#this is deeply shameful

[tawnfawn]

intoxicated | könig

summary: you get along with everyone on your team, except for könig. you think he hates you, but his perceived distaste for you only makes you want him more. you're able to keep your composure until you're partnered up for a mission, where everything seems to go wrong...

tags: könig x fem!reader smut. cod. pure filthy, shameless smut. sex pollen. proofread. MDNI. 5,000+ words

cw: dubcon (due to sex pollen but there's clear consent before and after). unprotected sex (reader IS on birth control, wrap it before you tap it), p in v, oral m!receiving, fingering, accidental drug use (sex pollen), dom!könig and sub!reader, light humiliation kink, heavy praise, size kink if you squint, overstimulation, mutual pining, violence, killing.

MDNI. NSFW BELOW THE CUT

You crept around the corner of the warehouse with your rifle, watching König’s six as you progressed. The other KorTac members were stationed on site as well, giving quick updates through comms as you progressed. Details were scarce, except that in the warehouse, a Russian terrorist group was producing a bioweapon capable of mass destruction—and anyone inside was KOS.

Of course, the bioweapon in question was…dubious, to say the least. A strong aphrodisiac, the contractor had explained, much to the astonishment of your team. During the briefing, you’d managed to keep a straight face, but not all of your teammates were as courteous.

“So let me get this straight—you want us to risk our lives for…Viagra?” Horangi had questioned, exasperated. Your lips pursed at his crudeness, but it was exactly what you were thinking too.

The scientist’s face flushed. “N-no, this is much different,” he snapped. As one of the architects of the bioweapon, he was clearly offended. “It is much, much stronger. Exposure to just one dose will cause severe arousal: heart palpitations, excessive sweating, overheating. Imagine…” He seemed to be struggling to find the words. “Imagine a brain overload, yes? Rational thinking…disappears. Victims may lose all motor control. Too long without treatment can result in heart failure, aneurysms, seizures, stroke, and sometimes death.”

“So what is the treatment?” you interrupted, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Sex,” the scientist answered, shifting uncomfortably on his heels. “It was designed to be, ah… difficult.”

Your jaw clenched, and your eyes darted to König. He was staring down the scientist, narrowed eyes betraying no emotion. While everyone else struggled to keep their bafflement hidden, his sniper hood obscured any hope of reading him. Just my fucking luck, you thought when you were partnered with him.

It wasn’t that you disliked König; it was just that you found it so much more difficult to talk to him. With the rest of your teammates, you were fine. A natural people reader, you were comfortable with the rest of them, relying on body language and the details they let slip to learn more about them. In fact, you considered yourself to be pretty close with them—unsurprising, given that in your line of work, your life rested in their hands and vice versa. But König was… different. You didn’t distrust him, per say, but outside of the battlefield, he was quiet. Reclusive. No matter how many times you’d tried to get him to open up, he barely interacted with you, despite talking to the others. You’d chalked it down to being the newest on the team at first, but now that you’d served over a year and a half together, you were frustrated. Shouldn’t that be well enough time to open up at least a little bit?

You knew your thinking was illogical. Your job was to hunt targets and invade bases, not deep dive into your coworker’s soul, but you couldn’t help the way it took over your mind. Your need to understand him had become a bit of an obsession. You constantly found yourself looking at him, trying to discern any emotion his eyes betrayed. You listened intently for any of his input in person or on comms, no matter how menial it was. You studied his body language, taken note of any habits or gestures. You’d even memorized the way he reloaded his guns.

It was…embarrassing, to say the least. But could you blame yourself? He was so tall and strong and imposing that even just standing next to him made you, a normally very confident and intimidating woman, feel small. Such was the reason that you pushed yourself extra harder whenever you were paired up with him, making sure he knew you were valuable, a force to be reckoned with. Your excellent performance had made you two quite the duo, often clearing out legions of enemies in mere minutes. And you had to admit, seeing him absolutely obliterate enemy lines made you feel some type of way…

But not like that, of course. You were just…curious. When he finally opened up to you (and not if, but when), your obsession would stop, and everything would be fine. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Today, however, there were a lot less enemies than you’d expected. Sure, there were quite a few soldiers stationed around the warehouse (which your team had incapacitated quickly), but inside, save for some scientists and the occasional guard, it was eerily empty and quiet.

“It’s fucking cold,” Horangi’s voice rang out from your radio. You sighed and brought the device to your lips.

“It’s fucking Russia,” you stated. “What did you think it’d be? Beachy?”

König’s quiet chuckle sounded from in front of you, and you couldn’t help the pride that swarmed in your heart. Heat burst in your cheeks, but you tried to brush it off.

“Fuck off,” Horangi replied. “East side clear.”

“West unknown,” you said. “Standby.” You tucked the radio back into your pocket, following your teammate.

You both peeked around the corner to the last room. It was filled to the brim with lab equipment—beakers, bunsen burners, flasks, microscopes—all sitting atop of large resin tables. Bright, fluorescent lights bounced off the sterile grey walls and ceiling, creating a dull glare that was almost depressing. Neat racks of tightly sealed vials and test tubes peeked through glass cabinets on the walls, parallel to the large sinks below. Across the room was a row of unfamiliar-looking equipment, and next to that, an enormous whiteboard boasting messily scrawled notes, diagrams, and equations. A bag of what looked like takeout sat on a nearby desk next to a crumpled napkin and a perspiring styrofoam cup. It was almost exactly what you’d imagined a stereotypical laboratory to look like, albeit a bit messier and more lived in. A singular man stood working at one of the tables, frantically scribbling on a notepad with his back facing toward you. König motioned for you to stay put as he crept forward. You complied.

Then the man dropped his pen.

“Xyй,” he cursed and turned around to pick it up. Of course, when he turned around, he saw König’s gigantic form pointing a gun at him, and he screamed. You fired your suppressed pistol, but not before the scientist hurled a glass vial at König. It shattered against his tactical vest as the dead scientist crumpled to the ground, releasing a burst of lavender-colored smoke that curled into the air and quickly dissipated.

König ripped off his tactical vest, coughing violently, but it was too late—the substance had already entered his lungs, likely reaching his bloodstream by now. He stared at you, blue eyes wide with—for the first time you’d ever seen—fear. 

“Oh, fuck,” he muttered, and he staggered to the wall, crashing down to the floor.

“König?” You stared at him, stricken. His eyes were closed, and he was stock still—stiller than you’d ever seen him—and for a long, hard moment, you thought he might be dead. 

Then his eyes snapped open. His pupils were dilated and blown, a sea of black barely tinged by blue irises. He stared at you, unmoving, before letting out a groan and bringing his hand over his face.

“Oh, fuck,” you whispered. You grabbed your radio. “M-man down!” you stammered into it. “König’s been exposed. West side clear. Requesting med evac in thirty minutes. Going dark.” You turned it off, not bothering to listen to any input. The rest of your team knew what this meant. As did you.

In the time you’d been on the radio, König had torn off all of his other gear, leaving himself in just his shirt, pants, and boots. He was panting, his chest heaving with each breath, ungloved hand still hiding his masked face as he cursed in German.

You crossed the room in seconds and kneeled at his side. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay, König, just breathe—”

“No,” he breathed. His voice was deeper, raspier than normal, and the unbridled heat in it sent a shiver down your spine. His hands were clenched into fists, body tensed as he fought the invisible infection. “Go. Now.”

“You know I can’t leave—”

His hand fell to his side, letting his eyes meeting yours for a split second. “Please,” he groaned, starting to tremble as you drew closer. “I—I can’t—”

His gaze strayed lower, and you followed it to the growing bulge in his pants. You gulped, unmoving, and he grabbed your arm. The force of it was enough to make you still.

“Go,” he insisted, his accent even thicker than usual. “I’m not—I cannot control myself.”

“I’m not gonna leave you here!” you argued, swatting his hand away. “You’re my teammate. You could die.”

