wildechildwrites

[wildechildwrites]

Taken

Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: brief discussion of kidnapping/implied harm, vaginal fingering, vaginal sex, brief/implied ghost/soap/reader

No use of Y/N

Summary: You and Simon are having a quiet night in, watching whatever's on TV when a silly question of yours pulls a serious response from Simon

AO3: Taken

Taken is on tv, half way through, and you and Simon are halfway watching it, curled up together lazily after dinner, sleepy and content. The kitchen in your small flat is spotless, dishes dried and put away properly, Ghost's mask on the counter. The weekend offers an enticing gap of nothingness, no chores to be completed, no work to be done, no deployment in the near future. You're drifting, soothed by the steady thumping of Simon's heart, his muscular chest cushioning your head, strong arms wrapped loosely around you, his fingers tapping a familiar rhythm that you can't quite place, like an old song on the radio. His eyes are on the screen, but every so often he leans down to press a kiss to the crown of your head.

“What if someone took me?” You're sleep drunk, the words stumbling out before you've really considered them, the sound of violence and Liam Neeson's gravelly tones in the background, almost drowning you out.

Simon stiffens beneath you, arms tightening, and you squeak at the pressure, the sound of his heart louder in your ear. His voice is flat like a blade, careful ease slipping off of him like an ill fitting coat. "I would never–"

"I know," you cut him off, too tired to pick up on the tension, nuzzling deeper into him. "But what if someone did? Do you think–" you stifle a yawn. "Would you come find me?"

Simon sits up fully, and you let out a huff of complaint, looking up at him with a ready pout, but any trace of playful drowsiness is chased away by the somber look in his dark eyes.

He grabs your face with one hand, strong fingers digging into your chin, forcing all your attention on him. “I would never let anything happen to you.”

“Si–” you start, but he cuts you off with a fierce kiss, your face still held firmly in his grasp, his mouth hot against yours, hungry and demanding. You let yourself be pulled into the sudden rip current of intensity, digging your fingers into the soft fabric of his shirt, warmth curling low in your stomach.

Simon drags himself away from you slowly, his mouth trailing along your jaw, his voice like crushed velvet.

“If someone took you, or tried to, or even looked at you for too long,” he presses a worshipful kiss at the base of your throat, dragging his nose lightly up the side of your neck to place another kiss under your ear, just the smallest hint of his teeth nipping at the soft flesh.

“I'd gut ‘em. I'd cut off their fingers and make ‘em eat ‘em.”

“That's morbid, Si.” You murmur reproachfully, and he huffs a laugh, all gravel, warm against your skin, and you can’t suppress a shudder at the sensation.

Simon leans in to kiss you again, his hands wandering. One settles on your hip, anchoring you in place, thick fingers kneading into the soft flesh, the other dragging up under the loose tshirt you wear to cup your breast, rough thumb rolling over your nipple. You squirm in his lap, the hard line of his growing erection pressing against you, and he drags his hand from your breast down to your shorts, slipping inside. The angle isn’t perfect, but Simon’s undeterred, his palm pressing against your clit as he glides a finger along your folds, teasing at your entrance.

“So wet,” his voice is like distant thunder, rumbling softly in his chest. “She knows I’ll take care of ‘er.” He presses his mouth against yours again, swallowing the noise you make when he slides a thick finger inside of you, curling it to stroke the sensitive walls, his palm grinding firmly against your clit. Simon adds a second finger and you whimper into his mouth, walls fluttering around him. He’s still got his hand on your hip, holding you in place, keeping you steady as he fingers you. His cock is rock hard in his sweats, and you break the kiss, leaning your forehead against his.

“Simon please,” you pant, not caring how desperate you sound, consumed by the hungry look in his eyes. “‘I need you.”

Simon abruptly stops his movements, fingers still buried deep inside of you. His face is flushed, his chest heaving as he breathes, iron intensity unwavering.

“I’d never let anything happen to you. Say it.”

When you don’t immediately respond, he grinds his palm into your clit, the fingers on your hip digging in hard enough that you know you’ll have bruises. “Say. It.”

“Simon I know–” You start to say, and he pulls his fingers out of you. Before you can even complain about the sudden emptiness, he's flipped you both over, pinning you beneath him. You gasp out, eyes wide, heart hammering in your chest.

“Never let anything happen to you. Say it.” He demands, shoving his sweats down, just enough to free his cock. It presses up against his stomach, flushed deep red and leaking. You feel yourself clenching instinctively, eagerly pushing your shorts down.

“You’d never–” Simon slots himself against you, giving you no time to breathe before he's pressing the head of his cock inside of you. You're still soaking from his fingers, and he slides in, both of you moaning at the sensation of him filling you. He's so big, making you feel impossibly full, and he barely pulls out before grinding his dick back into you, unwilling to part from you even for his own pleasure, keeping you pinned with the sheer weight of him, content to buck against you, breathing heavily against your neck.

Simon's single mindedness is impossible to deter, and even as he groans, hips shuddering against yours, he's repeating himself, "I'd never let anything happen to you. Say it."

You're past the point of composure, his pelvis rubbing against your clit in a way that has you seeing stars, his cock dragging against your walls deliciously with ever tiny motion. "You'd– nev–ah! Let– anything–” Simon sinks his teeth into your neck, and you cry out, clenching around him, your nails biting into his shoulders.

“If somethin’ happens to me,” he grunts, breathing heavily, finally drawing his hips back until just the head of his cock is inside of you. “Johnny'll take care of you. And he'd never let anything happen to you.”

"Johnny?" you gasp, and Simon surges forward, setting at a bruising pace that has you moaning, clenching around him with every thrust.

Simon speaks through the pleasure, swallowing his own moans, punctuating every thrust, his rhythm wild in a way that tells you he's going to cum soon. “Who's gonna take care of you?”

You're so close it almost hurts, the tension twisting, every thrust hauling you towards the edge, your brain leaking out of your ears, so consumed by the feeling of Simon inside of you, on top of you, all around you. “Johnny, Johnny, Johnny, Simon oh—” You clench around him with a sharp cry, body writhing in pleasure, your nails raking down Simon’s back.

Simon cums the same time as you do, his mouth on the crook of your neck, burying himself as deep as possible, cock twitching inside of you, warmth flooding your abdomen as he fills you. You’re both breathing heavy, bodies slick with sweat, and he presses a soft kiss to your bare skin. You know you both need a shower, but exhaustion is creeping back in, the comforting weight of Simon lulling you into a relaxed state, temporarily ignoring the mess you’ve made of the couch. Simon seems just as content to remain on top of you, weight carefully shifted so he doesn’t crush you.

“You made Johnny promise to take care of me?” You yawn, trailing your hand up to stroke at Simon’s hair. He grunts, nuzzling against you.

“Made ‘em all promise. Johnny's just the only one who'd be able to fuck you proper.” Simon's softening cock twitches, and you smack him lightly on the shoulder.

“You're a pervert.” You say accusingly, and he just lets out another rough laugh. The silence between you two is comfortable, content, and you let your eyes drift closed.

“You're the only one who I want taking care of me” you murmur, turning your head to kiss Simon gently. He hums in response, halfway to dreamland.

Bonus:

The pub is dimly lit, football match playing, the muted sound of conversation worming through the space. Ghost is in their usual spot, the first round of beers sitting ready, still foamy. Johnny's freshly showered, his mowhawk damp and unstyled, an easy smile on his face as he slides into the booth next to Simon.

“How’s the missus?” Johnny asks, his eyes twinkling, and Simon waits until he’s taking a swallow of beer to answer, his voice casual.

“Made her say your name while she came last night.”

Johnny chokes hard, beer shooting out of his nose, spraying the table. He spends the next five minutes coughing, throat burning, his face bright red, and his eyes full of tears.

Simon just sits quietly, the corner of his mouth twitching.

[wildechildwrites]

Can we talk about pretty boy Gaz all sweet as sugar and pristine manners and a filthy fucking mouth when he's inside you

Because yes he's a military man and swears like any good soldier but he was raised properly and his mum would tan his hide if he cursed in front of a lady. He even watches his mouth around Laswell, to her intense amusement.

But all that disappears the minute he sinks inside you with a quiet "Oh, fuck."

Gaz's biceps strain deliciously above your head as he holds himself up, mouth parted, dark eyes drinking you in, his pupils blown.

"Fuckin' Christ, you're so wet," his voice is almost disbelieving, his thrusts long and languid as though he's trying to savor the sensation of you. "So fuckin' goddamn pretty-" He leans in for a searing kiss, mouth hot and hungry, his tongue brushing against your own.

Gaz pulls out until just the tip is inside you, glancing down to see where you're connected, the way your tight cunt is squeezing around him like a vice. "Goddamn," he murmurs like a litany, and slams his hip back into you, pace quickening, pressing his forehead against yours as he fucks you. "Shit you're so tight baby I'm gonna-- fuck I wanna fill you up." You moan at that, nails digging into his back, pulling him closer, chests touching, melting against each other.

[wildechildwrites]

Saw something similar on my dash and needed a Gaz version

[wildechildwrites]

Espresso

Gaz/Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: awkward main character, cliched writing <3

No use of Y/N

Gender neutral reader

Summary: You're a barista at a local coffee shop, and your newest regular is unbelievably, breathtakingly gorgeous

A/N: Not another fucking coffee shop au

AO3: Espresso

There's something comforting about the process of making coffee. Grind, tamp, pull, pour, repeat. it's mindless, muscle memory taking over, the smell of beans nestling into your clothes and hair. You easily lose yourself in it, the quiet hum of orders, the music playing throughout the small corner café you work at weaving in and out of your focus. 

