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halcyone-of-the-sea · 11 months

Note

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

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

Moths Hit the Window

PAIRING: König x F!Reader

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

WORD COUNT: 5.9k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Great!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes slightly widen, watching the Austrian.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Too far.

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

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

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

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

Shame that it’s already too late.

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

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

“I…I didn’t…oh, du blöde Kuh!”

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

—

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

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

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

Evolve, or die.

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

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

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

“Three minutes.”

“...get to it then. We move in five.”

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

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

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

The Lieutenant is one of them.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Closer now.

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

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

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

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

Your finger slams into the trigger.

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You are late.” König.

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

Anyone but you, that is.

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

You watch and say nothing—dead-faced.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry.” The fight leaves you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The needle pauses and a swift nod is given.

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

“Pissed off?” You offer quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He freezes, muscles going taunt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

König kneeled to you and bared himself.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were reckless.

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

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

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

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

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

Your body shivers at the gravel in his accented English.

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

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

You find none.

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

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

He speaks with a whispered confession.

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

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

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

For you to come back to him. His partner.

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

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

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

This time, you’re the one to gasp.

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

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ageofevermore · 1 year

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i have two series in the works, would you prefer them posted as oc insert or reader insert?

#writing discourse #the maximoff trails #crossfire #kyr.txt

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deltaharrington · 9 months

Text

LOOK AT ME PT.2

PAIRING: Read and find out who Y/n ends up with…

SUMMARY: You were always the second choice.

WARNINGS: Heart crushing angst with a bit of fluff. UNEDITED

READ PART 1 HERE

READ PART 3 HERE

SEND IDEAS FOR PT. 3 TO MY INBOX!!

It all happened so fast.

One moment, you were crying over Conrad, and how he had mistreated you. The next, Susannah was dead.

You felt like your heart had been torn out and stomped on. Conrad didn’t make it any better, neither did Belly.

You hadn’t had the chance to talk to Conrad after what happened, as it came out that Susannah was sick.

Then everyone went home. Jeremiah was hurting in the same ways as you were, so you comforted each other. He drove out to see you and vice versa.

You were beginning to feel a spark with the younger Fisher, you were finally happy.

Until you heard the news.

The phone call came from Jeremiah in the middle of the night.

“Y/n…” He said once you answered with a tired ‘Hello?’. You know from his tone of voice what has happened.

You swore you’ve never sprung up out of your bed so fast. You started packing an overnight bag. You were going to Boston.

“I’m on my way, Jere, stay on the phone with me” You said and Jeremiah sobbed on the other end, not being able to tell you no when he needed the shoulder to cry on.

After a rough 3 hour drive, you were at the Fisher household. Jeremiah had fallen asleep on the phone with you, but luckily you knew where the sore key was.

Popping the door open, you knew their father wasn’t home, neither was Conrad. He was at Brown. Jeremiah was all alone, and your heart hurt at the thought.

His door was cracked once you approached. “Jere?” You whispered and he took a breath in, stretching his arms before he opened his eyes, confused.

“I’m here” You said as you approached his bed. Jeremiah reached for you.

“She’s gone” He whispered, his lips quivering as he tried not to cry. The sight broke your heart.

“Oh Jeremiah” You said before getting into bed with him, hugging him close. You ran your fingers through his hair as he cried, his tears staining your shirt.

“I’m so sorry Jere” You whispered as you began to cry as well, the reality of her death hitting you like bricks.

The next morning, you woke up in Jeremiah’s bed alone. Your heart sank.

“Jeremiah?” You called out, stumbling out of bed and down the stairs, only to find him at the stove in the kitchen.

“Woah, slow down” Jeremiah said, placing his spatula down before he approached you to help you become steady.

“Wanted to make breakfast, to take my mind off of…” He trailed off and you nodded, knowing what he meant.

“Thank you, want me to do the rest?” You asked and he shook his head.

You ended up hopping up onto the counter, watching him make breakfast.

“Thank you for coming last night, you didn’t have to” He said, scooping pancakes onto a plate before he put everything into the sink, shutting the burners off.

He approached you, standing between your legs. He gave you a half smile. At that, you brought your hands up to run your fingers through his hair.

“I’ll always be here for you, Jeremiah” You said “I’m one call away, always.”

The funeral was an utter disaster for you. You arrived and sat behind Jere, your hand on his shoulder for most of the service.

When Belly and Conrad fought afterwards, you excused yourself. Their relationship seemed messy, and you didn’t want to be caught in the crossfire.

You couldn’t even look at Conrad to tell him you were sorry for his loss.

Jere found you outside, the cold air causing you to clutch your figure.

“Y/n, here” He said and placed his suit jacket over you. You silently thanked him and he wrapped an arm around you.

“How are you?” He asked and you shook your head, i’m disbelief. He hadn’t hesitated to think of you before himself.

“Jeremiah” You said and he looked up, scared he had said something wrong. You didn’t speak, you pulled him in for a hug.

“How are you?” You asked and he pulled back enough to look at you.

“I’m better” He said and you could tell he was being truthful.

The next call came in the middle of the night as well.

Jere was frantic. He had been pissed at his broker for so long for what he did to you, and what he did to Belly, but he still cared. That’s who he was.

“I can’t find Conrad, I-I’m going to Brown tomorrow, will you please come with me?” He asked, his tone sounding desperate.

“Of course, I’ll be there in the morning and we can drive together” You said.

“Will you come tonight?”

And so you did. You hadn’t quite realized it yet, but you were in love with Jeremiah.

He cared about you like no one ever had. Not even Conrad. You hadn’t thought about his brother for a very long time, and that was all because of Jeremiah. He showed you love. The kind of love you desired.

The drive to Jere’s was quiet, and when you got there, he was waiting to open the door. You immediately hugged him, taking in his scent.

“Hi” You said and gave him a sympathetic smile.

“Hi” He said and smiled back.

“Let’s watch a movie, that’ll take your mind off things” You said and he nodded his head, letting you lead the way to his room.

How had you gotten here?

The movie you decided to play was far out of your mind as you and Jeremiah stared at each other. You were snuggled up in his bed, like you had been many times before, but something about this time was different.

His eyes drifted towards your lips and you couldn’t help but feel butterflies in your stomach.

“Jere, should we be doing this?” You whispered and he nodded his head.

“Yes” He muttered before his left hand cupped your face near your neck, leaning in to close the distance. His lips encased yours as they moved in sync, your fingers tugging at his hair as he became more desperate.

He grunted softly as you two kissed, tongues dancing together. Your cheeks were flushed beyond any time they had been before. You had wanted this for a long time.

Jeremiah pulled back for a split second before kissing you again, his hand gripping your waist to pull you into his lap.

You didn’t intend to go any further, and neither did Jeremiah, he had tried to go slow with you, but the way you had showed up for him and been there for him had his head on a swivel.

When you two finally pulled away, Jeremiah ran his right thumb over your bottom lip, a smile appearing on his face. A genuine one. You hadn’t seen that in months.

No more words were exchanged, you two just bathed in each others presence for the rest of the night.

The next morning, Jeremiah was stressed. You decided it would be best not to discuss what happened the night before. You didn’t want him to have more to worry about.

“You ready?” You asked him. He looked up and gave you a small smile before nodding and grabbing the keys.

The drive to Brown was frustrating to say the least. Jeremiah tried to call anyone he could that would know where Conrad was.

“Fuck!” He yelled when not a single person knew anything. You reached over and grabbed his fallen phone in silence, not wanting to irritate him further.

Arriving at Brown, Jeremiah practically jumped out of the car, leaving you behind to go to his brothers dorm. “Jere! Wait!” You called.

That’s when you saw her.

Belly.

“Wha-?” You questioned before stopping dead in your tracks. Did Jeremiah know she was coming?

You followed the two to his dorm room in silence, Belly seeming frantic. You didn’t like it. Not one bit.

She was so calm. She was part of the reason that your heart was broken the way it was. She hadn’t even apologized.

You shook your thoughts away as you snooped around Conrad’s dorm room. You found the necklace he had given Belly and your heart cracked a bit. He hadn’t ever gotten you anything like that.

It still hurt. You’d probably be scarred for life from the level of hurt you felt when you had lost him.

“We’re going to Cousins, Y/n” Jeremiah said, snapping you out of your daze “Come on” He added and grabbed your hand, leading you out of the room.

To Cousins you go.

I LOVE CLIFFHANGERS

Tags: @cumslutforaemond @nctma15 @iloveneilperry @angelbabyyy99 @onlyangel-444

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lottiecrabie · 5 months

Text

anatomy – matty healy

matty is supposed to tutor you in biology, but there’s another subject you’re much more interested in…

or tutor!au <3

tags: 18+, oral sex, unprotected sex, dry humping, dom/sub undertones, choking, cumplay, virgin!matty, freaky little loser guy

6802 words

You sit on top of the sheets of your bed, ankles crossed. You pop your bubblegum, flipping boredly through your Cosmo. Lipsticks, perfectly preened women, and the top ten sex tips flip in front of your eyes. You halt at the horoscope, indulgently checking yours. You’re not superstitious: it’s just that anything is better than this godforsaken lesson.

“And, you see, the specific shape of the active site of an enzyme enables it to function,” Matty drawls on, unfaltered by your clear disinterest. Maybe he doesn’t see; his nose is pulled tightly in his book. “It’s— It’s really a simple understanding of 'lock and key'. You can think of enzyme activity as molecular collisions resulting in the formation of enzyme-substrate complexes.” All the terms blur together in your mind. In one ear, transformed and decorated by the pretty pink things on your page, then out the other.

You almost feel bad for Matty, pushed into your room by your parents with pleading, desperate eyes to make you learn something. He sits at your desk while you distract yourself with whatever is more interesting which, as it so happens, is almost everything. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t say much to you other than hey and a string of jargon you don’t care to understand. It’s not like your bitchy, unimpressed stare is very welcoming.

Matty has this nervous, twitchy energy about him. He stutters through half of his sentences, pushing his glasses up his nose, searching for the fixed point in his book he lost. He swallows thickly, starts again. An awkward, limby thing.

Really, it’s a shame he wears all those nerdy shirts and drowning clothes, as well as those horrendous thick, square glasses. If you assess him objectively enough, he could be quite pretty. He’s lean, with a cutting jaw, and adorable curly hair. Girls would look away a flutter of red flags if it meant birthing kids with those traits.