“I will hurt you,” he retorted. All the muscles in his body were tensed, clearly on overdrive. Even his eyes were watering. “Please, maus. I am not gentle.”

Something inside about his statement made your thighs clench together, but you tried to ignore it. Tentatively, you brought your hand to his chin, pulling his face towards you. His skin was feverish, and your heart twisted in sympathy. “Let me help you,” you pleaded, and he inhaled sharply.

“It feels like I’m burning,” he hissed, and you frowned. His black compression shirt was nearly soaked with sweat, and you grabbed the fabric, pulling it up. He pawed at your arm weakly, but you shushed him.

“You’re overheating. Take it off,” you ordered, and finally, he let you pull it over his head, sagging back against the wall as you threw it to the side.

You’d seen him without a shirt before—it was hard not to with this kind of job, what with donning injuries all the time—but this was different. His head was thrown back as he panted, toned chest heaving with each breath, and you could see all of the muscles in his chiseled abdomen clenched, glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. It was… erotic. Just looking at him made you feel dirty. You felt the thrum of something other than worry in your abdomen, and you swallowed.

“Leave me,” König growled, but it sounded more desperate than commanding. You shook your head at him.

“Not letting you die, König.” You began to rip off your gear, tugging off your tactical vest and discarding your weapons. 

König grabbed your wrist. “What are you…?”

“Wanna help you, okay?” you said softly, trying to catch his eyes as they darted over your face. “Are you gonna let me?”

He took in a deep breath, his other hand in a death grip on his thigh. “I-I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeated, but it was starting to lose its original harshness. He was fading, and fast.

“It’s okay,” you murmured. You placed your hand on his bare chest, feeling the way his heartbeat stuttered and stammered under your touch. He cursed in response, the hand on your wrist twitching, clearly fighting the urge to touch you. In a split-second decision, you swung your right leg over his lap and straddled him, careful not to grind against him, waiting for an answer first. He let out a choked noise and grabbed you by the hips, his tight grip making you gasp. “Yes or no?” you breathed.

“Ahhh, maus.” The low groan he let out was nearly animalistic. “Yes,” he begged, and that was all you needed to hear.

You started grinding on his lap gently, trying to restrain yourself from going further. You wanted to be mindful of his sensitivity, but König simply huffed in annoyance and used his tight grip on your hips to tug you all the way down into his lap—allowing you to feel everything. The imprint of his hard, throbbing cock made you dizzy; you couldn’t resist pressing against it, moaning softly at the delicious friction it granted your clit.

“Scheiße,” König murmured, his thighs twitching underneath you. You felt bad, knowing he was probably dying for some real contact, so you decided to give it to him.

Your heart raced as you reached for his waistband, unbuckling his belt and sliding his pants to his knees. His cock was straining against his briefs, a wet patch forming from precum, and you quickly removed those as well, watching his hardened cock spring up and then fall slightly, its weight making it unable to reach his stomach. Your mouth went dry. Fuck, he was huge. You supposed it made sense: as an exceptionally large man, it was logical to have a proportionally large cock, but the sight of it still shocked you.

“Maus,” he whispered, breaking you out of your trance. He stared at you apprehensively, and you wrapped your much smaller hands around his cock, hearing him suck in a breath. You took a moment to marvel at the sheer size of him—your normally average-sized fingers looked miniature in contrast, unable to even fully wrap around his length. You felt your own arousal seep into your underwear, and you leaned down to kiss his tip.

The moan he let out turned you on even more than before, and you wasted no time teasing him, spitting into your hand and pumping his cock a few times before bringing the tip into your mouth, swirling your tongue over the slit before pushing him further down your throat. His cock was so large that you had to fight not to scrape your teeth against it, flattening your tongue under the base of it.

His hand fisted into your hair, pulling slightly every time you moved your lips up and down his shaft, twisting your hand in tandem. Your other hand gripped onto one of his thick thighs, feeling his leg twitch as he struggled not to buck his hips up into your mouth. Each strained noise and curse you coaxed from him only encouraged you more, your own whimpers muffled against his cock as you did your best to fit him down your throat.

After only a few minutes, you felt him twitching in your hand and sped up your pace, determined to pleasure him as much as possible. Curses fell from his lips as he finished, hot spurts of his release shooting down your throat. You swallowed it quickly, continuing to pump your hand up and down his still rock-hard shaft.

König, however, pulled you off quickly, eyes wide and dark with an almost fearful desperation as he stared at you. “The poison. It’s still…”

You looked back down to see his cock still twitching in your hand. “It’s okay,” you said, starting to lean back down, “I’ll just—”

“No!” He pulled you back up by the neck. You blinked at him in shock, and he stared back, pupils blown wide like black moons. There was a fiery hunger in his eyes as he looked at you, one you’d never seen before. The sheer want in his gaze sent a cold shiver down your spine. No one had ever looked at you like this before—like you were prey.

“König?” you asked nervously.

Instead of answering, he began to unbuckle your belt, and you gasped as his hand reached under your waistband to cup your clothed core, index finger tracing lightly over your clit. You fought back a mewl, chest seizing as you shut your eyes from the pleasure.

“So wet,” he marveled. He pushed your underwear to the side, smearing your arousal over your soaked folds as you whimpered, bucking your hips into his hand. “Just from sucking my cock?”

His switch in demeanor startled you, and you moaned as one of his large fingers pressed into your weeping hole, curling inside you with precision. His hands were so much bigger than yours; the stretch was making your knees weak. He quickly found your G-spot, taking care to press against it as you arched into him. “Oh, oh, fuck, König,” you whimpered, coaxing a dark chuckle from him that made you clench around him.

Your thighs clenched around his hand, but he pried them apart with ease, forcing you to straddle him and rendering you helpless to his ministrations as he slowly dragged another finger in and out of you. With each achingly slow push into your dripping hole, he made sure to curl them just right, long fingers able to reach that sensitive spongy spot inside you effortlessly. His palm laid flat against your clit as he stroked your walls, letting you sloppily grind into his hand as he murmured praise into your ear.

“Does that feel good, liebling?” he asked, drinking in each of your breathy, pleasured noises with satisfaction. “You like making a mess on my fingers, mm?”

You simply whimpered, too embarrassed of your flustered state to form a real response. He seemed to pick up the hint, giving you a cocky smirk through his mask. “Ohh, it’s okay, maus,” he cooed, but his soft words were laced with a smug condescension that made your cheeks burn. “You look so pretty like this, all dumb on my fingers. I wish I could’ve seen it earlier.”

You whined again, desperately grinding down on his palm for more friction. His slow pace was torturous, giving you just enough to feel pleasure but not enough to build it. It was mean. It was twisted. It was agonizing. You were eating it up.

“Please,” you tried, teary eyes boring into his. “Can you—can you please—”

“Can I what, maus?” He cocked his head, darkened eyes twinkling with mirth. “Tell me, or I can’t help you.”

You know what I want, you wanted to shout at him, but you knew that wouldn’t work. “Please,” you begged, “I need more."

“What more do you need, maus?” he asked again. “You have a mouth. Use it.”

“Need you to—” You whimpered pitifully, dropping your head into his shoulder. “Please, need you to go—go harder.” You nearly sobbed out the words, desperation winning out over your embarrassment. You were mortified at your teary, shaking voice, but he seemed to revel in it, squeezing your thigh in appreciation.

“Oh, is that what you wanted?” he teased, and you could hear the smirk in his voice. “You could have just said so.”

He set a steady pace with his fingers, bullying them inside of you hard enough to make you squirm against him. With each thrust, he curled them just right, sending your eyes rolling back and mouth falling open in heavy pants as you mewled into his shoulder. You were grateful to be spared of his intense gaze; you didn’t think you could look at him in the state you were in. It was mortifying just hearing the sounds of his fingers pumping in and out of your gushing cunt.

“Oh, maus,” he cooed into your ear as you trembled, keening at the stretch of his fingers. “You’re just so beautiful like this, you know. So fucking desperate and pathetic. I wish I could see you like this all the time.”

