#soap keeps pretending to fall off just so ghost will hold him | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

siddyyyyyyyy · 3 months ago

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You're Only Sixteen

wc: 3.7 K

summary: child soldier joins taskforce 141 part FIVE; one, two, three, four ; six

warnings: discussion of child soldiers, discussion of character death

a/n: I have nothing to say, enjoy

Training hall, 7:32, one day before the mission

»C‘mon, focus.«

Ghost taunts you as he is sparring with you, having been at it for probably a few minutes after going out for a morning run. After that glorious nightmare that was indeed a flashback, you have been more focused than anything today. But Ghost doesn‘t care, he really wants to push your limits today and see how much more you can actually endure. And he is really sure you can handle more than you‘re letting on. He saw you take out a man twice your size with a simple fire extinguisher.

Obviously, his words do little to provoke you, but his punches sure do. The sheer amount of sass this man has during sparring sessions is always something you admire about him. With another hard hit against your side, you feel your adrenaline rise before your attacks start to become stronger, finally making him sweat. You‘re not sure why you‘re holding back on him, since back at your camp, you always made sure to be stronger and even meaner in fights, but you also know your camp was abusive, in some way or another. Ghost is quick too, however, and counters your attacks back, putting more force in his hits too.

Finally, the match is more rough between you two, making Ghost struggle to keep up with your movements. It is not clear who is winning the round before you kick his side quickly with more force, making him gasp and launch at you. Before he could actually attack you, you duck and aim for his abdominal area, finally making him stumble. But you don‘t stop there, encouraging him to fall. He does, eventually but not without letting out a curse so bad that you thought he was actually mad at you.

But no, he is far from mad at you. Actually feeling some kind of pride that you actually beat him. Even Soap has a hard time winning against Ghost, but he is also used to the competitive fights between him and Gaz. You help him stand back on his feet, and he gives you detailed critique. Well, he is mostly complaining about the way you‘ve been holding back until now.

»Seriously, you need to stop pretending I‘m fragile. I can take your hits. And I‘ve seen you take down men before. You can do better than that; just don‘t think too much.«

You give him a brief nod back, feeling somewhat lighter. Maybe today‘s morning training is making you finally take your mind off the things that are currently plaguing your mind.

You both start another round of training, having the freedom of taking out of frustration on Ghost, beating him a second time. You believe he is just going easy on you, but the way he pants while he gets up from the mat says otherwise.

Eventually, after some more rounds, in which you both win equal amounts of time, Ghost thinks you‘re ready for the mission, and it‘s time to go to the last official meeting before preparing for the deployment.

Arriving there, you see Laswell and Price already standing by the table, noticing you two enter as well. It seemed like they were talking about something, the room falling silent briefly.

»Still in for the task?«

Price questions you, his tone neutral but his expression having a serious hint in it. You give him a short nod, answering as the day before. Meanwhile, the rest of the team enters the briefing room and settles on standing around the table as usual. Laswell doesn‘t waste any time on getting to the point, starting the small PowerPoint and explaining the steps of the mission even clearer than last time.

The plan changed up slightly, changing up the positions mostly.

»You‘re still paired with Farah. But you will be taking care of the guards outside and keeping watch on the building. After that‘s done, you‘ll be joining the rest inside the building. Since you have the most knowledge about the camp, it will be your responsibility to lead the safest way into the director‘s room.«

The small changeup seems to be quite simple, understanding the task. Instead of ensuring the safety of the children, you will now help them get the so-called bad guys. Or your past superiors and boss. But it‘s better than having to escort your past rival, having dreaded the thought of possibly seeing him again. Laswell looks away from you, focussing her eyes on the slide of the PowerPoint that‘s projected on the whiteboard, continuing with the mission plan.

»Farah has enough men to safely escort the children away, leaving us a clear view of the task at hand.«

She glances back at you, her expression still as dead-serious as the day before.

»Your call sign from now on is ‘Bane‘.«

Soap grins lightly at the call sign, looking your way. Gaz does the same, glancing to you briefly. He only gives you a solid nod, but Soap even gives you a thumbs up. It‘s clear they both seem to want to hype you up in a subtle manner. Ghost, however, only gets the simple message behind the call sign; seeing the first mission together had left a big impression.

The briefing goes on, with Laswell mostly leading the meeting as the rest listens, only sometimes interjecting or asking questions. You stay quiet though, just letting the whole plan go over in your head several times and also getting used to your call sign.

Maybe you worry too much because you feel the muscles around your arms start to hurt lightly. It‘s not a sharp pain but more of a dull, throbbing pain around your forearms that makes you feel uncomfortable overall. No matter what, though, you stay still and calm during the briefing until you can finally leave for lunch and have a small break. The muscle ache subsides slowly as you make your way to the mess hall with Gaz and Soap, getting your food trays, and sitting down at your usual table. Finally, the ache seems to fully go away, letting you eat in peace. Of course that familiar ache was a thing even before joining this team. Due to being exposed to high stress situations at a young age, it must be your body‘s way of showing you stress since you mainly go through the stress and do anything to complete a mission.

Ghost passes by your table and sets the capri sun down on it, leaning his hands on the table as he looks at the rest.

»She beat me four times at sparring today.«

No one would have expected it, but Soap was the first one to process his words and drop his fork into his plate.

»You broke my record!«

He looks to you with a betrayed look, crossing his arms in a pouty way as he stares at you with his mouth wide open.

»Soap‘s havin‘ beef with a teenager now.« Gaz mumbles amused while he watches his teammate‘s reaction, only hurting his ego even more.

»I‘m not!« Soap glares at his teammate before looking back towards you, »In a matter of a few days, righ‘?«

You don‘t get what he is asking for a moment before you glance at Ghost, unsure of what to say. You beat Ghost four times today. Not four times in a year.

The lack of response makes Soap groan and hit his head on the table in a dramatic way. He could‘ve answered his own question, considering you are there for almost two weeks by now, and you have only been training with Ghost for today.

Ghost feels visibly smug and wanders off to his office, probably eating alone once again. The table isn‘t silent for too long as Gaz continues to tease him for getting his record broken by you, munching on the food while discussing this childish topic. In Soap‘s mentality, there is no such thing as ‚childish‘, because as long as it makes you happy or gives you a purpose in life, it doesn‘t matter if people find it funny or not.

Eventually, you finish your meal with the rest, starting on the capri sun now, as you walk out of the mess hall. Soap excuses himself to join Ghost in his office and bicker about his broken record, leaving you alone with Gaz, or ‚Kyle‘, for you, as he tells you to call him now. He suggests a walk around the park again, easily agreeing to such a request.

You start walking beside each other, the conversation starting off with him asking you something out of concern.

»Nervous for the mission? It‘s a pretty big one.«

»It should be fine. I‘m used to high-pressure operations.«

Kyle can‘t help but feel his heart break every time you say something mature like that. A literal teenager shouldn‘t be feeling like this. Getting a big responsibility thrown in their way, having to act tough and not be allowed to feel fear or back down, constantly needing to keep up your fitness and strength… it‘s too much, and he really wonders if you are actually so strong and capable, or if you are good at pretending.

Maybe he is worrying too much, but he knows he was busy trying to beat his friends at ‚Need for Speed‘ and ‚Mortal Kombat‘ in high school instead of worrying about things like you are right now.

»Are you though? It must be a lot, raiding your old camp and arresting your old superiors. There‘s a lot to process.«

He didn‘t mean to pressure you even more or get you into some sort of stressful situation, but you started to get defensive.

»I am used to this. There is nothing new about this, and...« You pause, trying to figure out how to say this and also not cringe at yourself, »I have a team now.«

Kyle raises his eyebrow lightly at that, not able to hide his light surprise. He doesn‘t know the system you had back there, really only Ghost being the lucky – or rather unlucky one – to know about the unusal system. And you are sure that Kyle would be even more devastated if he heard about those. A brief moment of silence goes by before he speaks up again.

»You trust us a lot, don‘t you?« His voice becoming more solemn. You give him a brief nod back, not daring to look into his eyes. He sees it as the best positive response he‘ll ever receive from you and just walks beside you quietly.

The conversation turns into something more light afterwards, getting to joke around a little bit with him as he mostly explains you what vines are and tells you some of the more popular memes, which you find rather absurd but funny.

The rest of the day went by relaxed. Or as relaxed as possible, since you still sometimes got a muscle ache and there wasn‘t any official training or meeting until the flight, leaving you some time to fully set into the new mission and get ready.

You keep checking for the small Polaroid in your bag; paranoid that it will vanish into thin air, but it doesn‘t.

Flight, 4:00

The flight came by quicker than you wanted it to be. Even though you want to get your revenge on every single one who wronged you, you can‘t help but feel wrought up about it.

But you don‘t have time to think about it now as you‘re getting into the helicopter with the others, being too tired to give a fuck about any of your worries anyway. Once you got all the essentials into the vehicle, you took a seat and put the headset on. Nikolai‘s chirp voice comes through, greeting everyone again.

»Ah, good mornin‘ guys! Ready to kick some ass?«

Kyle snorts beside you as he hears the motivated voice from the pilot, shaking his head lightly.

»Always. Drive already.«

Price responds as he makes it comfortable on the seat in front of you, looking towards the cockpit where Nikolai is just doing some final check-ups.

»It‘s flying, Captain. Flying.« Nik quips back, a little disappointed by the lack of enthusiasm from the team, eventually starting to fly to Urzikstan. You wonder how the pilot can be so cheerful most of the time, it being literally four in the morning, and you are about to fly for approximately eight hours. He must intake some serious drugs before every flight, because you‘ve never seen such a happy Russian man before.

Speaking of the devil, he calls you over to the cockpit, and you wonder what he might possibly want from you now. You step into the cockpit, standing behind him as he flies, glancing to you. He motions for you to take your headset off, wanting to speak privately.

»I didn‘t tell anyone, but I built a sound box in here. You listen to music? You can choose here, just play whatever you like.«

Meanwhile, the rest of the team discusses something among themselves, not paying much attention to your conversation with Nik.

And, of course, you know a thing or two about music. Well, you do have a favourite band since the camp played most of their music in the gym.

You look towards the device he shoves into your hands, having a bit of trouble understanding the mechanics of it, but you figure it out quite quickly. The first tones go off in the helicopter, making you flinch lightly. Nikolai nods along to the music for a moment, smiling satisfied and glad you didn‘t put on Taylor Swift.

»Nik?« You quickly give the device back to the man as you hear Price approach you both, playing as neutrally as possible. But the pilot doesn‘t even spare so much of a glance to the captain, seemingly too focused on controlling the helicopter.

»Why is Papa Roach playing at full volume?«

Price questions, looking to Nik and then to you. His expression seems more confused than annoyed, not having expected some music on the flight. But he seems to piece it together fairly quickly with how quiet you are and that you happen to just stand innocently by him.

»Bloody hell...« He sighs out softly and leaves you two be, returning back to the rest.

The rest of the flight consists of you talking to Nikolai, him mostly rambling about the helicopter you are both in and talking about some more mechanics and other planes and jets he once got to fly with. At the same time, the music plays in the background, realising mid-fly that he also installed some serious bass subwoofers within the sound boxes. The playlist seems to change, as you hear some unfamiliar songs that seem to be the stuff he usually enjoys. You ask him about it, feeling like he is the most easy and fun to talk to by far. Beside Kyle.

»Oh, that‘s my favourite band, Slaughter To Previal! I‘ve seen them live last summer in Moscow… Their show was something else. Do you like them so far?«

You take a small moment to answer, actually finding it rather strange and also a little too much. But you certainly respect his passion for this specific band. It seems like they are singing in Russian too.

»It‘s definitely energetic. And loud.«

Nik barks a laugh at your answer, understanding it might be something new and strange for you, considering you mostly know something about the nu-metal band ‚Papa Roach‘.

The last four hours of the flight go by with some occasional naps against Soap‘s shoulder and listening to the conversations the others have.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, you are back in Urzikstan. The very same country you spent most of your life in. Where you wished to never return.

But this is about getting a mission done. The most important mission you‘ve ever had, probably.

Nik lands in a big landing field near a smaller base, the surroundings being familiar to you. The scenery is mostly bland, the sun being out by now, and the base being located in the middle of a desert. As you walk out, the hot sun surprises you, making your shield you eyes with your hand from it.

There are already some extra people that help with the baggage and all the equipment you brought for the mission. You stand by the others, making sure not to get lost, and stay by Kyle‘s side, seeing him stretch his back from the long flight.

Two people approach your small group, seemingly apart of the operation and base, the same people who will help with your task just tomorrow.

»Good morning, old man. I heard you have a new addition?«

Farah greets Price, making you finally look to her and to the man beside her. Kyle goes in for a hug with the man who introduces himself as Alex Keller to you, seeming like a decent dude.

Price goes to introduce you to them but gets cut off by Farah.

»No, I know her. How‘s your arm?«

Even you are surprised by her directness, and the team seems to be even more surprised. Gaz is the first one to actually speak up about the initial surprise, gesturing between the two of you.

»You… know ‘er?«

The air seems to tense for a moment before Farah nods and explains finally, seeing that you are still not a talkative one.

»We met three years ago, during a raid. I‘m glad she‘s with you now.«

After that brief explanation, it seems like some were still confused at the absurdity of you both knowing each other, but no one will press any further for now.

With some more words between the team and Farah, you walk into their base and get back to discussing the mission. Everyone seems to know their task pretty well, but there are still speculations about the operation and camp. What is actually their motive behind it? Why do they even need child soldiers?

»From the information we received from the warehouse, we could only determine where the building is and who it belongs to. We also got a list with all the children inside; they have full files of each of them.«

Price explains as Farah listens, the second in command, Alex standing beside her.

»Bane has most of the intel from all of us, which is why I think she is essential for the mission.«

Farah‘s eyes are mostly on you, studying the way you stick by Ghost‘s side during the brief and seem to be focused on the task as well. You‘ve clearly grown quite a bit during those three years of not seeing each other, but she can still see the scared and rageful thirteen-year-old she once almost took out.

»And this is why she will stick with us after clearing the guards outside. Farah, you still have enough men to escort the children, right?«

Finally, she tears her eyes away from you and nods, getting back to fully focus on the briefing again. The air is serious but not tense. Again, something you are not used to at briefings, even after having been in several one‘s with your team.

Once some more information and planning has been done, checking afterwards if everything is working right, it gets back to preparing more. But before you could join your team in preparing your equipment, Farah gets ahead of you and speaks up. She stands by your side, leading you more towards the exit to speak more privately.

»Seriously, how‘s your arm? I stabbed it really back then.«

She questions with more concern in her features this time, looking at you while walking outside and abandoning the rest.

»It‘s fine, you don‘t need to worry about it. Just got a bit of a scar.«

You dismiss quickly, feeling really glad you are wearing long sleeves today, even though you knew it‘s pretty warm in this country.

»Well… I‘m glad you got into better hands. Your decision?«

She asks again, this time being more light, but not without a hint of seriousness and genuine curiousness.

»Got sent to them because I was starting to lack.«

»Why were you getting worse?«

You really dreaded that question, and there is no way you will be able to answer that without at least your voice breaking. The conversation pauses for a moment before Farah sighs out, realisation setting in.

»I‘m sorry for your loss… When did it happen?« Of course she would realise it that quick. After all, she tried to interrogate you after stabbing you before finding out you are actually still a child.

»Two years ago. Raid mission; I was first in command, but she insisted on entering first.«

You bit your inner cheek, focused on staying calm and not letting any emotions escape as you talk to her. Even when you have only met her two times, she grew on you quite a lot. She is definitely the reason why you kept going as well.

»It‘s like she knew… she - it should‘ve been me.«

Against your will, your voice breaks and apart of Farah breaks too, as you try to explain what really happened. She stops walking and embraces you into a hug, her arms wrapping gently around you with a strong intent to comfort you.

»Don‘t say that. Halime wouldn‘t want you to beat yourself over it. It‘s not your fault.«

She tells you gently as she rubs your back lightly, feeling how tense your shoulders are. Farah always saw a part of herself in you. She was, too, being thrown into a difficult situation as a young child and was forced to continue. However, she also had a brother to care about and also had some sort of company that way. Now, you are the one who has nothing left but your team and this life, in which you are still fighting to survive.

»You need the will to continue, and you have it. But most importantly, we are here for you, and we will make sure to help you through each step. Understood?«

Her voice became a little lighter at the end as she pulled away from the hug just enough to look at you.

You were caught off guard by her hug and comforting words, but you had an even stronger will and motivation to go on the mission with the rest and get it done nicely. Now it‘s time to gear up and make your way to the old camp that once made your life a living hell.

a/n: I actually love Slaughter to Previal, I've seen them live in January and my life changed. Had to really strain myself from not writing from my perspective as Nik was speaking lol. Some proof, lmao:

Hope you enjoyed it!

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neoarchipelago · 1 year ago

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My mind is wrapped around the idea of Y/N already having a baby girl even if she's young, the dad ran off and she's single mothering this beautiful three years old. And when she gets close to Simon and they become friends he unexpectedly encounters her daughter.

Turns out she loves her Ghosty. To the point she will cling to him when he visits y/n's flat on base. And at first he's a bit scared, he's not good with kids, it reminds him of his nephew Joseph, and he's not sure he can handle it. But he also starts to feel protective over the child to the point he's too often at your flat, helping out, and sometimes babysitting. You were shocked the first time he offered after an unexpected meeting showed up. You were worried about leaving her with Simon at the last minute but you melted when you arrived home, seeing them play on the living room floor as she drank a juice box lazily.

"Simon..."

The kind look he was throwing your daughter made your heart jump in your chest.

It turned into a habit. Sometimes Ghost would stay late just to be able to read her a story. And it was on one of these nights that he held you close to him in the kitchen, pushing you against the wall softly, kissing you with a passion he was trying to keep at bay at all costs. Lost in the fever of the moment. It was embarrassing the next day, but you tried to reassure him that it was ok. You didn't mind. And that fueled him to get closer, despite the fact that he was terrified to get attached to the both of you. Like he hadn't already.

And then one day he has to babysit, you're on field training with recruits, and he's called on base by Price for a meeting with Laswell. He feels trapped but cannot refuse so he takes her with him and she's so happy to go with Ghosty to base.

This man practically infiltrates the base. Making sure that not even the security cameras see him with the child. No one should know. No one should think about a correlation between the child and him. The little girl is giggling as she sees her Ghosty act like a spy on a mission.

And then he falls into the main problem. Ok she's on base with him. But he has the meeting. So what? He sighs and says 'fuck it', absolutely horrified when the little girl repeats after him, but he heads straight to the meeting room. He needs a deep breath when he steps inside and when he does, his team and Laswell stare in absolute shock. Price doesn't understand but is smiling widely, Soap is way too excited and gaz just stands there smiling. Laswell is hiding a smile behind the file she's holding.

Soap tries to get closer and the girl in Simon's hold hugs him tighter, hiding in his neck. Simon throws the darkest glare he ever threw at someone, making soap stop dead in his tracks and pretend to look away as he rubs the back of his head.

The girl sits in his lap during the whole meeting taking everyone's attention once in a while. Price offered her paper and pens, highlighters. She happily draws her Ghosty, and the men standing now around the room. They gush over the drawings and she's thrilled.

When you're made aware of the situation you run throughout the base to the meeting room where you find them all playing with your daughter, soap having one of her hair clips in his hair, gaz letting her draw on his arm with a sharpie and Simon eyeing the whole situation like a hawk. Price and Laswell immediately soothe you, telling you it's ok. Simon apologizes profusely but you understand. After all she was safe. How could she not when the Task force 141 was babysitting her.

After that Simon tried to keep the team away but they are insistently asking him to bring her back. You explain that it's too dangerous and you'd rather keep her away from the middle of the base, Simon happy that you shut them down. Until you offer them to pass by the flat to dine. He feels slightly jealous, he likes having you and the child all to himself, like a happy little family-

He finds himself thinking that more and more. His little family. And the relationship between him and you only seems to grow. Now he stays sleeping. You both steal kisses when your daughter isn't looking. One special night you both give in to each other, rolling around in your sheets before falling asleep tightly snuggled together. Embarrassment had washed over you when your daughter ran into the room in the morning finding you both sleeping together. But she happily squealed that he had stayed for a sleepover.

And then it turns to dates. The team is happily babysitting during a short period of time. He stays practically all the time at the flat and he offers flowers and toys and looks at you like you're the world. He loves you, he admits it to himself and later on to you. The feeling of your reciprocated feelings makes him the happiest man alive.

----

I got more to write but it's 3am and I should go to sleep.....

#fanfics #fanfiction #fanfic #simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost cod #cod mw2 #ghost simon riley

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sandinthemachine · 2 years ago

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Mortal Remains

König x f!reader

written for the request: "You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn't have to go to such extremes." With Either ghost or König? There's not enough fluff for my men.

I don't even know where to begin with this one. It's massive, the longest one I've ever written. I love it, and I hate it. It made me cry. I'm excited and terrified to see what everyone else thinks. I hope someone reading this feels at least one of those emotions while doing so (preferably not hate)

before I begin, thank you to @sprout-fics and @zwienzixes for being lovely beta readers, and a MASSIVE thank you to @itsagrimm for beta-reading, helping me work through ideas, giving me proper German translations, and all around being an amazing and supportive person. I would have given up on this without all the help.