You sigh, pushing the Cosmo off your bed, rolling to your belly. You rest your chin on your crossed arms, eyeing Matty. He gives you a look at the shifting noise, rounding his eyes as they fall on the stripe of skin your loose lounging shorts have revealed in the crossfire. It’s barely a few centimeters of your asscheeks, but Matty blushes all the same, flipping back to his book as though burned. You smirk. Interesting.

“Matty,” you trail lightly, the cadence of a song.

You found your bright new, shining distraction. Your smile is vicious and dangerous, ready to bite, to gnaw to the bone.

Matty looks up at you, incertain. You rarely address him during your tutoring lessons. You’re not even sure you’ve said his name before, at least not to him. “I’m bored with biology,” you declare, artfully pouty and dejected.

“Oh,” he says. He swallows thickly. Flips through his book. His nervous tics make him all the more tantalizing to you. Some cruel need to toughen him up. “Um—”

You lick your teeth, grinning. “I want to study anatomy.”

Matty laughs, pushing his glasses up his nose. “That’s not in the syllabus.” There’s something about his total misunderstanding of your line that makes the need frizzle inside of you. An innocent little thing, to pick and devour through.

You sit up, resting your weight on your heels. Your knees part suggestively, the loose shorts riding up your thighs. Your crop top sits up your ribs. Belly button piercing winks at him. Matty takes in the sight, face pale. You grin, victorious.

“I didn’t mean that anatomy,” you say, teasing. You rest a hand loosely on your leg, purposefully dragging his stare down to it. Your pink nails flash against your skin.

“Oh.” He swallows thickly, hypnotized by the soft flesh of your thighs. “I—” He shakes his head, as if to draw himself out of the daydream. “I, um—” He repeats, then laughs, “What?”

You sigh, kneeling up and getting off the bed. Your bare feet wiggle in the fuzzy, pink carpet. You prowl to him, predator-like. His breath hitches in his throat, right where you want it.

“Matty,” you sing, and he chokes at the sound. Just his name drives him wild— good to know. You get close enough to lean on the desk, to tower over him. He blinks up at you, robbed of speech. You flutter your eyelashes at him. “Are you a virgin?”

His lips part in surprise, but he doesn’t answer. Not that he needs to; the fucking sight of him is enough to know. It’s about the fun of watching him stumble, stutter, push his little glasses up his nose, telltale signs you revel in.

You sit on the desk, bunching his careful notes. You trail two fingers up his shoulder, that awful cheap plaid. You almost resent the feel of it on your skin, if not for the way he shivers.

You pout mockingly at him, stopping where the collar of his shirt meets the skin of his neck. “Are you gonna answer me?”

“Yeah— yes.” You run your fingertips on his neck, a grazing touch that has him staring up at you in devotion. You smirk.

“Have you ever been touched like this?” You run your thumb to the other side of his neck, a strong path. You want him to feel it, until your hand stretches over his throat, possessive.

He swallows under your palm, Adam’s apple bobbing on your fortune-telling palm lines. “No,” he admits quietly. You feel it resonate more than you hear it.

You hum, silently thrilled. “And have you ever been kissed?” You whisper.

Matty stares up at you. He waits a second, two— takes his time. “No.” You smirk. You pick your gum between two fingers, pressing it into the corner of his notes. Perfect.

It’s a little awkward, of course, because you’re perched on the desk and he’s sitting all the way down on his chair, gripping its arms. But, still, you bend down and kiss him square on the mouth.

He gasps against you, freezing there. You’re undeterred; you kiss and kiss him, smearing your strawberry lipgloss, until he snaps into action and kisses you back. It’s a rhythmless, artless thing.

He doesn’t know how to kiss.

What he lacks in technique, he makes up in eagerness, opening his mouth and licking a wet tongue into yours. You giggle a little, taste the Sour Patch kids he nervously ate from his bag between two scientific words you purposefully didn’t remember. You press at his throat, just so he’s as breathless as you are. He moans against your lips, panting.

Matty doesn’t dare touch. His body is fixed to the desk chair, letting himself be kissed, taking only what you are willing to offer. He sits there like you are breathing life into his mouth, eating and eating and never asking for more. It’s what makes you want to give him more.

You pull away from him, straightening like a queen taking her throne. Under you, the pages wrinkle and ruffle, and he doesn’t even care. His lips are swollen and pink, shiny from the lipgloss. Breaths puff out from there, pulling attention.

“You’re kinda pretty,” you admit lowly, like a secret he should know.

“Thanks,” Matty flushes.

You release his throat, wiping your pink gloss off his lips. They part instinctively. You smile, slipping your thumb inside. He sucks the strawberry, warm tongue on your fingerprint. Power loosens your head.

“Do you want me?” You ask, as though his mouth drooling around your thumb wasn’t indication enough. You want the words; you want the worship.

“Yeth,” he says, choking on your finger. You smile, taking it out and drying it on his cheek.

You don’t make a big show of taking your shirt off. Your hands are at the hem of your baby tee, then it’s off your shoulders, thrown on the pink carpet. Matty whines, surprised and overwhelmed, throwing a furtive glance at the cracked door of your bedroom.

“It’s okay,” you whisper, taking his hand. Soft and weak; he hasn’t worked a day in his life. It’s slack between your fingers. He lets you puppeteer it to your breasts, lets you grope yourself with him as an instrument.

He makes another small noise from the back of his throat, staring at the fucking sight like he can’t quite believe it truly is his own hand. “God,” he mutters to himself, and it’s exactly how you feel.

“Say thank you,” you taunt him, because you know he will.

Like clockwork, Matty revels, “Thank you.” Growing bold, he rubs a thumb over your hard nipple, a tough callus you didn’t expect on the tip of it. It makes you moan; a crack in your spotless armor, but he doesn’t even notice. Too preoccupied with playing with your tits, pawing at it greedily.

“Can I—” He flushes, shaking his head.

“What?”

“Can I lick them?” A drop of heat strikes through you. You clench your thighs, arching your back into his readied palm.

“Yes.” He leans in before you’ve finished the s, sucking your abandoned nipple into his mouth. He licks and rubs and pinches, raw skill pulling at your sensitive skin. You bite back groans, breathing harshly. Your chest rises and falls into his mouth, but he’s just as diligent.

You rake a long-nailed hand into his hair, scratching his scalp with every particularly delicious lick. He moans at that, vibrating on your sensitive nipples.

He sticks his tongue out, panting like a dog, dipping down to the valley of your tits and pressing a kiss, then climbing up a new breast. He bites gently, and you jump, surprised by his boldness.

“Sorry,” he whispers. You don’t like this little switch-up in power. He’s supposed to be purring for you, enthrallment shining in his eyes. You tug on his hair, making him look at you.

Matty stares up, dutiful. He doesn’t care about the power game; hasn’t even realized you were slipping. He takes what you give.

You soothe away the sting of his hair. “Pretty boy,” you coo. Matty beams at that. “I want to hear you scream.”

With this, you jump off the desk, and kneel under it.

“Oh,” Matty says, eyes wide as he watches you fumble with his pants. You unbutton and unzip, fast and knowledgeable, dipping into his boxers— “Wait.”

You look up at him, inches from your goal. You cock your head, frowning. “What?”

“Just—” He pants, staring at you. “Just give me a second.”

You hum, grazing a finger on the faint happy trail of his stomach. His belly sucks in. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” he says. “Yes. I don’t know.” He laughs. His hands still grip the armrests, white-knuckled. “Why are you doing this?”

You shrug. “I want to.” You tip your head, kissing his soft hand. “Do you want me to?”

“Well, yeah.”

You grin. “Relax.” Finally, your hand slips under his underwear, and you wrap around his hard length. He gasps, cold fingers against hot skin, fingers against him.

His hips jump into your fist as you draw him out. Another nervous glance to the door, still half-opened. Your parents are somewhere in the house, pretending not to exist. You lick your lips.

You lightly scratch your pink nails against him. You run a thumb on his tip, smearing precum. He hisses, turning into a moan as you slowly drag your hand down. He’s frozen and tense, almost afraid of moving, as if that would make you go away.

“Teach me,” you say.

He blinks at you, dazed. “Huh?”

Your eyes vaguely look up to the desk you hide under, biology notes in his scratchy writing laying wrinkled. “Biology. My parents are paying you for a reason, aren’t they?”

“Oh—” He flushes, embarrassed. Pushes his glasses up. “Right, right.” His hands let go of the armrests, searching through the pages. You choose this moment to kiss the tip of his cock. He whimpers, shutting his eyes in pleasure. “Fuck.” You giggle, all too happy.

He struggles to find where you disturbed him, biting his lip in comical concentration. You tease him, enjoying all the little breaths he chokes on, the soft sounds he tries to hide. Your hand pumps up and down, twisting at the wrist.

You wonder how often he’s done this on himself, who he imagined between his legs.

From now, it’ll be you. You’ll make sure of it.

“Um, right, so,” Matty starts, out of breath. “In some reactions,” he continues arduously, “one substrate is broken down into multiple products. And—” Devilishly, you lick a stripe up his length. He groans, twitching on your tongue. “Shit,” he mutters. It’s funny coming from him; the swear rings wrong, like a costume.

He drags his stare down, pulling away from his notes to watch you. You indulge him, parting your lips and wrapping them around his tip. You suck on it gently. His face wrinkles, a moan breaking from him. You pull your head down, swallowing him. He clutches at his papers, scrunching them himself.

“Oh, God,” Matty says, trying to catch his breath as you bob your head. “I’m— Shit.”

You let go of him with a wet pop, stroking him quickly. “Shh,” you tease him. “My parents.” Again, he throws a nervous look towards the door.

Saliva and lipgloss and precum already lube him, but you keep your hand at his base as you spit on his cock. You drag it down his length. Matty’s eyes snap towards you. “Do that again.” He wants to see you.

You smirk, tilting your head to leave wet kisses up his cock, then lick his tip. You spit on it, and a low groan resonates from him. His hips rise up into your hand, but you push them down with your claws.

“Fuck,” he whimpers from the back of his throat, melting on the chair. He likes it messy. You grin, peppering little kisses over his cock, smearing him in strawberry lipgloss.

“What’s the other thing?”

“Huh?” He blinks, tying himself back to reality. “Right, um, substrates. It’s—” Again, you choose this moment to push him down your throat. He loses speech, mumbling incoherent syllables, some broken version of your name.