Would I like him to finger me like this all the time? Hell yes, you thought to yourself, but you couldn’t find the words to tell him, only able to whine and nod vigorously into his shoulder, lost in the feeling of his fingers inside you. You could feel yourself starting to reach the edge of your climax, grinding harder and harder into his palm and gasping with each spark of pleasure it gave your throbbing clit. You were so wet that you were starting to wonder if you’d been infected, too; each time he hit your g-spot just right, you felt more and more slick dribbling out of you and down your thighs. It was driving you insane.

“K-König!” You managed a cry of his name right before you came, clenching around his fingers as you bucked your hips into his hand. Breathy whines fell from your lips, your thighs shaking and seizing as you squirmed in his hold, feeling an almost overwhelming wave of pleasure wash over your body. The feeling was so intense it was almost painful; you hadn’t had an orgasm in so long, and the effect was palpable. His arms held you tight, keeping you grounded while you shuddered in his grasp, his big fingers determined to prolong your ecstasy.

When you finally came down from your high, you couldn’t look at him, mortified at your messy state. His fingers were still knuckle-deep in your arousal, and you could feel more of your slick dripping down your thighs, wet and uncomfortable. You kept your head buried in his chest shyly while your happy cunt stayed spasming in his hand.

“Okay, schatz?” he asked softly, using his free hand to tilt your head towards him. “I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

You stared up at him, mouth open. There were practically hearts in your eyes; your adoration was clear to him, and he laughed at your expression, cradling your cheek with his hand. “Aww, schatz.” He clicked his tongue, a smile audible in his voice. “You’re so sweet.”

Your cheeks burned red at the words, and you blinked rapidly, unable to look away. His piercing blue eyes stayed trained on yours, but there was a warmth in them that soothed you. He petted your cheek, lifting his hood to press a kiss to your forehead.

Your mind felt fuzzy. All you could think about was your need to be filled by him, and you pawed at his hard cock, wrapping your fingers around the base of it. A hiss of pleasure escaped him, and you kept your eyes on his, wide and pleading. “Please fuck me,” you whispered, still trembling in his grasp.

König’s eyes darkened, and he tugged off the rest of your bottoms quickly. His strong hands lifted you to hover you over his cock, and you shuddered with anticipation, head spinning. He rubbed the tip through your dripping folds, coaxing out a gasp as it brushed over your swollen clit. You tried to push him inside, squirming, but his tight grip on the bottoms of your thighs kept you in place, and you whined his name, hoping he would take pity on you.

“Bitte, König,” you begged, and he practically growled at the words, mercifully allowing you to sink onto the tip of his cock and drawing out a desperate mewl. Even with how wet you were, he was so, so big that he was practically tearing you in half.

“K-König—”

“Hush, liebling,” he soothed, and you moaned as your core clenched around him, beacons of pleasure ripping through you from just the feel of him. He waited for you to relax and then pushed in farther as you gasped at his length.

“Mmph! König—” You keened as he continued to push himself into you, waiting each time to make sure you were okay. You could feel his hard cock twitch with each thrust, and you knew it must be difficult for him not to go straight into fucking you, that he was holding himself back to be more gentle. The thought only made you moan louder.

Tears slipped down your cheeks when he finally bottomed out, and he wiped them away with his thumb. “I’m sorry, maus,” he groaned, no doubt feeling the way you clenched around him. “You’re just—so tight—”

You wanted to tell him to it was okay, but from your already fucked out mind, all that came out was a dumb whimper of his name. In response, he pulled up his sniper hood to kiss your forehead, to which you whined and chased his lips with your mouth. This made him chuckle, and he guided your lips to his, coaxing out a soft moan as his tongue met yours. He tasted wonderful, and you mewled into his mouth, feeling even more worked up from the way he kissed you: hot and desperate and sweet, like the world was ending and you were the last ones in it.

“Mein maus,” he growled, suddenly thrusting up into you and making your eyes roll back. His hips snapped against yours, setting a pace that sent your thoughts reeling. “Taking me so well, doing so good for me, hm? Du bist mein schatz, ja?”

“Yes, fuck—yes,” you babbled, barely able to understand what he was saying. His unusually rough tone was fogging up your dumbed-out mind, the contrast between his sweet words and punishing pace reducing you to nothing but a crying, creaming mess. You’d never been this wet for someone before. “Yes, yes, yes, I’m yours, please—”

“Good girl,” he moaned, pushing you up and down his cock with dizzying strength. Your legs tightened around his waist as he thrust up into you, high-pitched and pitiful noises falling from your lips at a shameful volume. He was using you like a toy, you thought, and the notion of it made your pleasured cries even louder.

“Mmm, yeah? Mmm?” He mimicked your breathy moans, and you could hear the grin in his voice. Normally, you’d be mortified, likely retorting with some witty insult, but now? Now with the way he was fucking you, all you could do was whine in pitiful response.

“So needy for me,” he groaned, punctuating each word with a deep thrust. The sheer force of him made your eyes roll back, and you felt that tight coil in your belly close to snapping.

“Fuck, König—” You panted heavily, your legs starting to give out. “K-König, oh my God, I’m gonna—”

“I know,” he cooed, pulling you closer to his chest so your clit could find purchase on his toned abs. “Doing so good for me, schatz. Such a good girl, getting off on me like this. Like the way I feel, mm?”

His sweet praise became your tipping point, your orgasm hitting you like a freight train. You cried his name, mouth falling open in shock as your legs kicked out, your cunt weeping and convulsing around him as you keened. You gasped for air as your orgasm rocked through you, the pleasure suddenly becoming all too much as he continued to drill himself into your gushing cunt.

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you sobbed from the overstimulation, but he didn’t let up his pace, pressing chaste kisses to your lips to soothe you. “Wonder how many orgasms I can get from you,” he murmured. You could hear the smile in his voice as he panted. “How many more, mein schatz?”

“I—I don’t know!” you cried as his pelvis dragged against your clit, sending shocks of electricity through you. “I don’t—I can’t—”

He groaned as you trembled in his hold, pretty blue eyes boring into yours. “You can do it for me,” he replied. “I know you can. Isn’t that right, liebling?”

“Ahh—König—” The juxtaposition of his soft kisses and brutal pace was making your head spin. Too overwhelmed to answer, you just clutched onto his shoulders tighter, crying out every time his skin brushed against your puffy, overstimulated clit. It was painful. It was overwhelming. It felt so fucking good.

“Hush, mein schatz,” he coaxed, holding you closer as you clenched around his cock, babbling incoherently as he fucked up into you. “You’re doing so good, I promise.”

The answer was two. Two more earth-shattering orgasms before he finally went soft, coming inside of you twice before either (1), his dick just gave out, or (2), the poison wore off. Either way, by the end of it, you were exhausted and fucked out, still recovering from your cock-drunk state as he cleaned you up.

“I’m sorry, maus,” he apologized, sounding genuinely remorseful as he gently wiped your soaked thighs with a clean cloth he had found in the room. “I’m so sorry, I don’t—I don’t know what came over me.”

“Drugs,” you supplied, staring at the ceiling in exhaustion. “Really bad drugs.”

“Yes, drugs,” he agreed, carefully mopping your folds as you sighed. “But still—I am sorry. I was…overzealous. I hope I did not hurt you too bad.”

“I’ll be a little sore,” you admitted, glancing at the bruises his fingers had left on your waist and hips. “But I’ll be fine, trust me.”

He sighed, somehow managing to look resigned even with the sniper hood. “I should not have been so hard on you. I’m sorry.”

“Honestly?” you murmured, blinking at him sleepily. “That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

He froze for a moment. “What?” 

“Not that I’ve had a lot of sex,” you said quickly. “But still, that was the best I’ve ever had. Probably will ever have, now that I think about it. You must be very experienced. Oh God, I should not have said that out loud. I am—I am so sorry.”

Even with his sniper hood on, you could tell he was blushing. “Oh, um—it’s okay, maus.” You could hear the shyness in his voice. “I do not consider that to be my best performance, but I will take it as a compliment.”