You're cleaning up from the morning rush, refilling sauce bottles and restocking cups when the bell rings. You look up automatically, locking eyes with the most attractive man you've ever seen as he sails through the front door.

He’s boyishly handsome in a way that’s detrimental to your composure, his large dark eyes the same almost black as espresso. His features are strikingly symmetrical, but when he shoots you a careful smile, one side of his mouth tips slightly higher than the other, crooked and charming. Despite your best efforts, your gaze lingers on his full lips longer than what is socially acceptable.

A glance down to his broad shoulders and surprisingly muscular chest, straining against the shirt he wears, indicates that his warm eyes are really the safest place to look if you want to maintain any semblance of dignity through this interaction. 

“Hello,” you call, yanking your wandering thoughts back to heel. Your voice sounds alright to you, definitely shaky but passable. “Welcome in.”

His eyes flick to the menu. “Could I get a small hot honey latte, please?” His voice is smooth, almost silky, rich with an unexpected accent, and your pathetic efforts to pull yourself together are bashed to pieces. You need to be put down, apparently. One handsome man is enough to crush the semblance of sanity you had.

You clear your throat and your head, your voice coming out humiliatingly squeaky. “Name? For the order?” 

“Right,” he smiles, a genuine, friendly smile, and the flash of perfect white teeth makes your heart stutter off beat. “It's Gaz. With a z.”

“I'll have that right out for you, Gaz.” You beam at him, then duck your head, embarrassed at yourself. He’s probably used to it, someone this beautiful must have people falling stupid over them all the time, but you can’t quite shake the humiliation of succumbing so easily.

 You make sure to pull the perfect shot of espresso for him and contemplate writing your number on the side of the cup before immediately shutting yourself down. There’s no way this man is single. You settle for scribbling his name with a little smiley face, then scoff at yourself. A smiley face? He’s a grown man.

When you turn around, Gaz is surveying the pastries with an impressive amount of concentration. You gaze at him helplessly, your eyes dipping back to the muscular planes of his chest and arms. You bite back the instinct to whimper. When you glance back up, you get swept up in the depths of his warm brown eyes, drowning in pools of warm coffee. Is it possible to die of self consciousness? You wordlessly thrust his drink towards him. 

“Thanks, love,” he murmurs, and you wonder if his voice is an octave lower than it was before, or if you’ve just completely lost your mind. His long fingers brush against yours as he grabs the cup, warm and surprisingly calloused, and you feel such swift and complete kinship with Mr. Darcy in the hand scene™ that you look down to make sure you haven’t spontaneously spawned a cravat. 

“Have a nice day,” you muster out faintly, gripping the counter to keep yourself upright. Gaz shoots you another world shattering smile, his eyes lingering on your face, and slips out the door. 

You allow yourself a ten minute break to have a full fledged meltdown about it, babbling on the phone to your best friend incomprehensibly. “He was— And I just— Oh god his biceps—” 

She’s got the audacity to laugh at your agony and then ruin your day by telling you she’s talking to her ex again. You lecture her half-heartedly, too distracted by the memory of a dreamy pair of brown eyes to be truly effective. 

You spend every one of your shifts the next few days hoping Gaz will come back. Every time the front bell chimes you get your hopes up, only to be disappointed again and again. It’s either a testament to the indomitable human spirit or the final nail in the coffin of evidence that you’re a sad, pathetic loser. Another long day drips by like molasses, and you wonder if it’s reasonable to say a hot man ruined your life. Gaz isn't coming back, he was probably just in town visiting and now he's gone forever. Or he hated the latte you made him. Or you fully hallucinated him. All valid options.

The bells above the door tinkle and you immediately accept your place as the universe’s favorite, your dramatic spiral melting away like spring snow. Your heart does a backflip, a ridiculous smile settling on your face.

“You’re back!” You cry, then immediately realize how completely insane that sounds, but Gaz just looks pleased, his dark eyes sparkling, smiling just as brightly at you. It’s better than you remembered it being, perfectly crooked and sweet enough to be cavity inducing. All the borderline obsessive yearning you've done is immediately reaffirmed. You are so fucked. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, voice soft like he means it, and your knees get a little wobbly. “Couldn’t go through life without knowing the name of the person who made me the best latte I’ve ever had.” He leans against the counter, far too close to you for you to come with a comprehensible response, so you just smile at him like an idiot. He smells incredible, like one of those ridiculously described characters in a romance novel. No one smells like rain and leather and a warm day at the park when you were six. 

Except, apparently, this unbelievably handsome man leaning into your space, looking down at you with warm doe eyes, framed by unfairly long eyelashes. You hope you're in good enough shape for your heart not to give out with how it's palpitating.

You realize you’ve been staring at him with a stupid smile on your face for a beat to long and stutter out your name like it’s the first time you’ve ever said it out loud, mentally kicking yourself. He repeats it softly, his voice just a note deeper, a touch breathy, and you come to the conclusion he might actually be trying to kill you on purpose.

“Do you want me to make you another latte?” You ask, already turning around, trying to escape the siren spell the brunt of his attention has cast over you. He hums an affirmation, and you manage not to spill the milk this time, anticipating your hands shaking.

He's definitely not flirting with you. If you write your number on his cup and he never texts you, you’ll have to leave society and live in a cave somewhere. You draw a heart next to his name and immediately want to cross it out, but that seems somehow worse, so you take a grounding breath and turn around.

Gaz is looking down at the little cakes in the display case, a quirked sort of smile on his face. “Are these honey flavored?” 

Warmth rushes to your face. “Yeah, made them fresh this morning,” you try to shrug. Honey flavored for no particular reason, of course. Everything you’d made lately had been. No worries, handsome stranger. You’ve just been the focus of all the lame escapist daydreams I use to cope with life. Why are you running?

“You make them yourself?” He asks, astonishment clear in his voice. “They look delicious.” 

You smile shyly, ducking your head, soaking up the praise. If you could squeal and do a little dance without scaring Gaz, you probably would. “They’re alright.” 

“Will you split one with me?” He grabs his coffee out of your hands, warm fingers on your own, the full force of those brown eyes focused on you. You feel yourself slipping into their hypnotic pull.

“What?” If you wake up right now you’re going to be so mad.

Gaz bites his full bottom lip the way you’d like to, looking suddenly bashful, and your brain abandons you. “If you’re busy that’s alright but maybe–”

“I’d love to!” You squeak, and are instantly rewarded with a wide smile. He has dimples. How did you not notice the dimples until now? You are definitely so fucked. 

You make yourself a drink to try and get your palms to stop sweating, discreetly wiping your palms on your black apron as you sit an appropriate distance away from Gaz on one of the more comfortable couches. It's a disgusting plaid patterned relic of the 80s, the cushions sunken by years of usage, perfect for afternoon naps. He scoots closer to you, enveloping you in the smell of his cologne, balancing the plate on his knee. You’re treated with a perfect view of the way his extremely muscular thighs strain against the material of his pants, and have to mentally coax yourself to keep breathing. In. Out. In. Out. I need to be sent to a nunnery.

Gaz takes a bite of the cake and lets out a low hum of satisfaction, his eyes sliding closed in a blissful expression that has heat blooming low in your stomach. Your traitorous eyes flit back to his spread thighs.

“I was right,” he says, smiling softly, voice honey-sweet, blissfully unaware of his affect on you. “This is delicious.” 

“Thank you,” you say, cringing at how shaky your voice is. You clear your throat, trying to act normal. What do normal people talk about? “Uh, what do you do? For work?” 

His shrug is charmingly self deprecating and highlights just how deliciously broad his shoulders are. “Military. Special forces.” 

Any social commentary you have on the military is pushed down as he scoops up another forkful of cake, offering it to you. “Have a bite.” He coaxes. 

Your face is on fire but you obediently open your mouth, awkwardly letting him feed you. “Good,” he purrs, his eyes on your lips, and you forget how to swallow, the cake sticking to the roof of your mouth as your body flushes with inappropriate heat. You attempt to break the spell, grabbing your drink and taking a loud sip. 

“You've got some,” Gaz gestures to your face, and you self consciously swipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling unbelievably childish. He flashes those dimples at you. “Do you mind if I?

Faster than you can react, Gaz's warm fingers are on your face, gently tipping your chin up, carefully brushing crumbs from the side of your mouth, leaning closer, eyes on your mouth. You’re stuck like this, mouth parted in an aborted attempt to object, frozen in his grasp.

You realize you haven't taken a breath in the last minute and inhale raggedly as he pulls his hand away from your face. The bell above the door jingles, one of your regulars walking in with a cheerful smile. You're not sure if you're grateful or borderline homicidal at the interruption.

“Be with you in a second Jan!” You call out. If you were braver you'd ask Gaz to stick around. “I should get back to it,” Coward. You rise with no small effort, wrenching yourself free of his magnetic pull.

“Thanks for taking the time,” Gaz’s voice is light, but his dark eyes are intense and focused. He stands, and you're subject to the unfortunate reminder that he’s tall, the force of his gaze magnified by how he towers over you. 

“Of course,” You respond, aiming for casual and missing it by about a mile; “Anytime.”

He smiles, crooked and perfect. “Do you work tomorrow?”

“Oh,” Your eyes widen, and you smile before you can stop yourself. “Yeah. Yes.” Eloquent response.