Though your head bobs quickly, pulling further and further down his length, twisting a stroking hand all the same, you pinch your nails at his hip. He jumps, struck out of the daze of pleasure, blinking down at you.

“Yeah, it’s— The other reactions are—” You let go of his hip, pinching your own nipple instead. Matty whines, losing his train of thought. “You’re not being fair.”

You laugh, spitting him out to catch your breath. You grope yourself and he watches, not sure which hand to focus on. His cheeks are tinted red, maybe from effort, or adrenaline, or shyness. It’s cute enough to bite.

Wonder shines in his eyes. He can’t believe this is happening; he’s eternally grateful, as he should be. As they all should have been, those faceless men you’ve blown in the bathrooms of parties for attention and a momentary stop to complete boredom. They stayed quiet, almost afraid to make noise, to show they enjoyed it, until they shook and spilled inside your mouth. Matty’s not afraid to moan.

Your brain rushes, sticky happy. You pant on his cock, trailing a finger down your stomach, then dipping in your shorts. Matty’s eyes widen, straightening to catch a glimpse. You smile, catching a pool of your arousal.

You come back up, fingers sticky and wet with your slick, and smear it on his cock. Matty scrunches his face, whimpering, shaking under your hands.

“You’re trying to kill me.”

“Only because it’s easy,” you mock, jerking and twisting your two hands in rhythm, wet sounds ringing in the room.

You free his cock, gripping the armrests of the chair instead. You wrap your mouth around it, and bend down until your nose touches the faint smatterings of dark hair on his belly. You gag on him, and he strangles the edge of the desk trying to kill his moans.

You pump him in your mouth quickly, feeling him twitch and rise to meet you. He remembers himself, falling down on the chair dutifully, not even burying a needy hand in your hair, as though afraid that would be asking for too much.

You drag up, making him hit the inside of your cheek, before releasing him. You spit the precum on him, blinking up through teary eyes. He doesn’t have any words, red swollen lip bitten raw.

“I taste great,” you say, and then offer up your still-wet fingers to him. He’s eager, sucking them into his mouth. He bobs, imitating you, and the sight and feel makes hot desire drip inside of you.

You want to squeeze him until he pops.

You take his hand, pulling it into your hair. He grips instinctively, pushing it out of your face. “Don’t push,” you warn, serious. He nods frantically, and you trust him to mean it.

You take him into your mouth for what you know is the final time. You’re certain he won’t last long, droopy and moaning and twitching, hissing every time your tongue runs on him. You bob with skill and precision still. He tugs at your hair, both hands in now, trembling in the mess of it. He never pushes, or fucks his hips up; trusts you to undo him yourself.

He swears and curses and whimpers, head falling down and back, vacillating between the sky and your red, puffy face. The sink is heard from faraway, but you don’t think he can even hear it.

“I'm dreaming,” he whispers to himself, sounding wild. “I’m gonna wake up. I’m gonna be— I’m gonna—” Matty cries, slapping a hand over his mouth, and comes down your throat. He shakes, loud moans hidden in his palm, eyes shut and forehead wrinkled.

He lets go of your hair with a fucked-out sigh, panting. His eyes never leave you, disbelief written all over it. You pull him out of your throat, and smile at him.

You’re about to swallow when he touches your arm, unsure of where he’s allowed to now. “Wait, can you—” He grows embarrassed, blushing. “Can you open your mouth?”

You part your lips, showing off his white cum still sitting on your tongue. He whimpers at the sight, fingers digging into your arm. His breathing turns irregular, cheeks reddening, eyes darkening. He’s so strange.

Still, you stick your tongue out, putting his load in evidence, making a spectacle of it. He looks tortured, enthralled.

You stay long enough that you feel it run down, long white rope hanging from your tongue, then dropping on your breast.

“Fuck,” Matty whispers to himself. Seemingly without thinking, he runs his thumb on your breast, catching his cum and sucking it between his lips.

You smile, slurping the cum back into your mouth, and swallowing it. You flash your red tongue at him. “All clean.”

“Thank you,” Matty says. “I— I’m not sure why you did that, but— I, you know, appreciate it.” He’s so polite. You’d laugh if he wouldn’t snap back into that little head box of his.

“I’m very thankful for all those lessons,” you wink.

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not.” Matty’s finger rubs the skin of your arm, that strangely tough callus, and it has you leaning into his touch. “Though, this has been my favorite lesson.”

“God, I couldn’t even get a word out.”

“Hence why.”

Matty snorts and he offers you a hand. You grab it to manœuvre out from under the desk. You push your sweaty hair out of your face, then wipe the leftover stickiness from your breasts.

Matty, of course, follows the movement to your tits. He swallows. “Do you, um,” he pushes his glasses up. “Do you want, like, something back?”

You arch an eyebrow, incapable of holding a small giggle this time. “Do you know how?”

He stares into your eyes. “I could try.”

And, again, there’s just something about his eagerness, his willingness, his open devotion, that has you saying, “Yeah, I guess you could try.”

You tiptoe to your bedroom door, looking left and right into the hallway, before quietly shutting it. You turn around to a displeased Matty. “Oh, so you get to have it closed?”

“‘S more fun when you’re struggling,” you shrug, devilish. You run to the bed, falling on the pillows, fluttering your eyelashes at him. “Come here, pretty boy.” He practically trips out of his chair to find you. He’s three steps in when you stop him. “Take your clothes off.”

He grows shy under your gaze. Staying in place, fingers shaking, he starts to unbutton his plaid shirt. He kicks off his sneakers and his baggy jeans until he stands there in his boxers. He’s as scrawny as you imagined him to be. You smile.

Matty crosses his arms. “Can I see you, too?” He whispers.

You shimmy your shorts off your legs and throw it beyond the bed. Matty’s stare stutters on your pink thong, wet patch where your desire pooled.

You draw a hand towards him and he takes it, falling over you on the bed. He doesn’t waste time, giving you a sloppy kiss before mouthing at your neck, your collarbones, your tits. He laps at them first and you wonder if he’s trying to get the last lingering taste of his cum. He catches a nipple next and sucks it.

Gaspy moans leave your lips. You part your legs instinctively and he buries between them, already hardening. His cock hits your thigh and he sucks and pinches and plays until you start thinking he might really be able to try.

Your hands descend down his back, freckled under your nails. You grip his small waist, pushing at his hip, the hem of his boxers. Matty understands, leaving you long enough to kick them off. He pants in front of you, leaning back already, wet, swollen mouth parted.

Matty lays over you again and his hard cock presses into your need. You scratch your nails up his back and he jerks, bucking into you. A moan leaves both your mouths. He tries again, artless, just off your clit.

“Oh,” he whispers, mostly to himself. He does it again, building and building heat inside of you, yet never relieving.

You huff. You sneak a hand between your bodies, moving your thong aside until he slips under it.

Another boy would have taken the opportunity, would have buried inside before you even had time to nod, but Matty doesn’t even think of it.

He humps your wet cunt, tucked tight under your underwear, hem pressing his length. Matty moans every time, quickening, desperate. He tilts his hand to better see as his cock bulges the cloth, a wet patch forming where his precum stains.

“Fuck.”

And it’s better; he’s faster, and firmer, and mostly there. He follows your little puffs of shameful breaths, staying where they transform into slack moans. Pleasure starts waking up inside your belly, sickly warm.

But you’ve had boys hump at you before, had them bucking between your legs. You know it’s not what will get you off. You need your mind stimulated, to be so thoroughly hot and desperate you finally let yourself go.

You pinch the nape of his neck, making him look at you. A slack, messy smirk lays on your lips. You tease, “Have you ever thought of me during our tutoring sessions?”

Matty’s hips stutter. He looks away. “Like…”

“Yeah, like, on my knees.”

Matty blushes. “Well, yeah.”

You grin, too pleased. A deadly smile, hunting. “When?”

“I don’t know…” He mutters. You scowl to yourself, and maybe he senses that, because his chin grazes your shoulder and he admits shamefully, “When you ate that popsicle. And you licked and you slurped and you sucked and, just— I’m a guy. I had visions.”

“I had visions.” You imitate, mocking. You tsk, “You're such a nerd.” You roll your hips back against him and a whimper buries in the skin of your shoulder. “Was it how you imagined?”

“Better.” He nods fervently. “So much fucking better. I actually died, I think. Still unsure whether I’m dead or not.” Pride and power makes your head loose, makes pleasure ripple through your flesh.

You claw at his skin, warning dangerously, “Tell anyone and you will be.” All it does is make him moan, bucking faster against you. Your toes curl. You breathe in his ear, “Tell me more.”

“I, uh— Shit.” The tip of his cock burrows in your underwear as he slides, wet and slick from you. He shivers over you. “I’d think about— bending you over the desk.”

Your smile ghosts your face, grazing his soft, fresh cheek. “Really?”

“Just, you know, when you wouldn’t listen. And you’d pop that chewing gum, and you’d ignore me, and you’d be mean.”

You smirk, clicking your tongue. “So you wanted to, what, toughen me up? Take your revenge?”

His cheeks redden. “No.” His lips brush your shoulders, and he kisses, opposite. “I don’t know. I wanted you to pay attention.” He licks your neck. “I wanted to make you scream.” Mouths at your jaw. “I wanted to fuck you. Or for you to fuck me— I wanted you.”

You can’t believe you’re now the one blushing. You pant, glad he’s buried in your throat, that he can’t see. A moan slips from you as he nips gently at your skin. Your eyes roll in your skull.

“You like when I’m mean to you?” You tease meanly, out of breath. You scratch his back, burying your hand in his hair, and tugging until he looks you in the eyes. “Gets you all bothered?”

Matty shivers, whining, “Fuck, please—”

You push him onto his back, rolling over. Two hands press into his chest, and you might very well concave his ribcage. You stare him down, divine. “You wanted me to fuck you?”

His messy, unbrushed hair falls around his head like a halo. He’s sweet enough to make your head spin. He watches you openly behind the glass of his specs, breathing, “Yes.”

You trail your fingernails on his hard cock, down to his base. “And now?”

Devoting, “Yes.”

A rush of thrill fills you. You kneel up, shimmying your underwear off. Matty gasps at the sight, raking a hungry gaze up and down your body. He holds the sheets of your bed with white-knuckled fingers.

You waste no time, rocking your cunt against his tip once, twice, before slowly lowering yourself on him. You inhale at the stretch. Matty’s eyes shut, whining. “Look at me,” you order, and he listens.

