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pandoraslxna · 7 days

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Quid Pro Quo

Olo’eyktan Neteyam x female human scientist reader

Words: 6.9k

Summary: You owe Neteyam a favor. Luckily, the olo’eyktan has just the idea how you could repay him.

Warnings: explicit smut, oral, fingering, sexual tension, size difference, praise kink, cum eating, scenting, I actually hate this my writing is so bad here but I tried 😩

Notes: Neteyam art on the left by @cinetrix, art on the right by @sleeptight____ on Twitter 🩵

There is nothing you hate as much as the way the smell of the lab seems to seep into your clothes and stick to your skin after you’ve been working there all day.

When you get back to your tiny living quarters at hells gate after twelve or fourteen hours, you usually smell like dank, half-rotted crates and dust and damp concrete and dirt. It doesn't matter that you recently cleared out all the crates and sealed all the leaks and dusted until you were streaming-eyed and dripping-nosed, that the labs are as clean and sterile as you could make it. It still smells like what it is: an old, moldering wreck of a science shack.

Back at hells gate, you strip down less than two feet in the door, and then just stand there in your skin for a minute, stretching your arms, rubbing your temples, your eyes.

You’re tired and your back and neck ache from hunching over books and datapads all day, and it's another damned day with nothing to show for your work. Another day that feels like a waste of time.

Toeing the pile of clothes out of the way you sigh as you head for the bathroom. A nice long shower would be just the thing, relax some of the ache of your muscles and erase the stink of the labs from your nose.

Unfortunately, you can't have that.

The hot water heater serves the entire floor, and there's never more than a minute or two of hot water.

Once you‘ve made yourself get up at four a.m. to shower, because who the hell would be using hot water at four in the morning? Someone, apparently. You‘ve got three and a half heavenly minutes that time, but to your mind the extra minute and a half just wasn’t worth the effort of getting up so damn early.

Stepping under the water, you’re already fumbling for the bar of soap. It's harsh and smells blindingly antiseptic, but it's the only option the RDA ships to Pandora, which means the only thing the human-na‘vi resistance could raid. So it'll have to do.

The two minutes are up before you get the soap out of your hair and you end up rinsing it in water that's cool and headed rapidly toward freezing before you hurry out of the shower with a full on body shiver.

— ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ —

The next day was just a repeat of the same events. Day after day, it was all the same.

Numbers and words were swimming before your eyes by now, and you could feel your head doing that awkward nod, lift, nod thing that told you that you were too tired to still be in the labs. But when the decision was between this, or coming home to an ice cold shower, nasty soap and an uncomfortable bed, work was a clearly the winner.

It's not like this research would be due anytime soon, or anytime at all, but you'd only just recently gained access to these files and data collected by Dr. Grace Augustine herself (thank you very much, Norm) and they gave you much more than anything those old dusty books could.

But in hindsight, they could’ve been at least a bit more entertaining. Not that it was essential boring to listen to Dr. Augustine’s fifteen minute long lecture about the importance of—

"Sleeping?"

Your head shoots up so quick, you nearly give yourself whiplash as you jolt awake at the sound of a voice laced with heavy na’vi accent entering the labs.

"No!" It bursts out of you like you’re a kid caught with a hand in the cookie jar and for a moment you suffer in embarrassing silence as you wait for a response.

The contrast between his smooth, pale blue curved stripes and his much darker blue colored skin enters your vision as he takes place to stand at your desk to look at the holo you were studying.

With a sigh of relief to find that the intruder was of no danger, you rest your drooping head on one hand.

It‘s the olo’eyktan, Neteyam.

You’re a little surprised to see him here, since he rarely occupied himself at the labs, let alone show himself in interaction with the scientists working there. His siblings, his second of command and the clans tsahik, were the ones who paid a visit to everything that was lived and operated by sky people more frequently compared to him.

If he did let himself be seen at the labs, it was solely for the purpose of talking to you and letting his curiosity be known to everything you were working on at the moment.

It had always flattered you to know that the clans chief had grown so fond of you, but it was none the less unnerving to have such a giant of a man wandering around and prodding at your equipment, boring you with questions just to disappear again when it bored him. You’ve always wondered what he would even gain out of this, but shrugged it off as the olo’eyktans attempt to maintain the alliance between sky people and omatikaya, see what the tiny humans were up to while using the Clans resources and basically working under their roof.

"No, no I’m not sleeping, it’s just…"

He was so close now that you had to look up to see his face; could feel the heat emanating from his body and smell the fresh, earthy scent of his skin as he smiled down at you, board arms lazily crossed over his chest, resting just above his impressively woven cummerbund that showed off his warrior expertise. The armband around his biceps was stretched taut, and you couldn’t help but swallow down the salvia that pooled at this sight.

Clearing your throat, you quickly start again where you had left off, "I‘m trying to study this plant, we call it rain thistle. But it’s hard if you can only look at it through holograms and screens and super old recordings, you know?" With a sigh of frustration, you close the tab on your datapad and with it, the hologram that was projected onto your desk.

"Oh. Just get one to study up close." Neteyam says with a genuine smile, like it’s so obvious and you’re just a silly little human that wouldn’t have thought of that before, the most simplest answer. As if he was so oblivious to the struggle it would bring to even get close to one.

"Ha-ha, very funny," you can’t help but roll your eyes, a reaction that causes Neteyams hairless brows to raise in amusement. You know he didn’t mean to make fun of you, but still. "It only grows all the way up in the hallelujah mountains, near the banshee nests," you explain calmly, but you could feel your patience wearing thinner the more his grin widened. "There’s no way I could get one and come back alive."

Neteyam looks at you for a long moment, golden orbs entirely focused on you as he silently ponders, and then speaks up, "Ikran don’t eat humans."

You blink, considering.

Neteyams expression hasn't changed, nothing but mild curiosity, but you can sense his teasing through that grin on his lips.

There are about a million reasons as to why "just getting one" would surely end in your death and you‘re sure Neteyam knows. Still, you can’t help the sarcastic comments that only make him snicker at your frustration.

"Really? Great, that means I’ll live long enough to get the plant and then fall to my death on my way down."

Chuckling, he walks over to smooth a hand over your hair and leans in close to peak into the open books laying all over your desk. "Mawey [calm], I‘m just teasing," he purrs, causing all the fine hair at the nape of your neck to raise.

"A fkxakewll", he then says as if he has only just realized what you were even talking about, pointing at the printed image of this familiar plant in one of the books in front of you.

"That’s what I just said. A rain thistle. During rainstorms it opens up to reveal this “boll” thingy, a seedpod that’s surrounded by absorbent fibers. When the plant opens it promotes pollination in ideally wet conditions and allows the plant to absorb and store water in those fibers. This water storage mechanism helps the plant thrive without moist soil. I believe if we could somehow… I don’t know, figure out just how she does that, it could help us store more drinkable rain water at hells gate. And then we could start to figure out how to repair our water heater. It would make a lot of things easier for us, you know?"

The omatikaya man nods attentively.

"I see these almost daily when I feed oare [moon / name of his ikran]. They grow on a cliff, by a waterfall." He explains casually as he walks over to a microscope on the table.

It wasn’t his usual nature, but Neteyam could be strangely fascinated by the way the human technology at the labs worked once you coaxed him into it. His fingers twitched and he ran a hand over the equipment in front of him. It didn't respond to him as though he had the gene, but he still grinned with delight when you showed him how it worked and let him push the button to bring it to life and look at the little piece of fibre that laid underneath the microscope.

"I would do anything to get this stupid little plant…" You mumbled absently, letting out a groan before turning to your work again. With your back facing him now, you didn’t catch the way his ears perked up at what you had just exclaimed and his tail began to swish back and forth eagerly.

Raising back to his full weight and stepping away from the table, Neteyam then glanced around the room to find your back facing him, nose once again buried deep in your datapad. He couldn’t help but notice the way your hair was looking even messier than it usually did, how your desk was littered in empty coffee cups. A liquid that was well known to him due to his fathers heritage and strange habits that continued to stick to him even long after leaving his life as a human behind. Coffee is for when you’re tired. It keep you awake when you’re tired, he remembers.

"Hm. How about you get some sleep first?" He suggests with a low chuckle. "You can still take care of your little plant problem in the morning."

There comes another noise from you, a sound so quiet that his ears twitch to pick up the noise. "I‘m not exactly excited to get home so there’s no rush," you shrug, pressing your lips to a thin line.

"How come?" He quirks a brow.

Sighing, you explain, "The water at hells gate has been running cold for months now, everything smells weird and my bed feels like a slab of concrete. At least here I have a warm cup of coffee and a somewhat cushioned chair." You chuckle, albeit halfheartedly.

Neteyam nods understandingly, a hint of sympathy in his eyes as he furrows his brows.

"Why didn’t your people come to me sooner?" He cocks his head to the side, eyes scanning your face as if he was looking for an answer there. You didn’t know why, but it made you feel guilty for sounding like you were complaining about this to him.

You stare blankly back at him, cheeks tainting a faint pink. Truth be told, you didn’t know why. You just kind of expected him not to care, to not have time for such unimportant matters. Yes, he was the olo’eyktan, but that was exactly why you thought this issue wouldn’t concern him!

"I… We didn’t think— I mean, I‘m sure you have other businesses to attend to, more important things."

"But I am olo’eyktan, and you’re as much part of my people as the na‘vi are. I should hear about your problems at hells gate."

"We- Listen, we‘re already on it to fix this, please don’t worry about it. I’m serious. It’s just cold water, we‘ll live."

You don’t miss the way his deep frown did not disappear, not even as he excused himself for the night, a finger pressed to his throat comm as he listened attentively to whatever his second of command had to say, before he had to return to attend his duties at the clan.

— ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ —

It’s not on the same day, because surely that would be weird, but when you get home a few days later, there's a small container in the little nook set into the shower wall where there wasn't anything like this when you had left this morning. You’re pretty sure you would remember if that was the case.

You almost don’t want to- can’t believe this could’ve been Neteyams work, but it smells like greenery, like heather and herbs, so much like him. Your eyes widen at the realization that it’s some kind of soap. And it's probably ridiculous to take this much sheer pleasure from shampooing hair, but you don’t give a shit. Fuck, you‘ve missed soap. It might not be the type of soap that you knew, but in a way it was actually really good smelling.

It’s so good, you can’t bring yourself to care, to ask yourself why and how. You’re just so incredibly grateful for this small gesture.

You’re ten minutes into your shower when it occurs to you to wonder when the hot water is going to run out. You frown, mentally calculating the degree to which you had adjusted the temperature, and yeah, you‘re sure of it.

You don’t even have to spin the knob all the way to the left to get heat. You lean forward and nudge the knob to the left, and the water, already comfortably warm, is almost instantly downright hot. You squeak and jump and nudge it back, and then straighten up and just stand there.

The water pressure is good, and the hot water shows no signs of abating. Did they fix the hot water heater? Install a new one? What the hell? When did that happen and why did nobody inform you of it?

For a moment, you debate getting out, thinking it might not be a good idea to press your luck, but then you can't quite make yourself do it. It's been fucking ages since you had a real hot shower, something that consisted of more than just jumping in, soaping up, rinsing off, and jumping out before you were frozen solid. And who the hell knows, it might never happen again!

So instead of getting out, you nudge the water warmer just a tiny bit, and give in to the urge to shampoo your hair a second time, which leads sort of naturally to deciding to use the paste on the rest of yourself as well, since it smells way better than the bar of soap and literally anything else you were able to call yours since you arrived on this exomoon. And finally, that weird scent of the lab is entirely gone, replaced by something natural and pleasing.

— ⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆ —

Working day and night at a lab with fellow scientists did had its advantages. Aside from the smell of working together for hours in such a cramped space, with no windows to open and ventilate the room, it also meant working with someone who understood irregular sleeping patterns, who didn't expect you to talk before you'd had at least two cups of coffee, who spent enough time in a lab not to care about healthy tans or perfectly coiffed hair.

Norm is a good colleague and an even better friend. You value him and his work, but god do you hate that little bastard for arriving here over a whole damn decade before you did and earning himself one of those super expensive and super rare avatars.

And while he’s busy on his field research project, somewhere out there with the other avatars, you’re once again stuck in the labs, nose deep in a book you stole off his shelve that’s older than Norm himself -cryo sleep included.

It was a testament to the sheer focus on your work that you didn't hear Neteyam enter the laboratory until he already stood -well, crouched- under the doorway.

"Good morning, sevin tawtute [pretty human]," he greeted you in a gentle tone, smiling with his eyes closed before stepping closer. The beads of his songcord clicked against each other as he walked over to you. It‘s the first time you’ve seen him this week and you’re startled to realize he’s not wearing any of his usual olo’eyktan attire. No fancy feather garments or an extravagant loincloth, but that doesn’t mean he looks any less beautiful. You‘re more than certain that Neteyam fulfills all na‘vi beauty ideals there are. Blame it on the human-avatar dna, but that man is build like a god.

Under normal circumstances, you’d crumble under his gaze like a crouton if he’d looked at you like this, a hint of mischief glinting in his golden eyes, but something tells you it’s nothing to worry about. One of his hands is bend behind his back and he grins, causing one of your brows to raise in suspicion.

"What?" You laugh, but still can’t help the slightest feeling of unease.

Neteyams grin only widens when he steps closer to reveal what is hiding behind is back, nearly towering over you once he’s right in front of you.

"No fucking way," you clasp a hand over your mouth when he holds the content of his hand out for you, "Sorry! But- oh my god!"

"A pretty flower for my pretty flower," he chuckles, carefully placing a handful of rain thistles into your hands.

The smile on your lips stretches so far up your cheek that it almost hurts as you squeak, "oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Neteyam laughs at your outburst of happiness, before you abruptly jump up to your feet, startling him with the suddenness of movement.

"Wait, don’t move! I have something for you." Off you go into a different room then, the sounds of you rustling through your bag fill his ears and he curiously bends to the side to peak over and see what you are doing. You return shortly, holding something in your palm that you offer him.

"Here," you say sheepishly.

"It’s, uhm, a bracelet. Kind of. Well, I tried okay?" You giggle nervously, holding the woven piece up for him to see. You had made it for him after yet another wonderful hot shower that reminded you that you still hadn’t thanked him for what he had done. "I know it’s nothing compared to the incredible artworks your people weave, but my teacher was Norm so, yeah. That should explain it."

Neteyam blinks, looks at the bracelet and then back at you.

"I made it for you. I really appreciate what you did for me- for us, this week. I don’t know how you did it, but I know it was you. The hot water and the soap, and now the plant too? Jesus, that’s incredible Neteyam. Seriously, thank you."

The na‘vi smiles as he picks it up from your hands. A sigh of relief leaves you when he starts to admire it. That must mean he thinks it looks at least decent.

"That is not necessary," Neteyam shakes his head then.

"No, please. You don’t have to wear it or anything, but please take it. I want you to have it. I don’t have anything else that would be of worth for you to pay you back so please take this as my sign of gratitude."

"Pay me back? With a bracelet?" His words send your stomach spinning, but the way he smiles so fondly at you sets you at ease. "Paskalin [Honey], that’s almost as sweet as you are."

There was an awkward moment during which you just stood there like an idiot, blushing over his words, stammering to form some sort of reaction. Neteyam only smiled at you— a confident smile. So confident, you had to take a moment to gather yourself, take a breathe and wet your lips because suddenly your mouth had gone all dry.

"You don’t have to pay me back." He then said, reaching forward to take the flowers and place them on your desk. With your hands now free, Neteyam used the opportunity to intervene your fingers, thumb stroking over the back of your hand. "Unless you… really want to give me something in return."

His tone was quieter. Something inside you latched on to that. You felt the conversation shift, the way an interrogation shifts when the truth's about to be revealed. Not that this was an interrogation, no. Not with the way he lifted your hand and pressed his soft lips against your knuckles.

Neteyam could probably feel the heat rising up through your body, coloring your face.

"I- Yes, if there’s anything I could give I’d–"

"I guess I could think of something."

Neteyam was studiously casual. Still testing the waters, yet again the fine hairs on the back of your neck stood on end as if the air was electrified.

With your back pressed against the edge of the table and Neteyam moving continuously closer, you were soon caged in by his giant frame. Both of his hands came down on the table top then to balance his weight as he leaned in impossibly closer.

Unconsciously, you held your breath and leaned forward slightly, waiting. Hoping like hell you knew what he was planning to do.

And then releasing the breath in a delighted whoosh when Neteyam grinned, eyes staring at your lips, murmuring, "I’ve been wanting to do this for so long," and closed the gap between you by pressing his lips over yours.

Kissing Neteyam takes your breath away, but not in a metaphorical way. His kiss is ravenous, the force of it tilting your body to bend backwards and his lips coax yours open with little effort as you're hardly putting up any resistance. You can’t stop the little moan from escaping once his tongue curls around yours. Neteyam explores your mouth determinedly, taking what he believes to be his. His thumb runs up and down your jaw, occasionally applying pressure to adjust the tilt of your head as he changes the angle of the kiss, feels your hair tickle his forehead. Noses bump and brush, he inhales your scent, groans when it’s just as sweet as you taste.

His kiss is powerful. It commands. Look at me. Touch me. Feel me. Only me. It leads you, your movements, the pace. He presses himself harder against you, towers over you like a mountain. Your hands are small, and they claw at his arms, his biceps, his neck. They pull and pull, yet he doesn’t budge, doesn’t move unless he wants to. You make a whiny sort of noise in protest and he grins against your lips.

Neteyams hand closes around your wrist then, guides it to feel and press against his loincloth and you gasp into the kiss. "Feel what you do to me, tawtute?" He nearly whispers, gliding your palm up and down the length of him. "Feel how hard I am for you?"

Fuck, he’s big.

It was plain to anyone with eyes that Neteyam was taller than literally any human on high camp. A good two and a half feet taller. Even taller than some of the Na‘vi. When you stood next to the olo'eyktan, you were dwarfed by his size. But feeling his cock through his loincloth like this made you realize just how big he actually was.

"It’s all because of you." He leans in close, lips brushing over your ear. "Always you." You hear him inhale, nosing your throat, groaning. "You’re driving me crazy, woman."

"I didn’t even do…," your voice comes out as a breathless whisper, "anything."

"Hmh, exactly." Your breath hitched in your throat then when you felt his tongue glide over your pulse point, sharp canine teasing your skin. "You smell so much like me," he whispers, "like mine." You nearly whimper once he starts to untie his loincloth, one of his hands guiding your smaller one to wrap around his length, feel his girth, the warmth of his skin, while his other hand glides up your neck and the back of your head. With the way his fingers brush through your hair and cradle the back of your head, your eyes flutter closed for just a moment before he murmurs into your ear, "I know now what you could do to pay me back, paskalin."

You look up at him, eyes wide and cheeks flushed in a pretty hue of pink. Ever the gentleman, Neteyam carefully but determinedly pushes you down to your knees. His three fingered hand gently holds and caresses your jaw while you get in position to crouch on your haunches. He‘s so tall, it’s a struggle to get on eye level with the price, but once you’ve straightened your back it’s manageable.

Neteyams cock is probably the most visually pleasing part of any man you’ve ever laid your eyes on. He‘s your first na‘vi, and you’re surprised to find him having little glowing dots all over the length of him. His tip has a slightly different shade of blue than the rest of him, but it looks so smooth and shines in bioluminescence pre-cum, you can’t help but lick your lips in anticipation.

Glancing up at him with eyes full lust, Neteyam‘s are a perfect mirror to yours. With a hand around himself, he nudges his tip against your pretty soft lips and you can’t help but kiss it back.

"Suck," he tells you, a little short of words, but he’s quickly forgiven. He just looks so good from this angle, abs flexing and chest heaving. So impatient to finally feel you like this, as if he was waiting for this moment for so long. With the way he groans once your tongue glides along the underside of shaft he might as well actually had been waiting. Too long, if you’d ask him.

Neteyam stroked himself a few more times before he let you take over, skin radiating heat from every point of contact, washing over you in waves once your fingers wrapped around him. He was far too girthy for your hand to close entirely around it -not that this was a problem.

It became a problem however when you tried to take him in your mouth too quickly after that.

"Easy, paskalin," Neteyam chuckled at your first pathetic attempt that ended embarrassingly fast in a gag. "So eager, huh? You have to take it slow."

You bite your lip at that, caught between the embarrassment and the unbearable need to have him inside you. Clenching your thighs together, you nod sheepishly.

"Stick your tongue out," the olo’eyktan orders and you obey without hesitation. Neteyam slowly pushes his hips forward then, gliding along your outstretched tongue. You don’t need to be told twice when he tells you to close your lips around him and start again.

You focus on his tip this time, slowly working over it, swirling your tongue around it, teasing the slit. You place wet kisses along the crown, before you continue where you had left off.

It all leads to a nice relaxed pace, and you spend quite a while licking and getting his cock thoroughly wet before you open your mouth wide enough to sink down.

"Hmh, just like that, now you got it," Neteyam groans, watching with half lidded eyes as your lips move further down his shaft. Inch by inch you bopped your head up and down his cock.

The slurping sounds you made in the process went straight to your core, sending a shuddering throb to your cunt that nearly made you loose your balance. A muffled whine caught his attention as you pressed your thighs together once more, and Neteyam grins down at you, stroking a hand through your hair. "It’s okay, touch yourself. I know you need it." You felt his cock twitch at the thought of seeing it become reality.

The strands of hair hanging into your face are obscuring your eyes and Neteyam finds himself annoyed at that. You look so beautiful on your knees, soft mouth wrapped around his cock. Nothing should get in the way of that view.

Reaching down, he tenderly tucks the soft hair behind your ear. The gesture makes you look up, meeting his gaze and he can't quite stifle the sharp inhale of a breath at the hungry look in your eyes, eyebrows pinched together as if you’re silently pleading to him.

"Come on, sevin," he purrs, "I want to watch you pleasure yourself before it is my turn."

Your right hand slips down your own body, skimming over your chest and down past the waistband of your leggings. The soft moan that escapes you, as your dainty fingers move over your clit, vibrate through his body.

The sight of you on your knees, sucking on his cock and loving it so much to the point you had to find relief in your own hands was almost enough to finish him right then and there. Heat creeps up your cheeks when Neteyam lets out a breathy groan.

"Eywa, you look so good when you blush," he says then, cupping your jaw and brushing a thumb across your cheek, feeling the tip of his cock through your skin once you hollow them. "You look even better like this, far better than I’ve always imagined."

His word encourage you to slide two digits down to your weeping entrance, circling your slit before you slowly push them in. Your eyelids flutter at the stretch.

"Look at you," Neteyam sighs, his hips slowly starting to work as he pumps his cock in and out of your mouth. "If I stopped right now, you'd beg yourself hoarse for more, wouldn't you, sevin [pretty]?"

You can’t answer in words, but instead drive your mouth down harder on his cock, moaning out what you hope sounded like a strong affirmative answer when you get the breath for it.

Neteyams eyes don't just stay open, they widen. His lips part, and he licks them, breath going shallow as he feels his pulse against your fingers working the length of him whilst you suckle on his tip. His cock's throbbing in time with his heartbeat, and it feels incredible.

Humming softly, you rub your tongue up against all these sensitive spots on his cock, finding a rhythm to the thrusts of your own fingers and the way your thumb was simultaneously circling your clit.