“See you tomorrow then.” Gaz flashes his dimples, setting off another swarm of butterflies in your stomach. 

“Kay.” Eloquent again. You know you're grinning like a moron, but you can't make yourself stop. He's coming back, coming back for you.

“Who was that handsome man?” Jan asks in a stage whisper once you get behind the counter. “My god, the accent? He seems quite taken with you.” 

“Don't say that!” You bury your face in your hands. You cannot be out here projecting your delusions on this poor man. He just likes the way you make coffee. “He's just being nice.” You mumble from behind your fingers. You can feel Jan's eye roll.

“Whatever you say, sweetie.” 

Gaz is back and he brought a friend. A slightly menacing looking friend, dressed in all black, sporting a mohawk, even taller than Gaz is, and built like a brick shit house. He looks around the shop, his face carefully blank, taking in the plants growing on every surface, the mismatched furniture filling the room. Any intimidation you feel is immediately neutralized when his eyes land on you and crinkle at the corners, his mouth splitting into a beaming grin, his loud voice bouncing off the walls of the shop.

“Nice tae make yer acquaintance a’m Johnny! Yae must be who Gaz haes bin gantin fir—” Gaz shoves his elbow into the Scotsman’s ribs and you unsuccessfully stifle a snort.

“Nice to meet you Johnny,” you smile at him warmly. “Can't say I really understood half of what you said so I hope it wasn't anything bad.” 

“All good things,” Gaz cuts in, a touch too loudly, and Johnny snickers. Gaz’s elbow shoots out lightning fast, but Johnny seems to anticipate it, stepping out of range with another laugh. 

You smile at Gaz, glad you’re not the only one on the back foot for once. “The usual?” 

“Yes please, love.” He replies, and heat rushes to your face at the term of endearment. So much for not being on the back foot.

It’s easier to ground yourself with someone else in the shop to focus on. “Anything for you Johnny?”

“Cannae get a hot latte with oot milk?”

You pinch your lips together to suppress a smile and look Johnny dead in the eyes, serious as a heart attack. “Can’t make a latte without milk, sorry.” 

Gaz snorts a laugh, and you let yourself grin at your own dumb joke. Johnny smiles, a mischievous look in his eyes, then turns to Gaz. “Caen tell why ya’ like this… place.”

You hear rather than see Gaz smack his friend as you turn back to make their drinks. “Got anything fun planned for today?” You ask over your shoulder.

“Not much, might get something to eat.” Gaz pauses awkwardly. “Do you eat?” 

Johnny’s laugh is loud, and you turn as he hunches over with the force of it, massive shoulders shaking. 

“Been known to, yeah,” you say with a smile. Gaz looks like he wants the ground to open up beneath him. On anyone else, it’d be adorable, but it's Gaz, so he kind of looks like a model trying out a new pout. Life is so unfair. “Do you want some recommendations?” 

Those brown eyes are steadfastly glued to the floor. “Yeah,” He finally mumbles lamely, looking up at you through his eyelashes. Johnny’s still wheezing but has regained some composure, his eyes sparkling as he claps a large hand on Gaz’s shoulder.

“There’s a few brunch places nearby, if you’re in the mood for that.” You set their drinks on their counter, trying to think of other spots. “If you like Thai, there’s a place right down the road that’s really good, and the owner’s a sweetheart.” 

“Gaz loves Thai food, right Gaz?” Johnny says, taking a loud sip of his latte and then cringing when it scalds his tongue. You suppress a snort, already borderline inappropriately fond of the Scotsman. You hope he starts coming in regularly too. 

Gaz makes no response, his gaze fixed on you, doe eyed and unfairly handsome. You stare at him. He stares at you. Your eyes dart down to watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows, then back up to his eyes, hyper aware of the seconds ticking by. Maybe you’ve got something on your face? Your eyes flick to Johnny, who's inexplicably grinning like a cat who got the cream.

“Well we’ve got a busy day,” Gaz blurts, quickly turning to his friend. “Best be going.” 

“But what aboot—” Johnny starts, but Gaz grabs his arm, practically dragging the other man away from the counter. You’re left standing there, completely bewildered.

“Good to see you!” Gaz throws over his shoulder, his voice a touch too loud again. The bell clangs with finality as the door slams shut behind them. 

“Bye,” you say to the empty shop.

You fiddle with the key in the lock, quietly cursing. It always sticks, and every day you vow to bring something to grease it with, and everyday you forget. When you finally get it to cooperate, you let out a loud sigh, turning around to walk to your car. Someone’s leaning against it, and you freeze momentarily, your heart dropping before you recognize the figure. 

Gaz makes your shitty beater look like a prop in a photoshoot, lounging against it, the light of the setting sun haloing him, making his skin glow and highlighting the sharpness of his cheekbones. He lifts his hand in a friendly wave, and you gawk at the way his arm muscle flexes with the casual motion. 

“Hey,” he calls, all signs of his previous awkwardness gone. “How was the rest of your shift?”

“It was good,” you say, reflexively glancing around. “Did Johnny ditch you?” 

“No, I ditched him,” he rubs the back of his neck, the bashfulness creeping back in. “Brought him for back up.” 

“What did you need back up for?” The confusion must be evident on your face, because Gaz’s mouth quirks to the side, one of his dimples popping. 

“Had to have someone there to blubber to in case you told me to fuck off,” you watch him set his shoulders back with a deliberate nonchalance. “Would you want to go out sometime?” 

You can hear your blood rushing in your ears, and quickly unlock your knees so you don’t pass out. “You thought you might need backup?” You say faintly. 

He shrugs, trying and failing to look casual. “Wasn’t sure you’d say yes.” 

You snort, and then immediately cover your mouth in embarrassment when he looks wounded. “I’m so sorry, I’m not laughing at you I just— I thought I’d been painfully obvious. I get all stupid and flustered everytime you speak to me.”

“I fluster you?” Gaz has the audacity to look shocked, and you wonder if it’d be a crime to give someone so beautiful shaking baby syndrome.

“Do they not have mirrors where you’re from?” You throw back, your voice sour. He barks a laugh and looks surprised at himself. 

The cocky smirk that settles on his face is new, and you have the good sense to be terrified by what it might mean, his gaze going molten as he takes a careful step towards you, closing the gap. You get a whiff of his cologne, your knees wobbly as he glances down at your lips, his own parting subconsciously. 

“Is this flustering you?” Gaz murmurs, his voice deliciously low. 

“Um…” you say articulately, and he grins triumphantly, melting back against your car, generously giving you space to breathe. 

“So you will go out with me?” He coaxes, cocking his head to the side.

You blink up at him, trying to clear the cotton balls out from in between your ears. “Did I not say yes? Yes. Please, yes.”

Gaz smiles, sweet and blinding, and you want to bottle it up in a jar and keep it forever. “Thai okay?”

[wildechildwrites]

Keep your priorities straight: post fic.

[wildechildwrites]

the situation is still out of control

[wildechildwrites]

I read your story Orc/Reader and oh my god I’m in love. The reader's personality balances between the kindness in her heart and the fear she was raised and learned about, and Viggo is a sweetheart💘, I’m so happy I found your account your writing is amazing🥹💕 and I love that you write for cod too I’m going to devour that too right away❤️‍🔥

Your requests are open, but I wanted to ask if you accept monster x reader requests as well?

Thank you so much 😭 you're so lovely I'm glad you enjoyed the story!

And yes please! That was my first monster fic but I'm definitely open to writing more and would love any requests :) My writing pace can be extremely slow so you'll have to be patient with me!

Also I'll update my about me to have some more info about requests I realize it's kind of vague :)

[wildechildwrites]

*sits down to write a smut fic* The plot of this smut fic is that Character A believes himself abandoned by God.

[wildechildwrites]

Miscommunication

Orc/Reader

Word Count: 8.5k

Warnings: slight enemies to lovers, slowish burn, blood and injury, animal death mention, gross overuse of the miscommunication trope, size kink, manhandling, vaginal sex, oral sex

No use of Y/N

Summary: You find an injured Orc in the woods and reluctantly nurse him back to health, expecting him to leave once he's healed.

A/N: This is inspired by the fantastic @bucketsofmonsters fic "A Diplomatic Error" I would 100% recommend reading that (and everything else they've written) before reading this fic

AO3 Link: Miscommunication

18+

The war against the orcs has been going on for years now, every single able bodied man in your village called away by the King to fight. It’s been a tough adjustment, learning how to handle the harvests without half of the population, women and children rallying to the hardships, trying to find a routine within the chaos. You’re far enough from the front lines to be sheltered from most of the violence, but the occasional travelers come through bearing both news and whispered stories of brutality, of hulking green monsters ripping men limb from limb with their bare hands. 

The forests are slowly changing from lush green to the rich colors of autumn, and you’re out with your father’s crossbow, searching for any stray game you can take back for salting before the first frost hits, heavy snow and rain making hunting more difficult. You’ve shot a few quail, plump off their winter preparations, but you’re venturing deeper, searching for larger game, hoping for enough to feed more than just yourself. The midwife has instructed you to fetch some medicinal plants that are said to grow near the rivers, so you trudge dutifully along, following the trail deeper into the forest, eyes alert for any wandering animals. 

The forest is quiet, not even a breeze to rustle the trees and disturb the silence. The birds have ceased their songs, keeping you on edge. Larger predators don’t usually stray so far down the mountains, but with the imminent press of winter upon the valley, you must be on your guard. You round a fork in the path, coming up on the riverbed and freeze, a cold trickle of fear making its way down your spine. Kneeling next to the river, bent low to slurp greedily at the cool water is the unmistakable figure of an orc. 