His eyes flash open. He blinks at you as you bottom out. His head rolls, shaking. “Oh, fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.” You go to move up, but he holds your hip down. He takes deep breaths. “Can we— Just, this is—”

“It’s okay,” you whisper, taking his hand and placing it over the regular beating of your heart. He thumbs your nipple while he’s there, breathing in sync with your pulse. You slowly roll your hips on him.

Matty moans, gripping the flesh of your thigh. You let him adjust to the feel of it, rocking softly, dragging your clit on his pelvis. You bite your lip raw as pleasure blooms inside of you. Your thighs ache to go faster, harder, but you maintain the delicate pace for him. Just that has him shaking under you, and you once again grip his hand over your heart to ground him.

“Sorry,” he says with an embarrassed laugh. “Fuck,” is immediately added when you circle your hips, his eyes rolling. “Fuck, sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” you order. “What are the other reactions?” You say, attempting to drag him out of his anxiety-filled head. He frowns at you. “Of enzymes.”

His lips part. “I didn’t know you knew that term.”

You roll your eyes, then your hips, euphoria fizzling under your skin. “I listen to you.” His unconvinced look betrays him. “Sometimes.”

“They’re, um— Shit. They come together to create one— fuck, one larger molecule or—” You finally rock faster, angling your hips to have him bury inside you right where you need him. You moan, chest rising and falling quickly. Your legs grow desperate; you chase that sickly pleasure.

“Yeah?” You encourage him on, seeing his own pleasure resonate in his face. He bites his lip, pawing uselessly at your thigh. “Or?” You’re out of breath.

“Or swap pieces,” he finally finishes between two moans. Chuckles, “Actually, pretty much all biological reactions you can think of probably—” Your hips fall harsher on him and he loses his train of thought, overwhelmed. You smile, setting a wild pace, completely unfair.

“Probably what?” You say, teasing, “I’m always thinking about biological reactions.”

“Don’t tease,” he pouts, and you slow down your thrusts just to spite him. He whines, pressing his short fingernails into the skin of your thigh.

“Come on.” You make him look you in the eyes, mocking, “Educate me.”

“They all have enzymes,” Matty finally finishes. You reward him by reaching down and pinching his nipple. He whimpers, cursing your name. “Why have you suddenly decided to be a good student?”

“‘Cause you’re adorable when you’re struggling to find words,” you answer honestly. You hold your weight up on the hand pressed into his chest, angling your hips until your clit rubs and rubs his pelvis. Your eyes roll, fucking him quicker. “Fuck. I love when I can make you all stupid for me.” The power in changing up his DNA composition, making a smart boy incapable of remembering all the jargon you yourself don’t know, is addictive. Undoing him block by block until he’s putty in your hands. Matty just moans, not arguing.

Sweat pearls his forehead. The white sheets make him angelic. He breathes your name, fluttering his eyelashes at you. “Can I try on top?” Maybe it’s because he looks so reverent, so innocent, that you nod.

Matty doesn’t push you and roll you over, instead staying there, as though waiting for it to just magically happen. You giggle to yourself, unmounting him and falling back on the mattress, legs parted. He swallows thickly, laying over you.

His glasses fall down his nose and you laugh, grabbing them and carefully placing them on your nightstand. He blinks, adjusting to the blurry sight.

His hand shakes as he grabs himself and lines up. He misses once, twice, until you rest a soothing hand on his and guide him. Matty moans in your hair as he slides in. He stays in your wet heat for a second, catching his breath, before he thrusts.

And it’s bad, of course. He doesn’t have any rhythm, bucking blindly inside of you. It’s a strange pace, irregular and powerless. He certainly can’t find any type of mindnumbing spot. Pleasure simmers lowly in your belly, heat turned off almost to nothing if it weren’t for the pretty moans that bury straight in your ear.

You grab his hip, making Matty look at you. “Start slow,” you instruct, guiding him. He follows the movements of your hand, rocking back and forth, slow but regular. “There,” you nod, arching your back. “Just, tilt—” He repositions himself, eager to learn, and you shudder. You call his name, syrupy with moans.

He’s a fast learner, following diligently the guidings of your gripping hand. He fucks into you slowly, but surely. Your toes curl. Pleasure wakes up again, coiling in your belly. “Like this?” He breathes. You nod, encouraging him on.

“It’s like I’m tutoring you,” you remark, chuckling to yourself. Matty snorts. “I like being the smart one for once.”

Matty frowns. “You’re always smart.” He says it without thinking, because he means it. Something wet chokes your throat, tugs at your lips. “You just don’t listen.”

“Would you like me to?” You say, tone taunting. A self-destroying instinct, telling you to hurt, to ruin. “Make me your little pet? Be all obedient? Have me sucking your cock while you tell me all about biology?”

His eyebrows furrow. “Do you want me to do that?” All your bullets don’t land. He’s unconcerned on what he wants. You huff.

Instead of reckoning, you order, “Faster, now.” Matty nods against your cheek. He obeys, thrusting quicker. You let go of his hip, climbing up his back just to rake your nails down it. His hips snap faster, harsher, endeavored. You grin, licking his jaw, kissing the bone.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, catching your lips and kissing you. You wrap your arms around his neck, trapping him there as he ruts between your legs. You swallow all the sounds he makes, kill the swears you think of saying. Euphoria washes you.

He leaves your lips just to smack wet kisses over your face, again and again. On your forehead, your cheeks, your eyelids, your chin. He mouths down your throat, starts sucking and nipping at the side. You bury a hand into his hair, pushing him further down. “Not the neck,” you explain, breathy.

Matty finds the side of your tits and he buries there, sucking at your skin. You arch into his mouth, pleasure rushing up your side at the pinpricks of pain. He moans against you, bucking faster. Your mind spins and spins. “Matty.” Again, he speeds up, harsh and wild. “Fucking hell, Matty.”

You tug at his hair and he releases you, lips wet and swollen. He pants over you, eyes dazed with pleasure. A new wave of heat strikes you just from the sight of him, unmade and wild. You sneak a hand between your bodies. You find your clit easily, rubbing.

Matty’s head drops to watch you. He whines, seeing where he disappears inside of you, over and over, where your pink nails swipe at you.

He leans his weight on one arm, joining his own hand with yours. You’re surprised at the act, at the willingness of involving himself in the complicated business of your pleasure. Your fingers stop, resting up on your stomach.

He paws blindly at your cunt, just a little off where you need him. You grip his wrist, angling him at the right place, gently circling and swiping with his finger. The callus presses on your clit and it’s a delicious sensation. You roll your eyes, crying out, then slapping your palm over your mouth. Matty grins proudly, continuing to rub at you.

“This is good, right?” He whispers, pretty eyes all vulnerable on you.

You nod frantically. “Yes. It’s good.” You melt on the sheets, parting your legs further. “It’s really good.” His cheeks flush at the compliment. You wrap your hand around his throat, resting there with silent ownership. “Did you ever think it’d be me?”

Matty chokes on a laugh and a moan. “No. I never thought you’d ever even give me a look.”

You hum, pleased with the answer. He realizes it’s a privilege. You grin, pressing your fingers on the sides of his neck. His hips stutter, then snap even faster, a broken cry leaving him. His lips part in quiet ecstasy. His eyes shut, rapid movement behind his eyelids.

You grin at him. “Say thank you, pretty boy.”

You release him, at least giving him a chance. He falls into your shoulder, taking deep inhales, shaking. “Thank you,” he says, mumbly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” You rake through his hair, soothing. “Aw, fuck, I’m gonna—” He twitches inside of you.

“Not inside!” You shout. Matty gasps, thrusting out of you. He cries as he comes on your navel and cunt. He catches his breath, blinking himself back to this reality, still shaking.

“Sorry,” he says, shortwinded. A pang of disappointment hits you. It’s not like you’ve ever come with someone else before, but it had felt really close this time.

At least Matty tried.

Matty watches his cum painted over your skin, catching your piercing, mixing with the slick of your cunt. He moans to himself, then bends down between your thighs.

You rest on your elbows, frowning. “What—” He licks a stripe over your cunt, tasting both your juices. Euphoria strikes through you. Your back hits the mattress as you fall back, legs shaking. “Matty.” He hums, faraway, licking and licking to clean you all up. You bury a hand in his hair, grounding him in place.

He finds your clit, rubbing it with the tip of his tongue, circling then sucking it. You jolt on the bed, biting back a scream. You frown to yourself, tugging on his hair, fire boiling inside your stomach. What the fuck.

He laps at you, moaning every time your nails scratch his scalp, the sound vibrating against you. A hand wraps around your thigh, keeping you open for him. He devours you eagerly, hungrily, until you’re a mess melting into his mouth.

“God, Matty,” you cry. You have to actually hold back another one with a slap of your hand, shocked at yourself as you scream into your palm.

Matty stops, breathing harshly, and you throw a glance down in question. He climbs up your stomach, lapping at your skin, cleaning the last of his cum. You whimper at the dirty sight, desire drumming down your limbs.

He throws you a hot look. Tongue out, full of white cum. He goes back between your legs and buries it in your cunt, fucking it in. You jump, cursing to the ceiling. Matty laughs, greedily tasting you.

You roll your hips into his face, hitting the tip of his nose on your clit. Every strike has ecstasy resonating in your bones. You feel light on your bones.

His lips wrap around your clit. He sucks, grazing a tongue, swiping and circling like you showed him. You recognize the same pattern, recognize the rhythm. Of course he’s a fast learner.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you chant, choked by your hand. You raise your hips into his mouth, silently begging. Your legs shake, desperate. Pressure pushes at your belly. Your eyes roll. “Don’t stop.”

He mumbles something in your cunt, probably a promise or a praise, dutifully not stopping. He laps and eats and fucks until your brain melts into your skull, dripping down your spine.

“Oh, fuck, I’m—” Your head shakes fervently. “Just stay— Shit, Matty, just— I—” The pressure snaps and you come on his readied tongue, screaming. Hot white flashes in your vision. Relief washes you, dipping to every crevices, relaxing you. He moans against your cunt.

Matty continues to lick you, mission-bound, until your lungs are on fire and you physically push him away. He smiles up at you, chin sticky and wet and red. He wipes it, kneeling.

“Where the fuck did you learn how to do that?” You say, shortwinded, shocked to your bones. You stare at him like he’s grown a second head.

It’s the first time someone other than your knowing hand made you come. And it’s fucking Matty Healy. You blink at him.

“What?” He laughs, falling beside you on the bed.