“Your best performance?” You stared at him, mind running through everything that had just happened. You’d had sex before, but that—that was a whole ass experience. You’d never even dreamed about anything that good. “Christ, what’s your best performance, then?”

“Well,” he replied, sliding your soaked underwear back up your legs for you, “I would have taken you out on a date first, at the very least. That would be the proper way to court you.”

“Court me?” you repeated, sitting up straight. “I didn’t know you were so well-mannered, König.”

He looked away from you, shifting awkwardly from his spot on the floor. “I try to be courteous before sticking my dick in people.”

It took you a moment to realize he was joking, and you laughed—actually really laughed out loud. His awkward humor was charming you, and you felt warmth swell in your chest as you listened to him speak. You grinned at him, his eyes crinkling in a smile back.

König still smiled, but a hint of sadness pervaded his gaze. “Ah, schatz.” He hesitated. “I would have liked to make love to you,” he sighed, “but I did not imagine these would be the circumstances. I was hoping to take you on a date first, get to know you better.”

“You wanted to what?” Your eyes widened, and you blinked in confusion. “But…I thought you didn’t like me.”

König practically jolted in place. It was like you’d electrocuted him. He stared at you. “Why would you ever think that?”

“You talk to everyone but me,” you said softly. “I thought you didn’t trust me. Thought you hated me.”

“Hated—?” He shook his head vigorously. “No, I wanted to speak to you. You just…made me nervous. The others do not.”

“I made you nervous?” The words fell from your lips with shock, your eyebrows furrowing. “How would I—how did I ever make you nervous? You’re like three times the size of me!”

König shrugged, sheepish. “You’re very pretty. And you seemed…kind, and well-connected with the others. I have trouble finding that connection. I didn’t want to say the wrong thing to you and fuck it up.”

“So you said nothing at all.” You were quiet for a moment, turning over the information in your mind. “Wow. I was way off.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “but it is okay. I’m sorry for making you think I disliked you, schatz.”

“It’s okay,” you chuckled, shaking your head in disbelief. You ran a hand through your hair, beyond shocked at everything happening. You couldn’t believe you’d fucked your colleague, the one you’d had a crush on for who knows long, and also discovered that he didn’t, in fact, hate you. “At least I know now.”

“Next time, I will be better,” König vowed, helping you tug on your pants. “More gentle. I will do things right, I promise.”

“Next time?” You hesitated, biting your lip. “There will be a next time?”

“Of course there will,” he answered, adjusting his tactical gloves. “Did you not hear what I said earlier?”

“Um…which one?” He’d said a lot of things earlier.

He helped you to your feet, towering over you as he cupped his large hand under your jaw. Your heart stopped in your chest as you looked up into his eyes, his large frame dwarfing yours beyond comparison. “Du bist mein schatz, ja?” he repeated, gloved thumb tracing over your bottom lip. His very soul seemed to ooze confidence. “That’s what I said, no?’

With the way he was making you feel right now, you didn’t think it was even possible to say the word no. “Y-yes,” you stammered, adoration clear in your eyes as you gazed up at him.

He chuckled and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “So there will be a next time. Unless, of course, you don’t want to.”

“N-no, no, no, I definitely want!” you said quickly. You stumbled over your words in your eagerness, and your cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “I would like that a lot.”

“Good,” he said, patting the top of your head. Normally, you’d be furious at such an action, but considering his height, it seemed more practical than condescending. “Now come, schatz,” he said, adjusting his vest. “Time to deny everything to the rest of the team.”

Oh, fuck. You sighed. “Yeah…I forgot about that.”

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Maybe we never had a chance.

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[sharkylad]

Thinking about the fact that Mabel and Dipper didn't know they had two great uncles.

Yeah they are 12 and at 12 I had a shotty understanding of my family tree- But really? Nobody brought up their great uncle? Stanley? Especially since they'll be staying with his twin brother, Stanford?

Shermie never went to Stan's fake funeral, which to me means the twos relationship was strained on some level. If Shermie is older that means his view of Stan was poisoned in some way, that even as kids they weren't close. If the Shermie is younger then he never even got to meet Stan and all he knew about him was how he failed his family. Hell, people probably barely mentioned Stanley TO Shermie.

The fact that Stan had become a black stain upon the Pines family name makes me so vividly upset. Stanley faked his death and the family just- seemingly decided to strike him from the record. To pretend he didn't existed to spare themselves the sadness and shame.

Stanford and Shermie Pines. The only children worth mentioning of Filbrick and Caryn Pines.

It was never Stanford that was lost to the world. It was Stanley, ever since he had to leave New Jersy- it was always him that had to be struck from the record. Change his name, change his state, change his affiliations, destroy the remains of ghost that was Stanley Pines. Kill him so the family doesn't bring him up, doesn't ask questions, stops asking "Stanford" about his twin.

I just keep thinking about the fact that since the day he made one single mistake all the way up until Ford walks out of that machine- Stanley Pines was killed and did not exist. And Stan himself had no one to blame, he had to play the part in his own demise- He is the only one who ever knew Stanley was alive and has been for decades.

He lives in the multitudes of every personality he's ever taken, all in the hope that he himself can stop being Stanley Pines.

[lala-blahblah]

I get why people headcanon that Trucy would call Edgeworth "Uncle Miles" because it represents how close he is to Nick and Trucy and how he's basically part of the family etc. HOWEVER I cannot help but imagine the shock and horror of passersby who hear Trucy call one man "uncle" and one "daddy" as they watch Nick and Miles interact lovingly in public and come to the conclusion that Nick is openly cheating on his spouse with his spouse's brother.

[cruelplatonic]

my personal headcanon is the vees were unremarkable nobodies when they were alive. i just love it as a thematic throughline for them. they love to let the public of hell speculate on them being famed and acclaimed since before death, but the the truth is they were a d-list failed influencer that got by on cheap controversey and scamming, a broke junkie who burned every shaky bridge he ever had, and a worn-out broadcast production assistant with more rejected auditions and tossed out script pitches than he could count. nobody missed them when they were gone, nobody cared who they were until they were dead.

[bourdonbleu]

Excuse me but. ThAt'S iLlEgAl.

What do you mean my man CEJ spent years alone in an eerily silent place, surrounded by bones and scraps of flesh that used to be his comrades. What do you mean my good dude has to have ASMR videos playing at all times because he might as well go insane if left alone in silence for more than a minute. What do you mean he spent months - years maybe - whispering the names of his dead peers again and again and again and -

WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE SPENT SO LONG WITH SILENCE FILLED ONLY BY HIS OWN WHISPERS HE FORGOT HUMAN LANGUAGE AND THE ONLY WORD HE UNDERSTOOD WAS 'NEED'. WHAT DO YOU MEAN HIS FIRST RESPONSE TO SOMEONE NEEDING HIM IS TO REACH FOR HIS SPEAR BECAUSE WHY WOULD ANYONE NEED HIM IF NOT FOR KILLING

I AM SICK AND TIRED AND I NEED MY GOOD PAL CEJ TO CATCH A. GOD. DAMN. BREAK!

[kurgy]

learning that a very large group of isreali military, civilians, and politicians are currently rioting against their government against the prospect of making the systematic rape of Palestinians a little less legal is further opening my eyes to the true utter sickness and depravity of the israeli colonial mindset after months of liberals telling me it was "all netanyahu"

[jerejerejere]

I know the AI stuff is stupid but.

This! This part of the interview. That's it. That's why.

How many people dare to live this? In the public eye no less. I'm not saying there are none but, man. It just gets me.

[canisalbus]

Machete sounds like a pious Skeletor in my head. absolutely no wiggle room mentally. mustache twirling, gay-coded purple skeleton man voice with a deeply buried shame and religious trauma. I cannot imagine him with any other voice. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mNz6eHfsESQ&ab_channel=PeacockKids

And just like that, I'll never be able to look at Skeletor the same way again.