Translations for the German will be at the bottom

Words: 12,450 (yeah...it's big just like him)

Warnings/tags: König is soft and pretends not to be, reader is afab but no pronouns used, canon-typical violence, piv sex, oral f!receiving, self-deprecation, lots of raw emotions, mental health is hard, fluffy ending

---

It started easy enough, as so many things do.

A week-long joint training exercise. Mixed teams, both 141 and KorTac. Something something bonding before the real mission. You hadn’t been listening.

You remember being excited to be teamed with Soap. At least you could get along with someone, you mused. You barely noticed the hooded figure, tall and sticking to the corners, merging with the lengthening shadows. What’s another ghost haunting your footsteps? Nothing special, that’s for sure.

The first four days fly by. Early morning patrols, always in pairs, tracking for signs of the other team. Finding nothing, you move to a different shelter, secure the area, sleep. Rinse, repeat.

The fifth day is different. There are ragged clouds cloaking the sun while the rest of the sky is completely clear. You’re not sure why you noticed that, but you did.

It was an early morning patrol, as usual, you and your partner sweeping around a centerpoint like you were analyzing a single massive clock. Northeast quadrant clear. Southeast clear. Southwest…a scuff in the dirt. You lean down, fingers tracing the air just above it, a black fleck catching your eye. You grasp it, finding it much larger than you originally expected and partially buried. You pull at the rubbery texture, curious. Distracted.

The ambush comes quietly. Perfectly so. The weight lands on your back with an abruptness that flattens your lungs, dropping you directly onto your hands. You might have twisted your wrist, but the pain of that is overshadowed by the thought of the immense beratement you’ll get from your NCO for failing so fast.

Yet the weight from your back is lifted as quietly as it arrived. You turn, rolling to your feet to find that it had been Gaz on top of you only a second ago. Now he dangles like a ragdoll in the air. The shadow holding him draws a knife, taps it against his throat. You're out.

Gaz sighs as he’s set on the ground, giving you a nod before marching off. You don’t return it, too busy staring at the man next to him.

You’d never noticed his eyes before. You’re used to Ghost’s eyes, dark and unyielding, cavernous black holes reaching into a skull long dead. Like he was born to wear the mask.

This man’s eyes couldn’t be more different. They’re pale, washed out, windows into a sky perpetually on the verge of snowfall, slumbering clouds cold and waiting.

They curve down at the corners, lending an air of melancholy to the only part of his face you can see. You wonder how he really feels behind that gaze.

You’re staring.

You clear your throat awkwardly, aiming to thank him before pausing. “I…I’m sorry, I never caught your callsign?”

The head dips down, draped fabric falling down his chest slightly. A nod. “We need to keep moving.”

And he’s walking past you.

Two days later, the training exercise finally comes to a head in a fierce brawl over the fake weapons cache. Knives and fists only.

The fight takes only a few minutes. Ghost on the opposite team notices your attempted ambush immediately, throwing his men after you. Your team is outnumbered, stuck in a hallway. But it doesn’t matter.

Ghost and the hooded man roll on the ground, tousling like a pair of tomcats, Ghost landing on top for just a second, raising his knife-

You’re there. Arm wrapped around his shoulders. Blade tapping against his throat. You’re out.

With that, the fight is over. Ghost moves with a grumble at the man under him. It might have been a threat. But the man doesn’t hear it. He’s too busy staring at you with grey-sky eyes wide. A child dressed as a dirty sheet-ghost. “I…I don’t know your-”

You thrust your hand out, yanking him to his feet. “We’d better head back.”

You feel him at your back throughout the debriefing. Rolling thunder clouds looming over your head, ready to burst at any second. Your tongue is between your teeth, lungs heaving. Soap whispers a joke in your ear, something about Ghost getting chewed out by the NCO. You can barely muster a smile.

You stay still as the meeting finally ends, waiting for everyone to filter out before you finally turn around.

As you turn, your shoulder knocks into hard muscle and you look up, craning your neck to take in the hooded face and the way his pupils are blown wide into dark pits. A gale you should take shelter from lest you be blown away. But for a moment all you do is stand there, watching your own pupils expand in the turbulent reflection.

Your teeth are carving marks into your tongue by now, and it takes you far too long to draw in a shaky breath and push past him. You have more training tomorrow. It’s sleep your body needs. Not…whatever this is.

He doesn’t say a word as you depart, but his eyes track your every move before the door shuts behind you.

Of course this is a night where you can’t sleep. Of course. You flip and roll, hearing your bed frame smack against the wall every time you shift until you get so annoyed you shove it further into your room and flop down on it again. It doesn’t do anything, of course. Just makes your insomnia a little quieter.

It’s nearly midnight by the time you throw your legs over the side in frustration, shivering at the frigid air before throwing on enough clothes to look decent and marching down towards the shared kitchen.

He’s there. Your luck is just perfect tonight. You take a step backwards, planning to flee back to the darkness of the hallway, but he’s already turning his head, shoulders jumping just slightly as you enter his view.

You crumple a little as he notices you, but it’s too late to do anything about it now. “Can’t sleep either, huh?” Your voice is rough as you walk over to the counter next to him, yanking an expired box of cereal from the back of it. Your arm brushes his as you pull it out.

You spare him a glance as you pry the old box open, snorting at his narrowed eyelids. You bet he’s scrunching his nose through that silly hood, too. You reach in, hearing a series of crunches as you rifle around. “Ah, there it is.” You pull out the clear bottle, shaking it triumphantly in his face. “This’ll knock you right out. 50/50 chance you get back up tomorrow.” You trail off, eyes traveling up and down him. “Well, maybe a bit better odds for you.” You chuckle half-heartedly, but it dies a second later.

You puff your lips out in a shaky breath, running your tongue along your teeth before giving him an awkward smile and raising the bottle to him. With that you leave.

As soon as you take a sip you spit it right back out with a blech. You’d forgotten how nasty the stuff is. You toss it into the trash can and flop back down with an irritated groan. How hard is it to fall asleep? It’s literally laying there doing no-

Your thoughts are interrupted by a knock at the door, and upon swinging it open you find him, his looming shadow nearly blotting out the light from the hallway behind. It’s easy to forget how big he is when he’s not around. How strong he is. How…deadly.

But right now he’s leaning against your doorframe, hands tapping along his legs. “Have enough for two?”

You smirk a little at that, but as you step closer you feel the heat radiating from him, your shoulder blades clenching together as your mind begins to process something.

You’d sleep better for it. Perform better the next day. It would be good for you.

Your smirk deepens. “I have a better idea.”

As your hand tangles in his shirt you feel a tremble along his skin, but he doesn’t respond when you pull on him. “You’ve been drinking.”

“I haven’t had a drop. Shit’s disgusting.”

“Show me the bottle.”

Despite yourself, a smile tugs at the corner of your lips as you fish the full monstrosity out of the bin to show him. He nods but still doesn’t move, and you find yourself rushing to assure him as heat rushes up your neck. “If you actually just want to drink, we can. We don’t have to do anything-”

“No. That’s not it.” Finally he steps fully into the room, letting the door swing shut behind him before he stalks to you. “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” you hiss, moving to hold onto him again, your mind swirling with exhaustion and old memories that you just need out, right now, and he’s right there and he needs it too, you just know it as he swoops down to grab you and toss you on the bed, both of you a mess to rip your clothes off now that the facade has finally fallen.

After the fog clears you find yourself panting on your stomach with him above you, caging you in with his forearms. Each of his stuttering inhales brings his burning chest and stomach against your back. Before the heat can become unbearable he pulls away, breaths still heaving as he tucks himself back into his pants.

Your eyes widen in surprise when he makes his way to your bathroom and comes back, washcloth in hand, to softly clean you up. As he finishes he pauses, thumb brushing the edge of an old knife scar running up your hip. “My callsign,” he murmurs, fingers tracing its length. “It’s König.”

And with that, he leaves.

You were content for that to be the end of it. You’d each gotten what you needed, after all. And as you stretch languidly across your mattress the following morning, an unfamiliar relaxation settles along your tense muscles. Yes, you would be more than happy to leave it at this.

But as the next training drill ends you find yourself faced with your cold barrack and the prospect of another sleepless night. Before you even realize what you’re doing your legs are moving, ready to go to the kitchen and-

He’s right there, startling as you nearly open your door into his face. He takes a step back, but you’re already holding your hand out and his eyes are burning into you as he takes it and lets you pull him in, lets you shut the door behind you before he’s lifting you with laughable ease and carrying you to bed.

You’re already burrowing your face into your pillow by the time he comes back to clean you up. This time his palm runs over a puckered mass on your thigh, a nasty burn scar from failing to dive for cover fast enough. It still hurts sometimes, but the pain is good. Reminds you not to be so careless again.

As you drift off completely to the feel of his warm hand taking in the old wound, you fail to notice the way his head has turned up, eyes running over your face. He contemplates brushing a finger over your hairline, tucking the wild flyaways behind your ear. But no. That would be too…friendly. That’s not what this is.

So instead he spreads your blankets over your now sleeping form, and with one last lingering gaze, leaves you to sleep peacefully.

You’re not surprised when you wake up to the empty room. It was what you wanted, after all. You had gotten another restful night out of it, and he got what he wanted. It was a fair trade. A great trade, even.

And as the training drills continue and you feel how naturally your body flows, how efficiently it executes your will when you’re actually well-rested, you find yourself seeking his company out more and more. Soon the pair of you have built your own kind of routine, him coming to you the evening after each debriefing when the leftover sparks of adrenaline are refusing to die out in you both.

He always lays you down on your stomach, opening you up with his fingers as he patiently works you through your first orgasm before letting himself take you. He’s always slow at first, but he finds you restless and impatient, urging him to go faster and harder, to knock you out for the night, to knock everything out of your mind that you never want to think about again.

You try to look back once only for your face to meet his hand. With gentle but firm fingers, he turns your head away.

Afterwards he’s even more delicate, wordlessly cleaning you up with a touch light enough to leave a butterfly unharmed. Although he rarely meets your eyes, his gaze and fingers take in your body, each time finding a new scar for his fingers to brush over like a chaste kiss.

You’re asleep by the time he leaves, and you like it that way. The two of you can crash against each other like blizzards raging and howling until you finally break into clear skies. And afterwards, you’re soldiers again. Well-rested, sure. But soldiers all the same. No hard feelings, either. You know he understands.

Soon you two find yourselves assigned to the same training team more and more. It’s natural, an unspoken communication flowing between you, and your superiors see it in the skyrocketing success rates. They pointedly ignore the way your stares burn holes into each other, keeping their eyes fixed on powerpoints and mission statistics. Not their business, they tell themselves. What matters is that you two do your jobs.

And then finally it’s time for the mission, a deployment in the middle of a remote and mountainous forest with terrible radio signal.

Like your first training, it starts easy enough. You’re divided into two teams on two separate mountains, and it’s just your luck that they put you on the team with no one you’re close to. Not even König. Maybe the higher-ups were finally sick of you two.

But you’re an adult. You handle it. You swallow the unease that comes with the teams not being able to contact each other. It’s simply too risky, and the signals are shoddy at best anyway. Base will come in for extraction if the other team succeeds.

With practiced ease you push yourself through two weeks of empty trails and summer-camp camaraderie as the talkative ones share jokes around the empty fireplace and the quiet ones listen from the shadows and chuckle their approval.

Week 3, everything goes to shit.

You should’ve known. You really should’ve known. The weather out here can change in an instant, clouds materializing from a clear sky’s empty expanse like an angry god throwing his rage down from above. You should’ve known the people here would be the same.

Before any of you knew the safehouse was surrounded, they were already through the doors.

You remember waking up to the creak of the old door with a groan, not ready to start your watch yet. The man on watch had been short and wiry, and you marveled at how shadows warp themselves against the light, twisting and turning to make one man look like another, tall and burly and carrying a-

CRASH!

The windows burst inwards in a crescendo of sparks and you’re scrambling backwards, reaching for your

BANG!

Dust from the roof is falling on your head, in your eyes and you’re blinking at the haze, the sting, your hands feeling the solid weight of your weapon and yanking it against you, and you’re stumbling backwards towards the

BANG!

and you’re stumbling forwards towards the

BANG!

And you’re on your knees crawling crawling

BANG! BANG BANG BANG!

crawling away from everything and your eardrums are hot iron seething in your skull and your eyes are being scratched by cats and there’s something warm on your face now and there’s something heavy thunking to the floor just next to you and everything is all dark, all the shadows are choking you and-

-grey. Not black. Not the black of the inside. Grey. A doorway. A hole in the wall. You’re on your knees, your hands are on the wall, you’re pushing yourself up, you’re running, and there are patters behind you and gurgling sounds and the volleys of automatic weaponry but your vision is finally starting to clear, you can see the treeline and all you need is to get there.

A roar surges behind you, and you spin into the sun. Heat slams into your body and you’re flung, a leaf in the wind, hard onto your back as yellows and reds surge in front of you or maybe it was behind you and now you’re a deer, eyeballs bulging out of your head and rolling in your skull as you run from a forest fire, angry and starving, only this fire has legs and they’re longer than yours and it’s following you, you just know it, you can’t hear it but you know.

You’re not a human anymore, you’re barely even an animal, you’re not thinking, you’re a scramble of limbs and an impulse. Run.

You try. You try so hard but there’s nothing carrying you, your legs don’t feel connected to each other anymore and they’re not even your legs you look down and they’re still there but you can’t…feel them?

Tilting. Tilting. Tilting.

Light. Burning light.

Fade to black.

No, wait. Not you. You’re still here. Your legs are wavy and jelly but still there.

You fling an arm out and feel something solid. Cold. Rough. Bark.

You made it to the trees.

There’s no time to celebrate. Behind you lights are still flaring, and with each passing second more bodies are falling to the ground, leaking out into the snow. You have to move.

The second safehouse is to the north. It’s your only way out, you know that. The rest of your team would be there.

Should be there.

Better be there.

Don’t think about it, don’t think. Just move.

The battle is fading behind you now and your blood is beginning to cool, settling heavy in your veins like the thick jam your mother used to make on warm summer mornings just as the sun’s rays flowed through your windows.

It would be nice to be there right now. Warm. Content. Full. Your stomach growls in agreement at the thought. You have some ration bars in your pocket, but you know it hasn’t been long enough to have one. You need to spread them out, make sure they can last.

Your stomach groans again, and you shake your head. To divert your attention, you take stock of the rest of your body.

You’re scraped and bruised, your head vibrating like…oh, what is it like? Like…your phone after you get added to a group chat you wanted nothing to do with. Hehe. You can barely remember the days when your problems were as simple as that.

You're letting yourself get too distracted. Anyways, as you were saying. You’re a bit battered and scraped up, alright. But no broken bones. No visible deadly wounds. And you still have your gun clamped to your chest with shaky arms. That’s all you need, really. Making it to the safehouse will be a breeze.

You’re halfway down the mountain as twilight begins to lighten to dawn, and there’s still no sign of anyone chasing you. It’s a bit warmer down here, and as you flex your fingers and toes you feel the sharp pins and needles radiate through them and force a smile. It’s good, you tell yourself. Means they’re all still there. You might just be in the clear now.

Then the sky darkens again, and it begins to rain.

Within a few minutes you can’t see your hand in front of your face in the downpour and you're forced to hide out. You find a fallen evergreen and burrow through its thick boughs, needles pricking your face and poking in your mouth with a sharp scent that settles behind your eyeballs as you force your way through, certain it will block out the worst of the rain. It doesn’t.

It’s past noon by the time the deluge finally lets up, and as you step out, cursing your shelter for all its faults, the slick earth shifts abruptly under you. With a cry, you are yanked off of your feet into a roll down the slope. You fling out your arms, grasping for anything solid, but the world is a mass of dirt and grey-brown snow-slush and you can’t stop yourself until your hip jams into a tree-stump. Hard.

You hiss, twisting your face upwards off the ground. Bad idea. The mud-slush runs down into your nose and you splutter, spasming and hacking up half the mountain. You move to wipe your eyes on your arm but only rub more dirt in them, gritting your teeth and hissing through them at the sting.

You push yourself onto your hands and knees with a whimper, gingerly feeling around your hip. Not broken. Just another bruise. What’s one more bruise? It’ll be fine.

You’ll be fine.

Your ankle is twisted. You’ve wrapped it as best as you can, but every time you put weight on it, you imagine a great big serpent with needles for scales is slithering under your skin, wrapping itself tight around the bones and squeezing.

Even worse, it's getting dark again. Fucking FUCK.

You should get yourself a thesaurus for Christmas. Fuck really doesn’t have much weight to it when you say it every other sentence.

Whatever. You’re fucking screwed.

Your clothes are soaked, you’re painted in dirt and runny snow and as soon as it gets dark temperatures are going to drop fast enough to freeze you right in place like a stupid fucking statue. Fuck this, fuck this so hard what do I do what do I do.

You bury your face into your hands, heels pressing hard into your eyes. It doesn’t matter that your hands have mud mittens anymore because your face is solid mud and you’ve had dark spots in your eyesight for hours and maybe if you rub them really hard this will all be a shitty dream your shitty brain made up and then you can wake up in your shitty cot with your blanket that’s too thin and it will be so fucking lumpy and uncomfortable and perfect. It would be perfect. Maybe König would be there.

What?

You’re breaking down and going to die in a few hours and you’re thinking of him? Some dude you fuck? What the hell is wrong with you?

He was really warm, though. And he was always so gentle afterwards. For hands that kill with such brutal precision, his fingers felt too delicate to be his when they ran along your body, mapping every scar and dimple like he was trying to memorize you. Like he was terrified that tomorrow he might wake up blind and never be able to see you again, so he needed to be able to recognize you by touch alone.

You didn’t even know what his face looked like, but you could get lost in those eyes, you think. You've learned that the skin above them stretches when he’s surprised, and the skin under them scrunches up when he laughs, so you think it must scrunch like that when he smiles, too. You’ve even seen the way his lids drift down to hide the way his eyes roll back when he’s bored.

What do they look like when he’s excited? When he’s angry? Sad?

You wonder what it would be like to look him in the eyes while you both fell apart. Would he look away and screw them shut? Would they water a little, as yours so often did?

Would he stay the night if you asked? Would he hold you? Would he…

No. This isn’t happening. No way in hell. You are not dying thinking of a random man you’ve barely spoken two words to. It’s ridiculous. It’s pathetic. You’re better than this.

You will not go out like this.

You yank yourself to a tree whose limbs burst forth in sprays of dark needles, your shoulders screaming at you as you pull yourself up on the branches, feeling like a toddler learning to walk for the first time. It’s pitiful. You swing your good leg up, grinding your teeth so hard your jaw pops as you pull yourself up to a thick fork and begin pulling down limbs above you, cutting through the ones around you, tying and weaving and undoing and redoing.

It is dark by the time you’ve finished, a thick nest of evergreen boughs settled under you and woven walls crushing you in. You have to curl into a tight ball to fit into it, but you can no longer feel the breezes from outside. You’ve stripped your clothes off and spread them along the walls as best you can, hoping they can dry just a little.

You thank the mud for clogging your nose. You don’t even want to imagine what you and your clothes must smell like by now.

Maybe by the time you meet up with the others you’ll smell so bad you’ll make one of the rookies vomit. Ghost did that last mission, and you and Soap nearly burst a lung as the poor guy emptied his guts over and over again.

You chuckle at that and try your best to fall asleep.

By the time you make it down the mountain the next day, your knees are knocking against each other with every step and your weapon is plastered with muddy slush that has frozen and melted and frozen all over again. The valley is even worse than the slope, with runoff from the rain congregating in a swampy mess that has you sinking up to your calves in some places. Lifting a leg in this feels like pulling yourself out of concrete, so you get really good at sliding each foot forward without raising it upwards at all.

You think the pressure from the mud is helping with the pain. You barely feel it when you move now.

Your jaw is clenched so hard you chip one of your molars.

You’re halfway through the valley when one of them finds you.

It’s funny how it happens. How you both stand in the mud staring at each other. How you both instinctively know who the other is through the curtain of earth camouflaging you both, yet each stand stock-still as statues anyway.

A second passes.

Two.

Three.

In an instant your guns are to your shoulders, fingers rushing to crush the-

Nothing happens. You squeeze. Squeeze again. The man shakes his gun and yells in frustration, the mud and ice having rendered your weapons unfireable.

But not unusable. The man’s head whips back to you with a growl and he lunges forward, his foot sinking into a deep patch and jerking him down face first. He throws himself up again, splatting forward another pace.

You slide backward, forcing yourself to slow down, to keep your feet under you as you move gut-wrenchingly slowly, searching for solid ground. He’s flailing and flinging himself towards you but the mud is slowing him down, and there’s a rocky patch right behind you. You’re going to make it.

He reaches you before you reach the edge, raising his gun and throwing his body behind a downwards blow. Yours is already coming up to deflect, but the blow sends you backwards, landing on your back with a splash. He’s on top of you, a hand shoving your face down as mud flows around it.