Neteyam just tastes so good, you would smile in delight if your lips could stretch that far. You suck harder, lips curling over your teeth and then the man above you moans.

"Oh fuck," he groans, fingers tightening just a little in your hair. "You've got such a good mouth on you..."

Shifting his hips he thrusts just a little more into your mouth, unable to hold himself back. Teasing is all well and good, but Neteyam‘s more than ready to come now.

You take the hint and drive your head down until you‘re nearly choking on his cock, all but mouth-fucking yourself on it. This time, the sound of your little gags doesn’t stop him though. With one hand holding your jaw and one holding a fistful of your hair, his hips buck and thrust into the welcoming warmth of your mouth. You struggle briefly, but then he coos softly, "Breath through it. Yeah, that’s it."

You concentrate hard on keeping your teeth out of the way as much as you can and just enjoy the feel of being used by the olo’eyktan like this.

Neteyam might still get an incidental scrape of teeth or two with you going this hard, but it's nothing deliberate; you’re just going fast enough and hard enough that it's more about giving him as much as you can than being easy and careful.

The squelching sound of your fingers prodding at your g-spot fills both of your ears and you can feel the tremors going through Neteyams thighs as that.

"I want you to tell me when you're getting close," he groans. "I want to come with you, paskalin."

This time, you pull back far enough to look up at him and nod, and then you curl your tongue around Neteyams cock on the way back down, moving back to gentle, slow, lazy licks and strokes.

Neteyam exhales a shaky sigh that morphs into a low chuckle, "yeah, good girl, take your time. I can hold it, sevin, just do as you like."

Another moan slips as you fondle with your puffy clit, rubbing tight circles into it with your slickened fingertips. Your hips squirm around from the white-hot pleasure tightening your core. No, you think, don’t hold it. You want him to come. You need it. It felt as if your own pleasure depended on him, as if you couldn’t let go unless he did.

The spell that the olo’eyktan had on you should be studied, you thought for a moment. You wanted to serve, to obey, to please him to bring yourself to that pleasure high.

Sliding your mouth tight over the pretty head of his cock, it was if you were trying to suck in a strawberry whole. The action sends a violent pulse through Neteyam that beats against your lips and makes you hum again.

The taste of Neteyam has engulfed all of your senses now, salty and hot and thick. You hear the breaths above and they throb like the pre-cum coating your tongue. You move your head forward again and swirl your tongue just behind his cock-head before dragging your lips firmly over it and off. Looking up, your eyes meet as Neteyam tilts his face and his chest tightens in time with his balls.

Slowly, you close your eyes and then open them again on a heavy pant, hand stroking the half of his length you couldn’t take in your mouth with desperate restraint, driving his arousal harder.

As you do so, you’re working the fingers of your other hand deeper into your core, thrusting and curling them just right, until the fabric of your pants was soaked in your slick. Too focused, you absentmindedly pull back up and mouth breathily around his cock, barely touching it but enjoying it bob and twitch as your breath and the edge of your tongue hits the sensitive skin. Sneaking your tongue roughly down to the base you then drag it back up the underside slowly and Neteyam moans.

Please, you think, as you stroke him faster. Please ... please come. You want it so fucking much and you can't help wondering if you actually wanted Neteyam to come more than he wanted it himself. You doubt it however, because the following groan from above lets you know just how close he was, how much he was fighting to keep everything at bay, to hold back and wait for you because he wanted you to come just as much.

He‘s thrusting into your mouth again and you’re driven on beyond your own desire to suck and savour by those hands in your hair, pulling your head in and away again, repeating this simple two beat rhythm on and on.

God, please. Your thoughts are becoming audible now in the form of little whines and whimpers that change in tone and volume with every movement of your head. He‘s so thick at his base, stretching your lips impossible wide.

More pre-cum dribs down your throat. Encouraged by that, you grab a couple of deep breaths and then relax your throat as best as you could, before moving your mouth further down. You could feel the tip of his cock nudging at the back of your throat, not even halfway in, and you have to draw back just to be able to still breathe. When you lower your head again, you manage to take in more, and the third time you nearly get it all.

"Fuck, tanhì [little star]," Neteyam hisses through clenched teeth, "so good, you feel so fucking good like this. My perfect little tawtute, sucking my cock like she’s made for it."

You can smell Neteyam even more the closer you get to his pubic bone, all sweat and sex and pure natural scents, and you instinctively try to breathe it in, choking hard on his cock as you do.

Sorry ... so sorry, you think swallowing down a gag and looking up quickly as you get your breathing back under control. You catch the way Neteyam wets his lips, mouth agape and staring down at you with so much primal need in his eyes, the sight hits you like a jolt of electricity.

You let out a high pitched whine as your fingers rub frantically over your clit. Shit, you’re so close, so so close.

Starving for the taste of his cum in your mouth, you swallows around his length each time it hits the back of your throat. Your saliva-slicked fingers go tighter, stroking faster, and you can hear yourself making that pleading noise again. Please ... please ... let me make you come ... God please.

As the first drop of cum hits your tastebuds, Neteyam lets out a throaty groan, "Come for me. Come on these pretty little fingers."

It’s all the confirmation you need to finally let go.

You feel the way you tighten in on your own digits, more slick running down your wrist as you prod your fingertips against your special spots. Thighs shaking, you barely manage to thrust them in and out of yourself as your orgasm washes over you like a tsunami. The feeling of sheer ecstasy was nearly enough to make you ignore the burning of your throat as Neteyam suddenly nestled himself as deep as he could reach with an uncoordinated thrust of his hips.

Your climax marks the end of his control, and he lets himself go. You moan in unison as rope after rope of his cum flows down your throat. The taste of it takes you by surprise. It’s awfully sweet and thick, and your mouth feels sticky with it. Neteyam comes a lot, and it’s almost getting too much before he pulls back to let his length rest on your tongue and allows you to gasp for air.

By the time you feel yourself floating back down to pandora, you had lost all sense of time, of place and person and anything but Neteyam.

You finally pull back when the tension in his thighs releases, and you swallow for the last time, wiping your fingers around the outline of your swollen lips to catch any stray wetness. Looking up, you’re met with his dazed expression, pupils blown wide, with sweat beading at his forehead, and entirely spent from this earth shattering orgasm.

"Great mother," Neteyam shuddered, laughing breathlessly.

"Guess we‘re even then, huh?" You smile up at him, voice hoarse, as you gladly take the hand he’s reaching out to help you stand on wobbly legs.

All that comes as a response is a chuckle, before Neteyam pulls you flush against him. "Oh paskalin," he purrs, hands greedily feeling up the backside of your thighs before hoisting you up to sit on your desk, "that was just for the flower."

You send him a sheepish little smile, cocking your head to the side and raise a brow, intrigued. His tail grazes your skin, gently swaying and curling around your ankle. Neteyam holds your gaze for a long moment, his grin spreading impossibly wide, until his fangs come into view, sharp tongue licking over pearly whites before he chuckles, "What about the hot water that I fixed, hm? And I got you soap too. You didn’t already forget that, did you?"

His teasing makes you grin.

"Right. Then how can I pay you back?" You ask, looking up at the man with those big doe eyes of yours. You know it’s unfair to play those little tricks on him, but you’re feeling bolder now that you’ve had his cock in your mouth and seed fill your tummy, so you bat your pretty long lashes at him as if you were begging for a treat. Neteyams presses himself closer, standing right between your thighs now before he lowers his face to your throat.

"You know exactly how", he says lowly and you feel his thumbs hooking under the waistband of your leggings. He‘s not exactly subtle with the way he presses his rapidly hardening cock against your thigh, so you let him pull your pants down with a smug little grin.

"I think I could get used to these little favors of yours," you whisper, watching with half lidded eyes as he hooks your legs up over his muscular shoulders.

"If that‘s the way you will repay me," his tip prods at your entrance, thick and hot and slicked with your spit, before he slowly pushes himself inside you, "I will do you as many favors as you’d like, paskalin."

748 notes · View notes

agentmarvel · 9 months

Note

Can we have headcanons of fem!reader wife x 141 guys and how they each handle her leaving for girl’s night out in a really skimpy dress?

I think they’d all have hilarious reactions.😂

Omg yesssss

NSFW under the cut

MDNI - 18+

♡ Price:

Oh lord, that man is NOT letting you out of the house.

"Where ya think you're going in that?"

gets a little pissy when you remind him you have one girls night a month, and you have every right to wear whatever you want

"Doesn't mean you have the right to show anyone else what's mine, love."

will physically block the door with his whole body, knowing you won't be able to move him unless he allows it

he isn't mad - no, quite the opposite! it's taking every ounce of his self-restraint not to rip that damn thing in half and have his way with you right there on the foyer floor

"John, move. I don't want to be late!" - "Shame... You should've thought about that before you put on something you know damn well I can't resist."

he thinks it's cute when you argue with him, but you both know this ends up with your front pressed up against the door, panties pulled to the side, and his cock buried to the hilt inside you

after he cums, he pulls your panties back into place and gives you a harsh swat on the ass, not caring that your make up is a little smudged or that your legs are jello while he's giving you that smug look he wears so well

"Enjoy your night out, Mrs. Price. Hurry home."

♡ Gaz:

he's on you before you even walk out of the bathroom after you finish your hair

wraps his arms around your waist, puts his chin on your shoulder, tells you how pretty you look

"This dress new? Haven't seen it on the floor before."

ohhhhh, he is so down bad for you, even after as long as you've been together

makes it a point to grab a quick selfie bc he knows it's a solid confidence booster, and he wants you to feel as beautiful as you look

it doesn't really cross his mind that anyone would try anything on you - you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, and he knows who you'll come home to; he knows who's bed you'll be in tonight, who's name you'll be calling in the dark

he even helps you pick the right shoes, even though you know he picks his favorite pair in hopes of seeing you in just those when you get home

ever the gentleman, he walks you out to your car, reminds you to drive safe, call him if you have too much to drink, etc.

he does, however, make it a point to send you some downright raunchy texts and a photo of his more... physical reaction, just in case you needed some motivation to come home a little early

when you get home (early), he's still riled up; he's too impatient to wait for you to make it upstairs, much less to unzip your dress for you, so you end up riding him on the landing until he's too tongue-tied to keep telling you how hot you look

♡ Soap:

you're not making it out of the house. Period.

the SECOND Johnny lays eyes on you, it's over

he's grabby as hell, digging his fingers into any part of you that he can - squeezing your ass, your hips, your thighs, tits, tummy, anything - while he navigates you to the nearest surface

"Yer so fuckin' pretty, baby. Never seen something so fuckin' perfect in my god damn life."

it doesn't matter if you end up on the couch, the kitchen counter, in the back yard; he's eating your pussy like a death row prisoner's last meal until you're crying, trying to wrench his head away with the hair tangled in your fist

he has your dress bunched up around your waist, straps pulled down so he can play with your nipples, but uses the whole garment as leverage while he fucks you stupid

you should've known better than to put a t-bone in front of a starving dog and expect it not to bite

"Go ahead, bonnie; text your little friends, tell them you're not gonna make it, yeah?"

♡ Ghost:

"'course, love. Have fun, be careful, call me if you need a ride."

Simon isn't too worried initially; he knows there isn't going to be a single soul in that bar willing or able to face his wrath should anything untoward happen. but then he actually sees what you're wearing, and all bets are off

that's why he follows you, he tells himself, it has nothing to do with the insatiable urge to destroy your ability to walk tomorrow

nothing trumps your safety, in terms of his priorities. he's simply here to look out for his wife, right?

wrong. he spends the next hour and a half watching you from a darkened corner of the bar while his palms itch with a need to touch

opportunity knocks when you excuse yourself from the table, and he follows you into the restroom, slipping in before you have a chance to lock the door

you're not surprised to see him (duh, you know him better than just about anyone), but you are surprised to find yourself bent over the sink, looking Simon in the eye through his reflection. he's fucking you mercilessly, spewing absolute filth while he pulls your head back by your hair

"My perfect little whore, hmm? Waltzing around in that tiny dress, wearing my fuckin' ring, rubbin' it in everyone's faces that you only open those pretty legs for me."

he wants to cum on your face, but you pout about the possibility of it getting in your eye, or worse, on your dress, so he settles for letting you swallow it instead

his impulses return not much longer after you return to your table; instead, he texts you that he's ready to head out, and you are all too quick to oblige

#john price x reader #john price x you #john price imagine #john price headcanons #kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick x you #kyle gaz garrick imagine #kyle gaz garrick headcanons #johnny soap mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish x you #johnny soap mactavish imagine #johnny soap mactavish headcanons #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley imagine #simon ghost riley headcanons #jj writes

1K notes · View notes

halcyone-of-the-sea · 3 months

Text

CAT-EYES

PAIRING: Runaway Groom!John 'Soap' MacTavish x F!Thief!Reader

SYNOPSIS: What begins as a normal day of stalking the back road for wealthy carriages, turns into a walking nightmare spanning three days. Who is this finely-dressed man stumbling about your woods?

WORDCOUNT: 13.3k

WARNINGS: Blood, injury, light gore, pining, intense banter, sarcasm, insults, kind of enemies-to-lovers but eh, angst, protective!John, light hurt/comfort, bittersweet?, etc.

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

You were sitting in the branches again.

Lightly swinging your legs from over the sides, the rough bark at your spine shifted as you let out a tiny sigh into the chilled air. In your ears, you’re hearing the bugs fly past, and the large hart about fifteen feet away pushing through the undergrowth—built body just barely there as the puff of his hot breath wafts upwards.

Twirling the arrow between your fingers, your bow sitting carefully in your lap, you close your eyes and listen.

The years had come and gone and yet you remained here in this small corner of nowhere—resting in this old gnarled oak tree with its branches and leaves giving protection from the elements when nothing else would. Sure, you had a small home to call your own in these very woods, but your windows didn’t give a view of the back road to the East. Barely anyone took it now, and you think you’re partially to blame for it, but, well, perhaps those pesky nobles shouldn’t have been too prone to flashing their coin.

So it was their fault, and on your failing honor, the money always went to a good cause anyway. Who wouldn’t want a poor woman to eat?

But, no. There are rules that every thief follows, no matter how unsavory. You never killed anyone; you never harmed them, either. Just the money—a brandished dagger or an arrow to the side of a carriage wouldn’t hurt anything besides pride, and many of those you stole from had enough to last them multiple lifetimes.

“Greedy fellows,” you sigh under your breath before you stretch like a cat, arching your spine and spreading your arms high above your head. The few rays of sun you get through the leaves dance across your face, but still, the thick layer of cold air is present all around.

Shuffling a bit in your shoulder-wrapping, you yawn and fall back once more—licking your lips and thinking of warm stew and fresh bread from the inn down in the town. Shivering, your fingers move to play with your bow, tapping along the bend of wood as the trees are brushed by a soft breeze. The hart below huffs louder still—hooves crushing across the fallen twigs, and you think it’s a bit strange the thing is still here despite your scent clearly in the air, but your eyes are more focused on the road than an animal.

Until it speaks.

“Hells fuckin’ bells, this damn get-up is going to be the death of me,” the words are barked out quickly—laced with heated anger as a branch is slapped by heavy hands.

Startling, your head snaps below you rapidly; heart jerking inside of your chest so suddenly that you nearly send yourself off the side of your perch. Scrambling for your bow to make sure it doesn’t clatter to the dirt of the Earth, you force down a loud gasp at what you see.

“Bastard things,” meets your ears as you stare open-eyed at a bulky man as he stumbles out into the small clearing below your tree, looking behind him as he pants. Your jaw goes slack at the extravagant apparel clothing this sudden stranger—a red, black, and blue tartan thrown over his shoulder, pinned with the silver image of a great boar head, and the kilt has more than one bramble stuck into it as it swishes with his turn.

He has a sporran as well, made of dark furs with three tassels hanging, the metal also silver, as your experienced eyes can tell as they narrow in confusion.

“What in the hell…” You breathe quietly, leaning just a bit more over the edge of your branch slowly.

There were black belts and buckles, rich shoes of leather, and your gaze slowly drags to the hanging body of a sword strapped to his waist, swinging as the man rests his feet and looks down at himself with a deep annoyance. There wasn’t an inch of him not coated in dirt, mud, or sweat—all that deer-ish panting and huffing escaping his mouth in condensed clouds.

“Fuckin’,” he stops himself from continuing the curse, holding up his hands as he glares down at his form. “Jesus, this’ll never come out at this rate.”

This comment made your lips twitch, eyebrow-raising as your sharp vision filtered from one detail to the next—learning the brown shade of his cut hair and the strange way it’s kept long down the center, and short along the sides. He had a strong build to him, and the boar broach, while it may be something to distinguish a family line as he seemed wealthy, perfectly reflected the individual.

He was a being of muscle and stubborn willpower. All tusk and bristled fur.

Your eyes linger a bit longer on the silver of that broach—the thing that glints in the light alluringly. You hum under your breath, tilting your head softly. Yet, your impression was made, and your wits are about you as sharply as they always had been.

This was a formal outfit, for a formal occasion. So, why was this important man trampling through the woods where you were set to ambush the next unassuming noble on the road? Why was he looking over his shoulder so tense-like? Your curiosity had piqued the second you’d figured out the rabid crunching from the bushes wasn’t a deer but instead, a wealthy-looking man who wasn’t, you admitted, too hard on the eyes.

Blinking, you smile, fingers twitching over your bow as the stranger brushes his vest rapidly, growling down at the large mud stains.

“Lost, then?” Your voice makes him startle, skull whipping forward to the tree trunk until you whistle and lean forward; moving your bow to push away the cover of leaves. “Up here, now,” blue eyes immediately lock with yours and you hum, chuckling, at the moment of shock that shines through. “Poor bastard, look at you and all that mud. You’ve been through hell, mate, eh? By the state of you, I’d say you fought a bear and found yourself at the end of an unfortunate outcome.”

Your words are smooth—nearly sly just as they always are. There’s intent leaking out of every one of them until all that remains is a layered purpose, like that of a butcher peeling away flesh from a hide. You have to process that skin: lay it to a rack to let it dry before it can be stretched to the desired firmness, and, finally, softened.

You took as much pleasure in the mental hunt as you did the payoff. Where there’s money to be earned, there’s also knowledge—you were a thief of all.

The man watches you with wide eyes, those blues glinting as they blink, glancing around rapidly to check for any others like you that may be hiding. He steps back, a hand brushing his sword, and you think to yourself slowly, he’s smart.

You breathe down chilled air. Before he responds he checks to make sure it’s not an ambush—the man understands he’s out of his element here. He’s on edge.

The both of you stare at one another, before your face shifts, brow-raising up on your forehead.

“What, did I startle you?” Legs looping to hang off the same side, your body feels lighter than a feather as you send yourself over the edge, knees taking the brunt of the force as your head catches up to your stomach—grunting as you hold your bow heavily in one hand. The jostle moves the limbs of your arrows, kept in a quiver at the small of your back.

Standing fully, you huff and set an easy smile to your lips, all teeth.

“My apologies, Lord.” Your free hand finds your heart, and you bend your spine forward. “I couldn’t help but see you down here below my tree.”

“Best to stay where you are,” the stranger grunts, only giving you enough of a glance to deem you unthreatening, apparently. Your form straightened. He watches you warily on the next go-around, attention always drifting to every snap of a twig off into the trees or the breeze shifting the leaves. “No need to apologize,” is the hurried reply, caught on a rough accent and a hissed gravel huff. “I’ll be on my way once I get my bearings. I don’t have time for conversation—and you should find your way home before long.” Eyes dart. “It isn’t good to be out today...or tonight, I’d say.”

If possible, your intrigue gains strength like a saint in Heaven.

The man’s square face raves in a clench of his jaw, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“Are you sure you’re not lost, Lord?” You continue, undeterred, and shift your bow to sling it over your shoulder. “I live in these woods, I’d have no trouble directing you to the road. It isn’t far.”

“It’s John,” he grunts, glancing over, out of sorts. He was tired—his limbs were shaking with exertion even if he didn’t realize it yet. You think that perhaps if he were more focused, he’d ask why a woman had just landed in front of him from the branch of an Oak; dressed in trousers and a tunic, with just a woolen wrap to keep out the chill. Dirt over her face and a cunning edge to her words. Or, maybe he did know, you wondered, and simply didn’t care at the moment.

“Just call me Johnny. And,” he shakes his head firmly. “No. Go home to your husband, Bonnie, this doesn’t involve you.” He blinks, staring with a line across his forehead, stubble pulling along his cheeks. “I know this place—there’s a road just to the…” he turns his head to the direction of your trail, blinking at the coverage of thick foliage. “Fuck,” the dark-haired stranger growls, blues sparking up in a feral display of desperate weight.

You can only see the winding bends if you have a vantage point—that was why you chose your tree in the first place. Your smile grows.

“It’s that way, Lord,” you breathe, pointing in the opposite direction of the road, back to the small path of brambles and bushes that leads closer to your home instead. “We pass my property on the way, I can offer you some drink for your troubles.” A chuckle wafts the air. “You look like you need it.”

There’s a large moment of hesitation, in which you begin to wonder if this prize might be too big to catch, but, then, as there’s a flash of something over John’s face, he grits his teeth and sighs.

“Aye, fine,” he nods, looking to the side as he lowers his tense shoulders and clears his throat. You’re offered a sincere expression that borders on strained guilt. “Thank you, Dearie. I…” John pauses, frowning. “I hope I didn’t scare you too much when I burst through the trees like that—I’m in a bit of a rush if you can’t tell. I need to make for the shore.”

“My,” you huff, shifting your body and motioning him to follow—he does, setting his feet carefully ahead of him with experienced movements; keeping a respectable distance away. Johnny wasn’t new to the woods, then. He knew where to place his feet, at the very least. “The shore? That sounds exciting.” You conclude, hiding your creased brows as you stare forward. “Making for the South? I’ve heard handfuls are leaving for the weather.”

Looking over your shoulder, you make sure he keeps on your trail as you push through the bushes. “More agreeable, they say. Less rain.”

John chuckles, though he’s still visibly aware of everything around him. He spares you a look, a small smirk taking over his slightly chapped lips. “Keep talkin’ like that, and I just might.”

You’re surprised by the genuine laugh that fights in the back of your throat. Humming under your breath, you shrug it off as simply as a dog does a fly. It was painfully obvious neither of you trusted the other.

John’s eyes were stuck on the back of your head, and yours were eager to slide back to his form on the off-chance you had to use the dagger strapped to the meat of your thigh, carefully hidden under your trousers and accessible via a cut in your pocket. He was all muscle, and already you know that any attack coming to you would be unwise to try and retaliate—slash and retreat was a much better escape plan.

You could outrun him.

“So,” your words bleed curiosity, eyes imploring as you glance over your shoulder. “Why are you out in the woods, Johnny? In such a nice outfit as well. Is there something going on around here?”

The dark-haired man tilts his head your way, sighing long. “A wedding, actually. Horrible thing, if I have to comment on it.”

Your lips twitch.

“Oh, aye. I’d heard about it in town not two days ago—something about a marriage of advantage? Who was the unlucky pair, then?”

John clenched his jaw, hand coming up to push at the smear of dried blood on his cheek, which you’d just noticed wasn’t dirt and instead the result of a branch slap. Pale cheeks were wind-bitten. Lungs heavy. You narrow your gaze before stopping the surge of questions in your mouth.