[cinnabar-circus]

2023 | 99

[lalalurks]

wildfowl

Her relationship with her boss remains precarious. (skittish secretary x unwavering boss)

John Price/f!reader, 6.4k wc, rated M

They were on opposite sides of the room, the interstice between them thick and stifling. The constant white noise of pen against paper, of the man on the other side of the room breathing in his cigar, the never-ending ticking clock, grating at her ears. The vanilla-tobacco-scented smoke engulfing the room burned its way down to her lungs, making her eyes water, but she wouldn’t dare ask him to crack open a window.

It was dark. After hours, the higher-ups had sent her boss a deadline he couldn’t meet without her, so she’d done the noble thing and stayed. Stayed in that suffocating room with him. Captain John Price. Her superior, and the main subject of her thoughts ever since she was impelled into that airless room with him, subvocally kicking and screaming.

She was immured in his office. Given the lack of space and prestige of her job title, they were expected to cohabitate. He had no need for a secretary but took her on as a favor for Laswell, giving her a desk and a paycheck so she could help lighten a load that was no plight to him. 

She hadn’t wanted a job in the first place. Nevertheless, by virtue of being Maria’s friend and, to an extent, her wife Kate’s, she had too many people overly invested in her life. They forced– persuaded her to get this job on the basis of ‘Breaking out of her shell,’ and to ‘Stop acting so fucking spooked around men.’

The everlasting consequence of being locked away in an all-girls school for the entirety of her adolescent years. The effects of it still batter her in waves, she still doesn’t know how to act around them. Men. Stupid, obscure beings. It made her feel less than, like an interloper amongst women, after seeing how effortlessly they communicated with the inverse sex, how they could have them wrapped around their finger with nothing but well-aimed hooded eyes and a sultry smile. Like everybody else had cracked the code but her.

This man, in particular, left her breathless; fumbling, she didn’t know what to do with herself around him. Her heart turns into a pit in her chest, constantly weighing her down whenever she parts from him, as if it can’t stand the interspace created between them, wanting to anchor her body to his. But, as much as it wants, it aches. Aches from her untold desires. She craves his presence as much as his absence. Yearns for his touch while condemning it.

She spends her working hours after finishing her comically light workload wallowing in fatuous fantasies, dozes off, and indulges in idealistic versions of themselves; a princess and her sworn knight; a siren and the lone sailor she bewitches to sate her desire; the god watching her while she basks in the green fields, pomegranate seeds aching to be laid on her wanting tongue held in his palms; a woman unafraid to be unveiled for love and a man acquiescent to love her in whole. Her accustom to his company remains precarious, though. 

A gruff “You alright over there?” called from across the room wrenched her away from her thoughts and brought her back to actuality. She could feel his gaze on her; it made her burn all over, but she refused to meet it. She cleared her throat and responded lowly: “Yeah– um, yes all good.” her cheeks heated from embarrassment at getting caught running her mind far away, so she turned her focus back to her work, swiftly finishing the file sitting open in front of her, she let out a silent sigh of relief the last one, thank god, and added it to the pile with the others, glad at all this being over, already excited by the idea of returning to her sparse little flat, sinking into her bed, and expelling all thoughts of John Price out of her mind.

She gathered the completed files and–with her gaze down–walked over to his desk to dispose of them with slight ceremony then hastily announced her departure and turned to gather her things, eager to leave, but was stopped by his request to “Check somethin’ real quick for him,” he beckoned her towards the file lying open in front of him. She hesitantly turned back to the front of his desk, but he lured her in further with a simple gesture from his pointer and middle fingers.

She mindlessly obeyed and–with his sharp eyes tracking her every move, as if a predator stalking its prey–rounded the desk to amble closer to him, penetrating the smoke-filled aura that seemed to surround him loyally, interlaced with his entire being. It was intoxicating. It made its way under her skin and buzzed in her veins, filling her with the overwhelming urge to climb into his lap and burrow her face into his neck so she could inhale him in full.

She settled a few steps away from his imposing figure–always heedful not to get too close. He towered over her even when seated, and she felt unnerved under the shadow cast over her like it could swallow her whole in the blink of an eye and leave her swaddled in darkness for all her life. He had slowly–without taking his eyes off her–swiveled in his chair to meet her directly.

“What’d you need, Mr. Price?” she softly asked.

He took a beat before responding to raise his cigar and suck in a hearty amount of smoke, all while drinking her in with his battle-hardened eyes. Incessantly, she had noticed on the rare occasion she gained the courage to meet the heated gaze that prickled at her neck, was how he looked at her. As if he were attempting to decorticate the hard skin off her body to reveal her soft core. It makes her want to leap out of her body to take a good hard look at herself, just to see what’s so fucking interesting to him. 

Taking care to exhale the smoke away from her, he circumvented the question with a reproachful tone, “Didn’t I tell you to call me John, sweetheart?”

She shut her eyes in perturbation, “Right, I’m sorry–”

“Don’t,” he cut her off sharply, but not unkindly, “Don’t start apologizing over nothing.”

Her eyes blink open, and she breathlessly exhales a vague oh sound– he levels her a pointed look as if to stress his point, like she’d committed a grave sin by simply apologizing. They let the unoppressive silence hang in the air. He’s so… she can’t find the precise word to describe how he is with her–forbearing, gallant, gentle, and unyielding, he’s almost ineffable. It unsettles her for him to behave this way regarding her. Like his care is anything but artificial, she doesn’t know what she’d do with herself if it weren’t. If he thought of her as a person instead of merely the nervous secretary who was dumped on his lap.

His voice snaps her out of her reverie, “Come look at this, love.” He picks up the folder and moves it to her line of sight, “This can’t be right, could it?”

She drew nearer to look at what he was referring to, unwittingly shifting closer to him. She couldn’t tell what he meant, though, it all looked accurate. She turned her head to ask him to clarify what he meant, but froze in a way reminiscent of a deer caught in headlights when she realized how close their faces were to one another. She couldn’t help but be painfully aware of how close their lips were, she could sway forward and press hers against his. His cool and composed eyes bore into hers; wide and skittish, she seemed seconds away from fleeing the room, but his gaze cemented her body in place, turned her statuesque–as if she had been staring into Medusa’s eyes instead of her infallible boss’.

He breaks eye contact to cast his gaze down to her lips, eyes shining in captivation, and then he brings his eyes back to hers and tilts his head, seemingly in challenge.

The provocation interlaced with his demeanor awakens a dormant defiance in her and tempts her to sink her teeth in the bait; she feels drunk on the tension engulfing them. When she thinks back on this, she’ll thrash her head in dismay and cry Why, why did I cross the line with him? I’ve fed the insatiable beast, and now it can’t stop– won’t stop fiending for more scraps, it’ll scratch and bite at my hand til I grant it more but it won’t be satisfied til I split his chest open, pry open his ribs, and rest with his beating heart held in my greedy palms. But for now, she bites into the self-imposed forbidden apple and leans in, entranced and intent on capturing his lips. Pleas run in her mind, verging on prayer; Let me have what I want without acidic shame burning my skin. Let me be happy. Please.

Just as she was a hairbreadth away, a loud bang paired with a cat’s angry yowl dries out the heady air, causing the reality of the situation to come rushing back to her, and she takes a staggering step back, horror flooding her face.

She rushes to gather her belongings, “I– um, God fuck–” she stammers out, her voice growing faint til the last word comes out barely louder than a whisper, “I have to go. Goodbye, Mr. Price,” she can’t hide the tremor in her voice, already turned away from him to let her back take the brunt of his stare.

She quickly darts out of the room and inadvertently slams the door behind her, escaping into the corridor, barely hearing his pleas for her to “Wait–!”

She hurriedly flees the base and dashes through the parking lot to her car, her bag and coat crowded in her arms, the cold nips at her entire body but she can’t feel it over the molten spread throughout it–she almost slips and cracks her skull on the icy ground but she barely spares it a thought other than righting herself, her vision tunneled to a single objective.