He’s huge, even curled into himself the way he is, thick green skin pulling taunt against thickly corded muscles, tusks jutting prominently out from his jaw, his dark hair in one large braid slung over a muscular shoulder, decorated with bells and beads. You’ve never seen an orc in real life, and you're fascinated, watching him through the trees.

When he leans back, you notice a large gash high on his leg, steadily oozing thick, blackish blood. He winces, his face a picture of agony, and gingerly splashes water on the wound, hissing at the sensation. It’s deep, enough so that you spot the winking white of bone through the gore, and a wave of nausea overcomes you. You lean against the nearest tree, trying to steady your breathing. Even with healing magic, that’s a nasty wound, a high chance of fatality if not handled properly. 

A branch crackles underfoot as you shift yourself, trying to get a better look. The orc’s head shoots up, and he tilts his chin, scenting the air before turning to where you’re concealed in the brush, his eyes searching, wide black pupils narrowed. 

“Never seen an orc before, have you, girl?” 

Your heart slams into your chest. He can’t come after you, not with how badly damaged his leg is, but orcs are dangerous, and if there’s one, there could be more, hiding in the forest. Your small village would be powerless against them. You step into the clearing, brandishing your crossbow, trying to keep your voice steady. 

“Where’s the rest of your squadron? Orcs rarely travel alone.” 

He looks unimpressed, drawing his eyes up from the arrow pointed at him to your face then back down your body in a deliberately wolfish way that leaves you inexplicably flustered. You curl your fingers tighter around your weapon, trying to ignore the way your face burns.

“Just me, sorry to disappoint.” He leans back and grimaces in pain as the movement jostles his leg. A pang of pity strikes your heart before you’re able to stop the impulse.

“How were you wounded?” You demand. “How did you come to this place?” 

“Well,” the side of his mouth twitches. “Deserter is such an ugly word.” The whisper of humor in his tone is offset by a discordant note of hysteria concealed in its depths as his blood flows steadily into the river, clouding the clear water. “But I can assure you that I’m the only orc, and as you can see I am presently no threat to you.” 

“Orcs are always a threat.” You shoot back. “One of your commanders kidnapped and ate our princess.”

The orc has the audacity to laugh, a look of genuine amusement flashing across his pain marred face. “Ate her? Is that what you humans call it these days?”

You should just leave it alone. The orc must be dead already, bled out by the stream, and the woods are dangerous at night, spirits and animals alike all eager to take advantage of foolish travelers. You tell yourself you’re going back to gather the plants for the midwife that you neglected to retrieve, but the basket full of supplies on your arm tells a different story, mocking you.

You don’t dignify his comment with a response. You’ve been gone too long, the shadows growing deeper around you. If he’s telling the truth, then your town is safe, and with a wound like that, he won’t be long for this world. You turn your back on him deliberately, attempting to stamp out any pity you feel. He doesn’t say a word, allowing you to slip away into the forest. 

The moon is bright, a half smile guiding you down the path you’d know blind. Crickets harmonize with the gentle breeze, cool on your skin. You reach the clearing and sigh deeply, unsure if it’s out of relief or regret. There’s no sign of the orc, his blood drying on the rocks that line the river.

 The blue moss you need to gather glows softly in the darkness, and you creep towards the waters edge, stooping low to scrape it off the rocks. 

“There's a wolf following your scent,” a voice murmurs from the darkness. You gasp, whipping your head up, your eyes darting wildly, searching for the source. The orc has dragged himself to a gnarled tree, large body cradled in its curving root system, his green skin looking pale in the darkness. Blue moss is stuffed haphazardly into the wound on his leg, stemming the bleeding. He eyes you warily, a fox caught in a trap. “Not the only thing in the forest that’d like to have a taste, I suppose.” 

You glance over your shoulder into the shadowy wilderness around you and ignore your own trepidation, creeping closer to him, trying to inspect the wound. The orc snarls at you; a low, guttural noise in the back of his throat that makes gooseflesh erupt on your arms. 

You cease your movements, ignoring the fearful thumping of your heart, and give him the flat look you save for misbehaving children. “Do you want help with that injury or not?” 

“Didn’t think you’d be back after you left me to die.” He snips back, and a pang of guilt shoots through you. You drop to your knees beside him, still hyper aware of your own fragility, monitoring his large hands out of the corner of your eye. You draw your flask from within your cloak, offering it to him silently. When he moves to open it, faster than expected, you flinch.

He clicks his tongue derisively. “Jumpy thing, aren’t you princess?”

You glare at him, embarrassed of your own cowardice. “I’m not a princess, and I could still leave you here to die.” 

He raises a hand in mock surrender, moving with exaggerated slowness before taking a long swig from the flask as you inspect his injury. The wound is ghastly, the thick bone splintered, part of it pushing through the split layers of muscle, stubborn skin stretched tenuously. 

You'd seen an execution once when you were very young, and the sight before you instantly calls to mind the gleam of the axe in the sunlight, the sound it had made coming down on the condemned man's neck. Bile rises to the back of your throat. The orc’s dark eyes are trained on your face, and you attempt to school your expression into neutrality.

“This bone must be set back into place,” you murmur hesitantly, fingers hovering just above the injured leg. You’ve learnt some basic healing spells and occasionally assisted the midwife in her duties, but this is far beyond your capabilities. 

The orc lets out a measured breath. “You won’t be strong enough to do it,” His voice is steady, but there’s a minute tremble in his hands as he takes another swig of ale. “I’ll do it myself, you just have to guide me.” He holds the flask out to you with a grim smile that’s more of a baring of teeth, highlighting the sharpness of his tusks. “You look like you’re about to faint, little healer. Steady your nerves and I’ll steady mine.” 

He shoves the bone back into place and chokes, his eyes rolling back into his skull as he slumps back against the tree. You worriedly watch his chest, and relief flows through you when it shallowly rises. You combine a skin-knitting spell with one meant to restore balance to the humors and pray to whatever deity is listening that it’ll work. 

After a breathless moment, his skin starts to glow softly as the magic takes root. You let out a laugh of relief, loud in the silence of the forest. The glow moss possesses properties to fight inflammation, so you gently surround the slowly healing wound with it before carefully bandaging his leg. His flesh is tough under your fingers, more like hide than skin, and you briefly let your hands wander, tracing delicately down his leg, fascinated by the texture. 

Your patient lets out a groan, coming back into consciousness.

“How are you feeling?” you ask, quickly pulling your fingers away.

“Like someone tried to chop off my leg with a battle axe,” he growls, before glancing down at his leg critically. “Looks like they almost succeeded.

You frown. “I’ll be back tomorrow to change your bandages and bring you something to eat. The spell is a slow one, but you should be able to walk in a few days.” You pause, trying to sound authoritative. “When you can walk, you need to leave this forest. I don’t want you near my village, orc.” 

He snorts, but nods obediently. “I suppose that's fair.” 

You begin to rise to your feet, your knees aching from being pressed on the hard forest floor for so long. 

The orc shoots out a large hand, grabbing you faster than you're able to react, pulling you into his lap, narrowly avoiding you landing on his injured leg. 

“Let go of me!” You cry, fighting ineffectively against his iron grip. He pulls you against his chest, and you can feel the hard planes of his muscular body through your dress. He wraps a large hand around both of your wrists, keeping you ensnared, holding you against himself.

“Quit your squirming.” He leans in, close enough for you to feel his breath on your face, thick fingers digging into you. Your fearful heartbeat is loud in your ears.  “If you smell like an orc, the wolf on your trail will leave you be.”

You reluctantly still at his words, letting out a shaky exhale. “You could've said as much.”

He shrugs in response. “I've heard humans are overly decorous when it comes to more physical matters, and you seem especially timid. Better to ask for forgiveness than permission.”

You baulk at that, but he gives you no time to voice your thoughts, ducking his head down and nuzzling his face into the crook of your shoulder, rubbing against the sensitive skin of your neck. You let out a ticklish squeal and renew your struggles, trying to get away from the odd sensation. The rough scrape of warm skin against the delicate lines of your throat travels through you like a bolt of lightning, leaving you electrified, your entire body responding despite your urging.

The orc finally pulls back, an odd glint in his eye, his pupils blown wide. 

“So sensitive,” he murmurs, his voice husky. He loosens his grip. “You should be left alone now.”

You scramble out of his lap, stumbling to your feet with less gracefulness than you’d like, your face on fire. 

“Don't do that again.” You say fiercely, ignoring the tingling of your skin.

You turn to go and remember your basket, reaching into it to pull out half of a loaf of hard bread and some dried meat. You toss it to him ungraciously, your voice clipped. “It’s not much, but it should tide you over.”

“Thank you,” he murmurs, then stuffs the entire half loaf of bread into his mouth. You have to restrain yourself from laughing, your ire and embarrassment cooling more quickly than you’d like. When you enter the treeline, you look back at the orc instinctively.

He’s watching you, his eyes glittering in the darkness. 

You don't dare to make your way back into the forest until well into the afternoon the next day, picking your way quietly through the trees. You've brought as much food as you can spare, fresh bandages and a thick blanket to fight against the chill, feeling slightly guilty that the orc had to sleep through the night on the cold ground. Storm clouds gather threateningly on the horizon, the surrounding mountains draped in fog. 