You thrash and wiggle, a scream cut off as your mouth fills with liquid dirt. Your hand is whirling all around and it catches something and you yank.

He howls as you pull his ear, sending him off-balance just enough to raise your head for a choking gasp before your palm is on his face, shoving him sideways. He rolls away from you, struggling to his feet as you’re on your hands and knees and your gun is in the mud but so is his. He tries to reach for it but he’s stuck, and in that precious heartbeat of time your legs are back under you, feet planted deep and wide.

He whirls towards you as you stand, throwing a punch at your torso that you know you can’t dodge, you can’t even move, so you throw your fist sideways, twisting, forcing all your strength into shoving from your rear leg so that when you catch his knuckles on your forearm they are savagely wrenched sideways with your momentum. His pinkie pops outwards with a crunch, and he falls back with a choked sob.

You grab your gun off the ground, throwing your whole body into a swing at his head, shattering through his palm as he tries to block it. You both fall sideways with the momentum but you find your feet faster, gripping the weapon through the slime coating it as you bring the stock straight down into his skull.

Once.

Twice.

Thrice.

Your grip slides, dirt scraping more of your skin off with each blow, but he’s not moving. You stumble backwards drunkenly, falling onto your forearms again and army-crawling, gun held tightly in each hand, all the way to the edge. You flop on your back then, one eye on the body, and heave great breaths, coughing again and again until your body has enough and you curl inwards, choking out mud and throwing up even more. You try to even your breathing, try to filter the adrenaline out of your system so you don’t crash. In, out. In, out. In out in out inoutinoutinoutinoutin-FUCCCCCKK. You shake your head violently, over and over.

You take one last look at the body, only seeing it because you know where to look. A mud-covered shoulder pokes out of the ground, the rest already lost.

You can’t balance on your feet anymore, so you crawl away.

You don’t even bother to make a shelter that night. You crawl under a rotting log, ripping your last ration bar from your pocket and devouring it, licking the crumbs from your stained and tainted fingers. You curl up and fall asleep just like that, bones chattering and muscles spasming.

Helicopter blades wake you up in the morning. You’re on your feet, falling and jumping and running and falling, flailing your arms because you know those blades, that’s your team and they’re here for you and you’re finally free, you did it you did it you’re so proud of yourself you can’t wait to have a warm bath and then maybe even afterwards you can see-

The helicopter passes over you and disappears around the mountain.

You stare at it, deathly still. It’s just sweeping the area, making sure it’s safe to land.

But the wingbeats have already faded into the distance, replaced by a vast and engulfing silence. Time stretches out before you, and you’re still staring at the mountain.

Your stomach breaks the silence with a gurgle.

You flop down, shoving your face into the ground, and scream.

You press the button on your radio, cracking the caked mud. It clicks, and you hear nothing. Not even static. You click it again. And again, this time just to hear the sound. Rapidly you click it again and again and again.

You start laughing, your abs clenching and strangling your organs as you guffaw, thrashing around like a headless chicken, and thinking about yourself as a headless chicken makes you laugh even louder. Everything is just so funny, none of this is real, you’re on the Truman Show, you’re the biggest comedy in the world. It’s even funny that your laughter only comes out in squeaky wheezes. It’s all just a big joke. Haha. You can’t wait to tell someone.

You fall asleep just like that, grinning up at the sky with dirt in your teeth.

You wake up, stare into the sun, and go back to sleep.

You feel lighter.

Is this what it feels like to leave your body?

It’s not as bad as you thought.

You wonder if König will remember you.

The ground beneath you is moving, sliding under you and scraping along you.

There's no ground underneath you at all now, and something is pressing, and you feel your legs dangling and swinging all around you, the world spinning a jig and you the unwilling passenger. You think you might tell it to stop, but it doesn't listen to you.

You're yanked back into consciousness by a thundering vibration setting every bone against itself. You jolt upwards, feeling heavy pressure on your shoulders as your eyes roll back into your head. The world is black. Black and blue and blurred. Through the haze you begin to make out a white visage and two black voids that pierce through you.

This must be hell. You don’t want to be awake for your judgement.

Your consciousness drifts away again, blocking out the rumbling flight of the helicopter, completely oblivious to the warm bodies pressed in around you, speaking rapidly through their headsets.

Any more? Sweep around again.

There's nothing else here.

Ok. Let's bring these ones back, then.

You are still asleep as your body is carried into a hospital room, completely unresponsive as the nurses strip and bathe you with clinical precision. You don’t wake until hours later, seeing only a single nurse checking your vitals and bandages. Each hand and foot has been carefully wrapped, the angry red battlefield of blisters and exposed flesh meticulously covered in pristine, unblemished white. The nurse offers a smile as you fight through the haze, imagining you are underwater and slowly floating to the surface, watching the sun jiggle and warp through the abyss above you. Just bad blisters, the nurse is telling you. Very lucky. Very lucky. You think you might nod back. She’s right, of course. You’re alive, aren’t you?

Ghost comes by as you’re released the next day. They’ve rewrapped your hands in a bandage that gives you a little more flexibility, and he finds you sitting on the edge of the bed, staring into the white fabric.

The mattress shifts as he settles beside you. He doesn’t say a word, but his eyes are trained on you. Black voids in a mask of white.

“You left me,” you finally whisper, eyes still on your hands.

“What?”

You look at him, trying to see something in the face to get mad at, but his eyes are just a little wider than before. Confused, maybe.

“The helicopter…” you begin, voice scratchy, and clear your throat. “The helicopter flew right over me.”

“That wasn’t our helicopter.”

“It was heading back from the safehouse.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Oh,” you huff, sinking into yourself. “I…”

You stop as he clears his throat, shoulders expanding in a loud breath. “It’s alright. You were knocked out pretty good by the time our boys found you. Happens to the best of us.”

You nod, swallowing again, and wish someone else was here to comfort you, literally anyone but Ghost. “Is…uh…is…umm…is Soap ok?”

Ghost grunts. “Johnny took one to the arm, but he’ll pull through. I was just going to visit him now.”

You push yourself to your feet, proud that you only sway a bit. “Can I-”

“No,” Ghost cuts you off. “You’ll have time to visit him later. For now you need to go and rest. That’s an order,” he cuts you off as you open your mouth to protest. Your jaw shuts. Call it obedience, call it cowardice, but you find you just don’t have it in you to argue the point. You promise yourself you’ll see Soap in the morning. Well, later in the morning, seeing as it’s somehow 0100 hours already.

When Ghost leaves you slump, any need for straight posture gone with the departure of your superior officer. Trying to keep your breathing even, you will your legs to carry your body down the medical corridor. Just a little longer, you promise them, then you’ll get the break you deserve. But your body has had enough of your unfulfilled promises, and you find yourself forced to sink onto one of the shitty metal chairs littering the hallway. Just a little rest, and then I’ll go back to my quarters.

You wake to the familiar sounds of agony. Before your body has the chance to disagree, instinct has you on your feet again, hands grabbing at the thin air where your sidearm should be. My holster, my holster, where the hell is-

Your eyes land on the white-washed walls. Too clean. Too smooth. And your hands aren’t moving like they should, strangled by white fabric. It finally sinks in that you’re far from the battlefield, far from any fight.

The sounds continue, drawing your eye to one of the many nondescript doors lining the corridor. Someone having a nightmare, probably. Or reacting badly to a procedure, maybe. Either way, a problem best left for the nurses with their iron wills and their tranquilizers. You have enough bruises already. Best not add a black eye to the list.

A pitiful whimper sounds through the door, one that has your heart twisting like a towel being wrung out, sending all the blood to your throat and stomach.

Fuck it. What’s one more bruise?

Your fingers curl the handle down, and you shrink in on yourself as the door swings open on its own with a creak. You catch it and hastily shut it behind you, trying not to make any more noise.

The room is small enough that even the military-issue cot feels too big for it. The room is made even smaller by the man lying in the cot, arms dangling off the sides as he thrashes, his feet hanging off the end. You can see the crumpled blanket on the floor and automatically avert your eyes. The hood is still on, but below it he’s wearing an undershirt and boxers, and you realize this is the most of him you’ve ever seen.

You press yourself to the wall as he spasms again, a leg kicking out and narrowly missing you, causing you to notice the thick white bandage wrapped around his thigh, and the dark line slowly being painted along it.

Hesitantly you flick the lights on, wincing at the burn that rushes through your eyeballs, but he doesn’t even react to it. You have no idea how to wake him up without breaking a bone, so you press your back to the wall, slowly skirting along the edge of the room and staying as far out of his reach as you can, praying to whatever old ghosts are listening that he doesn’t wake up and go straight into murder mode. Or, you know, default alert soldier setting. This is a stupid idea.

As you approach his head you lean over as far as you can, stretching one arm out until the socket pops in protest. You poke his shoulder and leap back.

Nothing.

You take a step closer and lean in again.

You’re immediately interrupted by the door swinging open with a much-louder creak. You and the nurse both pause and stare at each other for a moment, startled, and you sheepishly move to straighten and pull your arm back.

With viper-like speed an arm shoots out to grab your wrist, capturing it in a deadly grip and you yelp, whirling back to the man in the bed and raising your opposite arm.

You freeze when you see his eyes, so wide they’re more white than color. He’s stock-still, fixated on you like a mouse caught in a cat’s gaze. Paralyzed by fear, praying. Shaking.

His hand is…shaking. “Hey, hey,” you coax, hesitantly pulling your arm back in so you can place it over his fingers. “It’s just me, big guy. You’re safe.”

His chest heaves outwards, and you feel his hand relax a little before his head snaps towards the nurse as she takes a step closer, cradling something small and cylindrical in her hands. “It’s alright,” she speaks directly to you. “I can take it from here.”

König releases the breath he’s held, shoving himself backwards on the bed with a shake of his head, prompting the nurse to click her tongue at him before raising the needle. You realize it’s a lot bigger than you first thought. “You’ll be fine,” she’s assuring him. “It will hurt a lot less once it’s done.”

König’s head turns very slowly, back up to you, and for a second you’re confused at his gaze, wondering why he thinks you have enough knowledge to give him any medical advice. Then you notice the way his eyes seem just a little too shiny in the light, the way his other hand is clenching and unclenching around the bedsheet.

You’ve always known him as the perfect soldier, quick and to the point, pin-prick precise, a dancing whirlwind of death. More monster than man. You know him as the one who laughs with every good kill, mocking the reaper of death with a smile. Look at how slow you are. I got here first. He’s the one who dances on the precipice of fate and spits over the edge.

Even sprawled out like this, sweaty and trembling, you are well aware of every flex of his muscles, of the strength he holds back in his grip. Yet as you look into the eyes of the storm you find that for the first time you see no hint of the giddy killing machine looking back at you. The eyes staring back at you from this big soldier’s body are those of a fragile little kid. And he’s terrified.

You gulp, your tongue catching on the back of your throat. “Yeah…yeah, it’ll be ok. I’ll be right here.”

Finally he relaxes, slumping back into the bed, and the nurse takes the opportunity to give him the shot. You feel his flinch in a wave of pressure radiating up your wrist and forearm, but his gaze doesn’t move. He keeps looking into your eyes until his own begin to droop and he sinks even further into the mattress.

Before his hand drops from your wrist you catch it, the skin under your bandages protesting at the sudden flexion. You choose to ignore it, settling down on the floor next to his bed as your own eyes begin to follow his. Even as your head falls into your knees and your body finally gives itself completely over to darkness, you refuse to let go.

You’re woken by something warm trailing along your hairline. You jerk, smacking the back of your head into the wall with an irritated grunt. König’s arm hovers in the air just in front of your face, and you turn to see him pressed to the edge of the bed, looking a little guilty. “Sorry,” he murmurs.

You should be, startling me like that, you want to say. But when you open your mouth, what comes out instead is “No, it’s ok, I just…I wasn’t expecting it.”

König gulps audibly, and the cot creaks as he pulls his hand back, shifting his body even closer. “You stayed.”

“Do you want me to leave?”

“Never,” he hisses, and you find yourself staring into his eyes again, only this time they’ve taken on their old torrential intensity.

Now it’s yours that are as wide as a child’s. You gulp, feeling the muscles of your jaw flex and unflex. “Ok,” you finally murmur. “I’ll stay.”

And you do. For two more nights König stays in the infirmary, weathering the steady rounds of nurses and bandage changes with a steely resolve even as his fists flex and twist into the sheets. You stay with him all the while, but he doesn’t reach for your hand again, not after noticing your own bandages.

The second night you sleep in the cot next to him at his insistence. You’re hurt too, he reasons. You need a real bed to rest in. He scoots himself to the back edge to give you room, and when you wake up he hasn’t moved.

After the third night you wake to his hand resting on your arm. It’s a small gesture. Innocent even. Yet still you find yourself contemplating it, barely saying a word as the nurses come to remove his bandages. You grind your jaw as you take in the puckered line of stitches running from his knee up to the edge of his boxers, looking away politely as the nurses help him into a pair of sweatpants.

You don’t even say anything when you let him lean on your shoulders, using your own aching body as a sacrificial lamb to transport him back to his barrack. Once you get him into bed you hover in the doorway, taking in the shadows of the walls, twisting your wrists back and forth, a habit you picked up to alleviate the pain from flexing your fingers. They’re in even thinner bandages now, but you’d rather be safe than sorry.

Maybe there’s nothing to say. You found him in a vulnerable situation where he needed a lifeline. It could have been anyone, he was barely lucid. Now he surely wanted to forget all of that vulnerability and go back to a time where he hadn’t needed help from anyone. Not even you. Especially not you. He was a soldier, after all. Fondness wasn’t in the job description.

Best not to say anything then. Just…leave and get this over with. Just like that. Yeah…easy. Really easy.

Your move to shut the door behind you is halted by him calling your name. Your real name. You didn’t even know he knew your name.

He calls it again, quieter this time, and you lean back in the door, eyes drifting across his room to him. He’s still sitting on the bed where you left him, only now he’s hunched over to rest a forearm on his good thigh. “Come back here,” he breathes, voice cracking, and it hits you right in your stomach, settling there like a wounded bird, flapping and screeching at you to stay away, you’re already in too deep, you don’t know how this will end.

But it’s too late. You’re walking forward, the door swinging shut behind you. Locked. You’re already reaching out for the hand he offers, only for him to reach past the bandages and grab your wrist. You pause at that, staring into the hazy depths of his eyes, pupils bursting for you again. Slowly, inch by excruciating inch, he straightens again, face coming closer to yours as another hand snakes around your neck to help guide you down to straddle his good thigh, moving your forearms to rest on each of his shoulders.

The bird in your stomach has moved to your chest, and you’re positive he can feel your heavy breathing even through his mask with how close you are. His eyes look down to your lips, and you wonder if he is going to lift his hood up and kiss you, your cheeks flushing in anticipation as he leans forward.

Only instead he rests his forehead against yours, eyes drifting closed. You feel your arms drift upwards with his inhale. “Stay with me,” he exhales. “One more night.”

You nod against his forehead, wrapping your arms around his neck and finally letting your own eyes close. Your breathing is slowed down now, and you find yourself enjoying the warmth you feel radiating from everywhere you touch him. One of his hands has spread against your thigh, while the other still rests along your neck, thumb tracing up and down your jaw. You know you could fall asleep just like this.

König, however, has other ideas. As you slump even further to him, both of his hands drift to your hips. You notice the movement, sighing at the pleasant sensation of his hands running over your body. You don’t notice the intention until he takes a deep breath, and in one smooth motion he has stood and twisted to lay you down on the bed, climbing on top of you. You gasp, feeling your heart stutter all over again, blood rushing to your core as you feel the fabric of his hood rub up your neck. His nose, you think.

Fuck, you want him. You want him just like this and any other way he’s willing to give, but you can’t, you shouldn’t, and you know you have to at least try to protest. You bite back a whimper as a hand drags up your inner thigh. “König, your leg.”

“I don’t care,” he growls. “Say my name again.”

You groan in protest and he pulls back, tilting your face up to his. “Is this not what you want?” He feels the way your jaw flexes and pulls away.

“Wait. No. I want this. You. I want you. Just…please be careful.”

He hears the last part, but he’s past giving a damn about his own body now. His hand is already undoing your belt and he’s leaning back to ease your pants and underwear off your legs, lazily tossing them to the side.

A harsh word escapes his throat as he looks down at you, but you don’t catch it through the blood rushing in your ears. “Close your eyes,” he orders, and unthinkingly you do, another growling swear reaching your ears. “So obedient for me.”

You hear the shuffling of fabric and feel a hand wrap around one of your knees, lifting it up for a warm tongue to swirl along the inside of it, for wet lips to place a sloppy kiss just above where his tongue had just been. His lips slide up again, and this time he sucks on the skin just slightly, and you feel your leg tremble as a tiny moan escapes you, but he’s already moving further up and this time sucking harder, and then further and harder and further and harder until he’s against your inner thigh and his teeth are sinking into you and you yelp his name, whining in frustration as he pulls back.

“No,” you pant, “don’t stop. Please.”

You feel a chuckle rumble in his throat and his nose presses into the bottom of your slit. You jolt, squeezing your eyes tighter as it slides up through you before pressing into your sensitive spot, and he inhales.

“Fuck,” you cry, tangling your hands in the sheets only to choke on a sound of pain.

König pulls back immediately and you shake your head at him, a sob on the edge of your quivering lips.

“Easy. Watch your hands.”

You grit your teeth and nod, relaxing your fingers and turning your palms up.

“Good,” he purrs as his hands hook under the backs of your knees, easily throwing your legs over his shoulders. As he settles back down you feel the muscles in his back flexing against your calves and moan before his mouth is even on you.

He hums contentedly at the sound, running his tongue along the length of you before swirling it around your clit. His lips pucker against it and he sucks, pulling away with a soft pop that has you clenching your legs around him. He moves in again, lazily altering between sucking and tracing his tongue just around your bud, feeling the way you flex against him, hearing the way you react to each movement, and committing all of it to memory before shifting his head so he can dip his tongue inside you. He groans at the taste, the vibration of it radiating up under your ribs and down through your legs. You’re quiet now, feeling how close you are settling heavy over you, drowning you in deliciously sweet honey.

He feels the shaking of your legs around him and returns to your clit as he slowly works a finger into you, curling it upwards to stroke at the spongy part inside of you.

You break quietly, choking on his name as the pleasure strangles your muscles and sets them briefly aflame, fresh sensations flowing through you as he continues to touch you just so, only pulling away when you sink into the mattress and your legs slip from his shoulders.

You hear the bed frame creak as he pulls back, running a hand up your thigh before the shifting sound of fabric hits your ears, and you feel the mattress sink down in different places as he shifts.

“Open your eyes.”

You do as he says, your disappointment at seeing the sniper’s hood obscuring his face immediately squashed by the realization that the rest of him is completely naked.

You’re seeing him for the first time.

Fucking hell, what a sight.

Your eyes rest on the delicious curve of his cock first, marveling at the pink tip and the thick veins running along it. You had felt his size on plenty of occasions, but seeing it for the first time is a new beast entirely, one that has you biting your lip and wiggling your hips like a teenager all over again.

But soon your eyes are taken in by the strong curves of muscle outlining his hips, and your eyes are traveling upwards to the delicious bulges of his chest, your own heaving at the sight. You find yourself wanting to trace the outline of each hill and valley of muscle that flows along his shoulders, down his arms, to the hands, wanting to run your tongue along the veins like raised rivers spreading down his forearm and across the back of each hand.

You wonder what his back looks like. You wonder how the muscles of his neck shift as he moves, what the outline of his jaw is shaped like. You are greedy and want to take everything he has, and at the same time you are desperate for anything he can give you. You’re a peasant kneeling at the feet of your king, ready to lick the crumbs he throws you off the floor.

His head tilts playfully, breaking you out of your reverie. “You like what you see?”

Your chuckle catches in your chest, only a tiny puff of air leaving your mouth. “Yes.”

His eyes scrunch a little, and you imagine he is grinning as he leans over, balancing himself above you. He moves back a bit, hand adjusting your hips as he positions himself. He looks back up at you, and you nod eagerly, your hands reaching up to grab his shoulders. He clicks his tongue, glancing at them, and with a groan you put your hands above your head. He moves one of his own to grasp your wrists, keeping them pinned as he sinks onto his forearms.

You feel the head of his cock running up and down your folds, and instinctively bend your back to give him a better angle, earning an approving hum that makes you even wetter. But as he braces himself and begins to drive into you, a strangled sound smashes through his gritted teeth.

Oh no. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer, only pressing his face into your neck, inhaling heavily as you feel his entire body stiffening against you. “It’s…it’s fine,” he hisses, his hand strangling your wrists. “Just …” he heaves another breath. “Ah... Ich… I…need a…moment.”

You sigh, wiggling a hand out of his grip to push his chin up. He lets you move his face back, and even in the dim light you can see the way the skin around his eyes has gone even paler than normal. “Get off,” you murmur.

He slumps, twisting his face out of your grip and keeping his eyes on the wall. He stays like that for a second before giving a swift nod and pulling out, maneuvering backwards on the bed and moving to get off.

“Wait!” you burst out, and he freezes. “That’s not what I meant.”