You gesture vaguely downwards. “That.”

“Oh,” he blushes. Shrugs. “I don’t know. I researched it once.”

“You— Oh, my God.” You stare at the ceiling in disbelief. “Oh, my God. You’re such a nerd.”

Matty grins, cheekily proud. He gently grazes the bruise he left on your breast, the splotch of red that will darken, be a leftover trace of him.

“Thanks,” he says simply.

“You’re welcome.” You shift your legs, feeling the wetness still between them. “Thanks to you too, I guess.” He grins, hiding in the white pillows.

He gives you a look. “Will you listen when I tutor you now?”

You smirk mischievously. “Maybe if you have my fingers in your mouth.”

“Oh,” Matty says, eyes wide. “Will you— Will this happen again?”

You make a noncommittal shrug, though a more definite answer hums in your heart. “Maybe if you’re really good.” You smile to yourself. “Or really boring, and I need to shut you up.”

“You can shut me up any day.”

“I know.” You linger in that moment for just a second more, eyes locked together, smiles tickling your lips. Then you sit up, reaching for your underwear. “Session’s almost done.”

Matty nods, lips thin. “Right.” He pats the nightstand for his glasses.

You dress yourselves, wiping away sweat and cum, brushing wild strands. You give an awkward goodbye, incertain, and Matty slips from the room. You don’t follow him to the door. You never do.

Downstairs, you hear your parents thank him and give him a crisp 50 dollar bill. You giggle to yourself and fall on the bed, bone-deep exhausted.

#happy Day after me show day<33 #tutor!au #matty healy x reader #matty healy smut #matty healy #matty healy fanfic #matty healy fic #matty healy imagine #the 1975 smut #the 1975 fic #smut #writing #imagine

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sasha-whos-askin-racket · 2 years

Note

Please update us if you find out what book it is

Assuming this is in reference to the LHO post, I absolutely will. If it means I have to re-borrow all of those books from the library once I move back to the city then I will. And when I find those pages I will share them on here. I literally had to stop and read it out to my flatmate because both of us were like "this is such a random hill for this author to die on."

I do feel the need to point out that it wasn't like, entirely random though, I'm pretty sure it was in the context of 1) Oswald's military days (I think specifically his time in Japan) and 2) a possible strengthening of the connection between Oswald and David Ferrie in relation to Oswald joining the military/a potential conspiracy.

#i think it's goodbye to america?#that or on the trail of the assassins #i know its not crossfire or minute by minute #and i dont think it was not in your lifetime #jfk assassination #lee harvey oswald #vince answers asks #vince got asked something folks

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rainystarters · 3 months

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⭒˚｡🖁‧₊˚ 〖 down these mean streets . . . 〗 a collection of scene prompts inspired by n͟e͟o͟-n͟o͟i͟r͟, v͟i͟o͟l͟e͟n͟c͟e͟, c͟o͟n͟t͟r͟o͟l͟, e͟t͟c͟. some prompts usfw. add +reversed for the receiving muse to be "the sender" instead. adjust details as necessary.

dead end. there's nowhere left to run; the sender has cornered you at last. anonymous. disguising your voice, you call the sender to threaten/warn them. loose ends. you thought you killed them! but there's the sender, walking your way. ashtray. your cigarette smokes as you extinguish it on the sender's skin. deck. you lick the sender's blood from your knuckles, still stinging from the punch. backstab. end of the road, pal—you reveal you're double-crossing the sender. blunt. hidden in the shadows, you press your gun to the sender's back.

heel. you stare at the sender from across the room and beckon them to you. fix. not looking like that—disapproving, you fix the sender's appearance. tilt. you take the sender's chin in your hand and make them meet your gaze. staccato. irritated, the sender drums their fingers against you beneath the table. listen. the sender disobeys and you swat their curious hand away. fasten. just something i picked up—you clasp a necklace/tie/etc. on the sender. quiet. you press a finger to the sender's lips and tell them to be patient.

vomit. you can't handle this; you vomit as the sender groans about leaving evidence. wink. don't worry—you wink as you assure the sender you have no morals to offend. up front. the sender's job is a doozy; you demand half the payment now or you walk. hush. talk is cheap but you sure aren't. you accept the hush money from the sender. crossfire. you realize the sender asking you to put out a hit is your next target. gulp. hard to argue with a bullet; you agree to the sender's demands. jugular. you hold your breath as the sender uses you to demonstrate how the murder weapon was used to strangle the victim.

patron. you know the sender is hired to keep you spending but you linger anyway. last call. the sender has one final cigarette in their pack; you take it without asking. loose lips. the sender pours you another glass as you finally confess. bills. it's on me—you pay for the sender's meal. cozy. there aren't enough seats open; you pull the sender onto your lap with a grin. coffee. you look like hell—you press a cup of coffee to the sender's hands. waiting. you duck into the bus stop to escape the rain, intruding on the sender.

gutter. the trail of blood ends and you find the sender broken on the ground. speak up. you press the knife in deeper as the sender swears they didn't betray you. plaster. it's not pretty but it'll do; you wince as the sender patches your wounds. empty. you laugh at the sender as you throw your gun aside, finally out of bullets. rat. the sender falls to their knees and agrees to tell you everything they know. smother. you clasp a hand over the sender's mouth to keep from being heard. cut our losses. the sender won't make it; you leave them to die.

voyeur. you know the sender's watching; you open the blinds so they can watch. slip of the tongue. the sender whispers another's name against your skin. sign here. the sender traces a finger over [your choice], asking you to leave a mark. desk. your most enticing assignment yet: the sender bent over your desk. handcuffs. the sender dangles the key, teasing, but you hope they take their time. window. you press the sender against the glass, watching the city watching them. harsh light. what's worse? the hangover or that you can't recall the sender's name.

#rp memes #rp prompts #action rp memes #rp starters #setting prompts

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madelynraemunson · 12 days

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CASUAL part 2

see part one here.

modern!incel!asshole! eddie x fem!reader

It’s 7 in the morning. Eddie is seen doom-pacing in the halls of Hawkins High.

a/n: i promised y’all part 2 so here ya go. let’s make him pay. 💋 also shout out to @love-anonymous-writer for bringing this universe to life. a little angst here and there is good for the soul <3

who got the last laugh?

[WC: 1.1k words]

“Please respond…please respond…please respond…”

The soles of Eddie’s shoes slam against the tiles of Hawkins High as he rushes to your locker. Meanwhile his entire soul has left his body.

You didn’t answer any of his phone calls. All the texts he sent you were left on read. Having been so accustomed to your instant replies, Eddie essentially catapulted himself into a full-blown panic last night when he saw the ominous text you sent him...and the nothingness from you that followed soon after.

The crickets of Forrest Hills that taunted his eardrums later that night served as a vengeful metaphor of the brick wall you built between you and him. The girl who once gave him everything has now started giving him nothing. You’re nowhere, but everywhere. It’s like you’ve become a ghost.

When he sees you, color drains from Eddie’s guilty face. You look so beautiful today, hair curled down to the small of your back, a nice simple dress and some slippers, with makeup ever so gracefully applied. A class act, even when plagued with the utmost disrespect.

“Hi," he says to you as he approaches.

“Hi.”

As far as Munson knows, he no longer exists to you. He's a shadow now, a carapace of a boy you used to love 'cuz now — after hearing what you heard in his trailer — you know he's not the same boy that made you feel all the butterflies. That boy is long gone. You even start to wonder if that version of Eddie even existed.

“C-can we talk, please?” he requests.

“What’s to talk about?” you challenge him, stoically. “Don’t wanna annoy you with my rambling.”

“You never annoy me…” he attempts as you mindlessly comb through your locker for your homeroom notebook.

“Mm.”

You were casual about it. Too casual about it.

“You… uh…” he clears his throat. “You made me cookies yesterday?”

“Yeah,” you shrug. “I was at your door for quite a while so you must’ve been busy. Cookies were taken care of though.”

“I see…” Eddie mutters as the pieces all start coming together.

He thinks about how he always leaves his windows cracked open. His uncle would whoop his ass if he hot-boxed the trailer again, so it became a habit. But the trailer park is small, and on certain afternoon, if someone from a nearby unit had dropped a pin, Eddie would hear it. Suddenly, fear arises in him.

Surely, you didn't hear everything he and The Boys™️ said. He had his headphones on and he couldn't have possibly been that loud, could he? Unless technology failed him again.

The warning bell sounds throughout the halls and you excuse yourself from the narrative. Eddie tags after you like a lost puppy, nearly tripping on his shoelaces along the way.

"W-wait!"

The first class of the morning is homeroom. A class you unfortunately shared with Eddie, Grant, and Harmony.

You didn't want to see any of their faces. Eddie's face would serve as a reminder of how fake and construed the fucker is. Grant's would remind you of how insignificant you were to the guys (despite how welcomed they made you feel at the start). And Harmony. Harmony's beautiful face — with a body far too developed for a girl in her grade to match — would only remind you of the fact that the girl didn't inherently do anything to you... other than be beautiful and get caught in the crossfire of horny, greasy teenage boys.

It’s a fucking mess.

You swallow hard and keep your chin up regardless. Because what other choice do you have? You either feign your confidence or let irrelevant boys crush it.

You continue strutting over to your seat as Eddie trails behind at a measurable distance. Along the way, you inevitably run into the Junior Queen of Hawkins High herself, Harmony Heathers.

Harmony issues you a sweet smile. You smile back at her in return. And you didn't even need to turn your back to know that Eddie most likely did a double-take when sliding past her.

The late bell rings, indicating the start of class.

“Okay,” your homeroom teacher Mrs. Helleck exhales as she clasps her hands together. “Good morning everybody. For Red Ribbon Week this week, we’re gonna be doing a group project. Worth 20-percent of your grade.”

The class erupts in agonistic groans while Mrs. Helleck attempts to calm them down. You feel Eddie’s gaze burn into you, indicative to the fact that he was looking forward to using you again like he always seems to do. This time around it would be for a grade instead of a two-pump fuck. But you had something else in mind.

“You will be doing a presentation,” Helleck continues. “With a partner of your choice. Your job is to create a slogan along with a list of reasons why you should stay away from drugs.”

“Drugs Instead of Hugs,” Grant mutters to Eddie.

The general vicinity collectively praises his lukewarm wannabe 4-Chan edged joke.

You roll your eyes while your poor homeroom teacher tries to proceed with her instructions, despite the immature snickers.

