stamp, they’re reforming to Ghost’s dick every second. 

Tapping the side of your forehead to the table, the man can’t help himself anymore and starts to thrust into you; feral squelching and fluids staining the top of his pants. Your face burns, the rocking of the table hypnotic as your toes fight to stay on the ground. The sensation of being so full truthfully made your mind go blank, fingers twitching as Ghost continued to palm at your hip—his other hand going to press into your spine, keeping you stapled to the table. 

His gear slammed and rubbed into your ass, bruising it no doubt, but you found you didn’t care at all. Pleasure rocked down with every ruthless intrusion. 

“Can feel ya ‘round my cock,” you keen at the words, tears dribbling down the side of your face as you try to hold back sobs of pleasure. Ghost increases his pace, rabid slapping echoing off the walls as he feels his sole focus on your mind-shattering bliss. “Can’t have ‘em hear how loud you are, now, can we? Can’t let ‘em know I’m shagging you in their meeting room like a little fucktoy, eh?” 

He angles his hips higher, pushing your farther up the table as his hands only drag you back. Every moment leaves your core tightening even more; molten heat pooling as the edge gets closer. 

Footsteps echo down the hall outside, but both of you are too focused on the other and the ache that only increases like a pair of cuffs. Your mouth lets loose insistent gasps and moans while Ghost breathily groans at every other interval of his ravaging cock as it brushes your cervix. 

You whine loudly, spine arching and legs desperately trying to close. Ghost chuckles and your reaction spurs him on—hitting that same spot over and over again as you sob. 

“Right there, yeah? That it, Masque?” You nod rapidly, and the Lieutenant's grip tightens with a loud grunt, “Fuck, that’s it, bloody slut.” 

The coil in your gut gets tighter, shining with desperate shakes of your body and the numb way you try to meet Ghost’s thrusts before you entirely lose the plot of reality. 

“You’re close,” he breathes, feeling your pussy trying to keep him in, slick trailing down the insides of your thighs and transferring to the Brit’s clothes. His boxers were soaked. “C’mon, then. Don’t disappoint me, Masque. Lemme see you cum on my cock before I fill you up like the good girl you are, yeah?”

Your body spasms, thighs tensing and toes curling at the floor; fingers scratching down the table as you press over your mouth harder in a last-ditch effort to remain in control of yourself. The coil snaps and suddenly you’re digging your forehead into the wood below you, orgasm ripping through you like a knife as cum paints Ghost’s dick as he continues his relentless chase of his second release.

“There it is, fuck, look at all that, Love. Paintin’ me like a naughty fuckin’ portrait.” Ghost gasps, a hand coming up to connect to the table by your head, feeling you completely flood his pelvis—he doesn’t stop even when you whine in overstimulation, fucked-out eyes wide and mouth dripping drool into a small pool. The milky ring at his root grows and grows. With a loud moan, he looks down and watches the vulgar sight rabidly, pounding into your heat as his own end gets closer and closer. 

“Shite,” His forehead hits your spine, taking the skin into his teeth and biting hickeys as his open mouth leaves trails of saliva. “Took me so bloody well, cunt was made just for me.” 

His body shakes and with one last shove from his hips, he spills into you with a loud whimper muffled into your flesh. Teeth biting down so hard that you moan in turn, the spent releases dribble out of you like a stuffed bird. You feel his chest atop you as he places his weight slowly down; the fast-panting mirroring your own. 

Sweat connects the two of you as it bleeds through your clothes, the smell in the air and the scent of delirious sex staining your bodies. 

Your mouth remains open and hoarse, scraped dry. Ghost above you moves delicately as he pulls back up, moving back to peel your messy hair away from your blown eyes. After a moment his small voice hits you—the accent deep. 

“All good?” Your eyes slowly rove to him as he kisses your forehead, shivering violently as he slips out of you; the wet drip of cum hits the carpet in the still silence as you whimper at the feeling. “...Masque?”

Dull concern emanates from his tone and you blink back. You clear your throat and utter in a torn voice, “...P-pretty good apology, Ghosty…S…shit.” 

Smugness burns in his orbs, but the roll of his eyes hides it quickly. The puff of his chest couldn’t be hidden from you, though. 

His hands reach down and hike up your panties and cargos—both items completely wrecked. The large splotch on Ghost’s own clothes showed you that you weren't alone in that aspect. 

As he carefully flips your limp form back over and pulls you up by your arms, you groan in annoyance but shut up when his hands go to zip your zipper and clip back your belt. 

“Couldn’t have had a revelation in your barracks room?” You huff, itching at your throat. “You’re buying me cough drops, you ass.” The state of your voice was laughable. Anyone would know what happened if they spoke to you. 

Ghost sighs and begins with his own clothes, stuffing himself back into his boxers and growling at the chilled fluids on his pants as he pulls them back up. He goes and retrieves his belt before walking back. 

“Acting like you weren’t beggin’ for it.” He slides you a smirk before he grabs onto his mask and begins to cover his jaw. 

Your hand snaps out and stops him. Ghost startles, eyes flashing before his muscles stiffen. You raise a brow and he slightly calms. 

Scoffing, you lean in and place a final kiss on his lips—a tinier and tender kiss. Gaze wide, the man stares off as his heart starts to beat fast again at the firm press. After you’re done your hand goes up and grasps the fabric yourself, carefully re-shrouding the mystery of a man with a smile. 

He watches blankly.

“We okay?” You ask, tilting your head as your lower body aches when you shift on the table. “I miss my annoyingly gruff Ghost. This new one’s a jerk.” A small laugh graces your ears, and it makes you beam. “I know why you did it,” you admit, and hold out a hand between your bodies. “But pushing me away will only hurt the both of us. Let's try this, Ghost. Please.” 

“...You’re makin’ it seem like a good deal, Love…is it?” He holds out a hand of his own, large and scarred hands that had gripped you so tight before utterly loose and awaiting. 

“No clue,” you admit with a smirk, “Wanna figure it out?” Ghost watches as he always does and always will, searching into your eyes for any hint of hesitance or denial. 

“Always liked a challenge.” He grunts and encompasses his hand with yours. You squeeze it and nod, chest light as your normal breath comes back.

“You know what a real challenge is? Trying to take down your fucking dic—” The meeting room handle jiggles and you both snap into action. 

Ghost tosses you your notepad and you slide a shoved-away chair his way on shaky legs, slipping into a free seat with failing knees. You both sit side by side on the opposite side of the table, shoulders bumping and faces hot not three seconds later. Ears twitch at the sound of a key entering the slot. 

You try to act normal and begin messing around with your notepad, stealing a pen from Ghost’s gear as Price opens the door. At the sight of the two of you, he pauses and stands in the doorway.

“Ghost…Masque.” With a squint, Price looks around the room slowly, confused at the rod-straight spine from his Lieutenant and the way you awkwardly scribble nothing onto your pad. 

“Price,” Ghost utters as you look up and fake smile, waving as you tighten your hips under the table in an attempt to hide the evidence spilling out of you. 

The Captain continues to stare, scrutiny in his eyes, for at least a full minute. 

“Problem, then?” The Lieutenant asks. Price’s lips thin and he gains a sheen of deep annoyance. You groan under your breath and knock your head to the table at the next comment.

“In the fucking meeting room?!”

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