After another moment he looks at you in bewilderment, so you sit up and shift to the side, patting the bed next to you. Awkwardly, he crawls to it, nearly dragging his bad leg, stiffening again when you place your wrists on his shoulders. “Let me?”

After a second of staring into your eyes, he nods again, allowing you to push on him, laying him on his back before you straddle him and finally take your shirt off. You see his chest rise with a shuddering breath and before you really think about it you’re leaning down to lick a stripe up his sternum. Seeing his pecs jerk upwards on either side of your tongue emboldens you and you shift your head, running your tongue back down to circle over one of his nipples before you suck.

Immediately the muscles flex again and he pushes up into you. “Like that,” he snarls, loud and vibrating through your skull. You’re aching down there again, but you’re not done yet. You release him with a squelch, watching the patch of saliva glisten before moving to give the other nipple the same treatment, your heart leaping at the sounds falling from his mouth as he quivers under you.

“König,” you croon. “Touch me.”

He whimpers as you flick your tongue over the sensitive bud. “Where?”

“Anywhere. Grab my hair, squeeze my tits, just put your hands on me.”

You groan as he obeys, long fingers tangling tightly in your hair as his other hand spreads along your ribcage, thumb sliding over your breast. You sigh, leaning down to bite into his pec, moaning as his grip on you tightens. You kiss the mark left by your teeth before leaning back. His hands move to cup both of your breasts as you raise yourself up and sink down onto his cock. You’re too excited and you go too fast, and a sharp pinch of pain seizes at your entrance. You gasp, instinctively leaning forward to brace yourself on your palms, but his hands move to your waist, catching you before you hurt them any further.

“I have you,” he whispers, voice scratchy, and despite the pain you clench at the sound of what you do to him. He chokes on his next words, a groan coming out instead. “Do you need to get off?”

“No!” You whisper-yell back so quickly that he laughs, and despite everything you laugh with him. He runs his hands up and down your sides, feeling you start to relax a little, but not enough yet. “Tell me what you need,” he murmurs.

“It’s fine.” You close your eyes and try to focus on your breathing. “Just need…a moment.”

“Hypocrite.”

You shoot your eyes open to glare at him, only to see his chest shake with another chuckle at your scrunched-up angry face. “Your leg is sliced open, it’s not the same,” you scoff.

His eyes glimmer with the start of a witty retort before one of his hands freezes over your bottom rib, drawing his lovely gaze away from yours. His thumb is circling around a tiny hairline of a scar, bone-white and soft. You’ve already forgotten how you got it.

“This one,” he murmurs. “It is new.”

“How…how did you notice?”

“It wasn’t there last time.” His tone was quiet and matter-of-fact, like the answer was obvious, and it takes you back to every time his hands ran over you as you drifted into sleep. How long did he stay there after you fell asleep? How long did it take him to commit you to memory so well that a patch of skin even you had forgotten was instantly recognized as something new?

Your body has always been a means to an end, a vehicle carrying you rather than a full part of you. Batter it, toss it around, whatever you need to do to get the job done. And when your body protests, you treat it like any other tool you can beat into submission. Like your first battered old car that revved to life with a well-placed kick.

But now all you can think of is his hands running over you with thorough determination, acknowledging each new mark with a gentle reverence that was more than you deserved. Getting to know you in the only way he knew how.

For the first time in a long time, you’re reminded to see this body as something more than a bruised vessel you’re obligated to carry around. He reminds you to see it as something more.

Fuck, you think you might love him.

“König?”

“Hmm?”

“Thank you.”

His head tilts a little, his hand still running along your rib, and your cheeks flush.

Before he can reply, you gulp a little. “I…I think I’m ready.”

He hums again, his hands moving back to rest on your hips. You stay still for another moment, looking into his eyes. You don’t think you can memorize his body, not like he has yours. But you have memorized his eyes, have burned them into your mind so clearly you saw them even as you were trapped on that damned mountain. Thinking about him.

And now you think he might've been thinking about you, too.

You feel him twitch inside of you, pulling you out of your thoughts. Taking a deep breath, you raise yourself up slowly, feeling his hands tighten and take some of your weight, following your lead as you sink into him again, this time with a sigh that echoes his own. Slowly, hesitantly, you raise yourself up and down, feeling how easily he stretches you, how easily he could break you.

But he never has. The only pain you’ve gotten from him was caused by your own impatience. As you keep going, finding an angle that has him dragging across your most sensitive parts and making you even wetter, you become confident that there’s no chance of pain, allowing yourself to speed up.

His hands are steady as ever, guiding you up and down, but beneath you his shoulders and chest begin to squirm and heave. His eyes wander all around, and his breaths are scattered and staccato.

And his sounds. You’d never known a man to be so loud, and now you know you’ve been missing out all these years. Every grunt, every groan, every moan and whimper goes straight through your core, winding you up faster and faster. As you get closer his sounds shift, and you realize he’s started to stutter out words.

His eyes are hazy and unfocused but you can still tell they’re trained on you, and you urge your body to calm down for just a minute longer, just long enough to hear what he’s saying.

You can’t make out any of the words, but his hands are even tighter on you now and the way his voice shifts from growling to whimpering settles into a melodic language that has you crying out for him anyway.

Beneath your trembling body, he keeps going. “Never..told you …du bist wie ein Traum,” another whimper leaves his lips. “Ich kann nicht glauben, dass du wirklich hier bist.” He gasps as you clench tighter around him. “Du bist…du…Du bist viel zu gut für mich…Dein Lächeln und …und…” His eyes are watering and you slow down only for his hands to dig into you, urging you to speed up again. “Ich weiß nicht wie ich dich loslassen soll aber du verdienst so viel mehr als …”

His mind is lapsing again, his determined confession faltering into a fervent prayer sent to the only god he’s ever believed in, to you - moving over him and taking everything he is giving you, making him wish he had more, so much more than the desert-dry heart of a killer whose hands can only ever pull things apart. His thumb is over the scar on your rib again and his blurry vision is taking in the white of the bandage wrapped around your hands and it has him wishing his own hands could build something instead of destroy it just so he could put you back together again. You’re coming apart around him, crying his name, and he’s thinking of flinging his body in front of you, taking every bullet and blade meant for you, because his body is all he has to give and he knows how to sacrifice it, he knows he’ll gladly lay it at your altar, bloody and broken, if it could only mean making sure he’d never be surprised by a new scar again. Maybe you’d even remember him a little when he was gone.

He’s trying to tell you all of that, the messy syllables punching through his throat. “Niemals, niemals, nie,…” but before he can finish he’s failing already, falling apart under you and screaming your name and emptying everything he has into you.

It’s not enough.

You’re laying on top of him now and he tries his best to be gentle but his entire body is shaking as he rolls you off and staggers to his bathroom, slamming the door behind him and sinking against it.

He shatters in a whole-body-wracking sob.

You’re never going to look at him again.

He tucks his legs in, squeezing his knees into his chest, squeezing even harder as a burn radiates out from the stitches, trying to rein in his ragged breathing in the hopes that maybe, just maybe, he can save this and cover up the fact that he’s crying.

It was just meant to be casual sex. He wasn’t supposed to start caring. That’s not what you wanted. It’s not fair to you. It’s not your fault he let himself get emotional. And now he’s ruined the only thing you two did have, he wanted to make you feel better and now he’s made you so uncomfortable and…and…

He slams his forehead into his knees and sobs again.

He’s pathetic. Pathetic to think this could be something more. Pathetic to think he could have something more.

Everything hurts.

That’s what he signed up for, isn’t it?

That’s what he deserves.

A knock on the door has his head jerking back up, hands clutching his knees hard enough the knuckles just might pop through the skin. “Go away!”

“No.” Your tone is flat as he hears a thunk against the other side of the door, imagining you leaning against it and sliding down, mirroring him perfectly. “Not until you talk to me.”

“No.”

You sigh. “That's how it’s gonna be? Well, in that case, to quote a man I…admire very much, I can make you talk.” You drop your voice, trying and failing to mimic his battle growl.

He snorts despite himself.

You take that as a cue to continue. “For one, I’m not leaving until you do. You’ll be stuck with my annoying-ass voice forever.”

“I like your voice.”

“Oh…umm…thank you. In that case I’ll…I’ll steal all your knives and I’ll draw a kangaroo on your door and-”

“You wouldn’t dare,” he growls.

“Guess you’ll never know if you keep that door closed. And that’s not all, I’ll…I’ll steal those cheap chocolates we get every supply drop. Don’t deny it, I know everyone joked it was Ghost but I saw you take them all. You love those.” You smile, laughing a little. “On the other hand, I’ll fly to Austria right now if that’s what it takes to get some chocolate you’d really like. I’d even get you some of those waffle things you were telling Soap about that one time I caught you both raiding the snack cabinets. Well, I’d probably eat some of those. But I promise to save most of them for you. Just…please talk to me. I’ll…I’ll…” you’re cut off by your own squeak as the door opens and you fall backwards.

His hands are already there to catch you, and once you sit back up he stays there, half-crouched and awkward, eyes anywhere but your own.

Slowly, you open your arms, watching his head turn back to you.

In an instant he’s lunged into you, burrowing his face into your neck with an awkward grunt as he stretches his bad leg out to the side. You try to change to a comfier position for him but the man is like a brick wall.

It’s nice.

So you let yourself stay there, wrapping around him as he wraps around you on the hard floor. It’s a softness unknown to you both, two soldiers carved razor-sharp from solid steel. But as you let yourself sink into him, you find yourself liking the strange tranquility of this moment, the way two bodies made for war can still drape over each other and feel peace instead. Against all better judgement, against any scrap of common sense you have left, you find yourself yearning for a few less battles if it can mean more of this. You let your eyes close, imagining it for just a little while.

After a while, he pulls back, moving to lean against the wall and pulling you so you can balance on his uninjured thigh. You let your head loll onto his shoulder, face turned into the hood. His chin rests on your temple.

“Are you cold?”

He grunts noncommittally, eyes half-closed. “Are you?”

“Nooo,” you mumble, burrowing into his neck. He shifts, maneuvering you off his lap, only to grunt when he tries to push on his leg.

“I got it.” You push yourself up, moving to the bed to retrieve one of the blankets there, carefully wrapping it around both of your torsos when you settle back onto his lap. Your legs stick out, but you don’t really care.

After a while you feel his heartbeat begin to pick up again and adjust yourself to look up at him. His eyes drift to you before he sighs. “Do you…still want me to talk?”

You nod.

“Alright then. I will talk. I do not think it is what you want to hear.”

You bite your lip and try to keep your breathing steady as he continues.

“Back in the med bay. No. Before that.” He shakes his head emphatically. “When we were assigned to two different groups…No…Scheiße, I…”

You run a shaky hand up and down his chest. “It’s okay. Take your time. I’m not going anywhere.”

His fingers dig into you for a fraction of a second, so quick you think you might have imagined it before his entire body is deflating, his head settling back against the wall. “They ambushed us. You weren’t there but…they hit us on patrol, hit us and ran before we could counter. I did not even see who hit me, I just look up one moment and down the next and the snow is all red and…” His voice drops to barely a whisper “Das war meines.” He trails off completely, a finger tracing circles on your shoulder. “I've been wounded before. I've accepted death before. This time...before I...while I was…” he exhales another irritated sigh. “I was on the ground and…wie sag ich das…ich hab versucht etwas zu tun, mich zu bewegen aber alles was ich tun konnte...I was thinking of you.”

He freezes, turning his head away and dropping his hands from you. But instead of moving away, you kiss a patch of skin just outside the hood, watching the muscle under it jump. “Is that all you want to tell me?”

He shakes his head.

“Do you think you can keep going?”

His head turns back to you briefly before he tilts it up to stare at the ceiling. “When I was in the med bay. Well, I…it went like this. I wake up and you are there and I think, König this is it, now you are finally dead. And then I feel the pain and I see the nurse and you were moving away and I couldn't…du warst da und dann warst du fast nicht mehr da und ich konnte nicht atmen. Ich…” he shakes his head back and forth, back and forth. “Ich konnte nicht ohne dich. Ich…needed you to stay.” His head jerks down again, eyes boring into yours with all the intensity of a tornado, arms wrapping around you once again. “I need you to stay.”

You nod, holding him tight, the weight of the words unspoken tangling in your chest and constricting your tongue. Stay. With me. He won't ask for more than tonight, not when neither of you can even risk asking for a tomorrow. Stay with me. For as long as you have. A day, maybe. A month. Maybe you'll get out of this mess someday and get years.

Stay with me for a lifetime. Whatever lifetime we get.

You nod, whispering a promise into his skin. Always. Your fingers drift down along his leg, tracing just outside the stitches, your eyes following the line of gooseprickles that rise in their wake.

You feel more than you hear your name being whispered into your hair, and as you look up fingers wrap around your wrist, guiding it up over his hip, his ribs, his chest. Sliding around the edge of the hood, pushing it up, up, up. Until the fabric slides off. You gaze in awe, watching his jaw flex as his lips part to form a word whose sound hides in the back of his throat. Always. You look back into his eyes before surging forward, hugging him tight, tight enough to strangle, you think, but he’s already wrapping himself around you with equal fervor.

“You know,” you murmur, breath ruffling his hair, “if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.”

He huffs a laugh, the air catching in his lungs with a choking sound. His grip tightens.

When you wake you find you’ve been moved to the bed, but his face is still buried in your neck, unmoving despite the soft light filtering in your window. You smile a little, watching the early-morning sky, perfectly clear and pale blue.

It matches his eyes.

---

German Translations

du bist wie ein Traum: You are like a dream

Ich kann nicht glauben, dass du wirklich hier bist: I can’t believe you are here

Du bist viel zu gut für mich: You are too good to me

Dein Lächeln und…: You smile and…

Ich weiß nicht wie ich dich loslassen soll aber du verdienst so viel mehr als: I don't know how I am supposed to let go of you (eventually) but you (clearly) deserve so much more than me

Niemals, niemals, nie: never again, never again, never

Scheiße: shit

Das war meines: it was mine

wie sag ich das: how do I say this

ich hab versucht etwas zu tun, mich zu bewegen aber alles was ich tun konnte: I tried doing something, moving, but all I could do

du warst da und dann warst du fast nicht mehr da und ich konnte nicht atmen. Ich…: you were there and then you nearly weren’t there and I could not breathe. I…

Ich konnte nicht ohne dich. Ich…: I couldn’t without you. I…

#könig #könig call of duty #cod #cod mwii #könig x reader

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reds-skull · 1 year ago

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Fic recs - oneshots (part 3)

ALRIGHT I'm hoping this is the last oneshot post, since there are a lot of other fics I wanna recommend that don't fall in this category.

This post is like 5x longer than the other ones just because I wanted to finish all of my current oneshot recs and otherwise it will take like 3 more posts. So beware there are a lot more under the cut.

If you're new here, these are all sfw oneshots:

i've dug two graves for us, my dear. by eddie_dxaz - Johnny gets buried alive.

Scotch-Soaked Lips by FreeToWriteForMe - Ghost watches Soap while the team is in a bar.

I owe the hat man money and I don't want to see him by Louffox - Ghost gets drugged and hallucinates while Soap tries to keep both of them alive.

Painting the snow red by Faolamb - Ghost is a wraith and Soap werewolf. Soap loses control and Ghost calls him back.

Mild as May by lambstew4you - Ghost and Soap are on a mission, and they have a talk by the campfire.

Hell or High Water by lambstew4you - Soap gets kidnapped and put in a sensory deprivation tank. He is rescued, but the damage is already done.

Daylight Through The Fog by WeirdTin - Ghost is afraid of letting people in. Soap just wants to love every scar.

i never said i'd be alright (just thought i could hold myself together) by TheLastTheosaurus - Ghost gets injured on a mission with Soap. Without exfil in sight, he hides it. Despite his efforts Soap finds out.

Breathe in, Hold it by Hedgehog_kun - Simon and Johnny are in a relationship. Life is good, for once. But one night Soap comes home angry and drunk, and Ghost can't help but freeze.

How it started, how it's going by Nuria123 - The fic where Ghost thinks he and Soap are already dating (5+1).

heat death by eggtimelads - Soap and Ghost spend an afternoon fending off this relentless heat [relatable tbh].

note to self: drink in moderation by eggtimelads - Ghost gets drunk, does a little pining out loud, and gets his reputation ruined while also getting a boyfriend.

Absolutely by ElizaStyx - 5 times Soap confesses to Ghost in a language he thought Ghost didn't understand, and one time he knows full well Ghost does.

the shroud is made of linen by stars_boy - In which Ghost is interrupted while watching the sunrise.

Lets Go Stargazing For Real Next Time by Trouble_13 - Ghost thought they were getting somewhere, but it feels like they have to restart all over again.

Lonely Hearts Club by Wheezing_Joe - Soap and Rudy accidentally start fake dating. Ghost and Alejandro aren't too pleased with it [this is ghostsoap and alerudy, so it's twice as good]

Night Has Always Pushed Up Day by Sillililli - Ghost gets injured and is stuck in a hospital, when they bring in a blind Soap. They're forced to share a room.

dying all the way back to the root by Magpie (QuickSilverFox3) - Soap is separated from Ghost, but Ghost can still hear his voice. He just needs to find him before someone else does.

i fear you will know me but most of all i fear i will never know you by rocketnintendo - Soap hides the extent of his injuries. Ghost finds out and is gentle.

My Heart Leapt From Me by Macabre_Flower - A pipe bursts above Soap's bed in the middle of the night. Ghost offers to help.

Palimpsest by Blackbird_flyaway - Ghost loses all memory from the last 3 years, including all memory of Soap.

The way his feet strike the earth by Blackbird_flyaway - Soap puts on a blindfold and gets kissed as part of a drinking game only it becomes a lot more than that.

i need you to hurt me back instead by TheLastTheosaurus - 5 times Ghost needed a hug, and the one time his got one.

Figure Study by 002405 - Ghost asks Soap to draw him like one of his French girls. Things devolve from there.

love me despite by TheLastTheosaurus - Ghost needs rest. Soap helps him get it.

no better version i could pretend to be tonight by TheLastTheosaurus - Soap can't sleep. he goes to Ghost.

Wash your mouth out with soap by Red_Clegane [the one and only] - Soap is reminded how he got his call sign and Ghost helps him put the pieces back together.

sunday morning (rain is falling) by wellyesbutactuallyno - Soap wants to learn more about Ghost. Ghost lets him.

The Haircut by thevalesofanduin - Soap's hair is too long. Ghost helps him cut it.

On the nights you feel outnumbered (I'll be out there, somewhere) by Brigadier - Ghost feels more irritable than usual and gets involved in a bar fight.

I want to crack open your ribs and crawl in the space left behind (Je veux me lover au creux de ton creur et ne jamais repartir) by flaminpumpkin - Simon ends up having to drag his drunk sergeant back to base and finds himself in a sticky situation because he's too smitten with the man.

Bloody Delirium by GnawingAtMyEyes - Soap gets gravely injured and suffers from blood loss delirium.

Tell Me a Secret by resonatingkitty - Ghost asked Soap to tell him a secret one evening at a bar and what Soap tells him is not what he expected to hear.

Never Hide This (From Me Again) by resonatingkitty - during a mission, Soap gets nicked and doesn't report it to Ghost. Ghost doesn't take it well.

Bruised Peach by Phiunzirus - After their latest mission, Soap's right arm looks like a bruised peach. What happens when Ghost accidentally grabs it a bit too hard?

Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again (it's been a long, long time) by Angelicasdean - Soap's been home for weeks now, but he's still missing the last piece of the puzzle. Thankfully, it's scheduled to return today.

Forbidden by eddie_dxaz - Ghost comes to terms with his feelings for Soap and tries to fight them. Unsuccessfully.

The Maskmaker by ElizaStyx - Soap finds Ghost working on a new mask.

Cat Dad by ElizaStyx - One day a little kitten appears at the 141 HQ and Soap falls in love. Too bad the kitty only likes Ghost.

Blind date with a book by Nuria123 - Ghost is a famous anonymous writer and Soap loves his books. They fall in love.

Recovery by Nuria123 - Soap and Ghost meet after being medically discharged at a rehab facility. Soap volunteers and Ghost is newly admitted. [this is one of the few fics to make me actually sob hard it's so extremely good]

can't keep johnny down by Wheezing_Joe - Soap loses commes on a mission and presumed dead. After finding his way back to base he's surprised by how much he's been missed.

red woven confessions by wayfaredsoldier - Soap got he and Ghost wishing bracelets in an attempt to grow closer to him and got far more than he expected.

made a bed with apathy (years worth of dust and neglect) by aetherealmoss - Soap gets triggered by someone who looks too much like his painful past, and Ghost is there to help him through it [TW SA, rape and child abuse on this one]

Safe With Me by Wixiany - Soap who is in an abusive relationship befriends Ghost when he moved into the neighborhood. His boyfriend accuses them of cheating and Ghost is blocked for several days until Soap shows up in the middle of the night.

snuffed by crown_twist - Johnny really, really doesn't like cigarettes. Ghost didn't know.

Choice by achievement_hunteresss - Shepherd captures the 141. He offers them a deal. He will let the other person go unharmed, if you shoot yourself in front of them.

tags by achievement_hunteresss - Soap asks for help with detangling his dogtags. Ghost accidentally unburies Simon.