Upon reaching her car, she quickly unlocks it–her shaking fingers only mildly fumbling the keys–and wrenches the door open, seeking refuge in its familiarity. She allows herself a second to catch her breath and thumps her head against the steering wheel, resisting the urge to scream.

After a few moments of contemplating driving her car through the nearest tree at full speed, she gathers herself and instead pulls out of the lot–at a completely safe and reasonable speed–to make her way home.

The drive and everything that came after was a blur, only a loud ping in her otherwise silent flat pulling her out of her static-filled mind. She turned over in bed to check the message, but nothing registered in her brain but sharp brightness burning her retinas. She put her phone back down, pulled the blanket over her head, and drifted into a restless sleep.

—

“See, I told you!”

Maria’s voice came clearly from the speakers of her phone, aimed at Kate, but all she could register was a faraway voice. She’d called her bright and early to confirm one fact or another, not wanting to waste any time proving herself right to her wife.

Sitting in front of her vanity, she met her own eyes in the mirror and attempted to mentally prepare herself for another emotionally arduous workday chained to John Price. In all the months she’d started working for him he never relieved her of his presence for more than a few days at a time, apparently his infamous task force had finished a major and time-consuming mission sometime before she’d arrived so the higher-ups had offered them the grace of a respite and sent them out to shorter, less lethal missions for the time being.

Pity, she thought, I’d’ve loved to be rid of that horrid hat for a few months. Still, as soon as the thought strikes, her tender heart immediately clenches at the thought of him being in mortal danger on a battlefield instead of on his plush chair, chain-smoking and suffocating her while she steals glances at him to tuck away in her greedy mind.

She could still distinctly remember the first time she saw him, and he saw her in turn; he barged into his office, body still punitive and movements still stiff from combat, he was big and tall in a way that unnerved and excited her simultaneously.

Her gaze timorously swept over the length of his body; his thick, unkempt beard obscured his features, his fatigues brazenly displayed his body, showing off thick biceps she wanted to be enveloped in and a wide chest she wanted to burrow in. His alert eyes, shadowed by his Boonie hat, immediately zeroed in on her for a few breathless moments before passing his eyes over Kate and taking a perfunctory glance around his office, then settling on them again. 

Kate had talked to him about her beforehand, and he’d already agreed to take her on, of course, so that first meeting was nothing more than a handoff. She’d felt like a wobbly preschooler being entrusted to a teacher while her mother implores them to take it easy on her, she’d felt his gaze straying from a talking Kate to her a few times but refused to meet it, still praying he’d change his mind and throw them out on their asses at some point, but he’d let her stay. 

His scent had already formed a rigid impression in her brain by the time the meeting ended. 

Heavy eyebags tormented her face, her dreams were plagued by memories of last night. She could still see it so vividly, her mind tacking on to the insignificant detail of a tiny mole residing under his blue eye, illuminated by the moonlight, she could still feel herself leaning in, she fabricated what comes after, though, indulging in a fantasy where she let herself want him and he wanted her in turn, let herself press her lips against his and climb onto his lap as he embraces her in his strong, safe arms before the scene fades to black and repeats over and over again.

She can hear Maria and Kate’s whispers to one another like a buzzing in her ears, conferring in a language fluent only to them. Kate was settled offscreen, and Maria’s face was angled towards her, but she didn’t need the full picture; she’d seen them lost in their own world before and could easily fill in the gaps. Seen the way their bodies mirrored one another and mindlessly fit together like puzzle pieces.

She yearns for an affinity like theirs, yearns for someone to lodge their hands in her chest and reach for all the love embedded in her soft flesh, to unstopper all the shame and guilt obstructing it from spilling out of her.

“–ey! Hey!”

Maria’s fretful voice violently pulled her out of her mind, she was mindlessly going through the motions of her routine. Normally, it’d comfort her, but now it’s another burden weighing her down. Her light makeup felt glutinous and heavy–it made her want to scratch the skin off her face, her clothing felt restricting on her body, and the simple loose style she pulled her hair into felt like it was tearing at every hair follicle on her head.

She wanted to rip everything off her body and lie on her floor, motionless, in an infant position as if she could protect her vulnerable underbelly from the world just by curling in on herself.

But she made a promise to Maria to try. She’ll, unfortunately, do just that, keep going even when it gets too heavy. Damn, my manners.

“You good? You kinda went away for a second there.”

She plastered a too-bright smile on her face, “Yeah!” Her voice came out too high, “I’m good, everything’s terrific.” She couldn’t muster the energy to lie better. 

“Okay,” Maria drawled the first vowel, deadpan, “You wanna tell the truth this time?”

She let the smile drop, “I’m just a bit tired, that’s all,” she was reaching for her makeup remover, cotton pads already in hand, not caring to try today.

“She’s tired!” Her tone betrayed her disbelief, and her mouth was slowly lifting in a mischievous smile, “Tired from the oh-so-strenuous work John gives you? Please! He barely lets you lift a finger,” she took a moment to tack on a lilting tone, “Y’know,” her smile grew, “I think he’s sweet on you.” She brandished her frankly unnecessary opinion like it was a God-given prophecy.

Her face heated and she attempted to don a hardened look on her face, “Get your head out of your ass, Maria, you’re talking nonsense.”

“No,” she drawled the word, “I think I’m talking just right, don’t you think so, Kate?” She turned to face her wife, unfairly bringing in somebody else to gang up on her.

She could hear Kate humming in faux contemplation before replying, “You’re always right, love.” Maria turned back to face the camera, wearing a victorious look, “His eyes did seem…” Kate continued, before trailing off to find a suitable word, “Obsessive, I guess, in how he looked at you, last time I visited the base. The man could barely take them off you for longer than a few seconds. It was terrifying, honestly. should send him for a psych eval soon.”

Maria let out a loud sound of delight.

She couldn’t suppress her eye-roll, “You’re both delusional; when’s the last time you had a black mold inspection done?” She finished wiping her makeup off, sighing in relief, then threw the used cotton pads in the bin near her vanity.

Maria laughed, “All of our mold is fine, thank you! And you know I’m right!” 

“I don’t know shit about that, and now, since some of us have jobs, particularly ones brutally forced on them, I have to go, so goodbye!” She pressed the end call button, effectively cutting off Maria’s cackle.

—

The cold bites at her skin as she exits her car, and gray, brooding clouds loom over her, promising to bring nothing but whipping winds and piercing, needle-like rain.

She makes her way to the compact building, the base offers nothing but temporary habitation for soldiers–she doesn’t know what’ll happen to her when they decide to move on. Will he march her out of their office and send her off with a Thanks for nothing, darlin’? Eager to be rid of her nesting on her shabby desk? Taking up space just to do fuck all?–It sits there in all its glory; cramped barracks, a tiny cafeteria, and outside, at the edge of the structure, a flat surface serves as a small helipad that can be accessed by the ever-open doors adjacent to it on the building.

She passes by it en route to her office and catches the dreaded object of her thoughts from afar, dressed in full gear, standing ways away from a chopper and debriefing his squad. 

Soldiers buzzed around them like worker bees–each with a delegated task, ensuring to keep the cogs of the hive turning. 

Then, she sees rather than hears John release his squad with a firm, sharp dismissal. They disperse from around him and bestow a clear, unobstructed view for her to get lost in his towering figure. She knows that if he turned and allowed her to ogle at his muscled back and broad shoulder blades, she’d die, so she sends him a silent thank you for sparing her a mortifying death and facing resolutely to the side, overseeing the loading of the equipment. 

Through the haze of John, she glimpses from her peripheral Soap attempting to climb a large yet-to-be-loaded container, boasting about his ability to do one thing or another to Gaz–who was not-so-subtly egging him on–but was yanked back in place by Ghost’s tight grip on the back of his tact vest, looking all but an enervated mother who’s mostly given up on keeping her unruly children in check.