“Some poor bastard, that’s who,” he responds slowly, mostly under his breath, before blinking. “How much further is the road, Dearie? No offense,” he grunts, staring seriously at you “but I'd rather not be here for much longer.”

The boar broach winks at you.

“Not far,” you smile coyly. “Forgive me, Lord John—”

“Just Johnny—”

“—But I do hope you’re not a fugitive.”

Blue eyes widen, sure feet faltering.

“.... Negative, Bonnie, no, I’m not running from the law. You don’t have to worry about any of that with me,” he breathes, and not once does he look away from you. You have to commend the man, he seemed an honest fellow, and those, you knew, were very rare indeed in your time. “I just need to get out of these woods. You’ll never hear from me again after I’m gone.” He takes a breath, looking past you. “You have my word.”

“Is it worth believing?” You push, smirking. “There’s few dressed like you that I can say it is.”

John licks his lips as you both pass a fallen tree, standing more side by side than previously now that the density of bushes had dispersed. He huffs, sending you a side-eye before he seems to study your face, brows pulling jokingly.

“I don’t think my answer would make much of a difference, would it?”

You pause, enjoying this man’s company more by the second. “No, it wouldn’t.” The both of you stare, before you grin and pull your sharp gaze away, chuckling. “Follow me,” you motion a hand. “Before you fall into a mud pit and completely ruin what little is left of your outfit that’s sellable—” You fumble, faking a cough as you clear your throat and finish off with tension now in your spine, “Salvageable.”

“If I’m bein’ honest, Bonnie,” Johnny grumbles, either not noticing the mistake or simply not registering it. “I wouldn’t fuckin’ care if it got covered in horse shit.”

—

You open the door to your home, shifting out of your bow and setting it against the wall with your quiver following to rest beside it as two siblings should.

“You’re lucky,” you hum, “I just went to the well this morning—freshwater is in the basin, cups on the table.”

John’s eyes give a firm once-over, fingers fidgeting above his sword’s hilt. He nods once, moving into the doorway, and immediately goes to where you describe and grabs onto a carved cup, tilting it in his hands.

“Thank you,” he mutters sincerely, hand dipping into the collection of water. “Eh,” John puffs a laugh, “I’d imagine I would still be stumbling along if it wasn’t for you, little Lady. These woods are larger than I remember them.”

“You come from around here?” You ask, brushing down your wool wrapping as you pull at the burs in the fiber. “Don’t recall your face in the town, though I’m not there often.”

“Hm,” he takes down the water, and you watch his Adam’s Apple bob as droplets slip from his lips to drop off his chin. Once he had drunk the entire cup, he removed it and wiped at his mouth with his forearm, blue eyes peeking above it. “I…wasn’t in town usually. Not really my place—the forests outside of my property took most of my attention.” He confesses, head tilting as the strange cut of his hair flops along with his skull. “Those, I could run blind.”

“I’m sure,” you puff a laugh.

While the air was somewhat calm, there was still an underlying hesitancy: Johnny didn’t know who you were, and you didn’t know what he was running from. Both were important questions that needed to be answered. Yet, John seemed the casual type.

“Doubt me?” His eyes narrow, a smile brewing.

“I never said that,” you walk past him, also grabbing a cup before dipping it into the basin. Your finger points. “But it would be interesting to test.”

“Unfortunately,” John breathes, setting down his cup, “I’m occupied at the moment.”

“A groom would be,” you tilt your head, casually sipping at your drink. “Your wife must be fucking fuming right now.”

The room flips on itself, and the man is instantly frozen.

Johnny stares, shocked, and you see his feet instinctually ready a stance to either blot to the door, or to take up his sword. His expression is layered with secrecy.

“...What was that?”

“I said your wife must be fucking fuming,” you say louder, slipping your hand into your pocket and shrugging to make it seem meaningless—your dagger’s hilt is smooth under your flesh. “Or did you not finish the ceremony? Betrothed, then, Johnny Boy?” Your eyes glint. “Hell, the event must have been absolutely laced with wealth. Did you have wine imported? New fabrics for your wedding clothes? I’d almost be disappointed if you didn’t.”

“That’s none of your business, Dearie,” he levels, glare heavy and firm while his face is stoic. You can clearly see his body wound up like a wild dog. “I think we’re done here.”

He backs up quickly, legs taking him to the exit until you’re suddenly right behind him, and the man feels the sharp press of a blade into the back of his spine.

Your lips are at his ear, and you chuckle. “Sorry, but we’re not done until anything valuable is in my hands and not on your body.”

“If you wanted me naked,” he growls, glaring from over his shoulder, as his form is rod-straight. “You could have just asked, Little Thief.”

“I’d call it heavy persuasion,” you chuff. “Sounds better, don’t you think.”

“I don’t have time for this,” Johnny barks, teeth gnashing. “Put the knife down before this gets ugly.”

“I’m not entirely sure I want to,” your answer meets the air. “There’s enough silver and fine fabric on you to feed me for an entire winter, even when the deer move to better grounds.”

John grits his molars, his neck bent as his fingers twitch at his sides, slipping along to his sword slowly.

“Money? That’s why you’ve got a bloody blade on me? Christ, my day just keeps getting better and better.” You glare, anger moving behind your eyes.

“Some people have to work for what they want, you—” Your hand is slapped to the side as John spins, and your dagger is sent along the floor in a loud clatter; a hand finding your upper arm as you gasp, and, suddenly, there’s the chilled edge of a blade at your throat.

Wide-eyed, you gape at John as the man smirks at you, yet his orbs are infected with annoyance.

“When you draw a knife on someone, you best know how to use it.” The edge is slightly pressed deeper and your body refuses to move. “You put it at the neck, Cat-Eyes.” John frowns, glaring. “Knew there was something about you—down to the bow and arrows.”

“What,” you growl out, a low embarrassment stemming in your gut as John’s puffs of breath move along your face. Your face burns, and your fingers jerk with anger. “A woman can’t have hobbies?”

“Not when I find ‘em up trees waiting to ambush any bastard that comes by wearing silver.”

“Mate,” you sneer, eyes glimmering. “At this point, you can keep your damn silver. It’s more of a reward to watch you stumble like a fool through the woods five feet from the road.” Johnny’s face tightens, yet there’s little time to fight like children anymore when the sound of breaking branches is echoing off the windows of the house.

Both of your necks whip to the door, yours a great deal more carefully as you’re slightly nicked by the sword's edge, but the drip of blood is voided. High voices carry over the air.

“Find him!”

“His tracks lead through here—get the hounds on it!”

“Here!”

Your brow raises, smirk getting larger as you chuckle under your breath. “Better get on your way quickly, then.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Johnny snarls, all at once ripping his sword from your neck yet keeping his ruthless grip on your upper arm. He looks nervous now—his eyes jumping from one place to another, thinking. “Where’s the damn road, you minx.”

You shrug, eyes sharp. “What road, Lord?”

The strong man rages, eyes burning with a thousand suns as the sword is taken from your neck and re-sheathed in one motion—a second hand staples itself to your waist, gripping tightly. You blink, saliva swallowed down thickly at the dig of heavy fingers into flesh as your heart stutters.

“You’re going to tell me,” John levels, shifting the both of you back as the sounds of fast footsteps are echoed by the bay of dogs. “As much as I would enjoy being away from you in any capacity at all,” you smile humorously to him through his dead-tone monologue, “I need a guide out of these woods and across the land. If you won’t help willingly, I’ll just have to make do.”

You blink, confused.

“Make do?” Your body is taken up, and you shout as you’re ruthlessly flung over the man’s shoulder with a hiked toss.

Johnny’s smirk is lost to you, but his chuckle is not as he dashes to the door and slams it open, taking a quick left and looping the house—diving into the foliage as if a fish to water. “Unhand me, you brute!” You scream, clawing and hitting at the man’s back—kicking even, as your knee speedily finds his ribcage. “Ow!” John laughs, his grin highly amused as he turns back to look at you. The shouts from the trees get larger, but that doesn’t help you much as you’re both soon going deeper and deeper into the woods. “Jesus, you have a pair of legs, don’t you?”

“If I were marrying you,” you bark down at him, struggling with all of your might as your home disappears from view. “I’d be running instead of the other way around!”

“Well,” Johnny calls, his sword bouncing off of his hip. “It’s a good thing you’re not, then, isn’t it, you bonnie little thief? Your husband would be dead and all of his coin in your dirty pockets!”

“Stop calling me a thief!” You send a closed-fisted slap to the top of his head, and he grunts, balking to the side. “Learn how to handle a fucking lady!”

“Lady?” He breathes heavily, shoving into another bush as leaves get tangled in his hair—twigs stuck in yours as you scowl rabidly. “If you’re a lady, Bonnie, then I’ve got a beast waiting for me back at my ceremony.”

—

He stopped when the light of the sun was low, and your constant attack of his spine left an array of large, fist-shaped bruises on his skin.

“Easy,” John grunts, dropping you with a huff to a down-turned stump.

It isn’t long before you shoot back up, hands clawing for his throat. “Hells Bells!” The man ducks, boyish glint in his eyes as he darts to the side, stepping out of the way as you stumble on tingly legs.

“I’m going to skin you alive,” you yell. “Piece of utter dog shite!”

“Now that’s a bit strong,” John breathes, panting from his mad run for his single life. “Don’t you think?”

You take one step forward, and he takes two back—stuck in a game of cat and mouse. Your eyes are like tiny fires, illuminated with only anger and hatred.

“Give me one reason why I should even attempt to help you,” your screams rise above the trees, hands splayed as John puts his hands to his knees, taking down breaths as sweat dribbles down his neck into his vest. “You-you,” your tongue fumbles, “kidnapper!”

“Technically, it would be an abduction, Dearie.” You slap him across the face and see the man’s cheeks go red from the blow. Shoving your nose nearly right into his, you sneer.

“Correct me again, and it’ll be your balls I hit next.”

He swallows, blinking, before he smirks and pairs it with a chuckle as his eyes spark. “Yes, Ma’am.”

You growl as he holds up his hands, moving one to rub at the back of his neck and itch at the shaved portion of his scalp. That damned smirk—you despised it.

“Get me to the closest port,” John settles, getting to business as his expression mellows out. “And I’ll make it worth your while, I give you my word.”

“What?” You laugh, shaking your head in exasperation the longer the silence falls; realizing how serious the man is. “Oh God in Heaven, this has to be a joke.”

“Anything you ask for, you can have from me when this is over,” he sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and shifting his mud-caked shoes. “I don’t need more than the fee to secure a spot on a good ship sailing away from here, and whatever is left I’ll give to you if you want it. You win in this situation, and I’m not trying to hide it from you.”

Your sharp eyes hone in, unwavering in its heat.

“Christ,” Johnny breathes, “I’d even give you my damn socks if that’s what it takes—I need to get out of here. Quickly.”

You stare, sneering. “Is your betrothed a damn witch or what?”

Blue eyes blink, and his words are firm as they meet air. “Are you taking up my offer or not, Cat-Eyes?”

“Of course, I’m taking the offer!” You bark ruthlessly, rolling your eyes as you kick at the dirt. Rocks and grass fly as darkness settles heavier. “I’m not a fool.”

“Well,” he sighs in relief, looking to the shadows along the ground. “I can’t say you’re that, either, but you are certainly something.”

You narrow your eyes at Johnny but don’t waste your time any longer as you turn and study what you can see.

You had grown up here—in this land. The woods knew you just as much as you knew them. Already you could pinpoint a general map of this section based on the large cracked boulder to your right, and the tiny cluster of trees across the way. You knew the way to town, and from there, the port.

“It’s a three-day walk,” you grumble, side-eyeing the man as he moves to lean against a trunk. He wouldn’t be moving through the night—you didn’t complain on that front either. “You grab at me like that again, and I’ll—”

“Let me guess,” Johnny raises a brow. “You’ll hit me in the balls.”

Your thin lips tell him all he needs to know.

Shuffling past him, you frown and pull your wrapping closer, shuffling your chin into it. No fires for warmth, you know—not with people on your trail.

“I want an explanation,” you turn and dig into him, walking closer as John looks to the side. “If I’m sticking my neck out, I want answers as well as coin.” Poking him in his chest, you force your neck to find his gaze. “Why are you running?”

Johnny sighs, licking his lips as he nods with a low, “Fine.”

You tilt your head, and John moves back to sit against the stump, moving out his hands in an honest display.

“I was told I needed to marry and produce heirs if my house was going to survive, aye?” He states, and you know the story well. “My parents are gone, and my sisters are all married, but my estate is barren of anyone besides myself and the staff. To keep the peace, I gave my word that I would join into a union to secure my assets for my bloodline.”

It was all so formal, the talk of a wife and children—you never understood it. Why couldn’t people simply marry who they love and leave it at that? All this bloodline and assets. Don’t they ever get sick of it?

“What’s your last name, then,” you ask. “McDuff? Mackenzie?”

“MacTavish,” John shakes his head, rubbing his hand up and down the back of his neck. Blue eyes stay with yours. “John MacTavish, I have lands to the North.”

Your brows tighten, arms going to cross themselves. “You’re running from your home because of a union you can freely exit?”

“It isn’t free,” he grumbles, shaking his head firmly and setting his jaw. “My father’s wishes for his children were written down and sealed. I was to marry a daughter of Arthur Campbell when I came of age.” John chuckles face going a bit pink. “As you can see, I’m a good few years past that.”

You tilt your head, and while Johnny was certainly passed the normal age of a male in his position to be wed, it struck you as odd as to why he didn’t want to be in the first place. In marriage during these times, a man has little to lose when joined. Almost nothing else changes for them except another title is added to their long line of others already living under him.

John continues, and you stay your snake-like tongue for now. “Wasn’t until I learned that by now, Mr. Campbell’s second born daughter, who was the only one near my age, had passed nearly an entire year ago—leaving only the oldest behind.”

“And?” You hum, intrigued to see where this goes. Johnny itches at his chin, scratching the stubble that lives there along with the dirt and grime. “What, I’d imagine the head of the Campbell family wanted to uphold the arrangement?”

“Aye, they did,” John grunts, nodding. “Fiona Campbell was the woman I was set to marry today.” He pauses, sighing heavily before looking to the side. Darkness had set, and there was little light by way to see the expression of guilt growing on his face. “I’m not lyin’ when I say I didn’t want to make such a mess of it, but there’s only so much a man can do when he learns his bride is not only twice his age,” John breathes, grunting, “but also just…” He stops himself, sighing.

You frown, gut swirling.

“She was blank, do you understand?” Johnny asks, motioning a hand in a display of unknowing explanation. “All she seemed to care about was children and wealth. A slate waiting to be filled with someone else’s thoughts and ideas. I didn’t want to be the one to fill it—I’ll not be some husband that runs a wife around like a dog. That isn’t right to me; it wasn’t how I was raised.”

Your mind twists on itself with an indefinable feeling—skin tight to your bones as if taken and tied by ropes. Your heart pumps blood a little harder, but just because this man seems less of a bastard doesn’t mean you like him. He’d dragged you into this hunting party of his grand problem, and the sooner you got your payment, the better and easier it would be to disappear.

“How noble,” you huff, rolling your eyes. Yet, your voice is hiding an under-the-breath shock. “So you bolted into the woods?”

Johnny rubs at his nose bridge, growling in annoyance. “Yes—it was the best cover I had. Been going through the trails since sunrise.” He slaps his hands to his knees and stands back up with a grunt and an ache in his thighs. His sarcastic voice peels the shadows. “Are we satisfied, now, Bonnie?”

“I won’t be until you’re out of my sight,” you level, moving forward. “So are you going to bed so I can drag you to the port or not?”

John’s body is heard shifting as you slip down the trunk of a tree, backside hitting grass as you settle in for a restless sleep—pulling your wrap tighter over your shoulders. Here you were: weaponless and in the company of a runaway groom still in all of his finery.

You wanted that damn boar broach.

“Sleep’ll be smart, we need to be up early,” John says seriously, his shoes shifting the leaves. Letting the chill seep in, you burrow into your fabrics and glare ahead. Johnny’s sly voice is so reminiscent of yours, that you have to wonder if the two of you were cut of the same cloth. “I won’t be opposed to a cuddle if you get chilly, Little Lady—”

“I should have stabbed you when I had the chance.”

Johnny’s low chuckles waft over the air, and then the silence settles fully.

Yet, you’re up far later than you anticipated…and you find this honest man’s confession to be bouncing inside of your skull like an enraged bird.

—

“Christ, did I do that?” A finger is pressed under your chin, tilting your head up as you strangle a gasp at the sudden motion.

Johnny looks at the tiny cut along your neck from the edge of his sword—the barely-there irritation of the skin that you’d been itching at as you walked forward through the trees.

He frowns, glancing into your eyes as your body stills at the feeling of warm flesh.

It was the first day of walking, and the silence between the two of you had stayed. Not only were you annoyed at the situation, but also John’s story—you’d been mulling it over since last night.

But below that anger, you might have even felt a little wrong.

“Who else?” You sigh sarcastically to the man, trying to hide the rising flood of heated shock. Thick digits drag along your esophagus slowly in study, and John’s face creases the longer he looks. He’s hunched near you, too—and you can smell the low scent of leather and earth.

Johnny pulls back with a huff and slips a hand into his sporran. Your eyes watch with blatant distrust until a relatively clean rag is taken out by a steady hand.

He motions with it. “Come ‘ere. Let me get the dirt out of it before it gets infected, eh?”

You sigh lowly but decide it’s a good idea at the very least before nodding—John’s fingers return as the light from above leaks through the branches. The morning was cold, but not unreasonable; the woods gave shelter from the otherwise abusive wind of the open country.

“Look at that,” you breathe, “The first nice thing you’ve done for me.”

“Ah,” John lightly glares. “Not quite right—I carried you away instead of making you run with me.”

Your eyes roll, and Johnny’s chuckle echoes off the surroundings.

“Such a gentleman,” you grumble, feeling the rag press into your throat and the soft scrape of it across your scratch.

“So,” the man hums, blue eyes stuck to your flesh as he takes care of it far more nicely than you’d imagined someone to be. “Seeing as I’ve shared my sob story, Cat-Eyes, I think I’d like to ask after yours.” His voice is full of amusement. “As we’ll be keeping one another company.”

“It’s less as in-depth than yours,” your fingers twitch as Johnny moves back after the cleaning is done—returning the rag to his sporran as he blinks.

“I don’t believe that,” he raises a brow, as you ignore the remembrance of his touch and continue, paving the trail as the dark-haired man follows a close distance behind. “Can’t say there’s many times I’ve seen an unwed woman wielding a bow and thieving someone out of their money. I’ve seen a lot of things, Bonnie,” he laughs, “but never that. Scared the hell out of me when you dropped down.”

“You can add me to the top of the list, I suppose,” you puff a teasing breath. After an expecting pause in the conversation, you grow bored of the nothingness.

“I’ve lived out here my entire life—I do what I have to. That’s all there is to it.”

John’s face gradually pulls into itself, only looking away from you to glance at the path to make sure he won’t fall.

“No family?”

“None,” you tilt your head, shimmying under a low branch and pushing leaves off your shoulders. They sway to the ground softly as you brush an arm over your forehead, sensing Johnny’s attention.

The man grunts. “M’sorry.”

Your feet stumble for a moment, pace faltering, until you cover it up easily. You turn to stare, narrowing your eyelids as open blues watch silently. John’s shoulder brushes yours.

“It’s life,” you blankly answer. “Least I wasn’t married off. Where you had to worry about a blank slate, I had to worry about becoming a broodmare for a man who most likely would never love me.”

Johnny licks his lips, eyes darting to the ground. “Can’t imagine you like that,” he mutters, but it isn’t some joke—he’s truthful.

“Perfect,” is what his ears twitch to. “Because I’d sooner act like you and bolt from my wedding as well.”

“Would that make me the thief in your story, then?” Johnny asks, chuffing as he smiles towards you, reaching a hand above him to push another branch out of the way—separating it from your form as you bend under. “I’m tellin’ you, I wouldn’t be very good at it. All that dropping down from trees would have my knees screamin’. Not that they don’t already.”

Your laugh pierces his chest, and the man sends a kind if not a bit startled, show of interest to you. It sounded like a bowstring slapping a wrist—harsh and telling all at once: something to be known and understood even if heard only once.

John blinks at you, and his heart patters along in his chest.

“I think it would be more fun to think about you with a dagger,” you narrow your gaze at him, smiling. “A small thing like that would disappear in your hands, Johnny Boy.”

“Disappear?” He tilts his head, raising his hands to hover in front of him. “Ah, they’re not that big, are they?”

You shift, and, nearly without thinking, you slip your hand to sit above his. Johnny makes a noise in the back of his throat, eyes going wide as you reference the size of his grip under yours, but allows you to regardless. A blue gaze slides to your face, openly imploring, before they dart back down to your shared hands as the roughness of his callouses scraped against your flesh.

“Care to compare?” You smirk, lifting a brow.

Johnny’s lips parted quickly, blinking a few times as he tried to find the words to accompany his running mind. He clears his throat, but the small sheen of red pigment on his cheeks is undeniable.

Laughing, you detach the connection and pull ahead, leaving the man behind as he stutters with a fast pulse.

“You’re the strangest woman I’ve ever met,” is what he decides minutes later, a large grin on his face—he was enjoying this, for whatever twisted and flawed reason, he was. John’s adrenaline was pumping, his heart was pounding, and his feet were passing over the earth, yet, even better, his brain was sparking at a mile a minute for the woman who walked only three feet ahead of him. He watches you take these trails like an expert, not having to look down at your feet as stone and wood are passed as if you were water above them, whispering and nearly silent.

“At least I’m not boring.” Your eyes meet him, and in them, they create some horribly beautiful amalgamation of twin flames—two sparking fires that feed from the same ember. “You would never catch me becoming a housewife, Johnny Boy.” Your gazes never break. “There are far too many things to steal in this country, and so very few men who can keep up.”

John’s chest moves in the beat of his pulse—his attention wholly transfixed upon the sight of this wild-born woman whom he’d only met yesterday. There were leaves in your wrap, and brown-black mud coated up to your ankles, even sweat sitting at your temple, yet you moved with grace befitting a Lady: never seeming to tire of jokes or firm surety. Yet…you weren’t cruel—you weren’t without purpose.

Any accomplished thief would have just stabbed him and taken what they needed in your house. You offered John water, however, you chose to give him a chance to comply. It was such a small thing in the grand scheme, but Johnny was always one to analyze how one feather on a bird can affect the flight pattern, so to speak. One action that speaks volumes.

You liked creating games, and, lucky for him, John loved to solve them.

And that glint in your sharp-slitted eyes was becoming more and more enjoyable every second, he found.

Pushing back the strands of his wayward hair, John keeps up with you for every step, not unfamiliar with how to traverse unsteady terrain. He wasn’t lying in what he told you—he had spent most of his life in the forest beside his home: hunting, fishing, riding. There wasn’t an activity he didn’t enjoy when he was outside, though his mother was always heavy on him about the mess he brought back.

Blue eyes drop back down to your dirt-laced pants, and the man can’t help but give his best, lip-pulling smile.

Hell, if he didn’t know any better, he would say that you were something that made so little, and at the same time so much, sense to him.

“Well, maybe they just aren’t accustomed to hiking, Little Cat-Eyed Thief.”

There was something special in the glances you two would throw one another.