The orc is sitting against the trunk of his gnarled tree, carving a small chunk of wood with a light handedness surprising for a creature of his size. You know he’s heard you approach, so you stand at a respectful distance, waiting for him to look up in acknowledgement. 

“Welcome back, little healer,” his voice is low, and his dark eyes, two chips of obsidian, flick to your face with unnerving focus. “You come bearing gifts?” 

You glance away, overwhelmed by his stare. 

“I’ve got some supplies, if you can be better behaved this time. How’s your leg?” You drop to your knees beside him, eager to see how your spell worked. 

“It’s been dancing between agonizing and hellish.” His lips are pressed tightly together, and you can see the tension in the cords of muscles around his throat, his under eyes sallow and sunken. 

The flesh beneath the bandages is knit together sloppily, marred by the characteristic blue-tinged scars of magic, sprawling like spiderwebs along the orc’s thigh. The skin glows with a sluggish light, illuminating the intricacies of veins beneath it, the spell still slowly working to repair the damage. You run a gentle hand over the injury and his entire body shivers beneath your touch. 

“Sorry,” you murmur, pulling away. He reaches a hand out towards you reflexively, but stops himself, curling his fingers loosely into his palm. 

“How much longer will this take?”

You’ve never treated a wound this serious before, and that combination of spells was admittedly unusual, but you want to reassure him, trying to sound soothing. 

“Shouldn’t be more than another day. I’ve got some willow bark for the pain.”

“Thank you.” His eyes still haven’t left your face. “My name is Viggo. I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself before you scurried off yesterday.” 

You’re abashed at your own poor manners, stumbling to introduce yourself. When you tell Viggo your name, he repeats it slowly, the sounds rolling over his tongue as though he’s savoring it. Heat rushes unexpectedly to your cheeks, and you turn your focus back to his injury, rewrapping his leg with fresh bandages and giving him a flask filled with willow bark tea. The sky is steadily getting grayer, soft fog beginning to curl around the trees. You can smell the storm in the air, getting closer by the moment. 

“I’m going to cast a water sealing spell over you to keep you dry,” you say, and pull out the blanket you brought with you. “This should help keep you warm as well. I’m sorry you’ve got to spend another night out here.” 

Viggo tilts his head back, looking up at the clouds, his expression almost serene despite the pain. “There are worse places to sleep than beneath the open sky, no matter the weather.” 

Your spell work truly is mediocre, but you think it’ll hold through the night. Viggo watches you without comment, and you find yourself explaining your process, filling the silence, self conscious beneath his gaze.

“Do orcs practice magic?” You eventually ask, curiosity clear in your voice, hunched over as you carve runes into the dirt at his feet.

“Some do,” he replies. “Although not the sort of magic a little healer would dabble in.” 

You ruminate on the implications of his statement, pulling food out of your basket. Viggo takes the offering from you gently, careful to avoid his hands touching yours. 

“Thank you, princess.” He holds out the wood carving he was working on. “For you.” It’s a small, intricate statue of a doe, ears up and alert, the body seemingly tensed to run. The smooth wood seems almost alive, so detailed and still warm from the heat of Viggo’s palms. You run a gentle finger over the deer’s back, marveling at his skill. 

“This is exquisite,” you murmur. Those dark eyes are on your face again, drinking in your expression. “Thank you.” 

Lightning flashes through the sky, followed by the grumble of distant thunder. “Best be on your way back,” Viggo says softly, “the storm will be here soon.”

You bid him farewell, the deer statue clutched tightly in your hand.

The rain keeps you awake, a constant downpour only broken up by the loud crackling of thunder. Your sleepless mind lingers on thoughts of Viggo; all alone in the cold dark forest, any attempts to chide yourself for your soft nature overwhelmed by your own concern for him. The stories you’ve heard about orcs are so different from your own impressions, confounding you immensely. You’d seen no signs of the brutal proclivity for violence or bloodlust characteristic of orcs in Viggo. Even with his injury, he seemed to possess a determined sort of good humor that was rather disarming. You shift restlessly, your eyes falling on the small carving he’d made for you. Perhaps he was just more cunning than other orcs, setting a careful trap to lure you closer. You wonder if the orc who had devoured the princess had given her gifts as well. 

The break of dawn is a mercy, dragging you out of bed and away from your conflicted thoughts. You pull the hood of your cloak up around your face, keeping your hair out of the damp air. The rain had finally dissipated in the hours before dawn, but the clouds are still hanging threateningly overhead, thick with moisture.

The path is covered with mud, the ground softened by the downpour. You’ve got your skirts bunched in one hand, higher than what’s proper, trying to keep them clean. As you continue your journey, you come upon a large branch in the middle of the path, broken off by the storm. Nostalgia strikes you, fond memories of running through the woods with the other children, picking up sticks and pretending to be sorcerers. You smile to yourself and step over it. 

The river is close to overflowing, rushing steadily along. Viggo is sitting under the tree where you left him, blessedly dry, looking healthier than you’ve ever seen him. Despite the dim of the light in the forest, his skin is vibrant, a spring fern green, his face markedly less sunken. 

“You’re early.” He calls out, his good leg bouncing restlessly, tapping out a tuneless rhythm. 

He returns the grin. “The pain’s hardly a thought. I think I’ll be able to stand, just figured I’d wait for my little healer to give her approval.” 

His obvious eagerness is contagious, and a smile forms on your face despite your own trepidation. “You seem much improved.”

You laugh, the sound bouncing off the trees. “Let me take a look at it first, and then you can try.” 

The scar is a nasty one, but it’s no longer glowing, your healing spell finally having finished its work. You’re both leaning over his leg, foreheads almost touching, unconscious of your proximity until you look up. Heat rushes to your face. 

“You should be alright.” You blurt, quickly rising to your feet.

 You reach out your hand, offering to pull him up. He looks at you dryly, an eyebrow quirked. 

“I don’t think–” Viggo makes an unsteady move to stand before pitching forward, a large arm wrapping around your waist, instinctively searching for support, dragging you to the muddy ground with him. He lands heavily on top of you, and you let out a strangled squeak of surprise and pain, his weight crushing the air out of your lungs. You smack at his shoulder and he rolls off of you, his face clouding with frustration. 

Your cloak and dress are covered in mud, and you shake your head ruefully, letting out a small sigh. So much for keeping yourself clean. Viggo attempts to get to his feet once more, letting out a growl of frustration when he falls again. 

Your earlier nostalgic reminiscing comes to mind once more, and you jump to your feet and you head back into the forest, following the familiar trail until you come upon the tree branch you saw earlier.

When you drag it back into the clearing, Viggo is still lying on his back, uncaring of the mud, a pout clear on his features. The expression is rather silly on such an intimidating looking creature, but you bite back your amusement for his sake.

“You can use this as a walking stick.” You’re breathless from the exertion, the branch heavier than it looks, hopefully sturdy enough to support Viggo’s weight. He glances at you with an unimpressed look, and you smile encouragingly. “ I’m sure within a fortnight you won’t have any use for it.”

After some hesitation, Viggo reaches for the stick and attempts to stand again, pushing himself up carefully. With the extra support, he’s able to shakily stay on his feet, and you watch him practice navigating the clearing. You’ve brought some dry logs from your cottage, and you get to work starting a small fire while Viggo hobbles uncertainly over the damp ground around you. It’s soon crackling merrily, a hare roasting on a spit above the flame.

“I’m sure you must be famished,” you frown at Viggo. “You’re twice my size and you’ve been surviving on what little I have to give.” 

“Three times your size, more like.” He’s given up on walking, stretching himself out near the flames, carefully carving away at his new cane, his eyes flicking between you and his work. 

“I’m just grateful for what you’ve been bringing me. Hopefully I’ll be well enough to hunt soon.” His voice drops, taking on a husky tone. “Although I’d eat you, if you let me.” 

A thrill of fear runs up your spine at his words, your thoughts drawn once again to the fate of your kingdom’s poor princess, and you remain silent, tucking some small apples from your basket into the coals to bake and fussing with the fire before finally settling on a rock near the flames, the dried mud on your dress crackling. Your hands dance nervously in your lap. Viggo watches you like a cat tracking a bird, eyes on your fluttering fingers, and you suppress a shudder.

 In the brief moments when his eyes are on his work, you study him, your gaze bouncing covertly between him and the fire. The firelight casts shadows on his face, illuminating the sharpness of his broad cheekbones, highlighting the jagged angles of an oft broken nose. He truly is handsome in a rugged way, and that realization hobbles your terror, your heart stumbling a confusing rhythm. 

You let him eat the majority of the rabbit, still unnerved by his earlier comment. He wolfs it down whole, crunching loudly on the bones. You stare at him owlishly, completely aghast. 

“No reason to waste good bones,” he says with a shrug, his mouth twisted in amusement at your expression. You pick delicately at your portion, your appetite thoroughly dampened.

The fire pops, glowing embers floating through the air. Viggo speaks into the silence, pulling you out of your own thoughts, his eyes on the path towards the village. 

“Village life must be quite monotonous. Do you ever tire of seeing the same things, day after day?”

You shake your head. “Some of the other girls want to leave, to get married to some far off lord and never return, or become adventurers and come back with riches and wild stories.” 

“But not you?” 

“I like it here,” you sigh. “This is my home. I know everyone who lives in the village and I know every inch of this forest. I'd miss that if I left; the knowing.” You lean closer to the fire, warming your hands. 

“I just wish I could carve out a place that was my own, I can’t live in my father’s shadow forever.” Viggo hums thoughtfully. You look at his pensive expression through the flames. 