“You will be presenting with your partner on Friday. Do not wait until last minute to do this assignment please. Deadlines catch up to you fast.”

Mrs. Helleck makes her way over to you.

Like Dungeons and Dragons, everyone in the class is assigned a “classroom role”. You’re the leader of the pack, the ‘foreman’, to which you never understood because up until today you never had the confidence to call the shots. The alphabet has never been on your side anyways.

“Now dear,” your teacher smiles down at you. “Since your last name starts with an A, you get first choice. Who would you like to work with?”

Eddie’s gaze is extra fixated on you now. It gives you a greater deal of satisfaction than tossing those cookies ever did. It was you who had the reigns now, instead of those woman-patronizing incels.

You start to smile connivingly, to which the guys start to gulp over. You can tell they’re putting two and two together, their two brain cells collectively working over time to discover that you had a delicious upper-cut up your sleeve.

It’s the very least they can do. If they wanted to taint your name to smithereens in your absence, you’re sure as hell going to give them something else to lose their minds about in Math 3.

And when all eyes are fixated on you, you tilt your chin up to project your voice. You want to make sure everyone, especially Grant and Eddie, hear you loud and clear when you sinisterly announce,

“I pick Harmony.”

tag list: @damp4eddie @eddiesguitarskills @babygirl229 @love-anonymous-writer @ziggeddie @socially-awkward-eliza @shesahellfirebabe @ali-r3n @yourdailymemedelivery @mincloud @jupitersnights @ineedtosusoutmyreadinglist @whisperingtales @fearlessreid @emma-munson

divider by: @benkeibear

#eddie munson #eddie munson angst #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson mini series #requests #maddy’s requests 🍸#part 2 #eddie x reader #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson x you

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queerfables · 8 months

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A dash of nutmeg...

Look I feel a bit like I'm throwing soup at a dart board and calling it analysis, but I have some thoughts about Aziraphale's magic words in episode 4, and it's going to kill me if I don't share.

The thing is, these words have been nagging at me since I heard them. They sounded familiar, and I've been trying to figure out why. Today, it finally clicked.

Banana. Fish. Gorilla.

Those initial three words are all key words from Crowley and Aziraphale's drunken conversation about Armageddon. It's right at the start of things, when Crowley convinces Aziraphale to help him stop the world from ending.

We'll start with the fish, because they come up first.

"The point I'm trying to make," [Crowley] said, brightening, "is the dolphins. That's my point." "Kind of fish," said Aziraphale.

Their entire exchange here is hilarious and iconic but I'll try to keep this to the point. After some banter about the difference between fish and mammals, Crowley argues that dolphins don't deserve to be caught in the crossfire when the kraken rises and the seas boil. Which conveniently brings us to:

"Same with gorillas. Whoops, they say, sky gone all red, stars crashing to ground, what they putting in the bananas these days?"

Banana. Fish. Gorilla. It got me curious, so I searched for other places these words show up in the book. There's nothing I think is really significant: a couple of things are described as banana flavoured, fish show up in rains that herald the impending doomsday, gorillas aren't ever mentioned again. If I'm on the right track at all, I think this part is here to signpost a connection between this string of words from the show and the specific moments in the book.

If that's true, it must be pointing to something. What's left? Shoe lace and nutmeg.

Shoe lace.

The word "shoelace" isn't actually in Good Omens. Neither is "shoe lace" with a space in between. There's a couple of unremarkable descriptions involving shoes, and one miraculously conjured lace handkerchief, and then - and then. Right at the very end of the story, we have Adam, grounded by his parents, being described as "a scruffy Napoleon with his laces trailing, exiled to a rose-trellissed Elba". It's tenuous. I could dismiss that as nothing. Except Adam's laces show up again, and it's the very last passage of the book.

If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends. And if you want to imagine the future, imagine a boot . . . no, imagine a sneaker, laces trailing, kicking a pebble; imagine a stick, to poke at interesting things, and throw for a dog that may or may not decide to retrieve it; imagine a tuneless whistle, pounding some luckless popular song into insensibility; imagine a figure, half angel, half devil, all human . . . Slouching hopefully towards Tadfield . . . . . . forever.

I'm not ready to say much about what I think the significance of this passage might be. But an allusion to the book's ending does feel significant, doesn't it?

The one thing I will say, for people who may not know, is that this passage is riffing on a line from Orwell's 1984. The line it's playing on is a lot darker: "If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face – for ever." I think it's probably relevant that this is referencing a book about a totalitarian regime. I also think it's probably relevant that it's taking that reference and twisting it into something much sweeter, more optimistic and empowered.

I'm still thinking through all the connections and implications, though.

Nutmeg.

And that brings us to "nutmeg". I have to be honest, I wasn't hopeful. I didn't remember any references to it and if I were betting, I wouldn't have put money on it appearing in the book at all. But the word does show up, and it shows up exactly once. Crowley is reminiscing about a cocktail he had once, made out of fermented date-palms. It's part of a conversation with Aziraphale, where they discuss losing the Antichrist. And here's the really interesting part:

"You said it was him!" moaned Aziraphale, abstractedly picking the final lump of cream-cake from his lapel. He licked his fingers clean. "It was him," said Crowley. "I mean, I should know, shouldn't I?" "Then someone else must be interfering." "There isn't anyone else! There's just us, right? Good and Evil. One side or the other." He thumped the steering wheel. "You'll be amazed at the kind of things they can do to you, down there," he said. "I imagine they're very similar to the sort of things they can do to one up there," said Aziraphale. "Come off it. Your lot get ineffable mercy," said Crowley sourly. "Yes? Did you ever visit Gomorrah?" "Sure," said the demon. "There was this great little tavern where you could get these terrific fermented date-palm cocktails with nutmeg and crushed lemongrass-" "I meant afterwards." "Oh."

Book Aziraphale differs from his characterisation in the show in a few ways, and this is the big one. In the book, Aziraphale is much more cynical about his own side, and much more aware of heaven's flaws. Here, he's convincing Crowley that the threat heaven poses is just as serious as any threat from hell.

If I'm right about any of this, if these nonsense words mean anything at all, I think they are saying that heaven and hell are two sides of the same very nasty coin, and more to the point, that maybe Aziraphale is more aware of it than he seems.

I need to think about this more, still. I'm not sure if I really think this connection is something, and if it is, I'm still figuring out what sorts of conclusions we might draw from it. But if the script is trying to point us to these three sections of the book, maybe there's a deeper analysis to be had here.

I do think it's interesting that the last two words each only show up in one section of the book. It's not like I'm skipping around trying to decide which passage involving shoe laces is most relevant - it shows up twice, only in the last few pages of the book and only in relation to Adam (and in particular, humanising Adam. He's Napoleon in exile, but he's a kid with trailing laces. His future isn't a boot stamping on a human face, it's a sneaker with those same trailing laces - and a stick that his dog can choose whether or not to chase).

I could talk myself in circles on this point, so I guess I've got to open it up to the floor. Am I making something out of nothing with this? Or do you think there could be something here?

#good omens #good omens meta #good omens theory #fable talks good omens

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lindseymcdonaldseyelashes · 4 months

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Crossfire Trail (2001)

#christian kane #crossfire trail #old-timey stake-whittling for vampire hunting

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groovinontheinside · 1 year

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Christian Kane in Crossfire Trail HQ

#christian kane #crossfire trail #my post

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nade2308 · 2 years

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Who knew I would acquire yet another OT3 so soon...

#rafe caradec #tex brisco #ann rodney #crossfire trail

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briefalpacashark · 1 month

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~Cowboys and Men = Part Two~

================================================

“She's her own woman. Who knows not to mess with pretty little cowboys like you,” Jonny stated. He didn't like the cowboy from the moment they meet. Weather that be due to the insult or not was unimportant.

“We’ll see about that,” Arthur smiled, walking away.

“Can we kill him?” Ghost asked.

“Such a pity a civilian was caught in the crossfire,” Jonny shrugged, adding onto Ghost’s statement.

“I volunteer. I'll just say my aim was off,” Gaz offered.

“Easy boys,” Price shut down the idea. But he wasn't necessarily opposed to it.

Tommy was a good rider for his age. He stayed on the back of the beast of a bucker longer than anyone else. Then it was your turn.

“Fucken hell,” you whispered as you climbed into the pen sitting atop the horse that moved around ready to send you straight to hell.

“You look nervous,” your head snapped to the side to see Tommy smiling at you.

“He's wild,” you nodded down to the horse.

“You can still back out,” he suggested. That smile he wore, was he being suspicious or just a dick. “Ain't no shame in being a buckle bunny,” he stated. Your face settled into a frown at the insult.

“Lets go!” you announced. Man, that horse rocked you. You lasted an average amount of time. At one point, you lost your hat. You were thrown from the horse in a dramatic fashion tumbling across the ground. The people cheered as you got yourself to your feet. When you recovered from the fall, you looked around for your hat. It had fallen out of the arena. With your body still buzzing with adrenalin, you jogged over to it. As you were about to reach down Arthur had picked it up.

“Than-” your words trailed off as he took off his own and placed yours upon his head. Your face flushed as you were reminded of the hat rule. He grinned, leaning down over the railing holding his own out to you.

“Ohhhhh looks like she's got an admirer. You two youngins be safe tonight,” the announcer called as wolf whistles sounded front the crowd. You brushed your nose, ducking your head in embarrassment.

“Will she take the hat?” the announcer asked.

“Take the hat! Take the hat!” the crowd began to chant. God, how did it happen? Spotting Tommy watching from the side, you second guessed your actions. In one of the meeting Price had order you all to blend in. To play the part.

If he thinks you're a buckle bunny you'll play the part of a buckle bunny. You took Arthurs hat and placed it on your head, the crowd going wild. Arthur smiled, tipping the hat to you as you walked off.

================================================

It was game time. You all convened drawing your hidden guns as you headed for Tommy, only when you arrived at the garage he was gone.

“The fuck?” you questioned. When returning to Arthur he meet the team halfway with a sorry look.

“He left early, right after your run,” Arthur stated in an apologetic tone.

“Let's go. We should still be able to catch him on the road,” Price suggested.

“Hey, come on. He'll be here again tomorrow. You'll have a better chance then anyway,” Arthur held his hands up to slow you all.

“Why's that?” Jonny asked.

“Less people. He stays for drinks after,” he stated.

“You better not be fucking us around,” Ghost warned, turning fully to tower over Arthur.