—

Your hands dip into the clear water, fingers open to feel the current drag through them gently.

“If you want a sip,” you say, cupping the liquid and bringing it up to your lips, “it’s safe. This river flows down from the hills—not perfect, but there’s only a small chance it’ll make you sick.”

John comes up and hums as he sits down beside you, folding his legs under him and leaning forward to submerge his arms up to his elbows in water. He sighs, and you hear the river gurgling as the man begins to rub up his flesh, getting rid of all the grime.

“Good to know.” Blue eyes spare you a look as he continues. “What’s this one called?”

“Woodney river,” you answer. “Old Man Jack Woodney ran a water wheel on this river a long walk West. If this place had a name before that, it won’t tell.”

Johnny washes his face, scrubbing at his stubble as the scratch of it plays in the side of your ear. You watch along the opposite shore, eyes going from trees to birds—even to the shadows of fish that quickly swim past. Sighing, you have to admit the beauty of this adventure. There were few times you could say you’d gone this far into the woods with no wealth to trade in with the townspeople.

You side-eye John and study him just as heavily as you do a wild animal.

He wasn’t unattractive, you admitted. Strong—sturdy. Johnny was capable in a way that most Lords wouldn’t be, some, you guessed, would already be complaining about the uncomfortableness of their clothes or the flesh of their blistered feet. But John was bright-eyed; more than once you’d seen him actively watching the stretch of the trees for any sign of his pursuers. He never complained. Not once.

“You’re not as insufferable as I thought you’d be,” you say. Frowning, your hands push back into the water and cup some of the chilled liquid. You let it drip before you extend your hand to your neck and feel your eyes droop in relaxation.

Johnny laughs, staring at you for a minute as he slowly raises a brow. His face shows amusement.

“Am I supposed to be insulted or not?”

“I leave that for you to decide.”

John cracks his knuckles and shakes his head as he stands. “C’mon,” he drags, but the smile in his voice is clear. A hand is set in front of yours. “Sooner I get out the port, the sooner I’m out of your hair.”

Your face softens slightly.

“Am I ever going to get an apology for being tossed like a sack of potatoes?” Skin meets skin as you slip your hand into his, and the man pulls you to your feet as you smile. Calluses brush yours, and yet again, you find you enjoy this game—perhaps more than any other you’d played before.

And you don’t understand why.

Johnny’s fingers are firm over yours, curling as water drips to the ground below in reflective droplets, and you think back to the first time you’d met him—panting breath and rapid eyes. Your eyes glance to that boar broach, and find it attached to a man that is suddenly more of a mystery than a closed book.

“Easy,” John mutters, steadying you by your shoulders as you remember where you are. The dark-haired man squeezes your flesh and looks into you.

Blue eyes glint, and that smirk, you find, is always followed by a tiny tint of his head. “And what’s that look for, Cat-Eyes?”

“You called me strange.”

John’s brows furrow. “Aye. I did.” He looks you up and down slowly. “You are.”

You do the same to him, not wasting more than a moment. “And I find it funny that you haven’t said the same thing about yourself. You’re far more strange than I’ll ever be.”

“Guilty,” Johnny smiles, nodding slightly. His hands are still on you, and he doesn’t seem to even notice. “I don’t think a normal one would fuck off from his own wedding, would he?”

“Or kidnap a woman as a guide,” you state, pulling out of his warm hold even as your stomach flips as you brush past

“Again,” John’s hand motions through the air. “Abduct.”

“You’re just saying that because it sounds slightly better,” you grimace over your shoulder. “Like comparing a dog to a wolf.”

Johnny is hot on your heels, and when the river-eroded stepping stones to the other side of the water are the clear path to take, he’s already on the first and holding out his arm for you as a true gentleman would. You glance at him and hop to the first stone, liquid sloshing at your shoes.

Your smirk is stuck with his like two pieces of a quilt, and neither of you realizes it.

“You put a knife to my back first, Dearie.” John puffs and his face is right next to your ear as you both cross the stones—you lean into him and elbow his side before your arm slips into his. The man grunts, blinking as he chuckles above the slosh of water.

“So? Maybe I only point knives at the men I like.”

“Then I’d say you have every right to put one right at my throat.”

Feet move carefully over rocks and the spray of the water that coats them—a dance of wit in their own right. It was like animals circling one another, all sharp eyes and pulled lips trying to find weaknesses. Deadly flirting and addictive banter.

Where annoyance was such a common emotion, now there was a near expectation of jabs; of tantalizing quips for the glimpse of another's mind.

Neither of you could understand the other, which was exactly why you both reveled in the brush of warm flesh.

“Careful,” your feet meet the hard ground once more on the other side, and John only lets go when he knows that you don’t need him to steady you. “You’re engaged, Johnny Boy.”

Your tease slips in one ear and out the other, and the man watches you turn and begin walking again with sly eyes. John’s wide gaze stays stuck there for a moment—mouth eager to continue any conversation given. Watching you walk, his heart beats speedily.

“I think my, ah, reputation has all but ruined my chances on that front—”

There’s something unique about the sound of an arrow sinking into flesh that can’t really be forgotten. John had heard it many times—even been behind the bow that shot it; the slap of the string across his forearm, the set of his shoulder blades widening until the arrow disappeared.

But there’s something worse knowing that the sudden expulsion of air from lungs, in fact, belongs to you and not some wild animal.

You’re hit in a fraction of a second, down on the ground in less than that—your mind not even understanding above the immediate pressure and the slam of earth. You gasp loudly, and then the pain hits.

Hand snapping to your left bicep, your eyes slash down to stare as grass and mud fly into the air, rabid sounds escaping the back of your throat at the image that strikes you. An arrow was stuck deep into your skin—sticking out as blacked feathers flutter at the end of the shaft. The adrenaline hits rapidly, but the expression of horror still remains.

“Cat-Eyes!” Johnny yells, rushing forward, and unsheathing his sword, the sound of metal on metal harsh, but not as harsh as the sound of blood in the man’s ears.

You see the swelling of crimson, and, from under your fingers, the red of blood slips as your breathing gets hoarse. Biting into your lip, the quick sound of an under-the-breath groan of agony ripples.

But you’re not stupid.

Scrambling to your feet with the arrow still poking out of you, Johnny gets to you and pushes you behind him just as your shaking legs straighten—-your eyes slashing the woods in panic. Pain can wait.

The runaway groom spares you quick glances, pushing you further behind as his raging gaze darts this way and that. He yells into the trees, anger and order infecting his voice, “Show yourself!”

Just as suddenly, there’s a relieved call and a moving shadow. You clench your eyes tight and grit your teeth as a wave of pain rockets through you.

“Fuck,” you grind out, lost under the louder voice. Blood drips to the ground.

“My Lord!” Men burst through the leaves, bows, and swords aloft. “Quickly—to us!”

Johnny’s face is stiff; there isn’t an ounce of care, but the flash of recognition is swift, and in his chest, his heart, once beating so quickly, drops to his stomach.

Knights. His knights. Christ, the two of you hadn’t been fast enough.

“Stand down!” John spits, and cares little now for the thought of robbery or assault on his person—these men wouldn’t hurt him, but they were tasked to bring him back. “Fucking bawbags, the lot of you.”

His sword is sheathed by twitching fingers, and no sooner were those digits around you instead.

You pant hoarsely, face tight as your vibrating body tells you to run—eyes locked onto Johnny’s, the man in front of you ushers you over to the trunk of a tree hurriedly, uttering, “Just breathe now, Dearie—listen to me. It’s alright, aye?”

“What is this?” You raggedly push out, flinching as your spine meeting the bark jostles your arm painfully.

Your teeth grit, tears collecting in the corner of your vision.

“Knights,” John mutters as if his words are chased by wolves. “They’re after me—probably thought you were either holding me hostage or trying to lead me into an ambush.” The colorful fabric of his pinned tartan is dragged off from over his shoulder and shoved into your weeping flesh, and you lightly moan in agony, head falling back to the tree.

Tears slip from over your cheeks.

“Easy.” John’s concern is palpable. Worried eyes dart from your face to your wound. “Jesus,” he utters under his breath, anger flashing.

“Who is this?” One of the knights asks, taking a step forward as Johnny holds the fabric to your wound and speaks to you lowly, utterly ignoring the people behind him.

“I need to break the shaft off, okay?” Blue eyes try to keep even, and John’s other hand captures your cheek. He levels your face right in front of his, breathing lowly. The man clears his throat as your tight gaze flutters, tightening his grip. “Hey,” Johnny breathes. You grunt, voice a low grind.

“Just make it quick.”

John’s lips thin. “Yes, Ma’am.”

His large hand swiftly moves to the arrow, gripping around it just where flesh meets wood, you hiss loudly, spitting and raging as your vision partially blackens. Pain sparks up and down your spine, racing like a cat after a mouse.

“Lord,” one knight tries again, coming closer and reaching out for Johnny’s shoulder. “We need to get you back to Castle Campbell—we’ve been hoping to find you unharmed for your future wife’s comfort. Everyone is in a panic!”

“I’ll count down to three,” Johnny whispers to you, breathing heavily as he swallows and steady himself, hand lightly clammy. He wished he had his hunting gloves with him, but this was the best he could do. “Eh,” the man grunts, eyes steady, “You listening, Bonnie?”

“I don’t care what you count to,” you nearly bark, orbs flashing. “Just break the damn thing off—!”

The wood snaps with a defining splinter, and your scream afterward has the man having to hold you up with his arms around your waist, muttering into your ear with his lips against the shell.

“It’s alright, you’re alright,” John hears the clatter of the shaft to the grass just as the knight’s hand is heavily placed on his shoulder. “Breathe. M’right ‘ere.”

You sag into Johnny taking in the scent of sweat, blood, and dirt—the musk that stays even as your ears start ringing and the voices start getting louder.

“Best get your hands off o’ me before I break ‘em, Mate” Johnny grunts from deep in his chest, shifting your body to the side and effectively ripping his flesh out of the knight’s hold.

All the others shift nervously—hands on their swords and looking back and forth between the strange scene.

Who were you? A mistress? A bandit luring their Lord away? Why was he with you out here; going in the opposite direction of where the ceremony was supposed to take place? They’d been given orders, and a knight is no good unless he can follow them.

John MacTavish was needed, and their duty was to see it through.

Johnny’s tartan had fallen to the ground behind the two of you, getting kicked by feet as they shuffle and as your blood slips off of your limp fingers. Mind failing, your pain-addled form shakes even as the knowledge of imminent danger is present.

You needed to figure out a way to get out of here.

Pushing your head up from Johnny’s shoulder, your eyes flutter but manage to analyze what little you can see clearly—adrenaline can take care of most of your agony, only leaving a dull ache as your heart continues to rage.

A group of four knights have their hands on their swords, and all of their eyes are on John.

Run, a deep part of you urges. Your legs are still good. Take off—none of them know the terrain like you do. You’ll be free.

You pant, your nostrils flaring with every breath as your sweat trickles off your jawline. Johnny’s grip on you tightens, head shifting back and forth, unknowing where to anchor itself, not understanding which is more important—your state, or your safety.

Free, free, free.

Your mind flashes to an empty house: silent woods. How you would go months without seeing another human face, but that was your own choice.

Wasn’t it?

Your eyes slip to Johnny.

“We’ve been tasked with bringing you back, My Lord,” the first knight says, looking heavily upon the runaway. “We have our orders. Please understand.”

“And I’m telling you your orders are utter shite,” John spits. “So back the fuck up and drag yourself out of this place. Now.” He glares, teeth snapping. “Those are my orders.”

Your arm is numb, and your chest expands as it sits on John’s own. And you think.

You knew you were a selfish person.

There was no debate about it—even when you’d stolen enough coin to feed you for weeks, there was still a part of you that longed for some chase; some challenge to your senses. You liked stealing. You liked the looks on people's faces when they realized they were being swindled for every valuable item they had in their possession. But there was something you liked even more than all of that—a challenge.

Johnny, to you, was that challenge. He was the largest challenge you’d ever faced. A Lord who was running from a bride, a man who held his beliefs higher than praise or standing…a blue-eyed stranger who matches your poking jabs word for word.

“Damn,” your growl, and John takes it as an exclamation of pain.

He grits his teeth and studies you, opening his mouth as his concern grows at the smell of blood.

“We need to tie it off,” he utters. “Bastards made me drop the tartan—I’m sorry, Dearie.”

Your lips are near his ear.

“When I say ‘go,’ run to the left.”

Johnny halts, attention snapping down. His fingers flinch around you, face open until the mask of sudden knowledge flies over it like a curtain. But it’s gone just as quickly—hidden by intelligent eyes that glint.

He doesn’t question you, and, in the crux of your shoulder, you get a near-infinitesimal nod from Johnny’s head.

The guards grow suspicious, all mulling closer by the second the longer you two remain so close—on opposite ends, you feel your heart mirroring John’s in a rapid and ravaging pulse: Thump-thump, thump-pump, thump-pump-thump.

Your attention is split three ways.

One: the rising numbness of your limbs and the heat of your brain. Two: the spread of Johnny’s panting breath across your sweat-slick skin and his hands tightening. Three: knights and the clatter of their armor. How they slide their hands across their weapons like intimate partners—the tension building in a hemp bowstring and the sound of arrows hitting off one another; one taken and played with between fingers so similarly to how you would act.

Your tear-stained eyes glare at the knight who’d shot you, your expression building into an act of hatred.

They take a step forward.

“Cat-Eyes—” Johnny begins to warn slowly.

“Go.” Your words are no shout. They don’t echo off the trees, which all hold their breeze in expectation, they don’t ring in ears except the ones of the man holding you. But they’re like the personification of a sword strike—like the release of an arrow and the impending thump of it hitting home.

The knights dash forward with calls for their Lord to stand down, but John’s already flinched away with a heavy grunt.

You do the same, your plan already formed—you would run the opposite way as Johnny, only slipping off when the cover of bushes had enshrouded the both of you to create two sets of tracks. With any luck, the guards would break off into two groups and pursue the both of you, and you could easily lose yours.

From there, circle back and find John: get your bearings before—

Arms never detach from your waist, and you’re once more tossed into a strong grip.

Eyes bugging, your focus breaks as gravity leaves and your head goes light. Johnny dashes away, and, just as the last time, you’re in his boar-like hold.

“You idiot!” You bark, the only difference to your predicament now is that you’re held in a bridal grip and not slung over his sweaty shoulder. There was only a small sliver of relief before the annoyance overtook you.

Johnny’s body crashes through the leaves, the shouts of the knights following as he gruffly raises his voice to the wind. The trees shake with amusement.

“Thinking you could hand over some directions, Dearie?!”

“Thinking you could put me down?!” You shout back, your arm sparking with pain as your opposite wraps the man’s neck firmly. “Damn.” Your lips twist in response. “My legs work just fine, you know—I wasn’t shot in the arse!”

“Acting like you were,” John grumbles, a branch slapping his cheek before you can. Despite it all, he chuckles wholeheartedly at his own joke.

An arrow whizzes through the air, and you yelp, ducking behind his body even more as your skull fits under his jaw. Your eyes snap to the visible terrain as Johnny’s legs push from one side to the other, running in a zig-zag pattern to avoid any more injuries.

“There,” your brows rise, fighting past the pain to find the familiar slash of a gnarled willow tree that whizzes by in brown and dark green.

Your head rises to see more of the woods, only to be pushed back down by an all-expansive hand as John utters a fast-breathed and firm, “Not the best idea.”

He shoves through brambles, and the sounds of rampaging knights are gaining. The second John sloshes through a low pool with a loud curse, you know instantly where you two are.

“Take a left near the overhang with vines coming down!”

“That one?”

“Yes!”

And so this game continued long after the knights had been lost to the woods, stumbling about without any sense of where they were, and the two of you came to a panting halt an hour later. Deep night was setting in on the second day, and, as your shaky feet hit the ground, John kept a heavy eye on you.

“Steady,” he mutters, sweat pouring off his face; saturating his clothes. He worriedly stares, looking you up and down.

Your vision swirls, the glade around you the exact place you both needed to be. There were hills here—surrounded by thick trenches carved by rivers long dried. The stars were out, and the moon was shining down; one thin trickle of a river was feet away, the sound of water on rocks addictive to your pounding ears.

All of it was null to the way your gut flipped at the humming agony of your arm.

Your hand snaps to the puncture and the flood of blood is enough to leave your fingers dripping with crimson glinting in moonlight.

There’s a heavy ripping sound, and then you find yourself sitting down in the grass as Johnny shoves the torn fabric of his suit into the small river. You hear the splashing as you glance down at your arm before rapidly looking away, biting at your lip as your spine hunches.

“Christ almighty,” you growl, glaring to the side as your fingers quiver. Tears well.

“The arrowhead is keeping pressure,” John hurries to speak, trying to distract you just as his own exhaustion is bare to see. The rung-out fabric is looped around your arm, tying off until you have to strangle down a scream at the tightness on your flesh. “We have to keep it there until there’s enough sterile material to fix it up.”

“Your knights are pieces of work,” you hiss, more from the wound than anything.

John gives a little look, blue eyes darting up until falling.

“Aye, they are.” His strong jaw clenches. “This shouldn’t have happened, Dearie.”

You stare as he finishes up, and you feel his fingertips slipping along your arm. Your eyelids droop, closing as your nostrils suck in shaky air. You take a moment to take in the silence that follows, John’s eyes not straying as your face is illuminated.

He watches the streaks of dirt along your skin, and, in a soft attempt to fix this, he stands and moves to the river once more—cleaning his hands. Johnny takes the rag out of his sporran and wets it, coming back to your body as the grass waves back and forth.

“Let me…” the man says slowly, and your eyes open back up as the chilled item is pushed to your cheek.

Wide orbs staring forward, you swallow as John concentrates on cleaning your skin carefully.

“Infection is my immediate concern,” the man says with a sigh, yet continues as your tongue stays tied; face growing more heated by the second. “But you mentioned it takes three days to the town, aye? That’s not unmanageable with two already under our feet.”

Blood, dirt, and sweat slip away with every drag of the fabric, and, stuck into his suit, that boar broach still sits—crooked now, but still there.

Your attention is momentarily taken by it, and your fingers twitch before you notice how very close John’s face is to yours.

The man focuses, relaying a plan as you’re stuck mute; your arm holding its own heartbeat as the grass shifts.

“I’ll use what I have to get you into a doctor. Make sure there’ll be no problems before I get going.” John blinks, tilting his head. “‘Course, that’ll decrease the amount you’ll get in turn.”

“Fortunately for you,” you breathe, voice strained, and blue eyes stick to yours. John pauses, brows slightly pulling up on his face. “I value my own life too much to complain about a man paying for my care.”

John’s rag stays where he placed it, right on the swell of your cheek as, this close to one another, you can see the scar on his chin—one that curves to the muscle and bone.

He was handsome, make no mistake about it. You knew it; you understood it. A lord with morals and the smarts to go along with the strength—now that was utterly unheard of. You liked that, truthfully. Someone who could think, and plan.

And, of course, follow directions.

“You’ll be fine,” John mutters, glancing to the side, yet his head doesn’t move back. He clears his throat with a sigh.

You roll your eyes, moving out and grabbing his hand with the rag. Johnny’s expression startles, arm tensing as you steal the dripping fabric from him. Water runs down your neck.

“I know I am.” You huff, smiling.

You push the rag onto his own face, and begin your cat-like approval of his character, washing away the grime just as he had your own. A blue gaze stays firmly on your flesh, the man’s shoulders loosening until he’s sitting just in front of you. Verident grass whispers in a language like a soft breeze, and you study Johnny’s skin until everything becomes a mosaic of scars and blemishes—stories woven into sinews holding as much history as the tines on an elk or the chipped tusks of a boar.

Two days and he’d become even more of a mystery than he had been before. Or maybe he always had been, and now your previous contentment had grown into an addictive curiosity.

He’d called you Cat-Eyes.

You couldn’t love a title more—not even if Lady were on the table.

“I settle my scores,” you grunt, tilting your head as you push back mud from his forehead, leaning in. “You wash my face, I wash yours.”

“Literally, then?” A sarcastic eyebrow makes you huff.

“Is that not what I’m doing, Johnny Boy?”

“Seems so, Cat-Eyes.”

Your matching glares hold no venom.

Smirking, you lean back after the last swipe at his forehead, pushing Johnny’s skull back as he chuckles, moon-lit visage something you would see scrawled on the parchment of an old story-teller's sketches. A man not made for this age.

Your face softens slowly, and it is a strange thing sitting atop the sharpness of your eyes.

John’s chuckles fade, and his breath catches in his throat.

“You’re an odd fellow, John MacTavish,” you say, here, with blood from an arrow wound drying to crack along your skin.

Your head tilts, eyes narrowing.

John’s lips slowly pull upwards, and the water on both of your faces drips to the listening earth. This place is alive with possibilities, and all of them stem from the growing draw of twisted human souls.

A just Lord and a cunning thief.

A sharp-eyed cat and a strong-bodied boar.

A future and a past—riddled with arrow marks; long sword slashes.

“Well…then I’m thinking we make quite the pair, Bonnie.”

—

The third day was spent on the latter half of the journey. Re-correcting the course and giving the best directions you could with the numb ache of your arm spreading up your shoulder.

But the town came easily as the midday sun rose to crest your heads.

“Want to lean on me?” Johnny asks, standing close by, but you’re already shaking your head.

“Feels better to keep myself focused,” you mutter, grimacing. You look at the entrance to the town, and as you both walk it, the stares are immediate—shocked residents looking at the haggard appearance of two individuals.

“Alright,” John sighs, side-eyeing you. “Just let me know if you’re goin’ to keel over, yeah?”

“Duly noted,” you tilt your head his way. Your lips smirk like a smug child. “You’ll catch me, won’t you?”

Johnny chuckles, shrugging his wide shoulders as his tattered finery is chock-full of brambles and leaves.

“Can’t say no to that.”

The Lord kept his promise—the doctor took the arrowhead, cleaned, cauterized the wound, and sutured you back up. For payment, as you lightly touch the bandaged section of your arm, you find your eyes freezing as a silver glinting reflects off the light through the window.

Johnny hands over his boar broach to the doctor.

Widely staring at the prize being pawned off for your health, your heart stutters in heavy greed.

No, you rapidly think. No, that was the one thing that I—

Your eyes inexplicably snap to Johnny.

The immediate thought is that he looks angry, but, the next and more accurate one, is that he looks sad.

John’s blues continue to follow the broach as it disappears into the doctor's pocket, and you see the weight fall back to his chest and arms—sitting heavy like a stone. The man’s feet shift along the ground for a moment, and he looks like he’s about to say something before he grits his teeth and shakes his head to himself. John grunts, fixing his nose.

You blink, and then your heart twists in on itself for no reason at all.

Or maybe there was a reason.

“C’mon, Cat-Eyes,” Johnny sighs heavily, tilting his head as his arms cross. “Time to see me off, then.”

He walks out the door, and your eyes follow like a loyal dog.

Standing there for a moment, your lips contort your face into a deep frown, sharp eyes gaining a sheen of light anxiety. Yet, there was no mistaking it—it had been said a million times—if there was one thing you could do, it was play a game.

Maybe you weren’t so bad after all.

“Oh my,” you mutter, putting a hand to your head and stumbling.