“What do you want?” Your eyes drop to his leg. ”You left the fight, to what end?” 

“I–” he hesitates. “The military was my lifeblood.” He looks up at the moon, peeking through the clouds, then back at you. 

“It's a hard life, but it was mine. Now it isn't. I suppose now I’m looking for a place of my own as well.” 

You look up at the sky, your thoughts swirling. 

Viggo plucks the apples out of the fire, paying no mind to the heat, strong fingers easily splitting the softened fruit in half. You stand with a stretch, your ribs still sore, and make your way around to fire, crouching down beside him. He hands you a piece of apple, and your fingers brush. 

“Thank you again, little healer.” His voice is low, his gaze hypnotic. “I owe you my life.” 

The apple is tart and warm in your mouth, and Viggo watches you swallow, dark eyes on your throat.

You pick your way through the forest the next day, eager to see Viggo, a basket full of food on your arm. You’re pushing into your winter supply, but you’re foolishly unconcerned, more worried about making sure Viggo is fed than your own needs. You round the bend of the river, whistling cheerfully, and stop in your tracks. The clearing is empty. 

“Viggo?” You check around the oak tree, but there’s no sign of him, so you follow the river, trailing along next to the sluggish flow of water, calling out his name. The only answer is the gentle rustling of the leaves in the breeze. You drop down on a large rock jutting out of the bank, trying to quash the feelings of disappointment. You had ordered him to leave. It was what was best for the village, even if Viggo had proven to be harmless; he was still an orc. Orcs were dangerous.

You just didn’t think that he’d leave without saying farewell.

There’s a dead deer on your porch, body still warm, a surprisingly well-crafted spear sticking out of its neck. Your heart leaps at the sight, shock and then relief which quickly gives into mounting temper. The sun is starting to dip below the horizon when you finally finish processing the meat, your anger simmering as you carefully stretch the deer’s hide out to dry by the fire. You pull on your warmest cloak, tying it clumsily around your shoulders and make a break for the woods. Your footsteps are loud, the frost covering the forest floor crunching under foot, birds startling out of the trees with squawks of surprise. You burst into the now too familiar clearing breathing heavily, your heart beating loudly in your ears.

Viggo is leaning against his cane, chest bare despite the chill. A fire burns low, the smell of roasting meat permeating the air, a cache of freshly skinned pelts stacked by the river. He watches you storm towards him with mild interest, cocking his head in an unspoken question, his dark eyes dancing in the flickering light.

“You–” you shove your finger into his chest, lifting yourself up onto your tip toes in a failed attempt to get into his face– “You were supposed to leave. I healed you, I didn’t let you die, and you said you’d go.” 

“So I take it you didn’t appreciate the deer?” He asks mildly, ignoring your words, and you have to bite your lip against the urge to scream.

“You were gone. You left without a word, and then you just–you can’t prance into the middle of town for no reason.” Your face is hot with anger. 

“If anyone finds out I helped you, that I’m harboring an orc in the middle of this ridiculous war, I’ll be branded a traitor, and they’ll probably put me to death.” The glare you level at him is positively lethal. 

“If you want me dead, have the decency to break my neck yourself. Otherwise, stay out of my village.” 

Viggo cocks his head, frustratingly unperturbed by your outburst, his face placid. “I don’t want you dead.” He says simply.

You let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing your eyes with your palms. It’s a wonder orcs can be killed at all, with how thick their skulls are. “That’s–how did you even know which cottage was mine?” 

He responds in the same mild tone. “I could smell you.” 

You feel a different sort of heat rising to your face, self consciousness replacing your anger. You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly aware of the chill in the air. “Do I smell unpleasantly?” 

Viggo drops his head low, crouching down slightly to bridge the gap between you two. He inhales deeply, his eyes closing softly.

“Smell like you,” he murmurs, his warm breath tickling your face. His pupils are blown out, so wide his eyes almost look black. “Good enough to eat.” 

Fear drips down your spine, intertwining with an irrational shiver of desire. You’re painfully aware of his bare chest; broad, rippling muscle just inches away, close enough to touch. You let out an unsteady breath, and Viggo responds with a low rumbling noise, deep in his throat. You take a steadying breath to contain yourself and step back, glaring up at him. 

“You forget yourself, orc.” You say coldly. Viggo frowns, and your traitorous heart stumbles in sympathy. “Stay out of my village,” you repeat, turning on your heel and storming away, not bothering to say farewell.

You don’t plan on going back to the clearing. You’ve got winter preparations to make, and Viggo is obviously well enough to survive on his own. You’re angry at yourself for having been so foolishly distressed when you thought he had left the first time, angry at him for endangering you both. The thought of him has your head spinning, an unfamiliar knot in your stomach. You’ll be happy when you can forget about the entire occurrence. 

The first flakes of the season fall from the sky, looking more like bits of cotton blowing in the wind than real snow. You find yourself walking the same familiar path begrudgingly, spurred through the forest by forces outside of your own control.

Things in the clearing have changed much from the last time you visited. A significant area of trees are cleared out, logs stacked neatly to one side, the bones of a building slowly coming together. You spot the large outline of thick green shoulders protruding from a roughly dug cellar near the shadow of the gnarled oak, and call out in surprise. 

“You���re building a cottage?”

Viggo’s head shoots up. He smiles at you, flashing his tusks, delight and pride clear in his expression. There are smudges of dirt on his broad cheekbones, and his obvious pleasure at seeing you saps any remaining negative feelings you might have towards him almost immediately, no matter how desperately you try to keep them in your grasp.

“Do you like it?” He asks, climbing out of the cellar with some difficulty; you notice with a frown that he still favors his other leg. He gestures at the rough structure. “I was hoping to finish it before the first snow.” 

“I thought that you were leaving,” you respond, confusion evident in your voice. 

Viggo shrugs. “The winter will make traveling difficult, especially with my leg.” Guilt shoots through you at his words. “I’ll stay here, for now.” He shoots you a look. “If that’s alright with you of course, princess.”

“Your injury’s still giving you trouble?” He seems sturdier than the last time you saw him, clearly well fed and well rested, but he still walks with a prominent limp, relying heavily on his cane. The guilt solidifies, a stone in your stomach.

“It’s nothing.” Viggo frowns at your expression, his voice smooth and reassuring. “Some of the best warriors I know are missing limbs, and I’ve still got all of mine.” He waves his hand, brushing away the subject, then looks down at you with an indecipherable glint in his eye. “Once you leave your father’s house, you can live here.” 

“What?” Your mind is ripped away from its downward spiral with a jolt, your mouth falling open in surprise. “You want me to live here?”

“You didn’t like the deer.” He states plainly, as though that explains anything. Before you’re able to get any further clarification, he gently wraps a large hand around your upper arm, pulling you towards the structure. “I’m clearing some land for a garden, but with the bounty of the forest right outside your door, you should be able to hunt and forage quite well.” 

“You can’t just gift me a house.” Your face is on fire. You forgot how large he is, towering over you, his muscular body unabashedly on display. 

He looks down his crooked nose at you. “I already did. Do you like it?” 

“Yes.” You whisper. “It looks very nice.” 

Viggo smiles at you, eyes full of affection. “Anything for you, princess.”

Winter has come to the valley, shortening your days and cloaking everything in a heavy layer of white. The journey to Viggo's cabin is more difficult, the forest thick with untrodden snow, but you venture out as often as you can. 

Viggo’s left to gather the bitter winter berries that grow in the higher elevations of the nearby mountains, a long excursion that has you worrying about him constantly, eyes anxiously trained on the forest, fighting through the heavy forest snow to see if he’s made it back yet. Everytime, you’re greeted by the cabin, empty and dark. 

You’ve risen early, long before the weak sun has dragged itself above the horizon, shrugging off another restless night. You bundle yourself up tightly, dreading leaving your warm house to do your chores. When you open the front door, a delicate winter rose lies on your doorstep, the petals an icy blue. Your heart leaps in your chest.

The snow tugs at your skirts as you bound down the path, leaping into the fresh footprints Viggo’s left behind. The sky is clear, the snow almost blinding, the ice covered branches sparkling, stars in the light of day.

You knock eagerly and the door flings open. “Viggo!” You throw yourself at him, completely forgetting your decorum. He catches you with a small grunt, keeping a hand on his cane for stability, the other wrapping around your waist, bringing you to his chest in a crushing hug. You throw your arms around his neck instinctively.

“Missed you too, princess,” he hums, burying his nose into your hair and making a snuffling sound. You giggle, pulling away from him. 

“Stop sniffing me,” You laugh, pushing at his chest, and squirm out of his grip. “I smell like the barn.” He smiles down at you, his eyes sparkling, and you beam back up at him before the impropriety of your behavior catches up with you, your cheeks heating. You clear your throat and take a subtle step back. “Did you gather all the berries you wanted?” you ask politely. 

Viggo raises an eyebrow at your jarring tone change but doesn’t comment on it, ushering you inside. Two large bags overflowing with berries sit on the elaborately carved table, and you let out an impressed hum.

“You can take as much as you’d like,” he says, and you grin at how pleased he sounds with himself. “I’m sure your friends in the village would appreciate the fruit, even if it is bitter. I’ve got plans to brew the rest, if you’re willing to help me.” 

“That’s a wonderful idea,” you pop a berry into your mouth and crinkle your nose at the tart flavor. Fresh fruit is a commodity this time of year, and you’re eager for it despite the lack of sweetness.