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he answered. You all turned to Price ready to act on his decision.

“Fine,” Price stated. The boys walked off, ready to head back to the ranch. You walked up to Arthur with a bashful smile.

“Here,” you said, handing his hat back to him.

“You know the rules, right?” he asked. Wear the hat, ride the cowboy. If you put on a cowboy's hat, it meant one of two things. He was coming home with you or you were going home with them.

“I do. But I was playing a role. To keep Tommy thinking I'm the buckle bunny he suspects,” you said beckoning for your hat. Arthur looked slightly disappointed at your words.

“I see. But I want you to know the offer still stands,” he said, taking your hat of and stepping closer to place it on your head.

“And while I'm flattered, I'm sorry but I have to refuse,” you stated with a small smile.

“It's the Ghost boy isn't it?” he asked. You sputtered a resonance as you chuckled, stepping back.

“Funny,” you said fixing your hat so its brim covered your eyes from his gaze.

“Well, if I was him I'd get a move on,” Arthur stated with a knowing smile before walking off. With a huff you shock your head searching for the boys, unknownst to you one particular one with a skull mask was situated in a shadow watching the whole situation with an uneasy feeling in his belly.

“If I were you I'd get a move on,” Ghost knew Price had approached him. But his statement still made him jump.

“Don't know what you're talkin bout,” Ghost muttered.

“That cowboy’s working his magic. I’s get in before you regret it,” Price stated with a knowing look. Ghost stared at his Captain a man he trusted with is his life.

“Men like us don't deserve a woman like her Captain, we don't deserve happy endings,” Ghost muttered. Price nodded. A part of him wanted to agree.

“Well she deserves the world. And if she wants you in that world are you going to refuse?” Price asked.

“She deserves better than me John,” Ghost whispered. His hands were dipped in too much blood to ever hold her.

“I don't think so,” Price shrugged.

“Oh yeah, what do you think?” Ghost almost snapped at the man.

“I think you deserve each other,” he whispered, giving Ghost shoulder a firm pat before walking away. He didn't say it with malice. He said it with a kind smile. Trying to tell his solider that he did deserve happiness.

That night you were all sat round a fire with a few of the ranch hands. All drinking and simply enjoying the night. Some shared stories. Jonny made up a few of his own playing the part of the cowboy. One of the ranch hands were plucking a banjo admitting he had just started to learn. After a few seconds he was forced to put the instrument down by the many annoyed ranchers.

“Damn thing sounds like a cat dien,” A rancher called.

“Come on now, the banjos a beautiful instrument,” you called out in defense. You were sat in between Price and Ghost on a log.

“You did hear what we hear right?” Jonny asked, pointing to the embarrassed lad.

“No offense, but you need to hear it played right. It can be beautiful,” you said.

“Oh yeah prove it,” Gaz dared. With the help of a little alcohol you shrugged, standing up. “Hold that for me, will ya sweetheart?” You asked passing your bottle to Ghost who automatically took it.

“Not your sweetheart,” he grumbled. You chuckled with a wink before walking over to the lad.

“May I?” you asked. He handed over the instrument and the picks which you slipped onto your fingers.

“Didn’t want to say anything before, but it probably would help if ya tuned it,” you said plucking a few stings to get the right tune. Arthur stood from his seat, which was semi center allocated and offered it to you.

“Why thankyou sir,” you tipped your hat as you sat down.

“Now, no one make fun of me. I'm a little rusty,” you whispered.

“There is no way you know how to play that thing,” Jonny muttered. You smirked giving him a wink as you adjusted.

“This one's called sugar hill,” you muttered before you began. To there surprise, a cohesive and beautifully uplifting melody echoed from your fingertips. Your audience was silent as smiles settled onto their faces. It was peaceful, beautiful. It was a moment you wished you could freeze. Yet when the song ended so did your little fantasy. Everyone cheered and clapped.

“Oncour!” Arthur called.

“Alright, if the crowd wishes,” you grinned befor diving into another song.

After a while everyone was sort of talking to themselves. You sat by the lad form before giving him a few pointers.

“So Ghost was it. What do you do?” Your head snapped up at the question much like the other boys. Next to Ghost saw a woman, drop dead gorgeous and she knew it type of woman. She sat really close to him. A seductive smile on her lips.

“I'm on Anna’s team,” he stated simply. “I know that. What's your speciality?” she asked. She was just making conversation. Only it wasn't just a conversation for Ghost. It was an interrogation. One he need to keep his cover though. His mind went blank. All he had to say was something to do with horses, or management. After all you didn't think the boys would be asked anything past that. Laswell certainly didn't so she didn't give the boys specialised jobs in your so called team. In all Ghost’s wisdom he turned to look for help. His eyes mistakenly rested on Jonny.

“He's uh. He's our musician,” You and Price almost smacked your foreheads at the words. Out of all the jobs Jonny could have chosen he chose musician. Ghost eyes narrowed into a glare for a split second before becoming blank.

“Oh my, that's amazing, what do you play?” she asked, moving closer. So close that her chest brushes by his arm. Your frowned at the gnawing feeling that settled in your stomach.

“Guitar,” Ghost answered.

“Oh you're in luck,” the woman dispersed to the back of truck before pulling a guitar out. Great, just great. She trusted the instrument into his hands with an excited smile.

“Will you play something for me? Please,” she flashed her pretty eyelashes.

“I don't feel like it,” Ghost stated.

“Oh come on. What, you not a real musician then?” she pressed teasingly. Ghost was a good soldier, so he knew he had to do whatever he could to keep his cover. So to all your utter shock he slipped the guitar on. And started playing.

I can't help falling in love with you, by Elvis Presley.

I can't help fucking falling in love with you by Elvis Fucking Presley.

His voice was beautiful, deep and steady. Like the beat of an old tribal drum. His eyes focused solely on the guitar as he sang. The team was shocked into slack jawed silence. Simon Riley was singing and play the actual guitar. You never thought you would see the day.

And you found yourself wishing. Wishing that the person he was singing to was you. A stupid dream. You didn't see it, in fact you just missed it. Ghost had looked to you, a slight flicker of his eyes caught by very few. When you looked up at him, his eyes had returned to his guitar. Two gazes so soft, only for it to have been missed by the two they were intended for. It was painful for the boys to watch. When the song finished, everyone cheered yet again. The girl wasn't wearing a hat so when she reached over and took Ghost and placed it on her head with the bite of her lips, almost everyone cheered and whistled. The girl blushed and ducked her head. The hat rule. Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.

They look good together. You thought. His eyes were focused solely on hers as she spoke.

A sad smile spread across your face as you acknowledged the painful truth. Simon would never be someone like that to you. Sure you were friends, well, you hoped you were friends. But he had never made any clear signs. Every time you would say something sweet he would shoot it down. Just remembering his pervious comment, your throat stung bitterly. You were good at hiding dejection, you could pretend like it didn't affect you at all. But it did.

Love wasn't in the cards for you. You supposed you had accepted that fate long ago. Still knowing the fact didn't make it hurt any less. You tried not to think about it as you continued to teach the guy. Still, the mind rarely listens to you. Moments of the past passed through your mind, all the times you had tried to flirt. Tried to lay down a hint. Tired to be sweet. Tried to show him that you liked him. All ended in either being shot down or ignored. It wasn't like he was rude about it. He just didn't leave any room for misinterpretation. Misinterpretation you constantly enacted when you failed to see the expressions his mask hid.

And it didn't help that the only time he was sweet to you, when he held your hand so tenderly in the hospital. When he pressed his lips to your palm and leaned into your touch. Due to the drugs you couldn't remember a single moment of it.

“So what do you think, we proper cowboys now or what?” Jonny asked Arthur.

“Well you ain't proper cowboys till you've played cowboy poker,” Arthur shrugged.

“The fuck is cowboy poker?” Jonny asked.

“This is the stupidest fucking thing I've ever done,” Jonny looked like he was about to shit himself. At the moment you all were sitting around a shitty plastic table on shitty plastic chairs. You Gaz, Jonny, Price, Ghost Arthur and another lad. In the middle of a coral.

“So we just sit here!?” Gaz asked as he breathed deeply and quickly on the point of hyperventilation.

“Yes sir,” Arthur sung from beside you as he handed you a bottle of whiskey. You took it downing a good two gulps.

“This is stupid,” Price grumbled.

“And yet you're still sitting here,” you stated, handing the bottle to him.

“Not a word to Laswell. Understood?” he gave you all pointed looks.

“What scared you'll get in trouble from the missus?” you asked.

“The wife?” Arthur asked. You all chuckled as Price shook his head, handing it to Gaz.

“Are we really doing this?” Jonny asked. At first he thought it was just a joke, but as he saw the bull being rounded up he was staring to grasp the situation.

“Whatever you do Jonny, don't get off the seat,” you said.

“This is fucken mad,” he whispered shaking his head and snatching the bottle from Gaz.

“Forget your big boy pants back at the shop Jonny?” Ghost asked.

“Fuck you LT,” he snapped.

“SOMEONE WANNA EXPLAIN THE RULES?” Gaz asked.

“Last one at the table wins the pot,” you said watching as they slipped the bull int he chute that lead to the coral.

“Don't worry the bull always goes for the table first,” Arthur shrugged.

“THIS IS CRAZY!” Gaz screamed.

“Yeah not much smart thinking went into the creation of this. Pretty sure it was just booze and idiocy,” you stated.

“Set em free!” Arthur yelled. The sound of the gate crashing open sounded and the bull was let lose.

“Fuck this,” Gaz was the first to leave taking the bottle of whiskey with him. You all watched as the bull locked in on its target. It cleaved through the table Jonny and Price leaving before it hit. The table was destroyed and Arthur jumped out the way before the bull plowed straight through him. That just left you and Ghost.

“Scared big guy?” You asked.

“Never,” he stated. Your eyes locked as the bull found the two of you. You were a little way aways from each other, You had sat on opposing seats so that meant the bull was going to choose one of you. It was a stare of between the two of you as you heard the bull fast approaching.

Were you a little angry at Ghost? sure. You liked him and he didn't like you. A small flicker of childish rage bubbled within you. How dare he not like you? What was wrong with you? Why not you? It was a stupid little thought, but it was still there. So you kept his gaze, both of you refusing to look away.

And one moment Ghost was there and the next he wasn't, broken plastic chair legs flipping through the air. The bull had slammed into him.