The doctor starts forward quickly, grasping at your un-injured arm. “Careful now, Woman. Don’t rip my sutures.”

He tells you, getting you fully up as you chuckle, placing your hands above his thigh, fingers twitching on the fabric.

“Apologies, apologies,” you mutter, retracting your hand and cupping it against your abdomen with a meek smile. “Just a little lightheaded. Thank you, Doctor.”

“Best be off, now,” the man grumbles, and you’re out the door swiftly.

Your shoes meet the cobble as you shift your hands into your pockets, shifting your body to look along after the large form that leans against the home waiting for you.

“Ready?” Johnny asks, though his attention is firmly planted on the ground five feet away, lost in thought.

“Aye,” you sigh, nodding your head to the East. “Port’s that way—let’s get this nightmare over with.”

“Hm,” Johnny agrees, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Quite the adventure for a runaway.”

“You can’t have thought it would be easy?” Your brows furrow. “You’re heir to the MacTavish lands.”

“I never said I thought it would be easy,” John moves at your side, a great hulk of honesty. He hands over his attention at last as you fiddle with the smooth item in your pocket. He huffs. “Just that it was an…experience, to say the least. One I’m not sure I’d want to go through again.”

“You’ll miss me,” you say confidently, meeting eyes with a smirk and a cocky shift to your form despite the lessening pain.

Johnny watches. He smiles, eyes crinkling. “Aye. I will.” You pause, expression stilling. The man hums, and you swear there’s something special in the way you can describe his look as delicate.

“You were the one part that I don’t regret,” he says lastly to you as if the words aren’t spears laced with poison.

Your breath gets caught in a way it never has, and John seems not to notice as he pulls ahead, muttering about him seeing the docks. The smell of salt water slaps your nostrils.

The legs under you slow until they’re stopped, and you look after the man as he begins speaking to workers along the port, asking for a spot on the large ships that sit in the water, rocking with the winds.

Your eyes trail, seeing the way he talks with such confidence—openly offering physical labor as his payment for even the dark quarters with the other laborers.

After what seems like hours of watching, you see him shake another man’s hand, and, just like that, passage is earned. He jogs back over, smiling.

You open your mouth to say something, but find the words null and void. You don’t know what to express. For once in your life, everything seems to be moving horrifically fast.

“Well,” John’s expression slowly sombers. “I suppose this is it then. I said you could ask for anything, and, I suppose,” he shifts the sword on his belt off after a moment, looking down at it. He holds the item, testing its weight. “I suppose this is all I have left.” Blue eyes slowly meet yours. “If you’ll take it.”

Always a thief, never a saint.

“I suppose it’ll have to do, Johnny Boy,” you sigh, the pain in your heart outweighing the one on your arm. “Hand it over.”

The sword is transferred and slipped to your waist. Many a man on the docks gives you strange looks, and, you find you welcome it—none could compare to the admiration in Johnny’s.

You lick your lips.

“Do one thing for me, hm?”

“Anything,” John mutters, not blinking.

You move forward, and place a firm kiss to his lips.

The man freezes, fingers twitching at his sides, before he sags and bends into you—his great hand capturing your cheek until all that remains in the sear of his heat and the scent of the earth.

You softly pull away, though not far enough as to where you can’t feel his breath on yours. Gazing into his eyes, you smile the widest you can remember.

“Don’t go running away from another wedding anytime soon. I can only save so many Lords until my reputation gets slandered.”

“You’re ruthless,” John growls, smirking as his eyes glint, looking you up and down. “Little Thief.”

He leans in for another kiss, but your hands only shift above his sporran before you dart back, chuckling.

“Always,” your hands brush his sword on your hip as you walk backward, grinning behind the strange pressure in your heart. If someone asked, you wouldn’t even know how to describe it.

John takes a step after you, face open and raw—an emotion you feel like mirroring if not for your excellent control.

Not yet.

“I’ll take care of this,” you call, patting the weapon.

“Good,” Johnny calls, taking one more step forward before stopping himself. One of the shipmates calls from the dock, and his eyes snap there with a jaw tense. He looks back at you and blinks, brows pulling in. In the heat of the moment, he exclaimed, “I’ll be back for it one day, Cat-Eyes!”

“Lovely!” You yell, back turning. “I’ll be waiting for you then. I do hope you’ll be able to get through the woods, and, please, don’t keep a woman waiting! You’re much too handsome for any of that.”

And then you’re gone.

Johnny stares at where you were, his smile large and his face heated, and after a louder call from the dock, he’s forced to turn and jog to the ship, hurrying up the board until he can stand on the swaying deck with his two feet.

He looks around, chuckling to himself, and still, his eyes shift back to land without fail; hoping for a glimpse—a small shadow.

Shaking his head at his own foolishness, the man reaches into his sporran for his rag, intent to clean and set it to dry when he’s able to get the chance to settle in. It’s one of the last items to his name no matter how pathetic.

Yet, his hands touch something far more precious.

Johnny’s body goes as straight as a tree when his fingers caress smooth metal, and, slowly, his grip pulls out the silver of his broach.

It glints in his palm as he sets it there, and his breath is stolen in one great bound of shock and confusion.

“What in the…” He already knows.

Johnny’s feet take him to the railing gently, and his body stands there—torn wedding clothes and all looking over a town that begins to move as the ship sets sail. He holds the broach carefully, not intending to let it go for an age. He just needs to lay low for a while. He needs time.

John smiles.

“I won’t keep you waiting,” he mutters to the moving homes, and he swears he sees the glint of a sword from between the buildings, and two sharp eyes digging into him.

You’re there, of course. Hidden as always.

You want your trees back, and you think that a day of sitting in your Oak is a good idea.

There’s dirt on your face again—your lips are chapped and your face is bitten by the wind; scars and blemishes that time won't heal but make all the more visible as the ages pass by on bird’s wings and cat purrs. Yet here is an action held immemorial.

A gift given freely by a thief is one to be treasured like pure gold, and the man on the ship knows that more intimately than any other as he clips the broach to himself with a hum.

You both watch the other from opposite, distant points until there’s no sun in the sky left to see with. Just a faint hope lights the way: the hope that your eyes will grace each other's visage, at the very least, just one more time in your life.

There was never a story so willing to be experienced than that of a runaway groom and his cat-eyed Thief.

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sweetiecutie · 7 months

Text

🖤Fuck or Die part 2🖤

Part 1

Pairing: slasher! König x fem! Reader

Warnings: Dead Dove Do Not Eat, mdni, smut, non con so rape, violence, obsession, drugging, face-slapping and nose bleeding, choking, kidnapping, mention of murder. If you feel triggered by any of these warnings - just scroll past!

A/n: this took me way longer than I expected but yay, I finally wrote the second part!!! Also absolutely not me incorporating a quote from the movie bc I think it’s impossibly hot🤭

Reading part 1 is recommended for understanding the plot

Your life will never be the same. That damned evening changed you, everything around you, splitting your life into before and after.

Your memories of next few days after the murder were a sheer blur of events and conversations - numerous interrogations with police officers and detectives, psychologists trying to soothe you out of your stupor still, your mother crying her eyes out at the sight of you right after police arrived at the place of Paul’s death. And, of course, nasty journalists trailing behind you, watching your every move, invading your personal space unapologetically.

Of course, you were quite a catch - the first and only one who ever survived a meeting with König. Everyone wanted to know what he looked like - any particular details, scars or tattoos, a fucking skin colour - anything you could remember would be of huge use, giving at least any clues to a dead unmoving case. But there was very little you could help with - König took great care of covering every centimetre of his skin in black clothing, his voice changed, he smelled of nothing but earth and sickening metal of your boyfriend’s blood. Bastard was even smart enough to not cum inside nor anywhere actually, so that police couldn’t get his DNA samples.

A few months had passed since that horrific attack and there were still no traces of König.

It was midday when your parents had to leave to attend your grandma’s birthday - your mother was reluctant, not wanting to leave you all alone. You were never alone actually - a few police cars always patrolled right outside of your house, not allowing even postmen to get too close to your family’s property. It took a lot of reassuring and encouragement from your side to get your mother off your back, convincing her that you’ll be just fine by yourself and that you want your parents to have some fun. She then gave up with a deep sight, promising to be back in only a few hour’s matter.

You heaved a heavy sigh, closing and locking the front door after waving your parents goodbye, heading to the kitchen to grab yourself a drink. A pile of dirty dishes stacked in a sink caught your eye, the sight of its ugly mess on otherwise clean and tidy kitchen caused an itch somewhere deep in your brain. Without second thought you rolled up your sleeves, pouring dish soap onto the sponge and foaming it up.

As you were halfway through the dishes loud trilling of your landline phone calling startled you, causing you to jump on your spot. Your head whipped around, looking into direction from which the sound came. Wiping your wet hands on the kitchen towel you grabbed the phone, tucking it in between your ear and shoulder after accepting the incoming call.

- Hello? - you said, coming back to the sink, swiping foamy sponge over another plate, cleaning it of any grease and leftover bits of food.

- Hello! Um, can I speak to Paul? - your movements halted abruptly. You stood there silently for a long while, muscles stiff and unmoving, eyes staring blankly at some invisible point in the space before you.

- Excuse me, are you still here? Do I have the wrong number? - the man on the other end of the line said, his voice sounding concerned. It seemed to bring you out of your stupor as you drew in a long breath, exhaling noisily.

- Um, can I ask you how you got this number? - you said, already sensing something weird about this whole situation. But cops were all around your place, there was nothing to be worried about, right?

- Paul gave it to me himself. Said to call here if I needed to reach out to him, - man explained. That was strange but not unexplainable - Paul often hang out at your house, you wouldn’t be surprised if he knew your home phone number better than his own. - So am I calling right?

- Oh, yeah, sorry it’s just… Paul’s dead, - you said, teeth sinking into the inside of your cheek, sweet metallic taste coating your buds, but you couldn’t care less, nibbling deeper into small wound, feeling of slight pain grounding you successfully.

- Oh god, what happened? I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. But who am I speaking to then? - the man said, his voice now sounding genuine and apologetic. Everyone around Y/n suddenly sounded genuinely and apologetic. She heaved another sigh, resuming her scrubbing on the plates.

- He was murdered. And I’m his girlfriend, - you said in a calm tone, free of any emotion or feeling. Paul’s death was pretty much the only thing you talked about with others - police, detectives, police again, his parents and friends, your parents and friends. It seemed like such a sensitive topic turned into a rough callous way too quickly. - Well, I was his girlfriend, - Y/n mumbled after a short pause, faint clatter of porcelain audible in the background.

- Sorry about your boyfriend, - man on the line said. There was a brief moment before he added: - all those muscles didn’t help much, did they?

You froze. Silence settled in, interrupted only by occasional electric noise humming through the speaker. You heard your own pulse humping rapidly in your ears, your breathing fast and shallow, all muscles in your body tensing in alarm, straightening your back. Your eyes shoot up, looking out of the window above the sink. There were a few trees growing shallowly - barely an orchard - separating your house from your neighbours. No one was there.

- What’s that, sweet girl? You can’t see me? - a voice taunted, erupting herds of goosebumps running down your spine. - What a shame, I can see you clear as day.

- Neighbourhood is packed full with cops, you sick son of a bitch. If you only fucking dare coming anywhere close to my ho-

- Now-now, Y/n, - slasher interrupted you unapologetically, his voice hard and cold, causing thin hairs on your arms to rise. - Control your fucking language when you speak to me.

Your eyes dropped down onto the sink, fluffy dish soap foam was sparkling, playing with all the rainbow colors under the sun rays pouring in through the window. You clasped the phone in your non dominant hand, your dominant one reaching out and grabbing a kitchen knife from the drying rack, handle still wet and a bit slippery in your grasp.

- My, my, a dangerous thing that you’re holding. Be careful and don’t cut yourself, dearie, - König taunted, making your teeth clench. All blood drained out of your face, making you as pale as paper. Your eyes were fixated upon your window, peering into the orchard, desperately trying to spot any movement.

- What are you planning on doing? Everyone will hear if I scream. And cops will get your ass into prison, right where it belongs, - you spat out, pushing off the counter; your eyes ran all around the kitchen, looking for your cell phone with detective’s number saved, trying to keep the current call going so it’ll be possible to track it down.

- Oh will they? Then you better not scream, silly, - König snorted, making your blood boil. You were frightened still, terrified even; but the remorse of what he did to you, to Paul, was fuelling into your spite, making you a tad bit braver.

Failing to find your phone you entered the living room, rummaging through cushions and blankets piled on the couch, failing to find the stupid thing.

- Looks like you lost something. What’s up sweetheart? - you threw soft cushion back on the couch violently, huffing in annoyance upon not finding what you were looking for. You straightened and turned around to head to your bedroom, stoping in the middle of your tracks, freezing to the spot.

In the doorway leading to the hall stood König - dressed in all black, with heavy leather boots and his huge dagger strapped firmly to his thigh with a sheath, white scream mask staring right back at you. One large hand was pressing the phone to his ear, the other one was holding up your cellphone - the exact one you were looking for.

- You looking for this? - he asked, his own voice reverberating on the line because of your proximity.

You threw the phone to the side clutching onto the knife tightly. You dashed to the kitchen - there was a back door you could slip through - and outside was filled with neighbours and cops. Just pathetic six or so meters. Just a bit…

A scream tearing through your throat was muffled by a huge hand clamping against your mouth, the other one squeezing your wrist so tightly that for a fleeting moment you thought your bones were snapped, causing your grip on the knife to loosen, it falling down on the floor with loud clatter. König kicked the knife away across the kitchen, folding your arm back which caused your back to arch in pain - it felt as if he wanted to tear your limb from the rest of your body.

- Where do you think you’re going, Y/n? - König growled next to your ear, picking you up effortlessly and dragging your kicking form back to the living room.

Hauling you onto the floor König hooked one meaty thigh over your squirming body, putting bigger part on his weight down onto you, momentarily halting all of your struggle. One huge hand took ahold of both your wrists, pinning them to the floor above your head with frightening ease, his other hand was clasping your mouth still. He crouched down, scream mask was mere fifteen centimetres afar from your face as he seethed:

- Now you shut the fuck up and listen closely to what I have to say, and no one will get hurt, you get that? - he said, waiting until you gave him any sing of agreement. But you offered none. - You get that?! - König growled impatiently, bumping your head against the hardwood floor, causing black spots dance in the corners of your eyes for a long minute. You gave a weak nod, feeling hot tears running down your temples, getting lost among your hair.

- I’ve been thinking about you. A lot, - König sighed, hand that was on your face squished your cheeks together painfully, making your lips pucker out. - About this gorgeous mouth and pretty lips…

König crouched down, barely leaving a few centimetres between your faces.

- A this tight little cunt of yours. Remember how you clenched around me? How good my cock was filling you up?

- What do you want from me? - you weeped quietly, voice barely audible, broken by faint sobs and hiccups.

- Very little, dove. Just be an obedient girl and do as you’re told and no one will get hurt, - König tutted, taking in the sight of your crying face. Gosh, he was a sick fuck - his cock was already getting painfully hard, straining against his pants.

Letting go of your face König reached behind his back, withdrawing something from the rear pocket of his jeans. Just as you opened your mouth to cry out for help he shoved that thing inside of your cavity, slapping a hand over your lips so you won’t spit it out. The thing momentarily dissolved on your tongue, leaving a bitter aftertaste; you tried to struggle against killer’s strong hold, thrashing violently, but it led you nowhere.

Suddenly you felt hot - as if you had a really bad fever. Your mind clouding up rapidly, thoughts muddling, muscles becoming weaker by the second. You huffed out in frustration; moving your limbs a few centimetres seemed like impossible labour. World was spinning around you, blurring sharp and distinguishable features of König’s mask into a white haze.

König let go of your face once again, his now free hand slid down your body, cupping your sex through numerous layers of clothing separating you two. Sudden pleasure surged through your weakened body upon the contact; a loud moan that rolled off your tongue startled you - and suddenly you realised just how aroused you felt.

- Jeez, that dude didn’t lie about this shit, - König laughed out excitedly, watching your eyes widen in terror. You could barely move by now, not speaking of trying to fight off a man twice your size. His size. In a blur of all events, words and pain you never came back to just how fucking huge he was. You never mentioned that in any of your interrogations. How fucking stupid, huh?

Killer let go of your wrists cautiously, watching you closely - you rose your hands, resting your palms on his chest and pushing with all the might you had left, but it wasn’t enough to even push a cat off the chair - so that was the limit of your strength in this state?

König barked out another laugh - he was going to have so much fun with you! His hand never stopped massaging your crotch, noting a small wet patch forming on your shorts - you were soaked through your panties and now soaking your shorts? Gosh, he better buy a few dozens of these aids. Psycho’s eyes shot up to your face upon hearing a sob - tears ran down your eyes like small diamonds, turning your eyelids a pretty shade of red. König shifted forth so that his mask was almost touching your nose:

- Oh baby, I’ll be much gentler with you this time, I promise, - König cooed, pressing cold plastic of his mask against your flushed wet cheek, as if giving you a comforting peck.

Slasher shifted a bit, changing his position from sitting on your thighs to being in between them, yanking you towards him by your knees. He did quick job of taking your shorts and underwear off in few fluid moves, impatiently discarding them somewhere to the side. König felt his heavy cock twitch inside his jeans at the sight of your puffy cunny, all shiny from slick that practically oozed out of your fluttering hole. He swallowed hard, saliva was practically pooling in his mouth, having to restrain himself from tearing his mask off and devouring your cunt, exposing his face too early. You whined out something unintelligible, still trying to pry his fingers off one of your knees.

Your skin felt hot even through thick fabric of his gloves, so when König took one off and plunged two of his thick fingers inside of your tight hole he was surprised at how hot it was inside of you - one of the drug’s effects, he guessed. You couldn’t help but mewl at the pleasant feeling, your brain barely functioning, controlling yourself was beyond hard.

- That’s it, sweetness. Lemme hear all the pretty sounds you make, - König encouraged, plunging his fingers in and out of you, increasing the pace. Rough thumb coming to circle your slicked clit, causing your whole body to jolt softly. Scent of your pooling arousal was strong and prominent, seeping even through König’s mask, making him throb in his pants.

He couldn’t wait any longer. König was dreaming about your pussy being spread around his cock since that first night, he needed to be inside or else he’ll lose the remnants of his mind. Slasher slipped his fingers out of you, quickly undoing his pants, sliding them down as much as knife holster on his thigh would allow. Your breathing increased as you tried to close your legs, man’s bulky form making it impossible for you to do so.

- No, no please.. not again, - you begged, tears rushing down your temples, your voice meek and barely audible, so König just ignored it.

Pulling his girthy cock out König pumped it a few times with gloved hand, aligning pink swollen tip with your leaking entrance. It one smooth movement he bottomed out half of his impressive length, your body - flushed and pliant - taking him inside without any resistance. Low groan rumbled through his broad chest; König’s head fell backwards, hands gripping soft fat of your thighs, leaving pale marks of his fingertips on your skin.

You hated every second of it. Hated how his hips collided with yours with every thrust, how you felt him throb and twitch inside of you; hated how his hands wandered up and down your sides, rubbing your waist and palming your tits. And you hated how fucking good it felt. Hated how your body, despite all your attempts to resist, to fight off the effects of the drug, gave into the pleasure.

- That’s it baby. Just take what I give you, - König breathed out, his words slurred with pleasure. - See? See how good it can feel when you shut the fuck up and do what I tell you to? Just be a obedient little girl and feel good, I’ll take care of everything else yeah?

It felt as if a ball of bile got stuck in your throat; your face scrunched up in disgust as much as your jelly muscles allowed it:

- Fuck you, - you barely managed to choke out, your tongue struggling to form right sounds.

For a few moments you were sure König didn’t hear you, given the lack of any reaction nor acknowledgement of your words. But the next thing you knew was searing pain in your left cheek, the impact of man’s wide palm with your face jolted your head to the side, sudden change of its position made you felt dizzy. Now world was spinning around you even more so, you felt something warm trickling down your cheek - blood from your nose, you figured. Killer’s fingers roughly gripped your chin, yanking it back so that you were facing him once again.

- You wanna say that again bitch? Come on, I fucking dare you, - he spat out, movements of his hips halting completely, leaving his cock buried deep inside of your rippling warmth.

Your head shifting so harshly once again made you nauseous; you could barely see anything, dark purple circles were dancing all around, changing their shapes and giving way to greens and yellows to flood your vision.

- That’s what I fucking thought, - König gritted out. His hand let go of your chin, coming lower to wrap strong fingers around your neck. His hips started working with even more vigour, forcing his dick in and out of your drugged cunt on the pace that was almost inhuman.

Firm clasp of maniac’s hand around your neck made it nearly impossible to breathe. Both your hands wrapped around his mighty wrist, too weak to actually get him off you. Your vision started to darken rapidly, white noise trilling in your ears, barely allowing any other sounds to filter through.

- From the very moment I laid my eyes on you I fucking owned you. And I own you right now, and forever will. This is my fucking cunt, and I’ll use it whenever I want to. And I need you to fucking. learn. it. - König growled out, emphasising each of his last words with hard deep thrusts of his hips against yours, his cock making your stomach bulge, surely bruising your cervix.

- Oh but I’ll train you. Mould you into my personal cocksleeve, ready to be used whenever I feel like it, - his pace was quickening, thick cotton of his denim pants muffled filthy sounds of his mighty hips snapping against your ass. The grip of strong fingers never eased; König shifted part of his weight onto his hands which were wrapped around your neck, white mask hovering right in front of your face - milky white of it was a harsh contrast to blackness pooling in the corners of your eyes.

With that your conscience started to slip away. You felt your body jolt with every ferocious thrust of man’s hips, his cock buried deep inside of you, bruising your insides with its persistent bullying. Acute lack of oxygen burnt your lungs, and you prayed to all gods that König held your neck a tad bit too long - just enough for you to not wake up the next time. And just before you slipped into heavy delirium, your mushed up brain picked up König’s growl, penetrating through thick noise humming in your ears:

- You’re mine. Forever and ever.

Street was filled with all kinds of noise - sirens from police cars were going off triggering dogs from nearby houses, neighbours were crowding a bit afar, frowning and shaking their heads, everyone having their own theory of what happened. Loud cries of Y/n’s mother shook the air, putting everyone further on the edge. She is such a sweet girl, she’s never done anything bad! Oh god, why is this happening to her of all people?!

Some people were saying that the girl simply snapped, breaking under the pressure of events and finally fleeting the country without telling anyone to not give any clues about her whereabouts to the killer. Some said she just went out to unwind from being constantly watched by police and have some alone time - she’ll show up anytime soon. But everyone knew that it was one of murderer’s deeds - he did something to her. And everyone knew, deep down, that they’ll never see Y/n again - alive, at least.

A young lanky policemen, obviously green and not experienced in his job, was babbling out his report to the superior, all the other cops that were patrolling with him as well stood around silently, too scared to pipe in.

- Sir, I swear we were patrolling the area all this time, there was literally no one but the neighbours, but they were staying at their pro-

- Then you were not doing it well enough! - city commissioner barked out, his mighty vice silencing everyone around for a short moment. His face was red, fuming with rage; nostrils flaring with intensity of his heavy breathing, angry vein popped up on his temple, pulsating in tandem with his rapid heartbeat. His heavy gaze shifted between all the poor officers, their faces pale as chalk.