“One more thing, princess,” Viggo disappears behind the curtain separating his bed from the rest of the cabin. In his hands is the finest pelt you’ve ever seen, plush and white as the driven snow. On top lies another of Viggo's brilliant carvings, a fox this time, crouched low, about to pounce. 

“Oh Viggo,” you gasp, breathless. You step towards him and reach your hand out, eager to feel the soft fur. “It's beautiful.”

He leans down, his eyes dark and smoldering like coal. “I'll kill every fox in this forest if it means you'll keep saying my name like that,” he murmurs. Your breath hitches. Viggo hums, low in his throat. “Stay for dinner, will you princess?” 

You smile shyly at him. “Alright.”

It’s late, a full belly and the fire crackling merrily in the hearth coaxing you into a drowsy haze. The long walk home through the dark, frigid woods seems daunting. You should’ve left hours ago, but you’ve lost track of time. Viggo tells you stories, childhood fables strange and familiar, and you fade in and out of focus, staring sleepily up at him.

His hair is in disarray from his travels, odd whisps escaping the confines of his braid, leaves caught in the strands. The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them, an unconscious interruption. “Would you like me to rebraid your hair?” 

Viggo freezes, his face unreadable in the flickering firelight. The silence between you stretches, and the longer it does, the more mortified you feel. You’re about to revoke your offer and apologize for overstepping when he finally responds, his voice almost timid.

“If you’d be so kind.” 

His hair is coarse and thick, heavy in your palms as you card your fingers gently through it, untangling knots and picking out debris, careful to to not disturb the intricate pattern of beads woven throughout his head. In his low, hypnotic voice, Viggo explains what each bead means, the significance of the placement and size, and you listen intently, fascinated.

The braid you’ve managed isn’t perfect, but it’s neater than before. Viggo shakes his head experimentally, and lets out a pleased hum. “Thank you, princess.” 

You stifle a yawn. “I should probably start to make my way home.”

“You shouldn’t go out in this,” Viggo says immediately, a frown on his face. One of his large hands shoots out automatically, strong fingers wrapping around your wrist. “It’s not safe.” 

“I can’t stay here,” you reply stubbornly. The wind outside howls, rattling the window shutters, and a shiver runs down your spine.

“Why not? The bed is large enough for both of us.” Viggo replies. You feel your face heat at the implication, and he quickly responds to your silent discomfort with an easy shrug. “If you feel it’s improper, I’ll sleep on the rug in front of the fire.” 

“I wouldn’t make you sleep on the floor…” You bite your lip, your eyes flitting to the door again, and you feel your shoulders droop with the realization that you won’t be going home. “We can just share the bed.” 

Viggo pulls back the curtain, and you hover anxiously, feeling suddenly shy.

“Ever the proper princess, aren’t you?” He quips, settling himself down onto the thick pile of furs and blankets. In a flash, he’s wrapped a large hand around your wrist, tugging you down with him, an echo of one of your first meetings.

“Viggo!” You cry out in protest, but make no effort to fight him, going slack against the broad expanse of his chest. He wraps his arms around you, a large hand settling on the back of your neck, holding you in place. 

“Don’t worry, princess,” humour colors his voice, dancing with an unmistakable affection that bewilders and pleases you. “I won’t inform anyone of your indiscretions. What would the villagers think, you sharing a bed with the enemy?” 

“I suppose they’d exile me. They’d expect you to devour me sooner than later, so no use in executing me.” He lets out a snort. You shift in his hold. “We’ve had travelers from other villages, closer to the fighting. They tell… stories.” Your morbid curiosity wins out, the words slithering out before you can stop them, a barely whispered breath. “What does… human… taste like?” 

Viggo lets out a quiet laugh, and you can just tell he’s rolling his eyes. “Orcs don’t actually eat humans. That’s just something you tell yourselves to make all these skirmishes over territory feel more noble.” 

All at once, everything seems to stop, your mind reeling as you grapple with your confusion. 

“But–” you pause, trying to make sense of everything. “This whole time, you’ve been saying you were going to eat me. Like the princess was eaten.” You look up at him through your lashes, bewilderment clear on your face.

You didn’t realize orcs could blush, but Viggo’s pointed ears have turned a darker shade of green, his eyes fixed determinedly on the ceiling, avoiding your gaze, the first sign of sheepishness you’ve seen since you’ve known him. His hands slide away from you.

“The commander and princess are mates.” He clears his throat, dark green spreading across his face and chest. “I had heard humans were uncomfortable with being open about mating. I thought you were speaking about the matter delicately.”

You sit up, pulling away from him, and he finally looks at you. “You–” you gape down at him. “Why wouldn’t you just say something? Everytime I thought we may be– growing closer— you’d threaten to eat me, or I’d think about our poor princess, and the whole time—”

“Why would you continually visit me if you were afraid I was going to eat you?” Viggo asks, a touch too bland to not be teasing, and you smack his chest, a blush of your own heating your face.

“You brought me that deer. You carved those totems. You gifted me that fur. You built me a house. That was all–you’ve been courting me? You want–” you pause, bashfulness overtaking you, unable to bring yourself to say the words aloud.

Viggo sits up, all traces of shyness completely disappearing. “You healed me,” he says, ticking off his large fingers, parroting you. “You brought me supplies. You accepted my gifts. You braided my hair. You were going to sleep in our bed.” His dark eyes burn into yours. “Seems you've been courting me too, princess.”

The warm feelings that have been pooling in your stomach when you're close to him, the tightening of your chest under his dark eyes, the sensations you've been trying to repress with guilt and unease all strive to pull you under, thoughts of propriety leaking out of your ears.

Viggo wraps a large arm around your waist, pulling you into his lap. His mouth slots against your own clumsily, his tusks scraping against your face, and you giggle at the sensation. He nips at your bottom lip, deepening the kiss, his tongue scraping against yours. You sigh, going slack in his arms. He pulls back, his chest heaving, eyes nearly black, your mouths connected by a single spiderweb strand of spit. 

“I suppose I was half serious when I said I’d like to eat you,” he murmurs.

 You’re flat on your back before you can react, manhandled like you weigh nothing, staring up at Viggo in shock. He smirks at your expression, leaning down to capture your lips with his once more. His mouth strays, nibbling along your jaw before he slowly lowers himself to his knees. You let out a cry of protest when he flips your skirt, legs bowing in reflexively. Viggo grabs your ankles, pulling them apart and yanking you towards him.  

“Smell so good,” he growls, and you can feel the rumble against your sensitive skin. Large fingers splay across your stomach, pinning your hips down effortlessly. You’re jumpy with anticipation, squirming against his hold as he softly kisses a trail up your legs, nipping at the delicate skin. His tusks press against your inner thighs, spreading them open, the pinprick of pressure from the tips making you shiver, amplifying your sensitivity. 

The first swipe of his tongue is a shock, scorching hot and wet, a long laving swipe, opening you up. You choke on a gasp, a keening noise leaving your throat, your hands reaching down to fist at his hair, destroying the braid you’d done so carefully, pushing him away and pulling him closer. He lets out a groan against you, burying his tongue deeper, desperate to taste every inch of you. When he moves his mouth up slightly, focusing his attention on your clit, you can’t fight the moan it rips from you. Your hips twitch up but he keeps you pinned, licking you with wide, flat swipes that make your toes curl. 

Viggo slides a large finger into your aching heat, and your back bows, your vision nearly going black when he curls it inside you. The noises you’re making should be humiliating, but you’re too far gone to care, gasping and squealing Viggo’s name as the thread tightens, threatening to snap. He switches the angle, shoving another impossibly thick finger inside you, and you squirm at the stretch. His tongue licks over your clit, his fingers filling you up deliciously, dragging you to the edge. You tumble over it with another cry of his name, tightening around his fingers uncontrollably as he continues fucking you with them, quickly driving you towards overstimulation.

“S’too much!” you whine, throwing your head back hard, fruitlessly trying to squirm away from him. He slows but doesn’t stop, the heat of his mouth almost painful against your sensitive cunt, your whimpers seeming to just encourage him. 

When he finally pulls back to look at you with those dark, glittering eyes, his face covered in your slick, you clench involuntarily around his fingers. He lifts himself up, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, making you taste yourself, his hands wandering to your chest, humming appreciatively, squeezing your breasts. Your hips rock in response to the sensation, and you slide your hands around his neck.

“Need to be inside you, princess,” Viggo murmurs, leaning in to kiss you again. Your thighs fall open around him, your heart racing as he pulls himself free.

 A hysterical laugh slips past your lips without your bidding, and you clap your hand over your mouth, trying to stifle yourself. His manhood is massive, pressing up against his stomach, the heavy tip weeping. You reach down, attempting to encircle the rigid flesh with your fingers, and his eyes slip closed at the sensation.

“I hardly think I’ve got room for all of you,” you whisper, eyebrows drawn together in concern. 

The side of Viggo’s mouth twitches with humor, and you feel yourself flush when his gaze drops, devouring you with his eyes, the carnal edge unabated. “We’ll see,” he murmurs, softly pressing a kiss to your lips. “I’ll be gentle.” 

You let yourself melt into the kiss, tugging him closer, moaning against him when his cock brushes against your clit. Your hands wander over the iron muscles of his back as he drags the blunt head of his cock through your wet folds, coating himself in your slick. When his head catches on your entrance, you gasp at the sensation. Viggo lets out a feral growl, and presses his hips forward. 