Precipice by Islenthatur - Soap dies and has to choose (dw it's surprisingly not mcd)

Coven (Scheherazade) by basgijr - Ghost can't sway an overwhelming feeling that something isn't right. Soap is a werewolf that stinks of wet dog and also love (Ghost is a vampire). [this one I found from a Tumblr post that I lost]

sullen by rottin - Sparring goes a little wrong.

Lessen the Load by Hammy1o1 - Price had to talk Ghost down from suicide a few times. Things change when Soap joins the taskforce. [obviously TW for suicide]

Aaaand that's all of them! And my god there's a lot. Next post I'm considering giving a list of writers I like (aka have a lot of fics that I like so I save their name instead of individual fics), which will be one post since there's not too many. After that we can finally get to the longer fics!

#fic recs #call of duty modern warfare 2 #ghostsoap #ghoap #not art #cod ghost #cod soap #I didn't count how many I wrote down here I just kept going till it was done #took me an hour and a half to write it all down rip #but hey this way there's no chance I'm losing those fics lmao #as always if links dont work you can let me know and ill fix them!

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tassodelmiele · 24 days ago

Text

NSFW Soap x Ghost

from the serie *why the hell i'm not sleeping it's almost 2 in the morning*

I like wet situations. Ok?

I also like sucking candies.

Maybe that wasn't necessary to be told. Oh well.

Also, i had not read it twice, that means there will be plenty of grammatical errors.

I've got 6 hours of sleep, so, my beautiful cinnamon buns, i wish you a nice sleepy night after the reading~

..................................

...

It started as a stupid game: sights undercover, pretended noises and silly moans in the ears when the team was around.

Ghost was joking.

Soap, on the other hand, no.

<All down, till your nose tickels…»

He waited patiently, pushing Johnny's head little by little, feeling his hot breath gagging and choking on the length that was growing.

From time to time the Sergeant jerked a little, on the verge of throwing out. Ghost's hand blocked him in place.

<Air in sergeant, through your nose»

He did; he would have followed any order at this point; Ghost knew it.

<Good boy»

It was just a delightful pleasure for the eyes, that man knelt between his legs, so eager to keep his meat warm. The hand was pushing harder, strangling the mohawk in the grip, digging the fingers in the scalp. That touch wasn't enough.

<Suck it»

And Soap immediately did, closing his lips around the length and chewing it on the soft part inside his cheeks, while the tongue was helping, pushing and caressing every little vein, every bulge, catching every drop of bitter juice that Ghost was holding without breathing anymore.

His hand suddenly tilted, pushing Soap's stuffed, cute face on the hairy pube. Sergeant's hands grasped onto Ghost's tights; a desperate muffled whimper came out from his throat.

Lt.'s hand grabbed his puppy's mohawk like a puppet, making his head scrolling a little, right and left, up and down, fucking his face so nicely, quietly and slowly, enjoying every gagged breath and wet droll on his pants.

<Ya'r gonna clean it, gorgeous»

A low, long moan gave him confirmation.

Ghost's sight had been tied to that goddamn microphone the whole morning. He didn't know who was the genius who'd thought: "let's glue the mic in a choker"; Ghost would have thanked him later, though.

He had to wait till the evening to catch Soap by the back of his neck, like a goddamn cat, and resist the urge of pulling him by the choker in front of the whole team.

<Need ya for a minute»

Well, maybe two minutes. Or three.

Half an hour later, the choked moans were wetting the walls, dripping off the Sergeant's mouth with so much pleasure it was like he was eating the yummiest piece of cake of his life.

Ghost was so spread on the chair he was almost melting inside the hot mess of that hole, holding back the primal instinct that was whispering in his ears: fill his ass and split him in two.

But he was not an animal. No; he was a human under a pressure test, grabbed on a chair that was threatening to fall apart and on the mohawk that had taken the print of his fist at that point.

On the other side of the ring, Soap was a bloody sucking-machine, so diligent, so good, so attentive in reaching all the length, down to the base as his Lt ordered, and up to the tip, without spit a drop, licking his own saliva on his way, just to come down again, not risking to let that deliciously hard meat uncovered.

Famished as a starving kitty, whimpering desperately at every push and pull on his hair, moving his hips alongside the sipping rhythm.

Then he opened the mouth wider, unexpectedly, choking on the length to the edge of his throat, tongue out and moans dripping with pleasure.

Ghost grew all at once inside those comforting lips; he gagged a breath, tensed up every muscle, held Soap in place till he could feel the heat of his face on the pube.

He came in a rushed, thick mess, stuffing the Sergeant's mouth all at once.

The grip on the mohawk loosened. Lungs came back to work, and a growled sigh end up Ghost's apnea:

<That makes things way more complicated»

Soap chewed the white mess in his mouth, swallowing bitter-sugary liquid down the throat, tied up in constant eye contact with the black holes in the skull mask.

<Quantify»

...............................

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod #simon ghost riley #cod fanfic #fanfiction #johnny soap mctavish #soap x ghost #Wetness warning #Sucking candies without cracking them is an art #There aren't even candies in the plot #cod mw #writer on tumblr

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captain-mj · 2 years ago

Note

Angst? How about Ghost being blind (temporary or not is up to you) after a failed mission and of course it brings him back to his past

Oh you are devious this thank you

First part is Price's pov, then it switches to Ghost's

Price winced at the small explosion, mentally checking everyone's position. Soap was rather far away. Gaz was too. Not far enough away to be considered safe, but far enough away that they should be able to take care of himself.

Ghost hadn't been. If Price had their positions right, he would've been a just a few rooms away from it.

"Simon!!" Price started to run to where Ghost would be. He searched the area, trying to find him. The explosions wouldn't have been big enough to kill him, right?

There he was.

Ghost was knelt down with his hands over his head, the standard way to sit when debris may still be falling. The roof had fallen to pieces around him. Scattered pieces of wood and brick from the wall that Price had to climb over.

"Simon, you're good. This place is steady for now, you can get up."

Ghost didn't move. He was clearly awake though. Price wondered if he was still hearing the ringing and moved closer to help him. His hand rested on his back. "Hey, son. You're good now." It was now that he noticed the growing puddle of blood underneath them, but he couldn't see a wound.

"I'm in the box. Why am I back in the box." Ghost mumbled.

Price frowned and gently tugged him. "Simon, can you hear me?"

"John, please get me out of the box." He didn't sound distressed, though that didn't mean much. Ghost was an expert at keeping these things out of his voice.

Price moved him, first removing his hands from the top of his head and then tilting his head up. His pupils dilated very slowly and they had a glazed look over them. But across his chest was a gash of some kind and the blood had started to slowly trickle from it.

"Simon."

Ghost's eyes fluttering, though they were still clearly sightless.

Cold water ran down Price's spine as Ghost went limp. Clearly not dead, but blood loss had gotten to him.

The problem was Ghost was almost 300 pounds without the gear and there was no way Price could get him back alone. He got on the comms. "Gaz, Soap, sitrep."

"Solid. That explosion was in a terrible position." Price could feel Soap holding back his critiques on the bomb.

"Solid, sir." Gaz chipped in, sounding slightly out of breath but fine.

"Ghost is down. Need help getting him out of here."

Soap sounded panicked. "What? Where? I'm coming now, sir."

Price would roll his eyes if he didn't find it endearing. Also if his best friend wasn't down. He informed them of his position and ordered them to get there carefully. The building may not be actively still falling apart, but no need to tempt fate, especially when this room had been so wrecked.

They managed to get him up and moved. It was difficult, but they managed. Price and Gaz both pretended they didn't notice that Soap was clearly more affected. He looked so distressed that Price felt sorry for him.

Once Ghost was resting in medbay, Price could already hear the snarky remarks of they should've just put him in his room to sleep it off, he stayed with Soap. Gaz got them some tea, but eventually, he left to get started on the reports. He told Soap he'd do most of his for him so he could focus on Ghost. Price knew he should tell him no, Soap wasn't injured, no reason for him to not be able to. But while that may be what he was supposed to do, he wouldn't dream of making Soap leave the waiting room.

A nurse told them Ghost had a nasty concussion and thanks to the blood loss knocking him out cold, it was hard to tell how it affected him.

"I thought you weren't supposed to sleep after a concussion?" Soap looked nervous.

"Don't worry. That's not true. Sleep is actually good for the brain in these times. It's only if they lose consciousness out of nowhere that its a problem and we know why he fell asleep." The nurse patted him. "Your friend probably won't be up for a while, but he's completely okay."

"Thank you, ma'am." Price nodded at her. She told them they were welcome to sit with him.

Price let Soap sit with him alone, with the caveat that he tell him when he woke up.

Ghost felt something in his arm. It hurt, like a sting. He opened his eyes to find out where he was and found nothing. An inky darkness. Not black. There was an absence of color too.

The box. He was back in the box with the scorpion it must've stung him on his arm that's why it hurt. They let him go back to the box why did they do that why did they put him back in the box

He quickly reached his hands up, trying to find where the box ended. A hand grabbed him.

"Ghost! You're up!" Soap. Soap sounded so excited.

Ghost hit where he was holding him as hard as possible. "Get me out of the box I want the fuck out." He snapped at him. He kicked his feet, connecting with something that felt hard. Metal but it had gaps.

Soap grabbed his face, cupping it so gently. "Ghost, calm down. There is no box."

"Then why is it so dark?"

"Dark... We're in a hospital room. There's fucking fluorescents." Soap sounded confused.

The realization started dawning on them. "Simon, what can you see?"

"Nothing. Not a bloody thing."

Soap took a deep breath. "I'm going to get a nurse, okay? You're alright. You're in a hospital bed, safe and sound." His hand pulled away.

Ghost tried to believe him. He really did. But the air felt stale and the machine next to him gave away his rapidly increasing heartrate. There was a machine hooked up to him.

Ghost took a shuddering breath. "Don't leave." He listened for Soap's heartbeat or even his breathing, but he couldn't over the sound of the machine.

"Soap?"

"Johnny?"

The beeping became louder and more obnoxious. It drove into his skull, reminding him that he was all alone. They were going to start cutting him open. They needed him alive so his vitals were monitored. He'd be cut open again and they wouldn't stop and it would hurt an-

"Mr. Riley." He recognized her voice. The head nurse. Sometimes he would let her look at wounds if he thought they looked infected, much to her chagrin. "We're going to run a couple of tests, okay?"

Ghost nodded slowly.

"You can feel your eyes, correct?"

What an odd question. "Yes."

"Open your eyes as wide as you can."

"No."

"What?"

"You're going to do something..." Ghost didn't trust her. What if she plucked out his eyes? Or stabbed something into him? He couldn't see her to stop her.

Soap grabbed his shoulders. "It's okay. I'm here. Not going to let anything happen to you."

Ghost hesitantly opened his eyes and there was a pause. He tried not to tremble like a bitch.

"Your eyes aren't reacting to the light at all. Sometimes, when someone experiences blunt force trauma, it can cause blindness."

"Temporary or permanent? Soap asked as Ghost spiraled.

"Depends. He could never get it back. It could reappear in a few hours. There's no way to tell."

Ghost knew his luck. He knew he was never going to see again.

The scorpions stung him. Maggots crawled over his skin. Under his skin. He couldn't see them to get them off.

His heartrate jumped again, beeping erratically.

"Mr. Riley, you need to remain calm. You were injured and you may reopen your wounds."

Ghost's heart didn't stop, though he did stay still. He didn't want to live like this. The bugs. The dirt. The air was so stale.

"Simon." Soap's voice broke his thoughts. "What are you thinking about?"

Ghost couldn't answer, just shaking his head.

"I'll watch him, ma'am."

"Thank you, Mr. MacTavish."

"You can call me Soap."

"No." She left. Ghost could hear her footsteps.

"Simon. What do you need?"

Ghost hated how he sounded. "The bugs... I know they're not real, but I can feel them."

"Do you need me to... brush them off?"

"Please don't." Ghost wasn't sure if he could deal with it. He wasn't sure whose hands he'd see them as.

Soap put a slight amount of pressure on the bed, just enough that Ghost would know where he is.

"Alright. No touching. There's nothing on you."

Ghost went to tell him not to bother, but it helped. A little. "Absolutely nothing?"

"Nada. Not even a shadow."

Ghost nodded and curled up on his side.

"Simon... Why would there be bugs? What box were you talking about?"

Ghost felt himself spiraling. Not mentally, physically, he slowly turned around and around. "They put me in a box with a scorpion. It would sting me and it was dark."

"Jesus Christ." Soap sat fully on the bed, in the space where Ghost's legs bent. "Why?"

Ghost was quiet for a while. Soap's hand landed on his boot, the tiniest bit of contact.

"He was mad at me."

"Who?"

Ghost didn't answer for a while again before choosing to not answer that question. "They buried me alive with another dead body. It had maggots and beetles and little things that crawled all over me. They got in my nose and my mouth. Tried getting in my ears."

Soap didn't respond other than to put his hand on his shoulder. He rubbed gently.

"It was so dark. I'm back in the dark." Ghost said helplessly. He couldn't defend himself. He couldn't keep being in the military like this. He'd have to retire. He had nothing. No place to go home. No where to go. "This is all I have. I don't have anything else."

Soap rubbed his back more, reassuring him that he was at least there. "Do you have any family?"

"All dead. All because of me." He closed his eyes, feeling his eyes burn. "I have nothing besides my team. I'm going to have to quit. I can't..." Ghost couldn't do another job. He wanted to sometimes, but it wasn't in the cards for him. He had no idea what he was going to do.

"Simon, it's okay, alright? I promise, we'll figure it out."

Ghost shuddered and buried his face in the pillows. "Go away please."

"No. Ghost, come on, don't kick me out."

"Please..."

"I'm not leaving you alone."

Ghost hated him but he relaxed into his touch. "Okay... Okay..." He felt him there. His hands so warm and inviting. Ghost must've dozed off at some point because Soap suddenly disappeared.

Before he could panic, he heard him and Price talking. Their voices were soft, lulling him. He yawned and curled up more, tucking himself into as tight a ball as possible. He was so tired and it was hard to focus.

Ghost yawned and his body protested him not going back to sleep.

"We'll set something up. I have a place he can stay in free of charge for now." Price told Soap.

Soap, Ghost imagined him probably nodding, responded. "I want to take leave for a while. I don't want him alone."

"Let's hope we get you both back soon then."

The next two days were a blur. Ghost ended up in Price's spare flat with Soap. Soap who would not give him a moment of space. He tried to map out the flat, counting his steps around the apartment.

"Simon do you nee-"

"No. I do not need help. I am just going to the kitchen." Simon reached out, feeling the wall. "Stop babying me."

Soap was staring. Ghost could fucking feel it.

"Johnny."

"I'm not doing anything."

"Right." Ghost got to the kitchen. He wanted a cup of tea but the stove.... His confidence wasn't there yet. Instead, he made himself a cup of water. It was... different. Very different. He made his way back to the room and sat next to Soap again. He accidentally sat too close, their thighs brushing.

"I could make you tea, ya know."

"You make it bad."

"You haven't even tried it!"

"I know you do. It's a scottish curse."

Soap was staring at him. Ghost could tell. "Is my mask on wrong?"

"No. Are you going to lift it up?"

"Can you take it off?"

Soap paused. "What?"

"Just... take it off. Can't see myself. I'm not military. Just take it off for me." He leaned closer and eventually he felt Soap grab it and pull it off of him.

"There you are."

Ghost pulled back and sipped his drink. "Fine. I'll try your tea. You know how long it needs to steep right?"

"Of course I do!" Ghost could hear the click of Soap's phone as he no doubt looked it up.

He didn't like this. He was very.... He hated it. But other than the forced medical leave, it wasn't completely awful.

Maybe having Soap's undivided attention helped a tiny bit. He wouldn't admit it.

Soap brought him the tea. It tasted bad. Ghost had no clue how he messed up this bad.

"I will walk you through it later."

"I'm glaring. Ye can't see it, so I'm telling you."

Ghost laughed. "Whatever, Johnny."

#cod #cod mw2 #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare ii #soap call of duty #johnny soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #simon ghost riley #simon riley

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gaylittleeddie · 2 years ago

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Hey! What's up!! I was wondering if you can write something about Ghost opening up to Soap about his past? Maybe not ALL of it, just the parts abt his family.

Like, let's say Soap keeps licking the snakebite scars on Ghost's lips while they're kissing or making out or whatever and Ghost just has a moment of realization that he *loves* Johnny and decides to tell him about his past!

The realization that he loved Johnny hit him like a punch in the face.

Said man was currently on his lap, legs hooked behind his back as they lazily licked in to each others mouths. There was really no heat behind the session. It was more of a curious exploration more than anything else. Every once in a while, Soap’s tongue would graze over the scars on his lips, soothing over the memory of the snake biting onto him and coursing its venom throughout his body.

If Ghost is honest, Johnny has his own form of venom graced in his body. He transfers it to the blond during nights like this when their lips meet and their spit combine. Except, it’s different. It gets him high off of his senses being nothing but the Scot, making him crave more. Need more. His heart would becomes so full of him, it threatened to burst at the seems as he tries to fight off the one feeling he’s run from since that night he found his family dead. Love

Because God, he loves Johnny. He knows he shouldn’t. It’s too dangerous for men like them to fall in love, much less with each other. The original agreement was that this would be something casual between them — no strings attached. Yet, whenever a recruit flirted with either one of them, they’d make sure that the other would remember one thing. That they’re each others. Ghost never knew he’d be the possessive type and at first it worried him until Johnny met that energy with his own. Never toxic. Just a reminder that they in a way belong to each other without actually saying it out loud.

The Scot pulls back suddenly, bringing his hands up from where they lazily hung behind Ghost’s back to gently stroke the scars along his cheeks. A small, soft smile tugged on his kiss swollen lips and his blue eyes were half lidded. He decided to commit that image to his memory so that when he dies, he’d feel the way his heart aches with love rather than pain when he dies. “Fucking beautiful, sir,” Johnny states.

Ghost’s heart tugs. He wants more. He doesn’t want this to be casual anymore. He fucking loves Johnny. Both Ghost and Simon love this little man with everything they have left. A wicked smirk forms on the sergeants face, eyes searching his before he goes to dive back in with a little more heat this time. If they fall into bed tonight (even though they’re already sat on the edge of it) he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve to tell him what he needs to to make this something real. He’ll hide Simon away again and they’ll wake up tomorrow in their own rooms, back to pretending like nothing happened between them. He doesn’t want that. He wants Johnny to stay, not just tonight but maybe for whatever forever is for them.

So he leans back away from the kiss. Upon seeing this, Johnny moves back himself and rests his weight on Ghost’s lap. A shiver rises in his spine as those hands that were on the lieutenants face before lazily trail down to his shoulders. Soap screwed his features together, eyes once again scanning over his face. Those blue pulls held a little bit of anxiousness in them at the rejection of his advances.

“I don’t want this anymore,” Ghost says. Like an idiot he says. He winces as soon as it’s out. It burns him and he feels Johnny starting to get up as if it burns him too. The taller man tightens his hold, plopping him back down where he rested before.

“Hold on,” Ghost says, frustration at himself in his tone, “That’s not what I meant. Just give me a second to think on how I want to word this. You know I’m not good at that.”

Johnny narrows his eyes at him, cautious. He then lets out a breath that sounds suspiciously like a laugh before responding, “Don’t I know it. Take your time, Si.” The hands are then brought up to his blond hair, massaging his scalp and bringing him away from Ghost to Simon. Simon who wants to pour his heart out onto a platter and push it to the man sitting delicately on his lap.

Simon looks up at Johnny, immediately knowing what he has to say. Sure, Ghost and Simon are the same people but Ghost is just a protective shield from the world. Oftentimes he forgets about the man underneath it, the one who went through the horrors that he has and just wants to fall into some peace. He wants that peace with Johnny specifically. “I don’t want this,” He starts, “I want more with you.”

Soap tenses up, halting all movements as he nods for the man under him to go on. So, as he’s willing to do anything for this crazy lad that can blow up a whole warehouse with random items he finds around, he does, “I love you, Johnny. You’re the only person I’ve loved this much in so long and I want the whole thing with you. I don’t want you to go to your room after this and for us to walk past each other in the corridor as if there’s nothing going on between us. I want us to sneak casual kisses when no one’s looking rather than us falling into a supply closet or my bed or for us to sit here, hands tracing over each other as we talk about some delusion of us after this is all over in some cottage in Scotland. And I want us to actually get that.”

As he speaks, Johnny’s eyes widen bigger and bigger. Simon tries to not let it dissuade him as he has so much more to say, despite the strong urge of the part of his brain that created Ghost screaming at him that’s it’s not safe and to run. “And even though I’m legally dead, I want to marry you someday. It would probably be technically illegal but I do,” He continues.

Soap furrows his eyebrows together at the legally dead comment, opening his mouth but he’s shushed immediately with a quick, “We’ll get to that. Just let me finish.” Johnny huffs out another laugh at that, his eyes impossibly softening as if the man he’s looking at is something to be cherished. He needs to hear his response to all of this— And it is a lot— so he decides to cut it slightly shorter with a, “There’s a lot to me that you don’t know. And I want to tell you all of it if we’re going to do this. So, if you’ll have me…”

Johnny smiles, big and wide. It reminds him of the how he stares at explosions, full of wonder and adoration. He whispers into the space between them, “Scotland, aye?”