- You had one fucking job. ONE fucking job - to keep the girl in the sightline - and where is she now, huh? I’m asking you motherfuckers - where is Y/n?! - Mr. Lindner barked out, his heavy voice making everyone jolt. Younger officers stared down on their shoes blankly, not daring to meet eyes with their boss.

- You may consider yourselves lucky if you’ll still have your licences by the end of the week, - commissioner Lindner tsked, spitting onto the ground in remorse. Turning around, he headed to his police issued car, shouldering all those nosy ones who were brave enough to approach him in this state. Getting inside Mr. Lindner closed the door with a loud bang, starting the engine and pulling out of the driveway onto the main road.

Commissioner Lindner drove in full silence, blue eyes fixated on the road ahead; it was barely past midnight, but the darkness hung thick all around, being slit by two yellow rays of his car’s headlights. He gripped steering wheel tighter, one hand coming to comb back his grown out hair out of his eyes, a small smile played in the corners of his scarred lips.

Soon he’ll be home - maybe the effects of drugs will wear off by that time and he’ll watch Y/n wake up slowly, those pretty doe eyes of hers gazing up at him drowsily. He will cook her dinner - all of her favourites - and maybe even spoon feed her, if she’ll allow it. Then he’ll bathe her and tuck her in her new bed, locking up the door for the night and watching her sleep through the cameras.

Everything was going as smoothly as ever. No one has accidentally seen him dragging unconscious Y/n out of her house and hauling her into the backseat of his car. No signs of struggle or fight were found - kitchen sink was still half-filled with soapy water and dirty dishes, clean ones drying off on the countertop, a knife with all the fingerprints being drowned among other dirty utensils. Y/n’s parents approved that everything was on its original place - as if the girl just disappeared, dissolved into thin air.

No one suspected a thing. And, of course, no one suspected a respectable city commissioner Lindner with years upon years of experience, a veteran with impeccable reputation, a person no one could speak badly of.

This was the beginning of your new life, life in which everything revolved around König, causing you to cling onto him as if he was some kind of goddess. Life in which you no longer belonged to yourself, but to your abductor. Life in which you finally understood that you don’t need anyone or anything else because you had König, understood that König was your life itself <3

Slasher! König Masterlist

A/n: I apologise for giving König a half assed name, but I thought it’d be really cool for the plot😌

Once again, feedback is highly appreciated! I’m making this a series so feel free to send in your suggestions for more slasher! König content<3

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percy-puppy · 5 months

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Headcanon: Thinking of the 141!men having an afab!partner with body hair.

About: CoD Men || Task Force 141

CW: 18+ Blog/Post | MDNI, afab!reader, reader with body hair, pubic hair, talks about bullying in school, judgment, puberty, insecurity, sex (oral/reader receiving, PIV/penetrative sex, switch!dynamic, body worship, s&m), hair pulling, not proofread

A/N: Anyone else struggling with posting on the smartphone app? Like Tumblr? What's going on? Anyway, this is for my bestie who ranged about the lack of representation. @mothymunson 💕

🎀Price: Price is a hairy, hairy man. God, he is so fuzzy, and it's so hot. Obviously, he doesn't care if his partner is hairy, either. It would be hypocritical of him, really. In fact, he would be an encouraging force. It's lots of work to keep shaved and smooth, and should you feel comfortable with just no longer shaving, then why not? He is happy when you are, and just because society expects something doesn't mean you have to obey. Price would support it fully, showering you with praise as you unlearn the old “values” taught from a way too early age and drop the trauma all the comments in your puberty gave you when body hair became more prominent. He teaches you a new, healthy form of confidence and, in the shortest time, “It's just hair, love.”

🎀Soap: Johnny is… Let's be honest; that man is a feral mutt. He might shave sometimes, not often, though honestly, but body hair on his partner? He can't explain it, but that bush gets him going. He is one to drop the “the wilderness must be explored” sentence when you first get together and are insecure about his reaction. He will beg you to let him eat you out, swearing on everything that's holy to him that he doesn't mind your pubic hair at all. And, damn, he isn't lying. He doesn't care, although he does—It makes him feral. The following hours are spent with the scot’s head between your legs. Also, before you bother to worry, a hair on his tongue will just be removed, “It's locks, bonny. Happens sometimes,” he’d laugh, and go back to work, nose buried in your hair as he sucks on your clit.

🎀Gaz: That boy is always shaved. It's his personal preference. When you first mention your difference (cause a man with a negative reaction isn't even worth your time), he is surprised. It's not in a bad way, though. He just knows enough people are giving in to the pressure of shaving. He is curious, ashamedly so. You see, the curiosity effect when somebody tells you they have a piercing down there? That's what it feels like for him now. He’d sheepishly ask to take the next step, unsure what he even expects since it's just hair at the end of the day. But once you take things to the next level, it suddenly clicks. It's your confidence—the raw, unashamed, natural being. You're unashamedly yourself, every imperfection perfection, and your most potent weapon. When he hit puberty, he was insecure for a long time before he had his glow-up. He was never tall or beefy enough, just always picking himself apart by comparing himself to others. Today, he is confident as hell, but the 13-14-year-old boy he once was would be on his knees worshipping a person like you, just fully defying social expectations. He always felt a little bit like worshipping you, but your naked form bouncing on top of him absolutely breaks him. He babbles praises between panting and moaning, hands moving over every inch of your body. “You're so hot. Shit, don't stop, you're just so- fuck. Fuck me. God, please.” He did not know he was a switch, and all he needed was a confident partner.

🎀Ghost: Simon isn't nearly as hairy as the other men. He sometimes trims his pubic hair, but mostly, he just isn't hairy enough to even care about it. He also doesn't care about your hair. It's just hair. But at night, his sadistic side comes through. During sex, he will tug on your bush for fun, sometimes just shortly before slapping your tit, sometimes he’ll just pull and pull like a maniac while fucking into you. The delicious pain sends electric shocks through your sobbing cunt as he pounds you toward orgasm. Should you ever shave or trim it, he will most definitely pout a little as he lost his favorite toy. Thankfully it's just hair, it’ll grow back, and until then, he’ll focus on slapping your clit and pulling your nipples. It's okay. He’ll survive.

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prettyoatmeal · 6 months

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TF141 Taking Care of Sick Reader!

A/N: Guys I'm so sick right now. This cold has hit me like a truck at full speed. I literally slept 13 hrs today?!?!?!?!?!? So lets go guys, sick HC's because I need some comfort.

Masterlist here!

***************

Price just doesn't care because he rarely ever gets sick. Whenever you catch a cold, he's just unfazed because he knows his body well.

This man will PAMPER you. He'll cook you whatever you're craving, and if you're not hungry, you're getting force fed a few cups of broth just so there's something in you.

He'll run you a bath with the soap you love so much, making sure it's nice and steamy in the way you like it. And while your nose his clearing up from the steam, he's massaging your shoulders and the back of your neck and wherever you ask him to. Because he'll be damned if his love has to spend one more second with their body aching.

Taking medicine with him is a chore for both of you. Him because he has to deal with your stubbornness, and you because liquid medicine tastes awful and theres no getting around it. He's just there holding the spoon with the burgundy coloured syrup and you're turning away every time he gets it close to your mouth.

"Sweetheart, I know it tastes awful but it's only here to make you feel better."

Ends up bribing you with taking you out to your favourite restaurant when you're better, but lets face it, he would've taken you anyway.

"See, that wasn't so bad, was it?"

And once you've finally taken it, disregarded the disgusted look on your face, he's actively kissing you on your cheeks, your forehead, maybe your lips as well despite how much you try to pull away from them. But you give in of course. He's only looking out for you and you love him too much.

Gaz I think would be a bit of a germaphobe at first.

Illness on the battlefield? Sure, he can deal with that, who cares Sickness at home?? Nope, the antiseptic spray is coming out and getting sprayed onto every surface of your flat.

You're not getting out of bed until you're sure you're fine because he'll be damned if he catches it from you. He's making sure every second of the day that you're fed, you're hydrated, you're comfy.

If you ask him very nicely, he'll let you cuddle up to him if you promise to not sneeze on him. But when you're finally in his arms, he sees your flushed face, your bleary eyes, the way you cling onto him so tightly even though you're so weak, fading in and out of sleep and he feels himself falling in love all over again.

"Poor baby. I'll take care of you, don't worry."

It happens every single time, it's hilarious. His mind changes every single time. Even if you sneeze on him, you'll get nothing more than a slight scolding as he holds a tissue up to your nose.

Medicine is different with him. Mixes it with your hot tea knowing just how much you hate taking it. If you question why it tastes so weird, he blames it on the temperature distorting the flavour and your messed up taste buds.

And it works, you never question it again.

After that, he'll turn your favourite show on just as background noise and it isn't long until you're falling asleep on top of him.

Ghost is not letting you lift a finger. If you stand up to go get something to eat or drink before he deems you of proper health, he's sweeping you off your feet and laying you back into bed.

"I can do things by- achoo! -by myself."

"No you can't. Stay put, lovie. I'll get your plate for you."

Doesn't want to make it seem like he's babying you.. but he definitely just is.

Simon is normally really good with letting you have your independence, he never wants to make it feel like you don't have a choice. But in times like these where you need to rest, he is having absolutely none of it and there's nothing you can do other that yourself be dragged back to your room.

This man will also chase you around the flat to make sure you take the medicine because you better get through this, and on his watch, you will be.

"Open up, Princess." while you keep turning your head away. Much like John, he definitely needs to bribe you with the shoes you saw on the way home one day or that new restaurant that opened a week ago. And only then you finally take it, gagging at the chemically taste.

After that, you will constantly be swaddled in warmth no matter what. Whether it be him since he's pretty much a radiator himself, a hot bath, or a million blankets and plushies. He just wants you as comfortable as possible for your weakened state.

For baths, it's almost certain he will join you. He'll let you lean back on him as he massages your shoulders, your arms, your thighs and legs. And you're left so dizzy and hazy because he's soothing your aching body so well.

He probably catches it a week after you, once you're already better and then it's your turn to take care of him :3 and you know just how Simon feels about being pampered and looked after.

Soap would be sick with you but stubborn as ever to let you take care of him.

He's just way too touchy and kissy and feely when you're infected, it's awful. Makes fun of you for having a bad immune system even though his is just as bad, if not worse.

"Shut your gob, Bonnie. I won't catch it. it's just a wee cold."

He catches it and it was more than just a 'wee cold'. You're both so weak, bodies throbbing and aching all over but he's still determined to make you his priority.

Going to the bathroom is a hassle because when you go, he'll go. He can't leave his love alone, not in this state! He'll stand outside the door like a cat does, just waiting.. and waiting.. and oh! You've accidentally opened the door on him because he can barely pay attention to whatever's in front of him.

To make up for it, you help ice his forehead.

He'll cook for you, infecting the kitchen with his boy-germs. But it's great because he can just put a few cups of broth up to a simmer and drink it with you on the couch.

Once it's time to take medicine, you both chicken out because it just tastes so gross. But knowing you have to take it, you made a deal to take it at the same time. You're both disgusted but clink your mugs together and use your tea as chasers.

Cheers!

Will sneeze on you more than once by accident. He's gross but we love him.

He definitely tries (keyword is tries) to stay awake long enough for you to make sure you're peacefully sleeping through your sick, but he definitely gets knocked out the moment he cuddles up against you.

***************

GRAHHHHH I'm so sick I'm going to bed. Cheers guys, goodnight

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gh0stswh0re · 2 years

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just thinking about free use with cod guys, and how they'd treat u like a cum dumpster while also spoiling u rotten 24/7. f! reader, this deserves a real fic but i'm kinda lazy at the moment (having a tummy ache but i'm being very brave about it 😼😼 /j)

simon fucking ur brains out - holding your wrists above ur head in a tight grip and ur legs closed around his waist. absolutely no harmony in how his hips lose the steady rhythm as his pounding gets quicker, grows more primal as if all he cares about is chasing after his own pleasure, and how his kisses get rougher and his hand lets go off ur wrists - a faint bruise already appearing in the shadow of his fingers - just so he can grope at ur breasts, fingertips pinching the sensitive nubs. and then soap walks in, unbothered like it's ur normal monday-to friday activity - only when u moan, loud and shameless, begging simon to allow u to cum (whatever it took - pleas of "please, sir, 'been so good" to shallow promises of how you're gonna suck his dick first thing in the morning), johnny's eyes shot up to u, carefully watching u as pure ecstasy drowns out ur senses, and u feel bare and naked and so fucking sore. he'd simply walk over to the couch, his palm groping the bulge in his pants as he sits down. simon continues with lazy, slow thrusts - he has a habit of fucking u through his climax, up until the both of u feel his dick growing limp inside ur fluttering cunt.

sucking könig's dick (you'd do it under the table - the sight of u hidden from all the other men, only the wet noises of ur mouth betraying ur sinful activities - but since the man's like 6'10 his legs don't rlly comfortably fit under the table), his hand gently petting ur head, as he drowns in u praise - thanking u for being such a good girl slut, taking him all in - deep in ur throat - despite the struggle being obvious as tears fall down from the corners of ur eyes, snot running down ur chin as u nearly sob. apart from that, all the other men in the room seem to ignore u - occasionally readjusting the tight fabric of their pants, smirking as they listen to ur pathetic whimpers.

after a while, after every guy's been sucked dry, they get bored of their tiring discussions of the ten new ways of making things go kaboom - and they all start paying their full fucking attention to u. laying u down the wooden table, watching u hiss as the cold surface hits the hot skin of ur back. and for a moment, the whole room goes silent, as they all admire ur fully naked body - ur chest rising with every breath (filled with pure anticipation), the hickeys and bruises down ur ribcage slowly fading, the bitemark on ur hip being price's handiwork (and fuck, he's damn proud of it, too) and how ur pretty little cunt glistens with the wetness of ur arousal - u are utterly perfect, but that doesn't protect u from them ruining u - physically, mentally, spiritually cuz there's no way u are seeing the gates of heaven after tonight; too many sins committed, far too many stutters of lord's name in vain. gaz would be the first one to touch u, slowly gliding his hands up and down ur sides, quietly hushing u "i know, doll, i know" bringing his hand down ur tummy, ghosting over ur cunt "-'s gonna be alright". a minute or two pass by, and he already has two fingers inside u, hitting that spot inside u perfectly before he's given the clear orders - "flip her around, on her belly" price muffled under his breath, groaning as he sees a perfect view of ur perfect ass. "small circles, she loves those" ghost jumps in, his dick already in his hand, his thumb swirling around the leaky tip.

alejandro eating u out fucking u with his tongue, his needy mouth swallowing ur arousal as his fingers pump in and out of ur clenching cunt. ur hand entangled in his hair, as soap forces two fingers inside ur mouth - slapping ur cheek lightly each time the pressure becomes too much and u can't help but bite down on his digits.

thigh riding with ghost - sitting down on his lap, and him noticing u growing impatient, restlessly switching positions and unintentionally bumping ur ass back onto him. one hand grips ur hip, his knuckles turning white, as he flexes the thigh muscles, encouraging u to move. he'd watch u picking up a higher speed, and u could have sworn ur wetness already leaked through ur panties, soaking the fabric on his clothed thigh. feeling his erection borderlining on pain, he'd place both hands on u, stopping ur movement altogether - "off, now" ordering u to sink down to ur knees and to hump his boots - like a bitch in heat. he'd be genuinely scared of bumping his hand against his dick, of cumming right then and there - just the sight of u grabbing at his leg for the smallest bit of support, while quietly begging him is enough to make him fold.

stealing hoodies but make it 5x or 6x lol. no complaints from any of the guys, except simon who playfully pulls on the strings, teasing u. könig just sighs the moment he sees how his large shirts hang off ur small frame.

nothing but utter respect and adoration for their princess, their queen - rarely anyone ever dares direspecting u. but if that creepy drunk guy at the back of the bar grabs ur ass as u walk by him ... he's a dead man, long time goner, before the morning sets.

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matchadobo · 8 months

Text

KIDD; doing his shaving for him

warning/s: all fluff!, gn!reader, kidd being cheeky

of course, kidd refuses to have facial hair

so when a stubble grows out or the roots start budding, he'd opt to start shaving

you were curious when you two first got together, why his beard never grows out

so you one day peeked inside the bathroom to see him shave

you see him so focused, eyes directed at the mirror where he meticulously cleaned off the remaining soap with a razor blade

yes he uses a razor blade, not a razor

he's so skillful about it tho it's hot

seeing him so focused makes you twirl your hair and bite your lip, smiling like an idiot because why is he so attractive?

his brows furrowed as he attempts to symmetrically clean off the foam

"what're you peekin' for, munchkin face?" he'd raise a brow, side eyeing you but is still steadily cleaning off half of the soap on his jaw

you'd reply, "anyone ever told you you're soooo handsome?" swooning like a princess

he'd break out a grin, his smile making him stop his routine to get a hold of himself

"fuck outta here, you flirt." he'd say that through gritted teeth but he's definitely smiling

but of course, that was code for keep going

and so you did keep on making side comments about how attractive he is until he finished

so the next time he does shave, he'd let you do it

he hands you the blade and says, "cmon, since you love seein me all dolled up."

you'd be scared at first, since it's a blade and you might end up hurting or scaring him

but he replied, "scar me? go ahead, bet it'd make me look sexier, aye?"

you'd sigh in defeat but deep inside, you really wanna do try it

so you sat yourself up on the sink, opened up your legs and arms and gestured for him to go in between

he'd put his arms on your side, at the sink's surface to get closer to you

this time, you were in the same height as him

he'd smile cheekily when your faces get close and it'd end up as an exchange of fits of laughter

you first grab the foamy soap, applying some on your hands and spreading it on his lower cheeks to his jaw and chin

you'd revel on how cute he looks with all the soap fluffing up his face

you'd rub his cheeks with your thumbs, making funny figures and laughing at how goofy he looks

"ready? don't go bleedin' my face off." he'd taunt you as you raise up the blade

you'd ignore him and went right on, carefully sliding the blade across his snowy skin

you'd be sooo focused, brows furrowing, lips pressing together cuz you don't want to go too deep and scar him!

but he on the other hand was downright eating you up with those damn eyes

amber orbs admiring every pore and detail of your face as a smile seemingly makes it way to his lips and you proceed to nag him to keep still: how your eyelashes flutter when you blink, how your irises move in a gradual up and down motion each time you move on to another portion, how your tongue peeks out from time to time when you get too into it, how your nose sometimes scrunch when you feel like you're gonna fuck up, how you tilt your head a bit when he moves a bit too much and the touch of your fingers sends his heart in a chase

you're gonna feel it and start growing red

you'd take a minute but he still admires how you blush over it

you'd fan yourself and he ends up laughing

but when you get back on track, boy does he not stop staring you down

he'd hit you back with the, "anyone ever told you you're so damn attractive?" gazing down as you hide your face

the entire time, you'd continue on your task while trying to regulate your heart and cheeks

once you finish and let him wash up, he'd playfully inspect your craft but praise you afterward

"pretty decent for a blushin' mess like you."

ever since then, he'd call on you to shave for him, insisting you have to be the one to do it for him

aaaaah idk why but a man shaving looks so attractive 🥺

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the-soliloquies-of-sadists · 9 months

Text

#375

“Hey shithead, get over here. I got some news…. You look like shit. Come here. Kneel. Reach in and take out my dick. I’ve got to take a piss. Drink up and listen. A buyer put in an offer, and it was accepted. You’ve been sold. I wasn’t expecting for a chunky slave to sell after only one day of showing, but that big truck driver made a full offer. He’ll be back later on tonight. He made some demands….

“He wants you cleaned up on the outside and loaded up with loads from many men on the inside. I’ll bring the hose around in a bit. Sir Hank will be down in a bit to bring you some soap. He’s also going to make that cage permanent, by riveting it on. Your dick will be useless going forward.

“Do you remember how many men unloaded in your cunt so far this morning?... Four? Good. Hank and I will each provide one. With you off the market, it’ll be difficult to get men in here just for a fuck.

“I called a buddy. You’re not his type, but he’ll bring his slave and fuck him instead. When he’s ready to nut he’ll just shove it into you. Or maybe he’ll use a condom with his own slave and then squeeze the load into you.

“Oh wait a minute…. Let me see…. There’s one… two…. There are a couple of used condoms in the trash can here.

“Bend over and lean against the wall. Present your cunt. I have no idea how long these loads have been here, whose load is in them, or even if they were used on you or the slave that was in here last. You are getting their spooge contents now…. Damn, you have one hell of a gape, which should make the squeezing in of the loads easy.

“That truck driver has one of the biggest dicks I have ever seen. He’s great to work with. Prompt payments. And most of all he seems to want the fat slaves, or the weird ones. He’s an intermediary for several buyers out west. You’ll probably end up on this pig farm where you will be force fed until you bulk up, and then installed in a pig pen with other real pigs. Castration is most likely. Not just the balls but your shaft too.

“There, both loads are in you…. Oh, I missed this condom here…. I didn’t realize that our clients used so many rubbers. I guess it makes sense.

“The other possible buyer that trucker uses is in Oregon. He’s one of those militia types, but one who likes fat fags chained up in his basement. Don’t know that much about him other than he’s a sadistic bastard.

“There! Three anonymous loads in your cunt. Get ready, this will probably be my last time for me to breed you.

“Jesus! He stretched you out. All these loads are making this one loose sloppy hole…. This isn’t going to work. Clamp down then spin around.

“Get me off with your toilet mouth…. You look grossed out. That’s the cum stew from your cunt. Clean me off before you get me off.

“That’s it. Don’t fucking gag. This is your life now. Good boy. You are an ass eating, piss drinking, cum dump slave. Whoever you wind up with, they are going to do way worse nasty stuff to you. This is what you do. This is what you are.

“I’m going to miss your tongue. That’s what made you sellable. Does it ever feel good on my dick! Work it! Fuck! I’m going to cum in no time. Keep licking my balls when I go in deep. When I tell you, spin around so I can dump in your cunt.

“I wish all slaves could have a tongue like yours. When you eat my shitter, it really makes my hole quiver. I don’t know what you do back there, but man does it feel good. You always gave me your eagerness to please, and you do so no matter how shitty you were being treated. That’s so hard to find in slaves.

“I’m getting close. I’m getting close. Now! Give me that cunt!

“Urg! Uh! Uh! Ahhh! Jesus! Fuck! Damn slave. I gave you a large load to add to the stew you have brewing….

“Clamp down then clean me off…. There you go. Fuck that was hot. There’s some sludge in my pubes; get that…. I have to piss again.

“Ahhh! When I’m done stand up….

“…Slave, I am going to miss you. You know, if we were in a different situation, I would put you on a diet and a rigorous exercise regimen. I would have you as my boy.

“Don’t tell anybody what I’m about to do. Don’t pull away; I want to kiss you….

“…Like that. Now you treat your new owners the way you have treated me. If you are lucky, they won’t torture you too much. I wish you the best.”

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skele-ghost · 2 months

Text

Baby, it’s Hot Outside: Part 1

I wrote this like 8 months ago as a smut fic…and never got to the smut part. Rest assured, there will be smut eventually.

MDNI, 18+, Warnings: Omegaverse AU, being sick, mentions of illicit drug use, people yelling?

See prologue for summary and masterlist

You’ve been with the 141 for about six months. A decent amount of time, plenty of missions—but you still feel like you’re the outsider, somehow.