It’s strange, she thinks, to see them filled with such spirit–as if their lives aren’t on the line more often than not. She wonders how they do it, how they can go on when a scythe hangs a hairbreadth away from their delicate throats, only a tiny push needed from a well-aimed bullet, or a well-placed knife for it to penetrate their flesh and claim their damned souls.

She stares at them, splitting her attention between John and his squad. 

She can’t help but be envious of how even the dead men walking can find instances of bliss, but whenever she tries to grasp it, she pries open her fist, and only bitter ash slips through her fingers. She wondered if the promise of a bullet to the head could blow life into her.

She wants to dissect their minds. Pin their bodies down, steady their heads, and take a bone saw to their skulls, then scrutinize the inner workings of their bruised brains to try and imitate their happiness. She prophesied these stolen moments are what drag their half-dead bodies–inured to the scent of death and gunpowder–back to a civilization that condemns them. 

She feels the weight of his familiar gaze on her and immediately meets it, drawn to him with no choice in the matter.

A beat passes while the rest of the world becomes an ambiguous blur for her, and the only lucid being to her is John. John. 

She wants to scream his name, whisper it, moan it, caress it, and violently trap it between her gnashing teeth.

John, John, John.

She’d never allowed herself to say it aloud, no matter how the urge clogs her throat when he reminds her of his blessing. It’s dangerously intimate to her–her heart sharply skips a beat whenever he calls her name, and she wants to sew his mouth shut every time he does, teetering on the edge of wanting him never to speak it again or having it be all that he utters. 

She catalogs the minute facial expressions that flit across his face and tucks them in a neat box reserved for John in the back of her mind. Even with her back-breaking systematizing of his every look, word, and burning touch, he remains enigmatic to her, she can’t quite seem to grasp the meaning behind his every action. Still, God, the overwhelming want to understand, boils her body from the inside out.

After what seemed like an eternity, she breaks their distant contact and hastily makes her way to the office.

—

Looking out from the window to the cold torrent of rain, its frigidity seeps through the walls and cools her skin, and its persisting pounding on the roof mixed with frequent rumbles of thunder makes her shudder.

She nervously picked at her nails, bemoaning the moment of weakness she submitted to the fatigue weighing down her weary bones, and took a nap. 

It was supposed to be a short one, honest to God, thirty minutes tops. She cuddled into the rickety couch sitting in the corner of the office, soothed into a deep sleep by the then light pitter-patter of rain.

She was roused from her sleep, Lord knows how many hours later, by the sound of booming thunder, completely ignorant of the alarm she had set earlier.

She was too scared to drive under these conditions, envisioning losing control of the wheel and hydroplaning off a bridge or lightning striking the car, frying her on the spot.

I’ll just wait it out, how long could a storm possibly last, she took a deep breath, in and out, I’ll be home soon, I’ll finally catch up on my show, maybe even take a hot bath, do some pre-sleep yoga, get a routine started, it only takes twenty days to form a habit, right? Maybe it’ll stick this time, and everything will be just fi–

The door opening behind her made her jump before whirling to see who the culprit was.

She found John with his hand still on the doorknob, his body tensed for a split second at the sight of her before relaxing.

Her body freezes at seeing him, and her nerves get even more frazzled.

Fucking perfect. I pray for a months-long mission only to be granted one that didn’t even last five minutes, spec-fucking-tacular.

He didn’t seem to be cursing her existence like she was doing his, seemingly content to idle under the door’s archway. Hm, mission must’ve gone well.

The rest of the 141 are probably scattered around base and going about their post-mission rituals. She doesn’t know John’s; they always arrive in the dead of night, so this is a first for her.

A beat passes without a word from either of them.

Then he calls her name, and she lifts her head to face him, his body hangs still, head tilted to the side, and eyes intent on her–like a hound that’s spotted a rabbit.

“What’re you doing here so late?” His gravelly voice felt like it was caressing her, and she shivered. 

She weakly gestured to her desk, “I got caught up with work,” their heads turned in sync to her glaringly empty desk.

It was a flimsy lie, and the motion of his lips, lightly quirking beneath his beard, shows that he knows it.

Closing the door, he abandoned his post from the archway, then noiselessly approached his desk.

He’s light on his feet for a big man, giving her many almost heart attacks from how he sneaks up behind her. 

Opening his desk drawer, he grabs an ashtray, a lighter, and a cigar.

Then he went to sit on the couch that still held her sleepy warmth. He placed the ashtray on the armrest, lit his cigar, then raised it to take a drag.

She found herself entranced through it all–the flame illuminating his handsome face, the evident exhaustion draining from his body with one smoke-filled exhale, eyes shut in bliss, and his head tilting to rest on the back of the couch, exposing his throat, all while spreading his thighs wide.

She wanted to sit on his inviting lap, bite his vulnerable throat, and leave her mark on him.

It’s like he’s begging me to jump him–what a sick, sick man.

She was rooted to her spot, at a loss for what to do and flooded by images of what had happened the last time she was trapped in this very room with him, late at night.

“Why don’t you sit?” He unseeingly calls out to her, “Get a leg off.”

She stared at him in disbelief, appalled at the simple request, and racked her brain for an escape route, but came out dry. She’s not comfortable enough around the base to wander off in the dark for solitude.

Reluctantly, she gives in and slowly inches to the couch, way more cautiously than the situation warranted. Her eyes shifted towards him, then quickly away, but he remained apathetic.

Sitting as far away as the couch allowed, she crowded herself on the edge opposite him.

Her body was taut, every part of her rigid and distinctly uncomfortable, a stark difference to his deliquesced figure. 

A chuckle came from him, breaking the silence. It grated on her; she wanted to turn and ask him what was so funny, but her resolve to be as discomfited as possible–to wordlessly communicate how much she didn’t want to be here with him–won over.

She didn’t need to ask; he told her anyway, “Scared the shit outta me, seeing you standing there in the dark. Had my heart dropping to my ass, ‘specially after an op.”

“Oh…” She didn’t know how to respond or why he was telling her this. “My bad.”

He hummed noncommittally in response. “Came straight here to work on the reports, can’t get proper shut-eye with it hanging over my head.” 

Normally, she’d offer to help, but she didn’t want to stay in his overwhelming presence any longer than needed, so she said nothing.

He makes idle conversation she can only respond to in choked monosyllables; it doesn’t seem to bother him, though, merely using this moment to unwind after an exacting day. With her.

It isn’t like he had any other choice with how she greedily takes space, no matter how small she tries to shrink her presence. 

From her peripheral vision, she saw him half-lidded and staring into nothingness, then taking a long drag from his cigar and blowing tendrils of smoke into the stiff air. Heat pooled in her lower abdomen as if it were hitting her directly instead.

The ticking clock taunted her. She further averted her gaze. If I stay here any longer, I’m gonna explode. 

“I think the storm’s letting up.” She was lying through her teeth, but she needed to get out. “So, I’m gonna get going.”

Just as she went to get up, his piercing tone cut her off, “Don’t be daft, sweetheart, you’re not going anywhere with how it’s pissin’ outside. Car’ll probably fly off the road five minutes out. ”

“It’s not that bad.”

A sharp look from him shut her up and had her burrowing into her end of the couch, back bowed in defeat. 

Then a sudden heat encompassed her knee, his paw of a hand enfolded her in apparent comfort.

She could no longer feel herself breathe, every nerve going into overdrive from his touch, sending blaring warnings of pleasure to her brain neurons.

“It’ll be alright, love.” She couldn’t face him, her eyes were locked on his warm touch, a painful polarity to her icy skin. “I’m sure you’ll be home soon.”

She gave a shaky mhm in response. His thumb was steadily caressing the side of her knee in a careful rhythm, halting her temporal lobe from processing his words. Every nerve was focused solely on his touch.

“What’s got you scrambling, anyway? Got somebody waitin’ on you at home?” No amount of injected lightness could hide the trepidation in his tone.

“Uh…” She blinks her eyes to shake off the John-induced haze, but his touch leaves her stupefied. It wasn’t a common occurrence for her to be felt like this. 

He called her name, and she turned to him of her own accord.