“Well,” He shrugs, “It’s where you’re from. Can’t be too bad.”

“Of course I’ll have you, Simon. Couldn’t imagine being with anybody else. I love you too, ye numpty.”

Johnny leans forward, placing a chaste kiss on his lips. Simon immediately sighs through his nose at the sensation, body tingling with relief at the fact that what he felt was reciprocated. So the night doesn’t end with one of them leaving. It ends with the sergeant in his arms, listening to the life story of Simon Riley as said man traces patterns on his arms. Every once in a while, when it’s particularly horrid, Soap will sit up and press a long kiss on his forehead with whispers of how strong he is or how much he loves him. It feels nice. He always thought he would’ve hated that kind of attention but not with him. Never with Johnny.

#author doesn’t write accents #Too nervous about accidentally butchering it and offending people #don’t want to do that #so pretend they’re there #I’ve done research on it but still don’t feel entirely comfortable yet #simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap

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criticallyacclaimedstranger · 3 years ago

Text

Fic: Wicked

Rating: Explicit

Fandom: The Equalizer 2

Ships: Dave York x you (established cishet relationship, no kids, no mention of marriage but bitch you could be his wifey)

Additions tags/warnings: DaddyDom!Dave, pet names, spanking, sort of half-public sex, squirting, multiple orgasms, PiV sex (unprotected but they're good, don't count on it yourself so wrap it up).

Summary: Dave comes home to find you washing the car dressed in pretty much nothing so of course he has to establish dominance.

Note: This honestly started as a cute Frankie Morales story and then it took an interesting turn and Frankie noped the fuck out of it so I had to try my hand at Dave. So here you have it: my first Dave York fic. Porn it is, plot it has none. (We didn't really get along so I don't know if I'll ever revisit him.)

Dave sees you at a distance as he drives along the suburban residential road towards the house he shares with you.

“Sweet Jesus,” he mutters under his breath as he slows down and hits the turn signal. Coming to a smooth stop behind your car, he checks the rear view mirror and sees the neighbor across the street sitting on their porch with a beer in hand.

Asshole.

He gets out of the car, tie loosened and jacket over his arm, and eyes you as you smile brightly at him. Like you're completely unaware of the fact that you're washing your car in tiny cut-offs and an unwired bikini top, and that half the neighborhood is ogling you.

“Hey baby,” you beam and lift your hand to bring a damp lock of hair behind your ear. You're holding the sponge, and it drips soap onto your chest, a white bubbly smear that slowly runs down between your breasts. His eyes widen a little.

Jesus FUCKING Christ.

“Good day? Did your job fix the AC yet?”

“They did after lunch,” he says dismissively before frowning unapprovingly at you. “And are you aware that you’ve got an audience? Might as well put up a pole in the driveway and have people pay.”

You frown and wipe another lock of hair that's come loose from your ponytail.

“Don’t be such a prude,” you sigh. “You don’t get to tell me how to dress in my own yard.”

“’Course I don’t, but I get to tell you that I don’t like it,” Dave mutters darkly. The last few days of working with no AC during a heatwave have made him grouchy and even if he wasn't, you're his.

“You can, but I won’t listen," you shrug indifferently. He loves you for your resistance, your independence. You can do anything and everything without him, yet you choose to lean on him, to share everything with him. And despite all your competence: the way you fall apart for his hands, his mouth, his cock, and hand yourself over to him...

"Dave, it’s a million degrees out here and the car needs to be washed.” Your neutral expression is changed into a flirty grin. “I can wash your car, too… and you can watch.”

You lean in for a kiss and fuck, how could he ever resist your charm? You smell of sweat, car wash soap, and sunscreen and you taste of homemade lemonade and sweat from your upper lip. He sucks it into his mouth and savours the saltiness of it as his hand slides down your warm, naked side and settles on your denim hip where one of his fingers finds a belt hoop, goes through it and pulls you closer.

“Now who’s putting on a show for the neighbors?” you mumble, breaking the kiss, and he feels himself unravel at your words, how you look, just how you are with him: so clearly secure, trusting, playful. You're pushing all his buttons and you know it.

"Better stop before someone calls the cops on us for indecent exposure," he murmurs. "I want you in the house. Now.”

“Sorry,” you smile innocently. “Not done with the car. In fact, that soap’s drying on it now, it’ll make stripes.”

You turn around and pick up the hose, teasing him with the view of your ass. Dave slaps your right buttock, making you yelp.

“Be quick,” he tells you and goes towards the front door. His cocky stride change into a run when cold water hits him square in the back, and your laughter chases him indoors.

He takes off his wet shirt and changes into shorts before taking a cold can of beer from the fridge and going back out. Donning his sunglasses, he makes himself comfortable in a recliner on the porch, pops open the beer, and settles to watch you work. You shoot him a smirk but don't pay him much attention – although you do lean over the hood more than necessary, displaying cleavage or denim-covered ass to him. He’s half hard inside his shorts and if the front of the house had been more secluded he would definitely have whipped out his dick and rubbed one out.

Or had you on your back on the hood of your wet sedan.

Bent you over it and fucked you from behind.

Made you squirt all over the clean, shining surface of your car.

Fuck. He takes a long swig of the beer.

You give the car one last rinse and dry off the wipers with a piece of cotton waste. Straightening your back, you once again wipe your sweaty forehead with the back of your hand, satisfied at a job well done. As you start to roll up the garden hose, Dave loses his patience. He puts two fingers to his mouth and gives a shrill whistle that makes you look over to him. You can read his eyes despite his sunglasses and, with raised brows, you saunter over to him, taking your time. Your flipflops are slapping against your bare feet and despite hating flipflops more than anything else, it doesn’t make Dave cringe this time.

“Really?” you purr when you reach him. Dave gives you a toothy smirk.

“Humor me,” he asks you. “Neighbor's still watching and I want him to still be looking for his jaw when his family gets home.”

“You’re such a gorilla,” you sigh, but of course you love it. You know how Dave is and you wouldn't be with him if you couldn't handle it. Obediently, you bend down to kiss him. When you bite his lower lip, he gives a little growl.

“Inside,” he commands you in a low voice. “Now.”

“Not so fast,” you smile and reach for his beer. He stares at you through the dark lenses of his sunglasses as you knock back what’s left in the can and burp discreetly behind your hand.

“Okay, now we can go in.” He throws the sunglasses on the small table next to the recliner and gets up smoothly.

"Move that ass for me." Another order, not a wish. A small smile playing on your lips, you turn around and slowly walk to the front door, swaying your hips, looking over your shoulder in a most coquettish fashion.

"Like what you see... daddy?"

"You'll find out soon, baby girl."

Your skin and nipples knit over and it's not just because you've stepped into the house where the air conditioning immediately hits your warm, sweaty skin. You turn around just as Dave closes the door behind him. The feracity in his face makes your cunt bottom out as he grabs you by the arm and maneuvers you around. He presses you against the front door, into the vertical crevice with the fogged window glass. It's just wide enough to fit your frame. You hold your breath as he leans in, his breath hot on your skin.

"Have you been good?" he asks in a low voice. You shake your head only to give him a reason to prompt you, maybe give you a little slap.

"Words, baby girl, use them."

"I haven't been good at all, daddy." You look at him from under your eyelashes.

"You say that with such pride," he sighs, as if he's deeply disappointed in you. "Why do you enjoy being bad?"

"I don't, daddy," you assure him breathlessly, "I just am. I can't help it."

"Like fuck you can't. You do this to spite me, don't you?" His fingers ghost over your cheek, delicately. "You parade your half-naked self around in front of everyone just to rile me up, don't you?"

His hand closes around your throat and your heart skips a beat.

"Answer me, baby girl."

"Yes, daddy," you moan, your lips hungry for him. "I do it so that you'll punish me. I... I need your mouth, daddy, please."

"You can do better than that." He's relentless, so you beg, both your hands coming up to hold the wrist of his hand that's choking you. Not to try to let him release you, but because you know he likes it when you pretend to struggle a little.

"Please, daddy, kiss me. I'll be good for you if you just let me have one kiss," you whine, moving your body against his. "Nobody kisses me like you do, daddy, kiss me to remind me that I belong to you."

Dave humours you sooner than you expected. His kiss is searing and he loosens his hold of your throat slightly to allow for better breathing.

"Safeword?" he asks you quietly when he finally withdraws and you're breathless, trembling, soaked through.

"Pentagon," you answer immediately, locking eyes with him to show him that you're fully capable of consent. He touches your lips with his, softly, in reply. The kiss is sweet and holds no power play.

"Good girl." Your two favorite words that make you feel flushed, time and time again. Your face follows his when he draws back from the kiss, but he steps back, smiling wickedly.

"You stay right there. You have to earn it."

"Yes, daddy," you answer obediantly, keeping your back against the door, feeling the warm glass of the vertical frosted window against your back. Dave lets his dark gaze wander over your body, taking all of you in. You could swear that he can smell your wet cunt and hear your hearbeats.

"Undress, baby girl," he tells you. "And tell me what a fucking tease you are."

You hold back on the confident smile that threatens to spread on your lips. Dave wants you seemingly helpless. But there's no reason why you can't torture him a little, as well.

You reach around to pull on the bikini string on your back and the cups of your bikini loosen.

"I am - "

you pull the string around your neck and the top falls to the floor.

" - such - "

slowly, you unzip your shorts and slide them down your hips, the bikini bottoms coming off at the same time.

" - a fucking - "

you kick off your pants and flip-flops and stand naked before him, meeting his hungry eyes innocently.

" - tease, daddy."

"And what do teases get?" Dave breathes. You can see from the tightness of his neck muscles, the way he closes his fistr, and the outline of his hard dick in his pants that he's having a hard time holding it together. He's usually very patient but it seems that the heatwave has taken its toll on his nerves.

"They get punished."

"That's right, baby girl. Now, turn around and stick your ass out."

Lower lip caught between your teeth, you obey as slowly as you can. You even give him a little shake of your ass when you lean forward against the door.

"No, sweet girl," Dave tuts behind you. "You wanted to show yourself. Press your tits against the glass."

"What?" you gasp, not sure you heard correctly.

"You heard me. Press your tits against the window. Don't make me repeat myself."

This is new. You step a little closer to the door where the glass of the window is warm against your skin. Hands on either side of the window, you lean your chest against it. Even if the glass is fogged, something crammed up against it like this will be visible on the outside and you can only imagine what your tits look like from the other side of the door. There is a front lawn between the door and the sidewalk, there shouldn't be an risk of anyone coming over, or looking, why would anyone stand on the sidewalk and stare at your front door?

"Is my little princess okay?" You startle when you feel Dave's hand tenderly curving over your ass cheek, and you decide that you are okay with this.

"Yes, daddy." You brace yourself against the door.

"Good. Now, count them out, baby girl." His hand leaves your skin and not a breath later, lands on it again with a sharp slap. You yelp in surprise and gasp out One. He's building up to it, you can tell because this wasn't so bad, he's capable of much more force.

The second slap comes on your other cheek and is a little harder.

"Two," you moan.

"Good girl," Dave praises you in a low voice as he moves his hand over to your other buttock before raising it. This time, the slap stings and you squeeze out the right number. Alternating between your buttocks, he adds more force to each spank and when you reach eight, your buttocks are burning as much as your pussy.

"Is that enough, baby girl?" His hands are warm on your sensitive, glowing ass. You're breathing heavily and a part of you wants him to go on, find out how far he can take you, but you need to be able to sit tomorrow.

"Yes," you whine. "Thank you, daddy."

"You're welcome, my girl," he soothes you. "You took that like such a good girl. Daddy's very proud of you."

"Please," you keen, now desperate for him to touch you where you need him the most. He has spanked all the confidence out of you and now you're just a simpering fool for him. "I'm so wet for you, daddy, I need you."

"Oh, my pretty little girl." Dave shoves his tented shorts against your ass and it stings in the most delicious way. "You took your spanking so well, you deserve a reward."

You almost sob when his fingers reach your dripping cunt.

"My wet, filthy girl," he growls and presses down on your clit. Instinctively, you buck against him and your tits come loose from the window. You gripe insolently at the loss of his touch when he withdraws his hand and instead pushes you back against the glass.

"Remember why you're here, my pet."

"Yes, daddy."

"Tell me."

"Because... I paraded my half-naked self in front of the whole neighborhood." You squirm when he slides his wet fingers over your ass.

"That's right. So now you get to show everyone what it is that I own."

"Yes, daddy. But please..."

"I got you, my pet."

You moan loudly when his fingers push into your slickness and moan again even louder when he starts to work your clit.

"Such a wet little cunt for me," he murmurs into your ear as he crowds you against the door. "Go ahead, baby girl, you can cum whenever you wish, you have my permission."

"Thank you, daddy," you hiss as you let the pleasure take over you. "You're so... so good to me... I love you, daddy."

"And daddy loves his baby girl." Dave presses a kiss to your shoulder, then bites it and growls. "Cum for daddy, baby girl, cum all over my hand."

His thick fingers are hitting you just right and you feel the pressure build up like clouds before a storm and you know it's going to blow you apart, you want it to blow you apart, you need it to, you have to -

"Daddyyyy...!" Your scream is helpless and pitiful as the orgasm tears through you in a release that manifests itself in a spray of liquid that splashes over Dave's hand and spreads in drops around both of you. You hear Dave's excited Fuck, baby girl, that's it but you barely recognize it as a sound coming from the same room because he's still fucking you with two fingers and his thumb on your clit and GOD you squirt again, your feet are soaked in it and you're sobbing, daddy, daddy, please -

"One more, baby girl."

No, you can't, not another one, no, you'll burst, you'll break, you'll die, yes, yes, do it, fucking do it, and he does it and your shaking legs are glistening with the wetness.

"Good girl," Dave gasps. "Such a good girl, I've never fucked such a good girl before." Your cunt clenches at his words, god, how can you want more? He pulls you upright and turns you around before slamming you back against the window. Pulling down his shorts just enough to free his cock, he lifts one of your legs and hooks his arm around the thigh before sliding into your hot wet mess of a pussy. You wrap your arms around his neck tightly, afraid you'll lose your balance and fall, but his strong arms keep you where you should be.

"I got you, baby girl," he grunts and lets you draw him in for a sloppy kiss. Your arms going under his armpits and around his shoulders as Dave starts to fuck you with furious intent, like his vigorous effort is to make a dent shaped like your ass in the front door window. You break the kiss to let out your moans of Own that pussy, daddy, show me who owns that pussy and he buries his face against your neck, biting it, all the while fucking that wonderful wet, tight little pussy of yours. You tighten around him rhythmically and it’s fucking fantastic, he can’t have enough of it and he knows that he’ll blow soon, he’ll come so hard into that pussy that he fucking owns, he owns all of you and you can parade yourself around the yard and in the grocery store and wherever you fucking want to but only he gets to fuck you, only he get to be with you and sleep next to you and only he can make you make those sounds that you're making now when you're tensing up with another impending orgasm and jesus fucking christ –

He spills himself into you with a loud grunt just as you yell something unintelligible right next to his ear. He fucks into you a couple of extra times for good measure before slipping out and letting your leg down, but keeping his arms around your waist to make sure you won’t fall.

You blink your eyes open, not sure when you closed them in the first place. Dave's looking at you with that tender gaze that he saves for you only.

"My good, filthy girl," he smiles. You smile back, exhausted, hot and cold at the same time, soaked, dirty.

"Is that... how you keep me to yourself?" you manage, "by putting my tits and ass on display in the front door window?"

"You know it, baby girl." He puts a hand on your hip, beckoning you to turn around. "How is said ass? You need some aftercare, my love?"

You turn your behind for him to see and try to peek over your shoulder. "What's it look like?"

"Gloriously red."

"Mm, feels like it, too. I'm good. You were good to me." You look at the front door and see the round, oily tell-tale shapes on the window glass, and running drops of your release. Turning back to Dave, you grin sheepishly.

"I'll clean up," Dave volunteers, pressing a kiss to your neck. "You go grab a shower."

"Thanks, baby." Gingerly, you crouch to pick up your clothes and make your way to the stairs. As you ascend them, you hear him muttering.

"Who the hell washes their car on a hot sunny day anyway?"

You can't help yourself.

"Bad girls who want a spanking and know their daddies are on their way home from work, that's who!" you let him know. A second passes before you hear him curse low and then he comes running after you. Shrieking with laughter, you try to escape into the bathroom but Dave catches up to you in the bedroom and tackles you onto the bed.

"You wicked, wicked girl," he berates you before devouring your mouth with his.

#my fic #the equalizer 2 #the equalizer 2 fanfic #dave york #dave york fanfic #dave york x you #dave york x reader

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starlightsearches · 4 years ago

Note

What about 21 and 22 from the kink prompt list for hux👀👀

Please and thank you 😊

21. Early Morning Sex and 22. Marking from the Kink Prompt List

Hello friends! Here's the smutty third part to these two ficlets, as promised. This is so......freaking soft. Let me know what you think!

Requests are open ✨

Armitage Hux x Reader (f)

Warnings: 18+ ONLY (minors will be blocked), fluff and smut, language, pining and yearning even though they are together, PIV sex, dry humping, pulling out, uhhh cum?, I clearly don't know what I'm talking about, let me know if I missed anything.

He can’t think straight.

Not when he can still feel the pressure of your lips—ghost-like, impermanent and already fading. He can hardly see you in the darkness, your form hazy and dreamlike.

Gods, he hopes he’s not dreaming.

“I don’t want to pretend,” you whisper, waiting, the tips of your fingers tracing down curve of his cheek, falling like tears until your hand meets the mattress.

He needs to say something, but his mind is—for once—completely empty. Empty of everything, except the way you taste.

He reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours, your skin warm and soft. You sigh against his lips as he leans in, pulling him closer, and even though he doesn't have the words to say it, he knows you understand.

It's the sound of his heartbeat that wakes you.

Had you fallen asleep like this? You don't think so. The previous night comes back to you in flashes of feeling—the hard press of his hip against your thigh, wet kisses trailing down your jaw, your neck. Tracing his features in the blackness, memorizing him with your eyes shut tight, keeping your touch gentle so he wouldn't wake.

The material of his shirt rubs up against your cheek, the wrinkles pressing gentle indents into your skin. It smells just like him—like soap and smoke and mint, and you want to breathe it in, hold it in your lungs until you drown in it.

"Did I wake you?" He shifts beneath you, whispering, and you rest your chin on his chest, looking up at him in the darkness.

He's sitting up against the headboard, data pad in one hand, balanced against his ribs. His other hand is at your waist, stroking up and down along your side, inching your pajama top up higher and higher over your hip, the edge of his pinky brushing the barest hint of your skin, and you have to swallow before you dare to speak.

You shake your head, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "How long have you been awake?"

"Not long; I slept well. You can go back to sleep, if you'd like. I'll make sure you have enough time."

He shifts again, moving his hand from your side to your hair, encouraging you to rest once again with him as your pillow, and your eyes drift closed against your will.

You fight the urge—you don't want to go back to sleep, not while he's still here. If you do, you might wake up alone again.

You pull the data pad from his grasp, setting it on the night stand before you shift closer—chest to chest, the tip of your finger tracing down over his ear, scratching your nails gently over the short hair at the back of his neck, ruffling it underneath your palms.

"What if I'm not tired?"

His eyes go wide, and you hope he can't feel the way you're shaking. How strange it feels to touch him this way, despite the number of times you thought about it.

"Then I think," he pauses, watching your lips as you move in closer, stopping only once they brush his, and he falters, barely able to speak above a whisper, "we'll have to find some way to entertain ourselves."

He sits up, pulling you tight against his chest, and you let your leg slide to the other side of his hips, pinning him in place against the mattress with your weight.

It's not like the last kiss that you shared—a languid, gentle gesture before sleep overcame you, like a drowsy summer afternoon. This is invigorating, heart-pounding, passionate. You kiss him like you can't breathe without it, like he's granting you life with every press of his lips.

His fingers, still heavy with sleep, brush sloppily against your waist, your hips, trace the curvature of your spine—skin against skin as your shirt rides higher, and if you thought you could live long enough to pull away, you'd bare yourself to him. Let him have it all.

He bucks his hips against yours, a quiet grunt punching from his chest, and you grind down on him more fervently, a soft, slow heat licking it's way through your core.

"How long until we . . . " you ask, peering at the screen of his data pad on the night stand, trying to discern the time. He pulls his hand from your waist, flipping the device face-down before you can manage.

"We have time."

You don't even have the chance to smile fully before his lips are back on yours.

His chest heaves underneath your fingers when you wrap your lips over the thrumming pulse in his neck, breathing rapid—and yours is the the same, lungs on fire, burnt and hollowed out by desire. There's no pretense between you, no subtlety. You want him, and he wants you, and maybe if it were someone else you'd be embarrassed to look so desperate but you'll deal with any shame later as long as he just keeps touching you.