It’s because they’re a pack, the five of them, and you’re the tag-along coworker, the specialist. You’re all good friends, sure, but they’re all mates. You don’t stand half a chance against a bond like that.

You keep your sorrows to yourself, though—your envy. They’re all happy together, and you’re happy for them, even if part of your heart aches for that kind of love and affection you’ve never known.

You’re a beta, we’re raised by betas, in a beta-dominant community. Your health class in school didn’t even cover the other dynamics, and even in college all of your irl friends had been betas.

You’re a loner, anyways. You’re most comfortable behind a computer screen, getting into files you shouldn’t, pulling the strings from the shadows.

That’s how you’d been recruited, anyways (don’t hack into the Pentagon drunk), Laswell taking an interest in your effortless talent and skill for computers and machinery.

After working on a few missions with the 141, you were given a formal invite with a nice pay upgrade that you didn’t want to turn down.

They guys are a little intimidating at times. Ghost is…Ghost. He, Price, and König all being alphas. König worried you at first—he’s something called an Apex Alpha, and while you’re not completely sure what that means, you know that the term comes from ‘apex predator’ and connected the dots from there.

But it turns out he’s just a big sweetheart. Yeah, he’s the team’s human battering ram, and yeah, he gets a little scary on the field; but none of them, not even König, had made you feel threatened or unsafe.

Maybe that’s why you stay even if you sometimes feel a little left out. You keep yourself occupied with your tasks: hacking, repairing, making little electronics. You’ve all fallen into a comfortable routine with each other, falling into your roles like good little soldiers.

Which is why you’re confused to all hell as to why they seem pissed at you. You keep going over and over it in your mind, each interaction picked over and analyzed, but you come up on a blank.

Ghost had outright shoulder-checked you this morning. You told him to watch it and he glared at you. He hadn’t glared at you since the early days when you were new.

It was worse with Soap. You were closest with him. He always comes in and checks on you since you have a pension for locking yourself away while working which causes you to forget to eat or sleep. Now he’s glaring at you, too.

It didn’t help that you’re all on a mission. Recon, roughing it in sleeping bags, camped out at an old abandoned cluster of cabins. You’re all monitoring a base down below the ridge of the mountain, intent to find intel on El Sin Nombre.

You decide to brush it all off. Maybe they’re just in sour moods? Maybe you really did do something wrong, but until either of them confronted you about it, there was no point in worrying about it.

So you kept busy monitoring the local radio frequencies in your cabin. It’s damn boring, though, and the summer heat of Mexico isn’t helping.

You’d die for an air conditioner right now. Well, you’d die to not be on this mission anymore, to be back on base and have more space away from your colleagues. And you’d die to not have this guilty, worried pit in your stomach. You always get it when something bad is going to happen, the dread getting worse and worse over time. It’s stressing you out, making you sweat even more. You probably stink.

It’s almost a relief when Gaz shows up, creaking the old screen door open, but he looks pissed at you, too, and you want to cry from sheer frustration.

“God, not you, too,” you groan, smoothing your sweaty hair away from your face.

“Captain wants to see you,” Gaz says, sounding angry, confusing her just as much.

“Seriously? This about Ghost and Soap? What did I do?”

Gaz scowls, “don’t play coy, Seraph, he’s not going to like that.”

“What are you—“ you sigh, “you know what? Fine. Maybe he’ll explain why you’re all so pissed at me.”

Being outside in the sunshine, even briefly, makes you feel worse and hotter. You wonder if maybe you’re getting heat exhaustion or something—you aren’t used to being in the field and you’re sure as hell not used to being in the summer heat for so long.

Shit, maybe you’re coming down with something. As you and Gaz march over to the Captain’s cabin, you notice that everything smells different. Off. It’s making you nauseous.

When you step into the cabin, you know you’re in for it. Captain Price is standing at his desk, glowering down at you. Soap is standing a little ways behind him, his arms crossed, and Ghost is sitting in the back corner like the spook he’s named after, arms crossed.

It takes a hell of a lot of restraint not to curse under your breath, but you manage.

“Take a seat, Private,” the captain gestures at the chair in front of the desk and you have no room to argue.

You hate when they call you that—Private. It’s not even your rank. Technically you have none, you’re a specialist, and you never enlisted. You were a CIA Special Agent before all of this. Why they picked ‘private’ out for you, you have no idea, but you do feel like it undermines your hard work. You’re not some E-1, after all.

Everyone’s eyes on you makes you want to squirm, but you hold fast. It smells overwhelmingly like several different things: cigars, whiskey, cinnamon, wood smoke, the wild flowers that are outside.

Your guts keep screaming that something is wrong, wrong, wrong.

“You’ve put this mission in jeopardy, Seraph. I have half a mind to relieve you of duty and send you home,” Price says, his voice terse.

“Sir?” You ask, wanting him to elaborate, to tell you what you did wrong so that you can fix it.

“You set König off, he’s up at the deer blind refusing to come down,” he adds, voice rising in volume.

You frown, now noticing his missing figure. “König? What’s wrong with him,” you ask, concerned.

Your Captain lets out a disingenuous chuckle, which probably would’ve made your blood run cold if you weren’t so hot.

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” he says, practically growling. “We can tell. There’s no hiding it.”

“Wh—“

“Why did you do it?” Soap interrupts, fuming. “You’ve been part of the team for nearly two years, you don’t think you can trust us?”

The CIA training kicks in and you keep your mouth shut for the moment. This is starting to sound like a set up—like you’re being pinned for something you didn’t do. Or like they think you’re lying about something and are waiting for you to spill first.

But the other part of you, the part that knows your team, doesn’t think so. Maybe that part of you just doesn’t want to imagine them betraying you.

Price sighs, stepping away from the table, running his hands down his face. A sour smell begins to stack in the room and you crinkle your nose.

You hate confrontation. It was your biggest downfall, considering that you now work in special forces. You’d just barely passed your interrogation training after four attempts—yelling people upset you, which is why you never thought you’d be working alongside the military.

“I don’t…know what this is about,” you say, your voice small and meek.

“Yes, you do,” Price insists, crossing his arms, and before you can open your mouth the screen door opens again.

Gaz comes in holding your medicine, the ziplock bag stuffed with your prescribed medications and supplements.

“What the fuck,” you whisper as he puts it on the table, and then raise your voice, “that’s a HIPAA violation, you can’t just take those!”

Gaz’s hand on your shoulder is the only thing stopping you from taking your bag back. Price points at the bag, “which ones are the heat suppressants? I’m giving you a chance to come clean, (L/N).”

“Come cle—“ you stop yourself, frowning as you try to pull the new piece of evidence into the mix. “You…think I’m abusing prescription drugs?”

Soap huffs, “let me see, I know what they look like.”

Price hands him the bag, and everyone’s still just glaring at you while you try and think.

“What are you looking for, opiates? I’ve never been prescribed—“

“The heat suppressants, (L/N), where are they?!” Soap shouts, tossing the bag back onto the table. “Do you ‘ave any idea what that shite does to your body? They can kill you!”

You take in a deep breath, trying to stay calm. Your head is starting to pound with all this shouting. “What the fuck are you guys talking about? What are heat suppressants?”

“Oh, come on,” Ghost growls, rising from his chair in the corner and stalking over. “Quit acting daft and tell us the truth!”

Soap’s hand on his chest holds him back from coming any closer. You’re about ready to cry, now, swallowing down the lump in your throat. You have to stay calm, that’s what your training taught you.

“You can be discharged for this,” Price continues, still angry. “Hiding any medical history can get you booted, especially your designation!”

“My designation?” You furrow your brow, “I never lied about my designation, I’m a beta.”

“You fucking—“ But Soap holds Ghost back, walking him to sit back down in the chair in the corner. He’s livid. You’ve never seen any of them so mad.

“No, you’re not,” Price says, and you can tell how hard it is to keep himself calm and at an even tone of voice. “Heat suppressants might’ve tricked your body into thinking that, but that’s not the truth, is it, (Y/N)?”

This is beyond frustrating. Fuck being calm, you’re on your last nerve, “what the hell are heat suppressants, and why the fuck do you think I’m taking them? And for the love of god, will one of you motherfuckers tell me what I’m being accused of here?!”

Your voice echos in the old cabin for a minute. Somehow, that managed to shut them up and get them thinking. Less angry now, they look at you with confusion, apprehension.

“You really don’t know what’s going on?” Gaz asks next to you, and you glance up at him briefly.

“No! How many times do I have to tell you fuckers?” You wince at the ache in your skull that’s becoming worse, “and will someone pass me a Tylenol? Y’all are making my head hurt.”

You rest your face in your hands, trying to get your erratic breathing to calm down along with your skipping heart.

“(Y/N), when was your last heat?” Soap asks, his voice much, much more gentle.

You look up at him, squinting, “huh? I never had heat exhaustion before. My mama did, when I was little…”

“I think she’s serious,” Gaz says, as if you’re not right next to him.

“Shit,” someone says, and you can’t really tell who. You look up when you hear the sound of your medicine bag again, Soap fishing out two Tylenols and handing them to you along with a nearby water bottle.

“Thanks,” you mutter, quickly downing the pills and the rest of the water. Looking around the room at everyone again, you almost wish they were angry again. The anxious looks of worry on their faces is much worse, because they’re worried about you, and you don’t know what for.

Price sighs, sitting down at his desk chair. “You’ve never had a heat before?”

“That’s what I just said,” you quip, snippier than usual.

Price glances up at Soap, who nods, and then he looks back at you. “That’s not what this is, Seraph. You’re going into heat. You’re an omega.”

—

You scrunch your face up, frowning. “No, I’m a beta,” you insist, voice soft.

“No, (Y/N), you’re not.” Your captain pinches the bridge of his nose, and it’s the first time you’ve seen him at a total loss for words.

“You’re going inta heat, bonnie,” Soap says. “Even Gaz can smell you.”

You freeze, picking up the collar of your shirt and taking an experimental whiff of yourself. No, it just smells like sweat and laundry detergent.

“Am I the one that smells weird?” You ask, “because it does smell weird.”

“No, that’s us,” Soap explains. “Your nose is sharper now that you’re going into heat.”

“Mm-hmm,” you say, not believing a word of it. “But there’s no way I’m an omega. Both sides of my parents lineage goes back six generations—all betas. It’s literally impossible.”

“You never had the genetic testing done?” Soap asks. Testing can be done when you’re born to best guess what you’ll present as by looking at your dominant genes.

“There was no reason to, seeing as there’s a 0% chance of me being anything other than a beta,” you argue, wiping the sweat from your chin. “I mean, if I’m an omega, then Soap’s King of Scotland.”

“And it’s damn good to be king,” Soap says, crossing his arms.

Price shakes his head, “it’s not a debate, sweetheart, you are an omega. Is it possible you’re adopted?”

“What?! No!” Your head snaps up to glare at him, “my mom would’ve told me.”

“Have you seen your birth certificate?”

You roll your eyes, “have you seen yours?”

“I have mine,” he raises his eyebrows at you and you sigh.

“My ma lost the original copy—house fire,” you explain, but you know you’re not wrong. “Even if I was, that wouldn’t change anything, right? You present your designation in puberty, and I never presented, therefore…beta.”

You cross your arms.

“Then explain the smell,” Ghost says, speaking up from his quiet corner. You had almost forgotten about him.

“Obviously I’m sick,” you say, “maybe I ate something bad.”

“We all ate the same thing,” Ghost sighs, unsatisfied with your answer.

“Allergic reaction. I’ve never been to Mexico; we touch plants all the time.” That one’s more feasible, you think.

“That’s not—“

“Alright, enough,” Price says, stopping yours and Ghost’s banter. “Arguing about this isn’t going to change anything.”

“Right,” Soap agrees, walking over to you. “Whether you’re sick, or in heat, or having an allergic reaction, you need rest.”

“But who’s gonna monitor the radio?” You’re a little wobbly as Soap hauls you to your feet, but you shake it off.

“Gaz knows how to use the equipment,” Soap says and you begin walking out of the cabin and back to yours.

“Who’s gonna do Gaz’s job?”

“Me, probably.”

“Then who’s gonna do your job?”

“Quit it, (L/N).”

—

A/N: If you made it this far, thanks! I’ve recently been inspired by the fic authors I follow to post my own content. I write a lot, mostly for my own enjoyment, but I’ve never really shared anything except this and the Graves fic I posted forever ago. I think I’m gonna post fic like this that I’m comfortable with and see where it goes. I’m not taking requests and I can’t guarantee I’ll reply to messages or asks, but I will look at them lol

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thegnomelord · 2 months

Note

Ahh I love the food thing that you got asked <3 food can have such a special place in our lives it's so precious

Ya think Hound develop concerning eating habits due to Makarov? Due to the whole stressful situation

I just want someone in the 141 to cook him a meal, filled with love and care, maybe Hound is in the kitchen watching them cook it for his own security.

I just want him to have a nice meal 😔

-🐙

I do feel like Hound would have some food hoarding habits or just distrust about eating something he didn't make himself. It wouldn't be the first time he'd gotten drugged through food...

But the 141 making food communally would be a fun idea lol so here's a quick brain fart :D :

You feel out of place. Well, you're always out of place, but you feel especially out of place sitting at the table while Soap and and Gaz busy themselves by the stove, Price humming to himself to the side as he gets the mugs to make tea. Ghost sits next to you grumbling under his breath, both of you in 'time-out' — you hadn't done anything (save for not being trusted around anything sharp), it's Ghost that had gone and microwaved beans in the can. Now Johnny swears up and down the microwave is possessed.

Your eyes flicker between Soap and Gaz, watching them cook you don't even know what. The only British 'cuisine' you know of is the cremated steaks Price would sometimes make you before. . . that. But nothing the two are making smells nearly as bad as the charred hockey pucks Price would feed you and Simon.

"Hey!" Your brought out of your thoughts in time to see Kyle swat away Price's hand with his spatula. "Don't you dare cap! I'm not about to get rained on because of your bad cooking." You hadn't considered Gaz could take charge, too soft in your eyes, but you're surprised by how tight of a ship he runs when he's by the stove.

"Alright, alright." Price huffs while Ghost lets out an amused huff. He's not quite laughing, but you can see the subtle tremor of his shoulders in silent laughter.

That gets Soap to point a spoon in Ghost's direction. "Oh yer one te fockin' giggle. Mr. 'ah cursed the damn microwave with me beans'."

"Sod off." Simon grunts, but there's no edge to his words. Soap tuts, but soon enough starts off rambling about something you're not quite able to follow along to when your eyes once again focus on where their arms are, how they move, paying especially close attention any time they rest them by their sides (even though realistically you doubt they'd try to drug the same food they'd eat).

You still tense when you feel Price's hand on your back, only now noticing that you'd started hunching your back, your shoulders raised closer to your ears. "You're alright, straighten your spine, sweetheart." His voice is calm, his hand warm as he applies gentle pressure on your back until you straighten back out. "There you go, good man." He rumbles, hand going up to ruffle your hair before he pulls away before his touch can turn into stinging pain to your skin.

You blink as a plate full of food is placed in front of you. The food smells good and doesn't look like it had been cremated, made with care you don't deserve. "I. . ." You don't know why but your throat feels clogged, like someone had poured hot tar into your mouth and forced you to swallow, the collar around your throat constricting your breathing even more.

Simon's shoulder bumps into yours, "If you don't eat that I will." The childish threat makes you breathe out a small laugh.

"Aye, the bastard's like Henry the hoover, he'll eat anything." Soap supplies as he sits down opposite of you with his own plate. Though you get the impression he's talking about himself when he stabs a sausage with a fork and almost inhales the entire thing.

"Mhm," You grunt, taking the fork. "I don't doubt it." You stab a piece of black pudding. It tastes earthy, but the small coppery tang of blood sizzles down your nerves, but fuck it tastes good.

"Look at that, is it good?" Kyle chuckles as he watches your facial features shift as you swallow the food, his own face that of pride like he already knows your answer, but you nod your head all the same.

#gnome correspondence #🐙anon #x reader #cod mw2 #male reader #trinkets from the hoard #captain john price #good dog fic #Hound-reader #simon ghost riley #kyle gaz garrick #john soap mactavish #john soap mactavish x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #captain john price x male reader #kyle gaz garrick x male reader #this was pretty quick and I intend to do an extended version of this when i finally get around to writing the next chapter of Good Dog

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nixie-writes · 10 months

Note

I had asked this before

Human alastor with a s/o who comes from a greedy rich family in New Orleans in the 1920s, but they also fall in love with him.. and when they find out about his killings, they help him hide the bodies. (?)

Hello, I'm so sorry it took me so long to get to this!! I had a lot happen in a short amount of time and I got caught up in it but I'm back to writing for good now!

-mafias and gangs weren't uncommon in the roaring 20's. You see them everywhere - in clubs, bars and on soap boxes preaching their beliefs, almost like a religion to them.

-you came from one such family. A family of rich bastards who looked down on others from beneath their nose. From the moment you were born you never had to beg for anything, it was always yours.

-one thing you found yourself vying for was the attention of your boyfriend, Alastor. He was so busy with his radio shows he forgot to eat, so you'd bring him lunch. He always returned the favor with a peck on the cheek and an offer to play a song for you.

-lord knew you loved him but you wanted more than a spared glance when he was working. And why did he slip away at night when he thought you were asleep? You began sleuthing, using the riches you had at your disposal to learn as much as you could about the man as possible.

-it was maybe 2 in the morning one night, he was gone yet again and you couldn't sleep. The home you shared was too stuffy and hot, so you chose to take a stroll down a sidewalk, looking through your papers of evidence, trying to draw a clear conclusion as to why he acted so strangely.

-it was on your walk back home, tiredness finally settling in, that you heard a blood curdling shriek cut off by a gagging noise, then nothing. You stood still as a statue, as though you were sculpted by ice under the moonlight.

-you were too terrified to make a move for cover behind a hedge, you could only watch as a slim, tall figure dragged the limp body of an older man out into the moonlight, heaving as he did so. What took you by surprise wasn't the fact that the dead man was your boss, what grabbed your attention was the one dragging his body. It was Alastor.

-looking both ways to ensure no one could see you, you rushed up to Alastor, whispering his name in a hurried voice as you approached, praying he recognized you before you met the sharp end of his blade. Thankfully he realized who you were before he struck out in defense.

-"Alastor, what in god's name are you doing?! You could get caught!" you scolded him in a hushed voice. You weren't much bothered by the fact your dead boss was his doing, you were more concerned about him getting caught. Gripping the papers of evidence in your fists you realized it all made sense: the short interactions, slipping out at night, coming home in fresh clothes... He was a killer. And you'd be damned if anyone else found out.

-you took the shovel from Alastor's hand and pointed behind a hedge. "We've got to hide this body before it's found; are you going to help or stand there?" you asked him, pointing to a row of bushes. Snapping out of his stupor he nodded his head, hauling the bloody mass behind the bushes. You got to work digging the hole while Alastor made quick work of cleaning up the blood trail he'd left behind. When you were both done you kicked your boss' body into the hole. You never much liked him, and almost considered what Alastor had done to be a favor. You took one of Alastor's bloody napkins and wiped your hands.

-before you could turn to walk back to the home you shared Alastor grabbed you by the shoulders. "Dear, let me be honest; I've been doing this longer than I've known you, and if you risk me being caught I'm afraid I'll have to take you out of the picture. Can I trust you to keep this little secret between us?"

-maybe it was the sadism buried deep inside you, maybe you were a little gone yourself. You nodded your head solemnly, sticking out a pinkie finger. "We're partners, Alastor. You'd be more efficient if we worked together," you promised him. He hugged you gently, then took your bloodier hand. "Shall we go home and wash this off?" he inquired. You smiled up at him. "Yes, let's."

#hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin x reader #alastor x reader #alastor

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deakyjoe · 1 year

Text

Somebody’s Watching Me Part 7

Paring: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader (“Sarge”, she/her pronouns, British, backstory)

Category: slowburn coworkers to friends to lovers with grumpy x sunshine dynamic/idiots in love

Summary: You and Simon take the next step towards happiness.

Warnings: smut (18+), f receiving oral, handjobs, vaginal fingering, unprotected PinV (wrap it before you tap it), creampie, praise kink, slightly sub!ghost, slightly dom!reader, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, swearing/cursing, British terminology/slang, the mask is off, domestic Ghost, brief mention of scars and stretch marks, this is just smut and fluff, *** to indicate where smut starts and ends

Word count: 5.7k

A/N: EJ doesn’t write and publish smut. EJ is a virgin who doesn’t know what sex is like in real life. EJ is nervous about posting this. Please be nice to EJ.

Part 8 here!

Consider buying me a coffee :)

The first time you met Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley you were rather disappointed. You'd heard tales of the mysterious killing machine who showed no mercy. But then, when you finally did come face to face with him, you discovered he was just a regular guy in a mask who complained when his tea was too hot to drink and when the chocolate digestive biscuits had run out. Hardly the legend everyone cracked him up to be.

And then you saw him in the field and your perception changed slightly. He was damn good at what he did. You'd be mildly impressed if you weren't already surrounded by the best of the best, yourself included. You weren't entirely convinced he was the scariest man ever to have lived, as everybody told you, but you could appreciate his skills. Sure, you were fearful of him in the way that he was your superior and you didn't want to make a bad first impression or have him kick you off the team. But you didn't think he was going to kill you in your sleep or anything as your new friend Sergeant MacTavish, better known as Soap, liked to joke.

However, your view of him changed again when he caught you and Soap in the rec room one evening. It was totally innocent. The two of you were unwinding from a long day by eating snacks, listening to music and sharing stories. You were in the middle of listening to a particularly good one from your fellow sergeant when your lieutenant walked in and his mouth snapped shut.

Ghost barely glanced at the two of you, face hidden by his infamous mask. It looked rather silly when he didn't have the rest of his tactical gear on.

"Carry on, Soap." You encouraged him, not put off by the presence of another person in the room. "What happened next?"

The Scot's eyes snapped back to yours and he cleared his throat. "Right, right uuhhh..."

He was cut off by Lieutenant Riley suddenly standing over the two of you behind the sofa, cup of tea clutched in his gloved hand. He was very sneaky. "No drinking on base."

You looked up to him, confused by what he was talking about before realising he was looking at the drink clasped in your hand. "It's apple juice, sir."

He said nothing, eyes burning through his mask into yours. You wouldn't back down from a stare off if that's what he wanted. If his game was intimidation then you wouldn't let him win. You'd grown used to men trying to put you down and you weren't going to let a man who hid his face behind a mask try to do the same.

"This music is inappropriate. Flirting between members of the team is forbidden." He really was trying to get you in trouble. But why? Did he already not like you?

You snorted at him. "I hardly think Sir Mix-a-Lot is the pinnacle of romance, lieutenant."

Soap's jaw hung open opposite you. He couldn't believe you were arguing with Ghost Riley. Especially as a new member of the team. It was risky. He respected it.

"Don't answer back, sergeant." He snapped, fist clenching at his side.

You just held your chin higher despite him towering over you. "I'm not, sir. I'm sure Sergeant MacTavish is a lovely man but, believe me, I have no interest in pursuing anyone on the team. And Sir Mix-a-Lot is certainly not my main means of seduction. I'm here to work. Nothing else."

If only you knew.