“Do you?” 

Without taking her eyes off his, she lightly shook her head and murmured a barely audible No. 

He hummed in satisfaction. “Good.”

The air felt still, and everything else but John was blurred to her. They stayed like that, captivated by one another’s gaze, and John’s hand inches higher bit by bit. 

The space between them seemed to grow smaller by the second–fortuitously drawn to each other like puppets on a string, til they were breathing the same air and their faces were a hair's breadth away from one another.

She didn’t know what it was about him that could have her drowned in a daze and miles away from a comprehensible thought.

Further leaning in, he lingered near her lips, while his hand flexed in restraint. She wanted to close the distance but found herself hesitant–her final rational action. A soft, distant voice in her mind implores her to stop and think about what she’s doing, but she finds her every crevice exhausted at being cautious, so she throws it to the wind and kisses him.

It’s clumsy and frantic at first, weeks of need finally reaching a boiling point and spilling over. Then his free hand reaches up to cup her cheek and gently angles her face to his liking, she reaches up and grabs his wrist to anchor herself in the overwhelming sea of spilled emotions.

She lets out a low moan, then feels his hand tighten around her knee before trailing up to grip her waist.

His kiss deepens, and his body crowds hers before he pulls back enough to pull her over his lap–manhandling her like his pliant doll.

He kisses her hard, like he’s trying to infuse mountains of past frustration into it, tongues at her lips before she parts them to let him in. His hand goes to her nape while the other encircles her waist. He holds her in place to devour her to his heart’s desire while she tries to keep up with the heady taste of him.

She feels lost in his encompassing warmth, her hands are squished between her chest and his, and she can’t help but feel like an old-fashioned movie heroine locked in the tight embrace of the kind, chivalrous romantic interest, but she knows he’s anything but. Something coils beneath his skin, rears its head and waits for the perfect opportunity to strike.

She unconsciously grinds on the growing bulge she can feel under her, her cunt throbes and she lets out a soft whine at the staggering pleasure that pulses through her and she hungers for more.

He pulls away from her with a low growl and stops her movements with one hand to her thigh, then tucks his face into the junction between her neck and shoulder, his heavy breaths make her shiver.

He lightly nips her skin before resurfacing, staring at her with voracity in his eyes, and the flush in his cheeks to the tips of his ears makes her keenly aware of hers; his lips are red and swollen and glistening, and she knows she looks just as wrecked as he does.

Both his hands come up to cradle her face and she feels small beneath them. He lightly tilts her head to the side before leaning in to kiss the corner of her lips, then her cheeks, then down her neck to her collar bones, while whispering a soft “please, please, please,” in between.

“Let me take care of you,” she hears whispered in the hollow of her neck.

She yields in turn.

He guides her back onto the couch, then goes to kneel before her. He sets his palms on her pressed thighs and caresses them, trying to coax her into relaxation.

He strokes her from her thighs to her knees, up and down again and again while softly kneading her. Then his hands settle on her knees before gently prying them apart, he stares up at her momentarily before refocusing on her parted legs.

Hands on the back of her knees pull her towards him before traveling up to slowly ruck up her skirt. 

She feels exposed already, his eyes are intent on her clothed core, and she can feel them focused on the wet staining the cotton. His hand reaches up to thumb it, and her thighs would’ve shut if it weren’t for his broad shoulders straining them open.

A broken whine escapes her when he presses on her clit, he placidly rolls her thumb over it and she can’t help but push into his touch, seeking more.

Suddenly pulling away, she jolts at the deprivation. He reaches to take her underwear off, slowly revealing her to him. His mouth goes dry at the strands of wetness clinging to the cotton.

The sight of her bare cunt only has him growing harder, his bulge strains in his pants and he palms himself to offer meager relief.

She’d turned away from him, unable to stand the sight of him removing the final barrier between them. A harsh “Fuck.” reaches her ears and it pulls her gaze to him.

The sight of him leaves her breathless. He’s enrapt by her–the darks of his pupils have taken over the blues of his eyes, and his rough breathing fills her ears. He looks ravenous, and her skin buzzes half in anticipation and half in fear over what he might do to her.

He hooks his hands beneath her knees, lifting and placing her legs over his shoulders before sinking lower into the chasm of her thighs.

His lips graze her inner thigh, placing a singular, tender kiss. His beard scratches the sensitive skin.

Hearing a deep inhale, her cheeks heat over the thought of him taking in her scent. The feeling of his breath, every hard inhale and exhale, on her heated core makes her writhe and fist the cushion beneath her in impatience.

He uses his thumbs to spread her folds apart to admire. Her back arches off the couch, and he sits still, torturing her with his need to look. Her hips tilt upwards towards him, and she feels like she’s going to burst if he doesn’t do something about the pulsating ache between her thighs.

Unhurriedly, his head travels lower, and he finally gets his mouth on her. She trembles with the first lick and moans.

One arm drapes itself across her lower stomach, and the other settles itself upon her upper thigh, inching towards her mons.

With every drag of his tongue her head gets emptier and emptier, then it fills with sudden, devestating static when his thumb grinds against her clit. She cries out, and vibrations from his moans turn her pleasure all the more potent.

Her body contorts to the rhythm of the storm, and his unrelenting in devouring her pulls her every nerve taut, and she’s so unbearingly close it makes her teeth gnash.

The cadenced pleasure flowing through her body feels like the incessant pressing of a bruise. She grinds her cunt against his mouth and locks her thighs against his head–uncaring if he suffocates in her desperate chase of her peak.

Her body goes tight, then unwinds in white hot pleasure. A cried “John!” is ripped from her throat, and her hand knots in his hair to hold him still; he allows her to ride her climax out. Her chest heaves, and she’s molten in his hold.

Gradually, she comes to and the static in her mind melts away to the twin sounds of their lurching breaths.

She meets his gaze from where he lies on her thigh. He looks ruined, and she can’t imagine she looks any better.

The lower half of his face is flushed and soaked, and she can practically see the tension running through his body.

He stares up at her with flames licking at his gaze, but she looks away, out towards the window and the waning storm.

There’s nothing more she wants to give him.

[mapleandgingeroatmeal]

“You can barely remember what happened before you started looping”?? Ohhh boy that’s not good…time to go talk to the king I guess.

[frannyzooey]

currently losing my mind over joel miller

[six-of-cringe]

Something that is sad but also that I hugely appreciate about CK is that by the end, most of the systems that harmed the crows are still in place, but their relationships with themselves have grown and changed. I find this particularly interesting in the cases of Jesper and Wylan (shocking I know). Their identities still put them in danger of being exploited or harmed - Grisha indentures are still the norm in Kerch, and the auction scene made it very clear that if the Council knew Wylan's illiteracy was true, they would treat him much the same as his father did due to the culture surrounding productivity and ability. This might seem disheartening, but the hope lies in the shift in how these characters see themselves and their role in the world. By the end of the book, Jesper and Wylan are beginning to put away their internalized shame surrounding their identities. They may still have to hide who they are from the world to survive, but they're no longer hiding it from themselves - their true selves are no longer this crushing burden they have to turn away from to function. A general theme of the series is how, in accepting who they are and what has happened to them on a personal level, the crows place themselves in positions to make change on a systemic level - Inej and her ship, Nina and her mission, Kaz and his Barrel empire, Wylan and Jesper with their political, high-society empire. None of them are all the way there yet by the end - they're still healing, and both the loss of Matthias and the weight of those oppressive systems are going to weigh on them for a long time - but we get to see the very beginnings of that process. I'm going to bite someone.

[wackywatchdotcom]

i have a very specific bit i like to imagine between jax and pomni bc the idea of jax saying a very specific thing about her makes me laugh but i cant for the life of me figure out how to depict it

[sincerely-sofie]

*Skitters up to you on all fours and drops this in your lap, then scrambles up the walls and onto the ceiling and immediately falls asleep*

Comic time! Lucky wakes up in the middle of the night and has a chat with Sen in this one.