"Please," he gasps, wrapping his arms around your waist, holding your hips steady, "I can't tell you how long I've wanted this—"

There's a desperate shuffle as you wiggle your way out of your pajama bottoms, removing only what's necessary before pulling him close again. Cool air licks at your bared cunt, and you press more firmly against his hips, the shape of his clothed dick growing more pronounced, the soft fabric of his pajamas sliding over your clit in steady, rhythmic motions.

Your hand slides down his chest, slow enough that you can feel him shaking, taking your time. When your fingers reach his covered length, he sucking in a sharp breath through his teeth.

He's patient as your fumbling hand works to free his cock, his skin flushed and warm against your palm, already a little damp with the thin dribble of precum your catch on your fingers and slide over the head of him, memorizing every vein and ridge with your slow-working palm. His hand flies from your waist, smacking gently against his mouth, but he can't stop you from hearing the moan he tries to stifle.

The room grows hotter as you guide him to your entrance, your own arousal slipping from your waiting pussy and coating your skin. You let him set the pace, and his first thrust is slow, pronounced, his head resting against your shoulder, lips at your neck, teeth sinking in hard enough to bruise. A gasp falls from your lips.

"Lay back," you whisper once he's fully inside you, pressing your hand into his shoulder until he meets the bed, shifting your hips back and forth with slow, subtle thrusts, relishing the way he twitches inside you.

"You feel so good."

It's hard to speak when you feel this way, but you have to let him know, that bright, shining heat in your center growing with each thrust. He doesn't say anything, fighting back the moans that threaten to spill through clenched teeth, but he takes your hand in his, wrapping his fingers tight against your skin, and you understand.

It feels good to make him feel good.

Your thrusts grow longer, hips swiveling, and you can feel every point of contact between the two of you, feel the way your cunt grips at him more tightly with every stroke and press.

He sits up, unsteady hands working at the buttons on your pajamas, pulling the top down over your shoulders, sucking marks into every inch of skin he can find. Part of you worries that they might be visible under the collar of your uniform; part of you hopes that they will be. You want everyone to know that you belong to him.

He wraps his arms tighter around your waist, hips lifting into yours and a shaky moan breaks through your lips with the new angle. He hits a spot inside you that makes it hard to breathe.

"Gods, don't— don't move, please," you command, grinding down on him, eyes rolling back when he hits that same spot again and again and again.

"I'm so, gods, so fucking close," you murmur through clenched teeth.

He whispers low against your skin, the same words from earlier. "We have time."

He's unhurried, maintaining the same pace with his guiding hands on your hips, running his tongue over the newest bruise he's given you.

The wet heat of his mouth sends you over the edge.

Your whole body trembles, your orgasm pleasant and consuming and almost sweet. You can taste the sugar of it on your tongue, feel the high loosen your muscles until your limp and pliant against him, falling into the warmth of his skin.

He maneuvers your heat-sick body beneath him, and you lay heavily on the mattress, his thrusts slow and gentle as he chases his own release.

He presses gentle kisses to each of your cheeks, your nose, your chin, whispers soft praise for you which you only half-hear, ears buzzing and mind heady from your recent high, the pleasure building again from his steady strokes.

He slips from your cunt, bracing himself with a hand at your hip as he finishes on your stomach, the warmth of his seed painting your skin, leaving trails of white over your stomach and thighs.

Fuck. Your cunt clenches around nothing.

He falls beside you, the dent he creates in the mattress pulling you closer, and he uses the hem of his shirt to clean his cum from your skin with gentle pressure before pulling you into his arms.

"That was . . ." his words fade off into the darkness, heavy breaths turning calm as he strokes a hand over your hair. You don't need him to finish the sentence; you already know what he'd say. Perfect. Incredible. Better than I imagined it would be.

You press your nose into his neck, burying your face into the crook. You could fall asleep like this, over and over, every day for the rest of your life.

You shift onto your elbows, kiss him once chastely, and then a second time decidedly less-so.

"How long do we have now?"

He strokes his fingers absentmindedly over your spine, and it's hard to tell in the dark, but you think he might be smiling.

"We could stay in bed a little longer, if you don't mind sharing a shower."

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lesbobiwan · 3 years ago

Note

8 with Hunter 🥺 Please and thank you 😇

#8: "If you're going to act like a little brat then I'm going to treat you like a little brat." + Hunter

warnings: spanking as punishment, cunnilingus, the joys of trying to have a sex life while being a parent to a nosy child

(lets pretend that the galaxy is nice and the bad batch has both omega and crosshair on board. because im the writer and say fuck u cowboy hat man. also u guys r here for porn. not plot)

It wasn't like you were being serious. You only wanted to have a little fun.

Crosshair was just... conveniently there.

"You must have very steady hands," you remark, holding up Crosshair's hand to inspect them.

He smirks from around his toothpick, totally aware of what little game you're playing but always ready to fuck with his brother.

His fingers are more slender than Hunter's, nimble in a way that's beneficial for a man who lives his life on the trigger of a gun.

You've always valued thickness over length.

You continue to inspect Crosshair's fingers regardless.

He lets you ooh and ahh at his fingers and in turn gets a nice confidence boost while fucking with Hunter. A beneficial relationship.

The vein on Hunter's is getting exponentially larger with every second you spend touching Crosshair, but it isn't until Crosshair offers to give you a personal demonstration of how useful his fingers can be that Hunter stands up.

"Alright," Hunter's voice is short and clipped and sure to cause the best kind of pain for your backside. "Everybody out." He stands up from his bunk, drawing the attention of Wrecker, Tech, Echo, and Omega.

"What?" Echo's voice is incredulous as he looks up from whatever he was tinkering with.

"Where are we going?" Omega asks, bouncing up to her feet.

You would smile at her overabundant enthusiasm if it weren't for the fact that you wanted to be fucked. Now.

Being a new parent really puts a damper on your sex life, which was already had to be a little sneaky to begin with when you shared a ship with four other people.

Hunter falters, mouth falling open but staying silent.

"Um, Hunter and I just need to talk about something real quick, sweetheart," you cover, excitement starting to build in your gut.

Tech scoffs and mumbles something under his breath.

Wrecker elbows him hard enough to shove Tech into the side of the bunk.

"Oh," Omega rolls onto the backs of her heels, "what about?"

Yup, you're tapped out for trying to come up with excuses to get a child out of the house so you can have sex.

You look at Hunter and gesture out towards Omega. Your turn.

"Uhm... adult stuff," Hunter stammers smartly.

"C'mon, kid," Wrecker plucks Omega up around the waist and hauls her under his arm like a ball, easily leading her out of the ship.

Tech and Echo are the next to rise, both of them hauling little scraps of machinery.

"You do know we're in the middle of nowhere," Tech reminds the two of you on your way out.

"Out, Tech."

Crosshair is the last to get up, groaning with the obvious tremendous effort it takes to stand up. "You owe me," he informs you, pointing one of his long fingers at you.

"Bye, Crosshair," you sing, reaching out to graze a finger along his wrist as he steps past you.

The tension in the ship is palpable.

"I can't help but feel like you're mad at me," you point out, eyes trailing over the way that Hunter's broad chest rises and falls with each of his deep inhales.

You see Hunter's nostrils flair — most likely breathing in your arousal. No sooner than the thought enters your mind, Hunter's eyes dilate. Definitely breathing in your arousal.

Still, he doesn't say anything.

"Me and Cross were just having some fun," you defend, cheeks growing red.

Suddenly, your grand idea doesn't seem that grand anymore.

"Do you want to do this here? Or in the bedroom?" Hunter steps closer into your personal space, so close you can smell the GAR issued soap on him mixed with something distinctly Hunter.

He's offering you a small bit of mercy, a small portion of control in your punishment.

Then you have to open your big mouth.

"We could always use Crosshair's bun — hey!"

Hunter's hand closes around your hair within one breath and the next.

"Hunter!" you cry out, hands scrambling at his wrist, "What the hell are you doing? Let me go!"

He sits on a bunk and — oh, fuck it's actually Crosshair's bunk, Hunter's actually doing this — sprawls you across his lap, one heavy hand on the back of your neck.

Heat rushes to your cheeks and your cunt. "Okay, this isn't funny," you say, while internally you beg for him to keep going, "let me up."

You don't try as hard as you should to get out of his grasp. You think Hunter knows.

"No." Hunter's grip on your neck tightens while his other hand drags both your pants and panties over your ass until they get stuck around your knees. "If you're going to act like a little brat then I'm going to treat you like a little brat."

Shit. You rub your thighs together over his lap, one of your hands clasping around his ankle.

"How many do you think you deserve after that little stunt?" Hunter asks, though you know it's purely rhetorical. "Ten? Fifteen?" His hand swipes across the meat of your asscheeks, warming up the skin before he strikes it — another small mercy.

You hold your breath. You're sure any number you give will only be doubled.

Hunter huffs. "Smart girl," he comments at your silence. "Count."

That's all the warning you get before —

Smack!

You yelp at the first sting across your skin. The sound registers first before the pain. You jerk across his lap, kicking your legs out as you squeal.

The hand on the back of your neck tightens imperceptibly. "Forgetting something?"

"One!" you cry out, voice thick.

He offers you no praise. Not yet, at least. He knows this is light work for you. It's towards the end of your punishment that he'll have to start talking you through it.

Smack!

Hunter's palm lands on your opposite cheek, harder this time.

"Two!" you yelp, hands clenching around Hunter's ankle.

True to form, it takes more than a few spanks in order for you to begin to reach your limit. Your eyes get teary and you do your best to dig your face into the pristine sheets of Crosshair's bunk.

Still, despite your pain, you feel your inner thighs get slick with your arousal.

"That's my girl," Hunter coos, fingers turning almost gentle as he scratches at the nape of your neck. "Just a couple more, can you do that for me?"

His hand soothes the skin of your burning ass, but you jerk against him in sensitivity.

It's too much. Too much, you just want to be good for him now.

"Color?" Hunter prods, pulling his hand away from your stinging cheeks.

"Green!" you sob into the sheets.

Good girls take their punishment.

Hunter gives you one appraising squeeze to the back of your neck, distinctly different from how he grabbed it to get you under control, and wastes no time in delivering two succinct and brutal spanks — one to each cheek.

You wail out each corresponding number and allow yourself to devolve into tears against the sheets.

Hunter smoothes contact-warm palms over your ass cheeks, soothing the ache as best he can without getting up to grab some bacta. "Good girl," he praises, "such a good girl for me," his hand around the back of your neck slides up and begins scratching at your scalp just the way you like.

You feel your heart rate slowing down, and no doubt Hunter can too, under his careful ministrations. The ache in your ass is no less prevalent, but you can bare it.

Besides, you think as you begin to roll your hips against his thighs, there's another feeling you can focus on, instead.

Hunter chuckles, sliding the hand on your ass to dip between your thighs and ghost a finger along your folds, "Well, I suppose you do deserve a reward, don't you?"

You turn to look at him over your shoulder with teary eyes. "Please?"

Hunter flicks his thumb across your clit, and you jolt across his lap for a different reason this time. "Hands and knees, baby," he murmurs, patting your hip once to signal for you to move.

Your limbs feel sluggish as you pull yourself off his lap. "On the floor?" you ask as you start to lower yourself onto the cold ground.

A hand around your wrist stops you. "No. Right here."

Your eyes flew open. On Crosshair's bunk? Spanking you in one thing, but fucking you?

Your cunt burns in excitement. Crosshair will never forgive you and you'll never forget this.

You settle yourself onto your hands and knees on the worn-in mattress, and you don't have to wait long at all before broad, thick fingers are spreading your thighs open and a wicked tongue is pressing against your cunt.

"Fuck!" you cry out, back bowing as Hunter dives in.

His tongue is downright sloppy as he does his best to bury his face in your dripping folds. The sounds he's making against you are obscene and make your facial cheeks go almost as red as your ass cheeks.

Hunter groans against your cunt like it's the best thing he's eaten, and you tremble with the vibrations.

Fuck, you're so close already, it's not even fair.

His lips wrap around your clit and he sucks.

"Hunter!" you sob, falling face first into the mattress. Your thighs tremble beneath his hands.

After being spanked within an inch of your life, your orgasm is tittering along a cliff's edge, ready to be knocked over by the barest gust of wind that comes along in the form of Hunter sliding two thick fingers into your cunt and curling.

You fall apart around him, lips falling open in a wordless scream as your walls clench around his fingers. His relentless lips that sucked at your clit switch to slow licks as you ride out your orgasm.

Hunter pulls his fingers from your sopping pussy with a wet squelch. Immediately, he sucks his fingers into his mouth.

You watch behind heavy eyelids as Hunter licks up every last drop of your release — you also notice the large wet spot in the front of Hunter's pants.

The knowledge that he came in his pants like some fresh-faced cadet is almost enough to have you wanting a second round.

"C'mon, baby," Hunter rasps, "Let's get you cleaned up."

When the rest of the crew comes back, Crosshair takes one look his bunk, with a wet spot from your tears and the crumpled up sheets and immediately groans.

"You're both disgusting. You're washing my sheets," he complains, pulling them off his bed as best he can without touching too much of them.

"Why?" Omega asks, popping her head in out of nowhere. "What'd they do?"

Yeah, Hunter can deal with that one too, you think as you burrow your face deeper into his chest and close your eyes.

#100 follower celebration #hunter brat tame me challenge #sergeant hunter x reader #hunter x reader

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wyn-n-tonic · 4 years ago

Text

We Can Stay Like This Forever

Word Count: 2,385 Warnings: Uh... yearning. A crumb of smut. Dialogue heavy bullshit tbh. Author's Note: God okay, I've been sitting on this for like a month now? I wrote this when I couldn't focus on my own characters anymore and my brain needed to visualize parts of the scene I was trying to write using the body language of a character I already know and love so well. This is written in second person but the reader has a name. It was an experiment dashed out in a drunken fervor that made my editor weep. Anyway, if you see any of these lines in a book one day... no you don't.

MASTERLIST

“Javi, I haven’t loved you since I was twent—“

“That's bullshit and you know it,” he interrupts, voice coming out hard but arms crossed tighter than they have been all night, replacing the pressure of kevlar he’s so used to. Protective, defensive, stopping the bullets from reaching him where it matters the most.

Your lips are raw from dragging your teeth across them but biting down is the only thing that stops the tears from springing to the surface. You never thought you’d see him again, you never thought he’d be standing in your kitchen only strides away; two for him, four for you. You saw the news coming out of Colombia, heard it in the supermarket passed from ear to ear straight from his dad’s mouth. Javier Peña was the walking dead.

Javi left Lorraine for you. You gave him a choice and he made it and you, being certain he’d lean the other way, couldn’t live with that guilt. When you wrote that first letter, you didn’t expect a response. You just wanted to apologize, you wanted him to know that you were sorry. You didn’t expect to hear his voice on the other end weeks later when you picked up the phone. Hell, you had pushed the letter so far out of your mind that you’d forgotten you’d included your number.

And now he’s standing in front of you, tangible as ever. No longer just the boy you loved but a man aged so roughly by sun and stress that you are breaking within wishing that you had been there to smooth it all over.

“Goddamn it, Clara,” that hard tone reaches towards you again but he loosens his stance, the toned arms still holding close to his body but the tension bottoming out to his exhaustion, “are you going to say anything or are you going to just keep looking at me like I’m a fucking ghost?”

“Is that not what you are?” Your voice is broken when you find it again, the tears really do come now. “A ghost from my past come back to haunt my bad decisions? Tell me I fucked up?”

“Is that what you think I’m here for? Is that why you think I came to you first thing instead of my family?” He exhales a breath you didn’t realize he was holding and drags a hand through his hair, pinning you in place with his eyes. “Can I smoke in here?”

“I thought you quit.”

“Yeah well,” another exhale, the slightest hint of laughter on his lips, “I thought a lot of things I’ve been wrong about too.”

And god, those eyes. Simultaneously the warmest, softest brown but so black they look like blown out pupils. Like he’s the one who’s been snorting the cocaine, not busting those that do. You don’t even register the insult before nodding your head. What’s a little cigarette smoke when you run the risk of him walking out that door and not coming back?

But isn’t that what you want? Isn’t that the purpose of this conversation? Are you not being the same bitch you were all those years ago praying that he’ll be the one to walk out on you this time? Bringing it back full circle to that decision you forced on him half a lifetime ago?

“Yeah?” He doesn’t sound sure and even though your eyes are anywhere but on his now, you haven’t felt his leave you this whole time.

“Yeah,” you whisper to your feet like they’re the most interesting goddamn thing in the world.

After years of practice, he’s quick about it, you don’t even realize he’s lit up until he lets go of that first puff and, with it, the entire room changes. It’s not angry, it’s not hard, it’s… twenty years of heartache and longing compounding, neither party believing they’re good enough for the other.

You look back at the tired man standing in front of you, “Javier, I—“

“No. No, let me talk,” he rubs his eyes with his free hand, drags it down his golden cheek and smirks. Another inhale and, “I didn’t come here to tell you that you fucked up, you’ve said it plenty. We’ve been talking for months, we fell back in stride like nothing ever happened, like I hadn’t spent years pretending every woman I fucked was you because it was like you’d never left my side. Almost twenty-five hundred miles, Clara, I was a world away from you and when I came home at the end of the day the last six months…” he’s the one biting his lip now, “I could call you no matter the time and the sound of your voice made me feel like a normal person. Like I still had a shot at this world beyond the bounty on my head.”

His exhaustion, his softness, is palpable now as he stops to suck in a breath like he hasn’t taken one this whole time and then…

“If you didn’t love me, you wouldn’t have written. If you didn’t love me, you would’ve hung up. If you didn’t love me, you wouldn’t answer the phone at one o’clock in the fucking morning to tell me to breathe through the anger and the sadness and the horror I witnessed. But if that’s the story you want to stick with, I’ll go. I don’t expect anything I just…” his voice hitches, the cigarette long forgotten between his fingers, “I just wanted to see if your face still lights up when you laugh or if that had changed after two decades. It hasn’t and it’s still both my favorite sight and sound in the world. I’m sorry I didn’t fight harder to watch it grow through the years.”

He looks to the right of him and throws the cigarette in the sink. Pushing off the counter with his other hand, he takes one step forward and fixes his eyes on yours again. “Tell me I’m wrong, Clara. Tell me you don’t love me and I won’t ever darken your home aga—“

“I love you.”

And he’s on you. Just like that. Just one more step to close the distance and his body presses to yours. His large hands come up to cradle your jaw and his nose slots perfectly into place against yours and his lips touch down like a plane with faulty landing gear, crashing against yours all hot breath and stale tobacco and, oh god, the smell of him. Soap and sweat, the chemical make up of his scent flooding your senses to make you feel whole again when you didn’t even know how much you missed it.

His hands are sliding down gently, wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. With his strong arms lifting you away from the counter, you no longer need to support yourself against it and you’re grabbing for him, trying harder to wring the space from between you like a worn rag but nothing is left.

The feel of him is something new, however. He’s not that scrawny kid who awkwardly held you to him, unsure of how his touches were affecting your body and pleasure. No, this Javier is different. Older, experienced, more tender than you remember him ever being, so sure of himself and just… thicker. Two shirt sizes up from the man you walked away from, his formerly wiry muscles are almost bubble wrapped in a way. What used to knot against you in hard planes of flesh and bone now give quietly against your touch as you’re pulling at the only thing that separates you now.

But suddenly, he’s breaking away. All heavy breaths and wildly flushed cheeks, his lips have left yours and the ache you numbed in his absence returns like a migraine after sleep. You need him and he’s gone again and you’re chasing his kiss with a whine as he replaces his lips with a thumb, cradling your face once more and shushing you, “Cálmate, mi amor. Está bien. Are we moving too fast right now?”

And you are breathless as you answer, “We are not moving fast enough, Javier.”

“I just don’t want you to think that this is all that I want. That you will wake to find an empty bed tomorrow.”

“If I woke to find an empty bed tomorrow, that’s exactly what I’d deserve.”

Those eyebrows knit up in confusion, the lines that have made their home on his forehead making you simultaneously weak in their beauty as evidence of his life and sad in the tragedy that you weren’t there to watch him earn them.

“Clarita,” his tone is so soft, the endearment coming to him as naturally now as it did in the before, “If it’s punishment you think you deserve then I’m here to tell you that you’re wrong. I chose you, you didn’t beg for it. I did that of my own accord. And when you chose to walk away because you felt guilty, I did beg you. I’ll own it, I begged and pined but you couldn’t get out of your own head long enough to see that you were never the issue, you were the solution. You still are. I have searched for you in everybody I’ve ever met. So tell me,” his hands are wrapping around your arms now, “Are you ready to forgive yourself and find me in your bed tomorrow morning?”

“Yes,” comes barely audible through parted lips as his find yours once more, knocking the breath from your chest as his hands slide down to your hips. He digs his fingers into the denim there and slowly starts to guide you through the home that’s not his thinking, correctly, that the only door at the end of the hallway is the destination he really booked from Bogotá.

And he is burning a hole through you, his entire being set on fire against you in the already blazing Texas heat. He is gentle as he pushes you down, climbing on top with one arm out to break both your falls. His shirt was abandoned somewhere in the kitchen, shoes kicked off in the hallway with your shorts not far behind. His belt buckle is riding against you as he rocks his hips down, forgetting the metal between you in his hunger for you to feel him.