***

The kiss was feverish as Simon stumbled into your flat, not letting you go for a single second as he kicked the door shut harshly behind him and pushed his jacket off his shoulders and onto the floor. There was a passionate clash of teeth and tongues as you slammed him back against the wood, needing to be as close to him as possible. You were not going to let him go full Ghost on you in this situation and take complete control of it. You wanted Simon. And you wanted some power.

But Simon was kissing you.

Simon was kissing you.

It finally dawned what was happening.

He tasted like the bourbon he'd been drinking earlier, not that you were complaining, and you wondered if you tasted of the apple martini he'd made for you. The apple martini he hated.

You pulled back suddenly. "Oh, god. Do I taste like the apple martini? I'm sor-"

He chuckled lowly, leaning back into you. "Stop talking for once, Sarge."

The kiss resumed and his hands roamed every inch of you that he could reach, not neglecting any point of your body. You clung to him desperately, never wanting to let go. You wanted to consume him. And let him consume you.

He was too tall, always too fucking tall. So you grabbed at his shirt and dragged him down to meet you halfway, legs sliding up the outside of his almost as if you were trying to climb him. And maybe you were.

Simon groaned lowly into your mouth, breaking away for a mere second to catch his breath and stare longingly down at you before diving straight back in. As your arms snaked around the back of his neck, he turned the two of you around so you were up against the door. And you needed the support as he started to pepper kisses along your jawline and down your neck. He found your weak spot as you whined and began to lick and suckle there repeatedly for good measure.

As much as it felt good, you needed more of him so you threaded your fingers through the back of his hair and guided his lips back to yours. "More kissing, Simon."

He obliged happily.

You'd never get enough. There would never be enough Simon Riley in this world to satisfy you. And he had a sneaking suspicion of that so he was going to do his damn best to give you as much as he could.

When he broke away again, you huffed in protest but quickly stopped when he sank down to the floor.

Having Lieutenant Simon Riley on his knees in front of you was the most exciting, and unexpected, moment of your life.

You'd store away the image in your memory forever.

He looked up at you with his wide, dark eyes and started unbuttoning your jeans. When he glanced back up at you again for permission to take them off you just nodded. They were pulled off and discarded, his stare fixing on the underwear you were wearing. It wasn't your nicest pair but Simon didn't seem to care much as he parted your thighs with his hands and stuck his head between them, inhaling deeply.

Before you knew it, they were torn off and Simon's mouth was latched onto your clit. The man did know his targets well.

"Oh, my- fuck!" You slapped your hand across your mouth, head thrown back and slamming against the door, as he sucked and flicked at it in utter desperation.

When you dared to look down at him, even more arousal stirred in you to see his eyes - his pretty, pretty eyes - were fixed on you and your reactions. He seemed to be concentrating on what felt good for you. People pleaser.

Moans and other pleasured sounds tumbled from your lips as he lifted one of your legs and manoeuvred it over his shoulder so you were spread wide for him, hand planted on your thigh to knead the flesh there. He changed positions after that, moving so his mouth was closer to your opening and his nose bumped against your clit for stimulation instead.

And you couldn't help yourself when your hips started grinding against his face of their own accord, pure lust powering you forward.

"Simon." A gasp of his name left your mouth as he lapped up everything you were giving him, hands laced in his hair to pull him impossibly closer to you.

The thought that you were doing this against your front door and that any of your neighbours could hear you if they simply walked past was long gone as the burning feeling of your impending orgasm built up within you. But, then again, it was past midnight on New Years. Any of your neighbours still awake would probably be partying and having too much of their own fun to take any notice of loud noises coming from your flat.

"So good." You said, chest heaving and face glistening with sweat. "So, so good, Simon."

He groaned into you, eyes closing for just a second making his fair eyelashes flutter, and went harder. He devoured you like a man starved.

And with a final buck of your hips that had the tip of his nose hitting your clit just right, you were speeding over the edge into blissful oblivion. It took every ounce of willpower for you not to scream as your legs turned to jelly. He kept you upright with his hands on your hips as he slid back up to his full height.

"You. Taste. Heavenly." Every word was punctuated by a kiss to your lips, each one tasting distinctly of you.

Your voice was ragged as your eyelids became hooded and you grabbed his hand. "Bedroom."

"Yes, ma'am." He had no ounce of protest in him as he allowed you to drag him through your flat and to your room. Now things were started he wasn't going to hold back at all. He'd been denying himself of this for too long. He felt like it was deserved. Both for him and for you.

What he didn't expect was for you to take complete control as soon as you got there, pushing him onto the bed and demanding him to sit up against the headboard as he kicked his shoes off.

And when you crawled over to him and straddled his lap, lips immediately landing on his to kiss him even more, he felt a tingling inside of himself. It was a kind of buzz, almost like he was drunk but not quite. Maybe drunk on you. And the feeling of you against him.

You were underwear-less now, only a bra and shirt covering you, so when you started to softly grind against him Simon thought his brain might explode. Or other parts of him.

But you didn't give up, even as he grew painfully hard underneath you, you just kept going. You just kissed and kissed and kissed at his swollen lips, not being able to stop yourself.

But then you suddenly pulled back and looked down at him, head tilting to the side slightly. Your hands tapped along the hem of his shirt, barely grazing the skin of his stomach. "You're wearing too many clothes. May I?" You asked and he nodded, breathless. "Out loud."

"Yes." He was never going to say no to you. Especially not now. He'd lost the ability to deny you of anything a long time ago.

You tugged the shirt off of him and over his head, eyes immediately landing on his bare torso that was only very partially obscured by his dog tags. He was toned, that was for sure, but you knew that already and you admired the tattoos dispersed up and down his arms, encroaching onto his chest. However, you were more focused on the subtle things. The small freckles scattered in various places, scars marking the pale tone of his skin, a patch of hair on his lower abdomen that trailed off in a little path underneath his belt. Even the faded stretch marks dotted across the plains of his body.

You sighed happily. "You're so gorgeous it's unfair, Simon. Blond and pretty."

He flushed at that, blaming the heat in his cheeks on being turned on, and pulled you back in to kiss him to distract himself from it.

Your nails raked down his chest, arms lifting up when he pulled your own shirt off of you. His large hands explored the expanse of your skin, trailing up and down your sides before going to your back, undoing your bra and tossing it to the side. Like him, only your dog tags were left to cover the bare skin of your chest.

His eyes were drawn to the dog tags hanging around your neck, the chain settled in the valley of your breasts, and you both knew what you were thinking. The fantasy Simon had confided in you. But, silently, you agreed it was for another time.

His hands were warm when they landed on your chest, which you were thankful for, as they kneaded, pulled, tugged and tweaked. It felt good but you wanted to give him more.

"Can I touch you, Simon?" You asked, smiling when he nodded eagerly.

Your hands fumbled with his belt buckle, no patience left within you, and you pulled his trousers and underwear down just enough to release him once the belt was undone.

You stared at him.

Simon felt self-conscious.

He had no reason to.

He was long and thick, your mouth watering at the sight. Oh, how you longed for him. To have him in your mouth. To taste him. To feel him inside you. But that was for another time.

As soon as your hand wrapped around him his eyes screwed shut and his head was thrown back against the wall, soft sounds leaving his mouth.

"Mm-mm. Eyes open and on me, Simon." You said quietly, watching his chest heave and his breaths come out raggedly.

His eyes shot open at the mention of his name, cheeks pink and rosy as he made eye contact with you.

"So pretty..." You trailed off, smiling at him. He really was beautiful. Especially like this. "Come on, pretty boy. Keep making those pretty, little noises for me."

He whimpered, actually whimpered.

"Oh-ho-ho! Do you like praise, Simon?"

He nodded frantically, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. "Please."

"You like to hear how well you're doing for me? How beautiful you look? Hm?"

Your hand tightened around his tip before you sunk it back down again to the base, twisting your wrist to give him more friction.

A garbled sentence left his mouth, something incoherent he was saying to himself.

"Speak up, Riley. I need to hear you." You looked away from his face for a moment to where your hand was pumping him, speeding up the action slightly.

"Fuck, so close. I'm gonna- gonna-"

"Already?" You raised your brows at him. You weren’t disappointed, just surprised and rather flattered.

"I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm sorry." He apologised profusely, face scrunched and hands clawing at the bedsheets on either side of him. "So, so sorry. Fuck-"

"It's okay. Come for me." And all it took was a swipe of your thumb over his tip.

He groaned lowly as hot ropes of cum spurted from him, coating your hand and his stomach. More laboured breathing from him had you placing your clean hand on his chest to calm him down.

***

"Breathe, Simon. Inhale... Exhale... Good." You leant forward and kissed his cheek before looking down at the mess beneath you. "Umm..."

"Shit, uh..." He reached for the tissues next to your bed and frantically wiped away what he could. "You might need to wash your hands."

"Probably." You smiled at him.

"I'm sorry that I... so fast." He panted, face scrunched in... embarrassment?

"Don't apologise. If I'm sitting here calling you pretty and encouraging it, then I want you to come." You revelled in the way his cheeks flushed and his eyes widened a fraction.

"But we didn't- you didn't-"

You shook your head, crawling off of him to go to the bathroom. "You already made me come."

"Yeah, but-"

"No buts." You tutted and called over your shoulder one last time before disappearing out of the room. "I'll be back in a minute."

You could feel his stare on the back of you as you left, smiling at the idea of him watching you. When you returned a couple of minutes later with a damp cloth in your hand to clean him up, you found him staring at the wall opposite and twiddling his thumbs together. He looked anxious.

"What's wrong?" You asked softly as you sat down next to him and wiped his stomach.

"Nothing." He answered too quickly for your liking.

"C'mon, Simon. I know you now. Don't lie to me. Please. You can tell me." You glanced back up at him as you finished, turning slightly to throw the cloth into your laundry hamper in the corner of your room. You managed to get it in, you did have impeccable aim.

He didn't answer as he watched you crawl over him to the unoccupied side of the bed and get under the duvet.

"At least take off your jeans and get in here with me." You sighed, propping yourself up on your elbow. And when he still did nothing, you had a sudden realisation. "Unless you want to leave. Because you were leaving before you came back..."

The idea broke your heart. Maybe he wanted this to be a one time thing to let off some steam, to alleviate the tension that had been growing between you. What if this wasn't what you hoped it would be?

He snapped out of his daze at that, standing and pushing off the rest of his clothes before diving in next to you and sidling up close. "No, no. Don't say that. I don't want to leave."

"Okay, good." You smiled at him, getting slightly closer. "Tell me what's wrong."

He chewed absentmindedly on his inner cheek. "Overthinking."

It was a simple answer that didn't explain much. But you understood him.

"Okay." Your hand lifted to his face, thumb swiping over cheek softly as you kissed him gently. "You can tell me whatever you need to whenever you need to."

He nodded, kissing you again.

Your fingers moved to the back of his head, carding through the blond strands. His eyes fluttered shut, a relieved breath leaving his mouth.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. "I overthink. Especially with this."

"Don't apologise, Simon." You chuckled, wanting to lighten the mood. "Thought you told me you were more dominant in bed."

"Nuh-uh. I told you it depends." He smiled back, one of his proper smiles that was reserved only for you to see as his eyes snapped back open.

"Lucky me then."

There was a short moment of silence before you approached the topic that was eating away at you.

"Why now?" You asked, shifting so your noses grazed against one another.

"Because I've wanted to for a while." He kissed you quickly, hand tracing over your hip. "And because I'm selfish."

Curious. "Selfish?"

"Too selfish to think about the consequences because I want you too much."

Huh. "Meaning?"

He paused, thinking about his words carefully. "I'm prioritising my wants, pleasures, needs over logical arguments."

"You make no sense, Riley. But I'll take it if it means this." You sighed into his mouth as you kissed him again. "I wish you'd done it sooner. We've been spending time together for months."

"I wouldn't let myself. It's not allowed. Technically." He added the last bit on hastily. "And I wasn't going to allow it to happen."

"You were going to ignore your feelings?" You couldn't judge him exactly. You'd been doing the same.

"Have been for months. Unsuccessfully." He grunted, winding his hand around your waist and tugging you closer so you were chest to chest. "But you wouldn't leave me alone."

"Hey! I offered you an out." You protested weakly, smiling widely at him still.

"Didn't mean literally." He huffed. "Just constantly on my fucking mind."

Your eyes brightened at that and Simon felt himself fall just that little bit farther. You, on the other hand, were trying to control yourself. There were three options: jump him again, confess your undying love or just stay quiet in the hopes he'd say a little more.

Option three was the safest.

He kissed you again, lingering for a moment this time. "Couldn't get you off my bloody mind. Always ticking around in there."

"I'm flattered, Riley." You whispered. "Does that mean I'm the last thing you masturbated to which is why you refused to answer during Truth or Drink?"

"Classified." He paused. "But yes."

You giggled and pressed your lips against his, moaning quietly when he rolled the two of you over so you were underneath him.

He pulled away for a moment, mumbling into your mouth. "Definitely worth any consequences."

You were wildly inquisitive about the whole thing, unable to stop yourself from inquiring. "What are the potential consequences?"

"Dishonourably discharged."

"Wait, really?" You pushed slightly on his chest, suddenly panicked at the idea.

"Nah." Dickhead. "Could be reassigned."

You whined quietly. "That's shit."

"Mhm, don't think Price would let it happen though." He lowered himself down again and planted an open mouthed kiss on your jaw, grazing his teeth against your skin. "I wouldn't let him let it happen."

You sighed contently, arms snaking around his back. "Hmm, and why's that?"

"I'm rather fond of you."

"Rather fond of me... what are you? Eighty?" You cackled, chest rumbling against his.

He rolled his eyes at you. "Ever the charmer, Sarge."

"I'm sorry." You mock pouted. "Did I hurt your feelings?"

"Shut up." He silenced you with his own mouth, tongue curling against yours, and revelled in the sigh you let out against him.

But you weren't done with your interrogation, forever wanting to know more. "Why did you tell me happy new year before you kissed me?"

"Because I wanted to kiss you at midnight." He said it like it was obvious. It wasn't.

"Why didn't you?" Your nose scrunched so Simon smoothed it out with his thumb.

"Didn't think it'd be a good idea." The warm brown of his eyes flickered as his gaze roamed your face, finally taking in how lucky he was being able to look at you so close up.

"But you changed your mind." You offered, assuming that was right.

It was. "I did."

"Why?"

He chuckled. "So many questions."

You cowered slightly. "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Sarge." He bumped his nose against yours. "You looked sad when I didn't."

Oh, bollocks. "You noticed that?"

He nodded, looking as if he pitied you. "You're not very good at hiding your emotions. Your face speaks volumes."

Double bollocks. "Then you must've known how I felt for ages."

"Suspected. Thought it was wishful thinking."

There were a whole array of words to express how stupid he was. You refrained from using all of them and stayed silent.

Unlucky for you, Simon could read it on your face. "I can tell you're itching to insult me."

"But I'm not going to." You shook your head, readjusting on the pillow beneath you. "All I'll say is... you're so pretty, Simon."

"Oh, bugger off." He moved to push away from you completely.

But you had other plans as you tightened your hold around his back. "Never!"

***

He landed on top of you with a groan and a mumbled apology. It was fine. You were trained to drag about three fully grown men out of a burning if you had to. He felt like nothing on top of you despite being six foot four and muscly as hell. It was rather nice actually, feeling all of him pressed up against you. And yes, that meant all of him.

Skin heating up at that, you hoped he didn't notice how you were suddenly burning as he lifted himself back onto his elbows and looked down at you. Nothing was said on the matter, which you were glad about. What you were even more glad about was him mumbling something about wanting more orgasms out of you and then proceeding to lower himself down your body, trailing tender kisses across your skin as he went.

When he got far enough down, Simon situated himself between your legs. It seemed to be his favourite place in recent times. Secretly, he'd admit it was. You didn't protest when he placed a large hand on either thigh and opened you up for him again, just let him do what he wanted. And he seemed very happy to spend his time pleasuring you and making sure you felt good even though he appeared to care very little about himself.

So, that's how you spent god knows how long. You writhing underneath his firm grip and him spending a countless amount of time between your legs as he drew out orgasm after orgasm. Even when you became sensitive and the overstimulation was getting to be too much, he just cooed and encouraged you further.

"Come on, Sarge. I know you can do one more for me. Just one more." He comforted you, fingers of one hand stroking the soft flesh of your inner thigh and the fingers of the other hand inside you. "Good girl. Come on."

Maybe he wasn't the only one with a thing for praise.

And after what seemed like hours of pure delight for you, he was finally satisfied with what he'd done and tentatively returned to his space next to you in bed.

He fell asleep quickly after that, you wrapped in his arms, with a relaxed expression on his face. And when you finally joined him in his state of unconsciousness after watching him breathe deeply for a while, you dreamt only of him. His face, his touch, his eyes roaming your mind. It was peaceful. And you were happy.

When you awoke to Simon placing lazy kisses along your shoulder you thought maybe you'd died and gone to heaven. The only reminder that this was still reality was the soreness between your legs and the dull ache you still had for him, craving him.

He was behind you, spooning you, and you could feel he was already hard against your back. "Good morning, Sarge."

Morning voice. Husky. Deep. Delectable. You could drown in it.

"Good morning." You returned, pressing back against him and loving the hiss he let out.

And before you knew it, your head was angled awkwardly to look over your shoulder so you could kiss him and he was sliding into you. Finally. You gasped into his mouth when he did, immediately urging him to move. His hands gripped your hips tightly, using you to help the friction.

You rocked against each other, the position not being one of your favourites as you couldn't see his face or reactions properly, but he made up for it with the sounds he was letting out right next to your ear. And it was intimate, you were still practically cuddling.

"Fuck, Sarge." He groaned into your shoulder, biting down slightly to muffle himself.

That only set you off further, grinding yourself back harder against him. You could do this forever, never wanted him to stop. No, you needed him to never stop. This was perfect. The two of you alone forever in your bed, not a care in the world. Just rounds and rounds of sex and the occasional conversation here and there.

You were caught off guard by his hand snaking around to your front and his fingers suddenly circling your clit.

You gasped and bucked against his hand. "Simo-" His name was cut off by another choked sound leaving your mouth. "Don't stop, please don't stop."

It didn't need to be said, the promise of not stopping was silent. But he gave you verbal confirmation anyway. "Never, Sarge. Come on. Come for me. That's it, good girl.”

The climax was approaching rapidly and he knew that from the way you were beginning to spasm around him, his own also crawling up on him. But you were priority.

So he held off until you were spent, head thrown back against him and eyes screwed shut as you let out breathless pants in a mixture of soft sounds.

He didn't stop, just quickened his pace as he hips began to falter. "Where, Sarge?"

You knew what he meant. "In me. Please, in me."

So he did. His warmth filled you up as he came inside you, immediately relaxing behind you with more kisses scattered along the skin of your shoulder.

After he pulled out of you, it took a few moments before you managed to catch your breath again. God, you'd never get enough of this.

***

There was suddenly heavy breathing behind you. Simon had fallen asleep again. Typical man.

With the remnants of him dripping out of you, you rushed off to the toilet to clean up and get partially ready for the day - you brushed your teeth and put on some clean clothes. When you were done, you returned to your bedroom to find him still fast asleep. You could leave him for a while longer. He always looked tired.

You trotted to the kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea, getting out a second mug and teabag for Simon when he finally woke up for good.

With your cup of tea in one hand and your phone in the other as you checked all your messages from friends wishing you a happy new year, you leant against the counter and failed to notice a certain someone waking up in your room some time later.

Simon awoke to a cold bed, his arm stretching out to find you only for you not to be there. He felt disappointed for a moment before remembering the events of earlier in the morning. Shit, had he really fallen back to sleep instantly?

A sense of embarrassment flooding through him, he sat up quickly and looked around. His clothes were tossed to various places around the room, as were yours. You really hadn't bothered to clean up. He liked that for some reason.

He had nothing else with him so just pulled his t-shirt and boxer briefs back on from the day before, hoping they weren't too crinkled. But he doubted you'd care if they were.

Then, before leaving your bedroom, he thought of you. And what had finally happened between the two of you. Even though he probably should've, he didn't regret it one bit.

Simon Riley had been torturing himself for weeks over you. The feelings had started growing as soon as you smiled at him in the goddamn cheese aisle, before you even knew who he was. And whilst they hadn't solidified until a little more down the line, he knew he wouldn't be able to let you go after that. And when you actually seemed to like him - him, not Ghost, not Lieutenant Riley, just Simon - he knew he was inevitably screwed.

It didn't help that you looked at him so adoringly, never a glimpse of hostility in your sparkling eyes, with an ever permanent smile on your lips. It's like you were daring him to try not being head over heels for you. And he'd hate himself for breaking every rule ever laid out to him by Price and other higher ups if you didn't make him feel so good, so warm inside.

And that's exactly what he felt as he walked in on you in your kitchen, humming to yourself as you rifled through your fridge for something to eat. The usual tingling sensation you set off in him was in full power as you turned to him, smiling spreading at the sight of him and eyes twinkling. It didn't help that you looked flushed and glowing with your slightly messed up hair and shaky legs. Freshly fucked, he'd describe it as. And he was the cause.

He approached you without a moment of hesitation, cupped your face in his hands and kissed you. "Good morning, Sarge."

You smiled against his mouth. "Second good morning, actually. We already did this once."

"Mhm, and what an amazing first good morning it was." He hummed against you, kissing you again. And again. And again.

Reluctantly you broke away, not fully out of his grasp though. "Do you want tea?"

"I'd love tea." He replied, still not letting you go.

"Simon, I need my body to make you tea." You chortled.

"And I need your body for other things." He whispered into your ear.

"Cheeky." You scoffed and pushed him away. "I will make you tea. Go sit down."

He agreed only after planting another lingering kiss on you and left for the living room. This was surreal to him. He was with someone he liked. Who liked him back. And you were... happy together. There was no underlying venom or bitterness fuelling the feelings, specifically the lust, between you. This kind of thing didn't happen for Simon Riley. Maybe he was dreaming. Maybe he'd wake up in some cold safe house a million miles away from here only to find out this was some sick fantasy his mind conjured to play cruel tricks on him. But you were so warm and so good, so everything Simon didn't deserve. Which is why he'd selfishly keep you for as long as he could.

And when you emerged out of the kitchen, precariously balancing two cups of tea, with a look towards him full of adoration, he knew he was so screwed that it was almost funny. Simon decided then that if you thought about him half as often as he thought about you, with just a pinch of the infatuation he felt for you, that he was a very lucky man.

"I haven't got much for breakfast, I'm afraid. Probably got a box of Cheerios or something in a cupboard. Or we could go out to eat. If you'd like." You suggested, stood in front of him with your hands twisting together in embarrassment. You weren't used to hosting company in the mornings and having him here was so strange after him leaving before daybreak all the previous times he'd slept on your sofa. This was different though. This time he'd slept in your bed.

Simon stared up at you, intensity gone from his gaze to leave only affection. "I don't care." He really didn't.

He didn't need some fancy breakfast cooked up for him. He didn't need the probably stale cereal you offered. He didn't need anything aside from one thing.

All he needed, for now, was you.

A/N: I’ll let them be happy… for now. Please don’t comment on the smut if it’s bad. And full disclosure: Sarge and Soap were listening to Baby Got Back.

Thanks to @ramadiiiisme for consulting with me on the smut 🙏🥰

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