“Oh shit,” a chuckle left your lips as the bull ran off. “You alive big guy?” you asked, rushing up to him in a bit of worry. Your eyes watching the bull that fought with the piece of chair stuck on his horn. You had to get out of the coral.

“No,” Ghost grunted painfully.

“Come on, don't wanna get hit again do ya?” You asked, pulling the man to his feet. The two of you rushed to the fence of the coral. Ghost found his thoughts not on the worry of the bull hitting him for a second time but focused on your hand. Which held his tightly as you pulled him away. Making it just in time, the bull pulled to a skidding stop as you both flung yourself over the top. You hit the ground beside Simon your hands still clung together. As you gazed up at the stars loud laughter erupted from your chest as you gave his hand a squeeze. Simons eye on the other hand was focused on you.

“That, my fiends is cowboy poker!” Arthur called, holding his hand out to you. You pulled your hand from Ghost’s grip and took the offered helping hand.

Later that night, when everyone was asleep, you snuck out to the field, taking the banjo in hand. You continued to drink as you rested upon a tree plucking the banjo as you tried to sort out your thoughts. Which unfortunately constantly pulled themselves back to a certain activity you though Ghost, and the girl were partaking in. Unbeknownst to you, Ghost had completely ghosted the girl, avoiding her at all costs.

“The fuck you doing out here?” Ghost voice had you flinching, knocking the bottle of booze all over you.

“Shit,” you cursed.

“Drinking on the job?” he asked with a teasingly disapproving tone as he approached.

“Well, can't always be the model soldier now can I?” you asked, putting the bottle to the side whipping the alcohol the best you could.

“The boys got worried when they woke up and you weren't there,” Ghost explained. You checked your watch. It was 5 am around the time you all would usually get up. You had not realized that you had sat out there for so long.

“I'm a big girl,” you shrugged.

“True,” he nodded, sitting down on the log closest to you.

“Didn’t know you could play the guitar. Much less sing like an angle,” you muttered.

“Think I sing pretty?” he asked. You smiled.

“Like a siren Simon,” you said flashing him that smile he loved so much.

“Didn't picture you as a Elvis fan,” you said.

“Oh, yeah?” he asked.

“Yeah, picture you more as a heavy punk. Maybe a little rock,” you shrugged with a teasing smile.

“Well for your information I partake in the enjoyment of the country quite often,” he said.

“Oh, really?’ you asked, a small chuckle leaving your lips involuntarily. A contagious one seeing as Simon's shoulder shook slightly with a chuckle of their own.

“I wanted to be a cowboy when I was a kid. Dreamt of owning a farm of my own,” he admitted. You paused your plucking. Simon had never talked about his past before. It seemed to serious for him as he quickly changed to a joking tone.

“The guitar original started as a way to impress the ladies,” he stated.

“Well you don't need any help there. That chick seemed smitten with you,” Simon briefly caught onto the slightly bitter bite that came at the end of your sentence. He wanted to believe it, but he also believed it could be his mind playing tricks.

“Just like you are with the cowboy?” Simon didn't know why he said it. Perhaps he wanted you to repute it.

“Who? Arthur?” you asked with a snort.

“What? He's got the horses, money, he's alright looking,” Simon shrugged. You shook your head the whiskey bring out your honesty like it always did.

“Nah. He's uh, he's not the one for me,” you stated simply.

“Who is?” The blatant question caught you off guard. You chuckled nervously, casting your eyes down to the banjo as you plucked it.

“I uh, I don't know,” you muttered. Simon tried not to be dejected at it. “The fucker better hurry up though. I'm getting impatient,” you joked, your eyes flicking up to Simon”s for only a second. It was only a second they needed to be caught in the pools of brown. Simon was studying you, like he did to everyone. Taking in everything about you. But there was something else in his eyes. He seemed like he wanted to say something. Price's words burned in his mind. He wanted to offer himself up as a potential candidate. But as hard as he tried, his tongue simply wouldn't move. You waited a few moments for him to say anything. Then you waited a few more. A sad smile spread across your face. It wasn't possible.

“The girl you end up with is gonna be one lucky bitch Simon,” you whispered turning away from his gaze as you stood. You put the banjo down as you watched the sun rise.

“You think?” finally his mouth wanted to speak. It just didn't say the right thing.

“I know it,” you whispered, patting his shoulder as you walked past him, back to the house. Your hand squeezed his shoulder before slipping off. Simon’s hand reached up, his fingers missing your’s by mere millimeters.

In a bush nearby, Soap slammed his palm over his eyes, cursing his two teammates under his breath.

Everything was going great. You and the team had a plan. You were seated at a bar area with Tommy not too far away. The second day's events came and went. And now you were just waiting. Waiting for Tommy to peel away from the group so you could nab him.

A beer was placed down in front of you.

“Sorry I didn't order this,” you spoke up to the bartender.

“He sent it for you sweetheart,” she said, pointing to Tommy. You forced a smile, giving him a cheers motion. He politely dismissed himself from the people he was talking to and made his way over to you.

“Hell of a ride yesterday,” he said.

“It was average,” you shrugged. He smiled as he sat down beside you fairly close. So close in fact that your shoulders were pressed together.

“Yeah, it sure was,” he stated. Your heart stopped as you heard the click of a safety. A moment later you felt a cool metal pressed through your shit into your side.

“Well shit,” you muttered, deciding to take a large sip of the beer.

“Shit is right, sweetheart. Now listen close or i'll blow your guts over that lovely girl next to you,” he threatened nodding to the woman who sat beside you. He had a gun pressed against you.

“There's an awful lot of people here,” you stated.

“Good thing my gun has a silencer on it. And if I'm not mistaken, you look a little drunk,” he said his lips twisting into a cocky smirk.

“Wouldn't be surprised if you passed out, you know. But being the general man I am I’d be sure to take you to a quiet spot,” he suggested. He was right. The music was blaring. Nobody was paying attention to you. And you were alone. You were the lookout. The boys were stationed elsewhere in wait for him. But he didn't know that.

“My boys are watching mate, I wouldn't,” your words got cut off by his boisterous laugh.

“No sweetheart. You see, I know they're waiting for me tucked in little hide holes around the exit. I know you're all alone. Now what you're going to do is tell your little friends that I'm on the move. Heading in a completely different direction than they think I am. Then you and I are gonna slip out the back where I have a car waiting,” he explained it all.

“And if I don't comply?” your question was answered by the gun being pressed further into your side. Yet your gaze remained unfazed. Unshaken. There was no fear in your eyes.

“Then I kill him,” he stated, nodding to the bartender. “And her,” he said, nodding to another random person. “And her,” he added, nodding to a little girl who walked by. You stared at Tommy trying to see if he was speaking the truth. To find any lies in his eyes. You couldn't see anything, he was good at hiding his thoughts. And you couldn't risk it.

“How did you know?” you asked.

“I got a little tip off,” he shrugged.

“From who?” you asked.

“And why would I tell you?” he asked.

“I don't know, cowboy to cowboy?” you suggested. He chuckled again.

“You may be a cowboy kid. But there's things that are a little bit more important than that. Now on with it,” he stated. Rolling your tongue along your inner teeth, you pressed you finger to your ear.

“This is Bingo, Bushy, you there?” you asked. At the other end of the coms, the boys all frowned in utter confusion.

“What is she on about?” Jonny asked.

“Doc? This is Bravo 6. Repeat your last?” Price asked.

“Bingo has visuals. Target on the move. Casper and Dirt are clear to engage. He's headed for the west car park,” You hoped and prayed that the boys would understand.

“Good girl,” Tommy said, reaching up to rip the earpiece off before you could get a response from them.

“Capser and dirt? What's that supposed to be? Me and Ghost?” Jonny asked.

“She's not using out code names,” Ghost stated into his comms the realization washing over them like a wave.

“Somethin’s not right,” Price grumbled gruffly.

Tommy had quickly taken you out of the bar area to the secluded back. You were walking to the car, the gun now pressed against your back. Your hands were clasped behind your head per his orders as he had taken your concealed weapons, but he still didn't trust you.

“Isn't this the part where you say I'm not going to get away with this?” he asked.

“Don't need to say something I know is gonna happen,” you shrugged.

“What?” his question was answered by a gun shot. You moved to the side and back, slamming your body against Tommy pinching the arm that held the gun between your arm and side. His pain scream ripped through your ears, a shot having cleaved through his leg. Your hit sent him flying to the ground as you ripped the gun from his grasp falling with him. Pulling your elbow back you stuck him in the face.

Bullets ripped above you as the boys took out the few enemies that emerged from the car. Flipping Tommy who was wallowing loudly in pain over you slipped some zip ties around his hands. Pulling them taunt you glanced back at the car gun at the ready. Finding all enemies neutralized you stood.

“Doc you alright!?” Price was the first to make it to you.

“Course. Took your time,” you muttered.

“Ghost had to get into position,” he nodded to the shadow that stood on a nearby building sniper on his shoulder. Holding your hand up in thanks, he simply nodded.

“We look like a bunch of rag tag outlaws in these getups,” you stated as you heaved Tommy up along with Price.

“Price she alright?” Ghost voice pressed into Price comm.

“She's all good,” Price said back.

“Tell em to stop worrying. And remind Jonny he still owes me a photo,” you told Price. When Ghost joined back up with you, you flashed him your usual smile.

“Thanks for having my back Big guy,” you held you hand out for a fist bump.

“That not your blood is it?” he asked nodding to your pants. You looked down.

“Of course it's not mine. What feel your shootings getting a bit skew?” you asked. As you went to look up your vision was blacked by the brim of a hat. A hand placing it on your head and ruffling your hair with it.

“Quick thinking Doc. Good job,” Ghost hand left your head where he had placed his hat. You tilted it back watching as Ghost loaded Tommy into the back of the truck.

He had put his hat on your head. Through your faint blush, you shock your head. He didn't know about the rule. You told yourself to stop being delusional as you got back to work.

Little did you know Ghost knew all about the rule. Thats why his heart hurt so much to see you willingly taking another man's hat. As you left Price was talking to Arthur. Arthur's eyes scanned over you all as he waved a small goodby. You waved back falling to notice Ghost standing behind you with the smuggest look of victory on his face. After all you were still wearing his hat.

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=Cowboys and Men Part 1 Here=

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=COD Master List here=

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#141 x reader #141 x you #cod 141 #cod ghost #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #task force 141 #tf 141 #simon riley x reader #cod #cod mw2 #ghost cod #call of duty

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