He feels you wince, the whine swallowed between his lips but he’s pulling back like he’s electrocuted you. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” your hands are shaking as you take advantage of the space between, “just take your pants off.”

He hits you with that crooked smile and meets your hands where they’re still trembling at his hips and, god, he’s swift. He wastes no time kicking off his jeans and falling back into you, pressing back into you. You can feel him straining against his briefs but his patience is unmatched as he savors every taste of your mouth, every nip at the warm skin of your neck and chest. His hands are exploring the years that have marked your body as you mentally catalogue the scars that have taken over his.

He’s pushed your shirt up as far as it will go without leaving you but when he finally does to lift it away, the separation is so quick that it feels like nothing. He’s everywhere and you’re delirious, half thinking you’re imagining him moaning into you as he takes your hand in his to put it where he wants it.

You almost think…but, no, that’s not how that works. Your brain is fucking with you, unable to reconcile the man on top of you with the memory of the boy you loved once upon a time. But you swear, he’s bigger. He holds his breath as your hand slides between him and his waistband and he’s looking down at you like he’s never been touched at all. The sadness showcased across the softness of his face is made worse by the sheen of sweat and blush across his nose. You’d almost believe it if you couldn’t feel the heartbeat in his hardness, waiting for you to make the next move.

After two beats of aching silence, looking up into the galaxies he has the audacity to call eyes, your other hand moves to push at his waistband. If you thought he was urgent before, the graceful rush to join your efforts is gold medal worthy. Your senses are delayed, you’re not sure if the sound of fabric hitting the ground comes before or after he’s ripping at the only bit of fabric that separates you now.

“Fuck,” he rests his forehead to yours, “I'll buy you another pair.” The confusion bubbles into laughter as you realize that, yes, he actually tore them from your body.

But the bubbling laughter in your throat squeezes into a tight gasp, the air punched from your lungs as he steadies himself against you. His long fingers are brushing your hair to the side as he leans down and whispers against your lips, “Can I?”

“Please,” but your begging is lost in his response before the word has fully left your lips. He is grabbing in a way you haven’t felt in years. Hungry, like he can’t get enough, like it’s all he needs.

It is devastating, the build up. He’s ripping through the deepest parts of you and you’re convinced, wholeheartedly, that the only truth you’ve ever known rides on the waves of his name. His grip tightens, his teeth dragging down your jawline and warmth takes over as an earthquake shatters what little composure you’ve kept.

He moans low in his throat once.

Twice.

Three times it dies out against your ear like it’s only meant for you. Like it was all only meant for you.

He’s smiling as he softens, you can hear it in his voice as he slowly asks, “Can we just stay like this for a minute?”

You press your lips to that dimple, singular and lonely on the right side of his face; so far gone from a five o’clock shadow, you’d almost think he’s been forty all his life.

“Javier,” your fingers wind tighter through the sweat slick curls at the crown of his head, “we can stay like this forever.”

#narcos #fanfic #fanfiction #javier pena #javier peña #javier peña x reader #javier pena x reader #pedro pascal

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acourtofsnakes · 4 years ago

Text

Dar - Rogue, Chapter 16| The Mandalorian x Force Sensitive! Reader (f)

Summary: Din frantically searches to find you, but will all be well when he reaches you?

Warnings: Swearing, angst, injury/blood, drowning, mentions of dead bodies, Ltt me know if i forgot anything!

Word Count: 3.8k+

AN: Oh, dear.

Rogue Taglist: @snipskixandbeskar @weirdowithnobeardo @the-bottom-of-the-abyss @jackgrzs @sarahjkl82-blog @boomtownboy @goldielocks2004 @seninjakitey @what-iwish-you-knew @queenofthefaceless @rosiefridayrogersunday-reads @greeneyedblondie44 @itsnottilly @welcometothepedroverse

Permanent Taglist: @greeneyedblondie44

Gif by: @jesuiscalmedammit

Mando’a translation: Dar - No longer

Din couldn’t feel his feet.

Or his hands.

There was a thick layer of frost over his armour that crackled every time he moved, giving him the feeling of being encased in a walking, icy tomb.

Of course, if he couldn’t find you and the kids, that’s what his life would come to.

A yawning, bleak nothingness that was darker than his life had ever been. For now, he knew what he had to lose.

He had turned the whole of the Razor Crest apart, pausing to put out the fires now and then before continuing his manic search.

Every single inch, every nook and hidey hole and compartment – even the crates.

Nothing.

You had vanished like the ghost that people had dubbed you when trying to hunt you.

But he had still found you. Why couldn’t he do it again?

He’d managed to get out of the Crest, by climbing out through the doors which were stuck shut. The engines in the ship had died and all the power went out in the crash.

Which had only made him more confused about how the hell you had gotten out – and why.

Din knew you wouldn’t have abandoned them, but he had a horrible feeling that you didn’t leave the ship by choice.

Something had taken you. He knew it by instinct.

And his instinct was rarely wrong.

~~~

He had been walking for days – at least that’s what it felt like.

Din didn’t stop, only briefly when his body begged him to.

He couldn’t afford to stop really, not even for a second.

As soon as it became dark, he used the light on his helmet, but after one incident of nearly tumbling headfirst into an icy crevasse, he knew he would have to wait out the night.

How could he save you if he was lying in the bottom of a ditch with a broken neck?

The second the first streaks of sunlight peered weakly through the clouds; he was moving.

As he walked, he couldn’t help but reminisce of moments you had shared together, from the first time you’d met, all the way until now. Not always significant things, they could sometimes be just flashes, small details that his mind and heart had clung onto.

The way he had instantly thought you looked beautiful when you fought, even if you had been striking out to kill him on Sorgan.

The sharp bite of your words, or the crooning silk of them when you teased him.

The musical twinkle of your laughter filling the quiet atmosphere of this ship, beautiful and infectious.

The scent of you floating through the cockpit, sneaking up under his helmet and making his head spin and his heart flip over.

The ‘fresher always smelt of your soap after you’d been in there, some natural, flowery bar you’d bought from a market and now stayed firmly lodged in his senses.

The way your lips held a natural pout when you slept, as if taunting him. More than once he had to physically remove himself from your presence, before he yanked off his helmet and felt for himself if your lips were as soft as they looked.

The gentle tone you took with Grogu, even when you were scolding him for eating something he shouldn’t, like your fruit or your hair.

Your hair… the feel of it slipping through his fingers like water. Even if it were tangled, or thwapping in your eyes, it was still gorgeous, and he ached to brush it back and braid it out of the way for you.

He didn’t even know how to braid.

Din swallowed, feeling tears threaten the backs of his eyes.

He just couldn’t lose you.

You meant more to him that he could ever admit.

And he never even got to tell you how he really felt. Never got to tell you the things that kept him awake at night, the words that threatened to spill from his lips every time you smiled or laughed with him – but usually at him.

Never got to reveal his true face.

You had shot into his life and exploded like the fierce brilliance of a star, bathing him in light and something extraordinary that he had never realised he’d been missing.

You drove him insane, made him terrified with your reckless abandon, to the point where he thought he might have an aneurysm.

But more than that… you were a constant that he needed.

Sure, he had the kid, but this was different.

With you, he didn’t have to pretend. He didn’t need to keep up the acts of Mandalorian, hunter, fugitive, protector, father.

He could just be… Din.

And telling you his name… Yes, he’d felt nervous, thought his heart might escape out of his throat but… he wanted to. It felt right, to give you something.

And now he might lose you without ever being able to tell you that he lo-

He was broken from his thoughts rather suddenly as his boot caught something and he went tumbling face first into the snow.

Which was hard, and felt… human?

Easing his numb limbs up, Din moved to a crouch to examine what he had ungracefully stumbled over.

His gloves were already soaked, so he made no haste in clearing away the thick, white powder until he revealed something shiny and hard, as white as the landscape.

Armour, layered over soaked black fabric…

Stormtrooper.

A very, very dead Stormtrooper.

Quickly, Din cleared the rest of the snow, and he sobbed out loud when he saw the cause of his death.

An arrow to the throat, which was unmistakably yours with the matte black and gold filigree design

You’d been here.

And you’d fought well, naturally.

He didn’t need to search the rest of the snow to know that there would be more bodies here, that was a waste of time.

Now he just had to find you.

There was a chance you may have been hurt, but the ever-falling precipitation and frigid air would have long since covered any tracks.

Din quickly scanned the trees, but there were no signs of the codes you had both established one night, should you ever be separated and need to find each other without drawing attention.

He was this close to you, literally holding a piece of you in his hands, and yet… he had no idea where to look.

When it came to you, everything he knew how to do often turned upside down.

Frantic anxiety crept along his spine as he rose to his feet, clutching the arrow and he ran a hand over the top of his head, an anxious gesture that would normally involve him running his fingers through his hair and tugging at it to try and make his brain kick into gear.

He was a hunter. A Mandalorian.

So why couldn’t he just hunt?

Doubt and frustration were just beginning to pull him into the depths of a breakdown, when he felt it.

A lick of power along the back of his neck, caressing gently and then disappearing again.

Din went rigid, his heart giving one thud and then seeming to go still as well, like it would help him concentrate better.

He hadn’t imagined it, had he?

Even the snow seemed to stop, everything pausing in anticipation.

The power crept along his shoulders, down his back and roamed over his chest. It slid down his arms and circled his hands, and for a single moment, he swore he could feel fingers laced through his own, tugging his hand gently the same way you did when you saw something pretty or you were in a market.

“I’m here. This way.” It seemed to whisper, “Come and find me…”

Din ran, not even hesitating as he felt the pull.

It was similar to the other night, when he first felt your power. It had that same tug, the same urgency.

Admittedly, there was something wrong with it, it felt… darker. It didn’t carry the same irresistible light that glowed from your very soul and chased away his shadows.

But it had to be you.

He didn’t know anyone else who could do that, apart from the kid and he didn’t know where Grogu was.

Besides, he wasn’t strong enough to do that.

It was you. He knew it was.

As he ran, he put it down to the trauma of being trapped out here, and maybe the fact you were grievously injured.

Maybe even dying.

That unwelcome thought had him moving even faster, following the call and caress of power as it led him across the icy plain, along a slushy river to the base of the largest glacier on the horizon.

The river opened up into a huge, solid lake, glittering with frost and hiding all manners of dark creatures in the murky, frigid depths.

Din bolted around a boulder, and what he saw nearly made his knees buckle in relief.

There you were.

You were alive.

Standing in the centre of the lake, feet planted firmly on the ground, crying as you saw him. You were whispering his name; he could see the way your lips moved and formed the one syllable.

Din had tears of relief on his own cheeks, and he ran a few steps onto the ice when his brain finally caught up and processed the scene.

Something wasn’t right.

You were crying, yes… But you were shaking your head, desperately, as if begging him... not to approach?

Why would you be begging him?

He looked at you properly for the first time.

You were standing oddly, arms behind you and the tension in your body looked like you were being held against your will.

But there was nothing there.

Which only one thing.

“Mando! Finally decided to join the show, did you?”

That fucking voice.

Rich and smooth, dripping like honey with none of the sweetness to match. It only left a bitter taste of copper and blood.

Din turned his head, hand already yanking his pulse rifle from his back and aiming it at Haran before his head even finished turning. “Let her fucking go.”

Haran was leaning against a boulder, one leg crossed over the other with his hands in his pockets. He chuckled, infuriatingly casual, “I’ve just been explaining to your princess here, that this is my game. My rules, my decisions. You are the pawns in my game, and I will move you as I see fit. It’s only just begun, and it is far from over.”

Din snarled softly, raising his hand more, “I don’t care whether you’re playing a game, or having a fucking tea party. Let her go. Now.” He walked further forward, his rifle unwavering and locked onto Haran.

Haran lifted a hand from his pocket, waggling his finger, “Nu-uh. Make one more move and...” He looked over at you, smiling sweetly and his finger just lightly twitched.

A sudden cry, your cry echoed across the air.

The sound of your pain wrenched through Din’s chest, as his head snapped to you and he made a soft noise of horror as he saw the wound that Haran had clearly just probed.

There was a circle of fabric singed and burned away, revealing angry, shining flesh beneath. By the edges of it, it looked almost cauterised... but still awful and blistered; a wound made by a weapon Din had never seen before.

His arm wavered, hearing you stifle your cries of pain, but you looked so pale, seemingly exhausted from the past few days.

And yet, despite the injuries, despite the terrible situation, that fire in your eyes still blazed. It was the untamed fire of a wolf, someone used to being on the edge again and again, and still fighting their way out.

A survivor.

You gazed back at him and your eyes roved over him, taking in every single inch of him, checking for wounds and anything obvious that would show hurt.

You couldn’t see his face, so you wouldn’t be able to see the tears that had frozen on his cheeks. You wouldn’t see the way he was panting, or the way his heart pounded against his ribs.

Normally, this situation would have been nothing to him, something he’d experienced multiple times. A stand off by a bounty who had nothing to lose.

But this was different.

Everything with you was different.

Even though you gave him a strength he never knew he had, you also scared the absolute life out of him. He had nightmares about this kind of situation, nightmares where he wasn’t fast enough to save you and you died in his arms.

He couldn’t let that happen again.

Haran’s voice flowed out again, purring, “You feel it don’t you? The fear… the terror of being faced with a choice. Knowing that in minutes, maybe even seconds, it’ll no longer be me holding her life. It’ll be you. You will be responsible for how your day ends. Embracing each other, alive and safe. Or clutching her dead body to you as you try to figure out just how you failed her.”

A wave of anger rolled through Din, edged with fear and revulsion at the joy in Haran’s voice. “You’re sick, you know that?”

Haran laughed again, rising to stand straight and he walked to the edge of the frozen lake, his black garb standing out starkly against the snowy white surroundings. “I’m not sick, Mandalorian. I just see the world clearly.”

He motioned toward you, “As I also explained to your darling princess - Everyone preaches that they will always sacrifice themselves for the one they love. That it would never be a choice to choose between a stranger, or their amour. But… they lie. When it comes down to it… They always choose wrong.”

He began to walk up and down the edge of the lake, with fluid movements that highlighted the fact that… he just wasn’t human. He couldn’t be.

“Now, of course, I know that if I presented you with saving your own life, or hers, you would choose hers. And she would beg me to save yours, and on and on it would go and be terribly boring.” He paused, stopping and looking between Din and you with a blissful grin, “So, I’ve decided to make it a little more fun.”

You moaned low, a noise of horror and you shook you head, tears forming in your eyes, “Please… Please don’t.”

Din’s blood began to turn even colder, “What are you talking about?” He spoke with fierce demand that didn’t match the turmoil inside.

Haran just smiled a pretty smile, “I’m going to make it harder for you.” He extended an elegant, gloved hand toward you, “Your beloved… or…” He turned his head toward Din, waving his hand again and suddenly, a small bundle flew through the air and he caught it.

Grogu.

He held up the Child, gripping him by the back of his tunic that Din had painstakingly made for him out of fabrics he salvaged from the ship. “Your sweet little child.”

Grogu whined, trying to move but it seemed that Haran had him gripped with the same power that was trapping you.

Din couldn’t breathe, couldn’t comprehend what was happening. There was no choice here. How could he possibly choose?

He swallowed, looking between his Child that he risked his life for, defected, became a fugitive… or the girl that he had been harbouring such love and deep affection for since the night he had nearly lost his life in the alley way.

There was no choice here.

He would save the pair of you, even if he had to die.

The wheels in his brain started turning, spinning over and calculating multiple strategies, how to best save you both with the least amount of harm.

He ran a mental check of his weapons. He had a few Whistling Birds left, his beskar spear, pulse rifle and a knife.

Sure, Haran had those Force powers, but Din was fast… and he had no mercy when those he loved were in danger.

A delicate snort of laughter broke his reverie, and he shifted his attention back to the terrifying legend come to life, “Oh, Mando, please don’t embarrass yourself. I know you think you have the upper hand, but maybe you’ve forgotten that I simply will tear them both apart without blinking. I need your beau, yes, but I’m not afraid to break her first. It’ll only make my job easier.” He grinned, as he were discussing how cold it was, not the fates of his family. “You have to choose, Mandalorian. I don’t have all day. Even monsters like me get cold.” He winked, his scar pulling tight his eyelid for a second.

Din rolled his shoulders, adjusting his grip on his blaster, “You truly think you can do this do us? You are nothing. A monster who delights in hurting people. I’m not listening to you-“

Haran sighed, an over the top, dramatic sigh, “Stars above, I’m bored of this now.” He hauled Grogu up higher, yanking the tube free from his belt and he activated his lightsaber, holding it close to Grogu’s little throat. “For every minute you keep me waiting, I will burn your little baby here. He’s only small, so I’d say you don’t have long. And then, if you’re still keeping me waiting, I’ll do the same to your princess over there, looking all pretty on the ice.”

The gold light bounced off Gorgu’s skin, dangerously close and the little creature whimpered.

For a moment, Din struggled to keep his cool.

There was a sudden flash in his mind, of himself crying over both yours and Grogu’s dead bodies. Because he was too slow, too late and too cocky.

He swallowed back the rising panic clawing up his throat and shook his head a little.

Tears were rolling down your cheeks now, and you turned your head to look at Haran, body still restricted tightly against your will, “Please, please don’t do this. I take it back. I’ll stay with you, or you can kill me. Just don’t hurt him.” You struggled pointlessly against the bonds, trying to send your own power out but Haran had suffocated you.

Din shook his head harder, fiercely, and he was just about to tell you exactly why that would not be happening, when he caught movement above Haran.

His helmet was already turned toward Haran, so he wouldn’t notice the way Din was now searching the boulder above his shoulder.

He could have sworn he saw something, just a flicker-

There.

He did.

A pair of small, glossy black eyes. The very tips of big pointy ears attached to a round head that was barely poking above the top of the boulder.

Suddenly, Din knew exactly how this was going to play out, and what he had to do.

Be the distraction, until he could run and save you.

“Why? Why do I need to choose? What could you possibly gain out of making me decide?” He didn’t risk moving, wanting to keep Haran’s attention focused on himself without letting Grogu be hurt.

Haran rolled his eyes, “You tell me I’m a heartless monster, and then you ask me why I’m doing this?” He looked over at you, “I thought he was supposed to be smart? Tell me there’s something else good going for him besides hunting people.”

You snarled at him, eyes practically spitting fire even though they were glossy with tears, “You should see what he can do with his hands.”

That’s my girl.

Din could have cried at the fact you were still snarking despite the rapidly spiralling situation.

Haran blinked at you for a moment, something unreadable in his eyes before his lips curled up into a wicked smirk, “Oh, I have. Your mind is a lovely little place.” He dropped you another wink and then looked at Grogu, bringing his saber dangerously close agin, “You two have been the centre of my games for far longer than you realise. And this won’t be the last time we meet, believe me. I have much, much bigger plans to set in motion, that will make you wish – Aaah!”

His words were cut off with an uncharacteristic cry of pain as Duru sprang from the top of the boulder, sinking her wickedly sharp claws straight into Haran’s head. She hissed at him, swiping her paws over his forehead and eyes, opening deep cuts that immediately pooled blood.

“Get the fuck off me!” Haran clawed at her, and his effort to dislodge her, he dropped Grogu, becoming more preoccupied with saving his eyes than holding the little baby hostage.

As soon as he landed in the snow, Duru leapt down next to him, biting the back of his tunic and streaking across the snow toward Din. Her head was nearly the same size as Grogu’s entire body, so she had no trouble hauling him to safety.

A frantic laugh bubbled into Din’s throat, but he quelled it fast, because Haran had stopped spinning and wiping the blood from his eyes.

He looked up, his hair sticking out wildly, and with the streaks of blood running down his face, his bared teeth and furious eyes, he truly looked every bit the madman he was believed to be, “You think you can beat me? That I will be taken down by a pest?” He laughed, but this laugh wasn’t silken, or seductive. It was off-kilter, manic and oh-so twisted.

Din turned to you, quickly whilst Haran was laughing, “Sweetheart, run-“

Haran stopped laughing, “Oh, Mando. It’s you that needs to run.” His hand emerged from behind his cloak, and then he suddenly shot at the ice surrounding your feet, multiple blows in rapid succession.

The entire lake rumbled, fissures snaking across the surface like lightning bolts.

With each new appearance, the ice cracked, a deep, echoing noise that Din felt in his bones.

Thousands of splinters appeared around the holes at your feet, exploding across the surface of the lake quicker than taking a breath.

For a few moments, everything seemed suspended as time grew limitless.

Din could count every single squeeze of his heart, could feel every ragged breath dragging in and out of his lungs.

He could see each snowflake that danced in the air, their unique beauty a stark contrast to what was happening.

He saw Haran’s grinning, bloodied face disappearing behind the boulder, making his escape.

Din heard Grogu’s piercing cry of fear, and the noise shattered the haze of time and everything seemed to snap into fast-forward.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t comprehend what was happening, even though he screamed at his feet to move, to run, to save you-

You barely had time to hold out your hand, for your lips to just form The Mandalorian’s name…

And then the ice gave way into the fathomless depths.

And you were gone.

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