You’re so tight it’s almost painful, and Viggo shudders, large hands clenched into fists, his abdomen quivering as he slowly fucks you open, holding himself back, preventing himself from hurting you. You’re unnaturally full, and you stare up at him helplessly, a pinned butterfly under his dark gaze. Your hips buck of their own accord, pulling him deeper inside you, the sensations overwhelming. 

“Hold still,” Viggo snarls, grabbing your hip, fingers digging into your skin almost painfully. “Just–” He lets out a measured breath, his eyes on your face, his expression full of desperate want. You shudder, clenching around him. His eyes drop to where you're connected, and you feel his dick twitch inside you. 

“Oh, princess,” he murmurs, and slides himself deeper, his pace torturously slow. Your nails score his shoulders, your breath pulled from you. The stretch dances on the edge of pain, your walls squeezing him impossibly tight. Viggo reaches his fingers down to circle your clit, slowly pressing himself into you with languid strokes, slowly stretching you out around him, seeing how much you can take. You wince when he bumps against your cervix, only able to handle half of his cock. Viggo notes your discomfort immediately, pulling his hips back until only the head is still inside you, shallowly thrusting, his fingers still on your clit. Under his tender ministrations, the pain blurs into pleasure, and you writhe against him as you feel yourself being pulled to another peak. 

His carefulness cannot last, his restraint close to snapping, his thrusting harder and faster, slipping too deep. His brows knit together, caught up in mindless passion, staring down at you ardently. You rake your fingernails down his back, scrambling for purchase, your heart feeling as though it’ll beat out of your chest, breathless gasps pulled from you with every thrust. 

“Viggo,” you whimper, attempting to wrap your legs around his broad hips, holding him tightly to you, watching as he comes undone, his movements growing sloppy, his hips stuttering. You can feel him twitching inside of you, unnatural warmth as he fills you up. 

Viggo collapses on top of you, crushing you under his weight, breathing heavily. You let out a squeak, slapping at his shoulder, and Viggo wraps his arms around you, taking you with him as he rolls over. You lay your head on his chest, boneless and flushed. 

“I’m glad orcs don't really eat people.” You murmur, exhaustion flooding over you, loosening your tongue. Viggo huffs a laugh, stirring the hair around your face, and presses a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“Me too, My princess.”

[wildechildwrites]

[wildechildwrites]

Source: This

[wildechildwrites]

they call me the writer the way i stare at my google document and do nothin

[wildechildwrites]

Promise

John Price/Reader

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: lil bit of angst

No Use of Y/N

Gender Neutral Reader

Summary: Your husband comes home unexpectedly with his team in tow

A/N: *Posts something* *Disappears for another four months*

AO3 Link: Promise

John’s posture visibly relaxes as he steps through the front door, knots in his shoulders unraveling as he rounds the corner and spots you. The sun’s setting, golden rays filtering through the kitchen window, wrapping everything in a warm glow. You’re stirring a pot on the stove, humming to yourself, and as you turn to look at him, lips curving softly, John murmurs a hello, voice reverent with poignant adoration.

Your bright eyes flick from his to the three curious pairs behind him, and you click your tongue in disapproval. “John, if you'd called ahead, I could've ensured I made enough for your guests.”

“They're not staying long, love, just–”

“Oh, nonsense,” you cut him off, waving your hand as if to brush away the thought, tone authoritative. “You sort your business, and I'll see what can be done to stretch the meal. Honestly John, what kind of first impression is that; me turning out your boys without dinner?”

You cross the warmly lit kitchen and give him a quick peck on the cheek before introducing yourself to his companions, a bright smile on your face. Soap hasn't quite managed to pick his jaw off the floor, so Ghost leans over and shuts it for him. Gaz smiles back at you, recovering from his shock with more ease as he extends a hand to you.

“I'm Kyle,” he says keenly, and the stormy face of his captain, standing just out of your eye line, makes him quickly drop your hand. “The boys call me Gaz.”

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Gaz.” You reply, genuine warmth threading through your voice before you turn towards the two other men. “You must be Ghost and Soap.”

“Aye,” Soap replies after a beat, “Price never mentioned he had a…” he trails off awkwardly, and Ghost smacks the back of his head. You laugh lightly, not having to look at your husband to feel the glare he’s shooting his soldiers.

You reach your hand towards John, and he tangles his fingers in yours automatically, pulling you towards him. You give him a playful smile before turning back towards his boys. “He’s a big advocate of separating work from home. Won’t even let me call him Captain.”

The suggestive lilt in your voice makes the men duck their heads, and you turn to John, watching the tips of his ears turn pink with barely concealed glee.

“We’ll be in my study,” he grumbles.

The men can hear your laughter ringing as they head down the hall.

You can’t help the thread of anxiety twisting low in your stomach as you add more broth to the soup you’re making. The less you know, the better, but the unexpected presence of John’s entire team sits poorly with you. He didn’t even send you a warning text, entirely out of character, exacerbating your unease. Muffled voices filter through the walls, and you try to distract yourself, curbing your instinct to eavesdrop. The soup is simmering on the stove, so you go to the pantry and grab a box of brownie mix and a bag of chocolate chips, quickly mixing all the ingredients together and popping the pan in the oven.

You’re licking brownie batter off the spatula when John comes back into the kitchen, and you can tell by the expression on his face that you’re not going to like whatever he’s about to say. He takes large, quick strides towards you, and you manage to toss the spatula in the sink before he sweeps you into his wide arms, tugging you to his chest in a tight embrace. You inhale as deeply as you can, pulling the familiar scent of him into your lungs.

“I’ve got to go out of town.” He finally says gravely. “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to contact you until what needs to be done is done.”

There’s a high price to being married to a military man. John’s gone more often than he’s not, and when he does slink back home to you, it’s always with new scars and fresh nightmares, things that weigh on him in a way you’ll never be able to comprehend.

You know, with a sort of inevitable finality, that John won’t get to retire. It’s not in his nature, and no matter how much he loves you; he loves the job more. He’ll come home in a box one day, and every time he leaves, you have to accept it might be the last time you’ll see him.

Unwanted tears gather in the corners of your eyes, and you give yourself a moment, face pressed against John’s chest, willing yourself to be strong. Your voice is muffled when you finally speak, unwilling to pull away from the comfort of his arms.

“There’s a go bag full of clean clothes in our closet. When do you need to leave?”

John squeezes you tighter against him, burying his nose in your hair. His heartbeat is loud in your ears, steady as always.

“We’ll stay for dinner, but we’ll be leaving tonight. I’m so sorry, love.”

You dance around each other like it’s a normal night, basking in the warmth of the oven and his company, choosing to ignore the tug at your heart strings, the quiet sounds of his team filtering through the wall. You can feel his watchful eyes on you while you fill the bowls with generous scoops, but you pretend not to notice, humming to yourself with a cheer you don’t feel.

The timer on the oven dings, and you pull away, quickly turning so John can’t see the redness in your eyes. You know what you signed up for, but it doesn’t make it any easier.

“I was going to make some grilled cheese to go with the soup, will you get them started?”

The silverware clinks merrily, the living room filled with the sound of quiet chatter. The table hasn’t been this crowded since two years ago, when you convinced your sister to come for a visit. She’d brought her little ones, and John had doted on them, acting so soft and attentive, making you absolutely melt. You see echoes of that same care in his interactions with his men, hidden beneath an artificial shell of severity.

“This migh’ just be the best soup I’ve ever tasted,” Soap pipes up, elbows tucked uncomfortably to avoid jostling Gaz, “I’da kept you a secret too, with cooking like this.”

“Johnny.” John’s voice is a hard warning, but he betrays himself with the slightest curve of a smile beneath his whiskers, a spark of pride in his eyes.

“There’s some soup left on the stove, if you boys are still hungry.” You smile. “And I’ve got brownies for dessert.”

The appreciative noise Soap makes borders on obscene. “Dinner and dessert? Do ya’ want another husband?”

The thud of John’s boot connecting with his Sergeant’s shin echoes through the room, and you try and fail to stifle a snort. Gaz quirks his eyebrow at you, humor dancing in his expression, and you let out a giggle before slapping your hand over your mouth self-consciously.

“Apologies.” Ghost pipes up dryly, inclining his head towards Soap. “We don’t have ‘im house trained yet.”

You let out another laugh. “It's alright, I'm still working on John.” The boys laugh, and your husband shoots you a look.

“You’re fostering insubordination, love.” He says gruffly, and you smile sweetly at him, grabbing his hand under the table and giving it a tight squeeze.

The men eat fast, faster than you’d like them to, the meal ending too quickly. Ghost and Soap clear the table, cracking dad jokes that make you roll your eyes good-naturedly, and Gaz plants himself solidly in front of the sink, ignoring your protests.

“Let me do the dishes,” he says stubbornly, an immovable brick wall, ignoring your attempts to shove him out of the way. “My mum would have a fit if she knew somebody cooked for me and I didn’t do the washing up.”

“I’m not going to discourage his good manners; he rarely gets to put ‘em to use. Come and sit with me for a minute.”

John’s leaning against the kitchen door frame, his warm eyes crinkled with amusement at the scene in front of him. You whirl around with a grumpy look.

“John, order him to let me take care of it,” you command, pointing at Gaz, and your husband just laughs, reaching out to grab your hand.

He leads you away from the bustle of the kitchen to his study, shutting the door behind him. His normally pristine desk is strewn with papers and maps, and you try and fail not to look too much, wondering what’s in Mexico that could need such urgent attention. John sits in the wide leather chair behind the desk and pulls you into his lap, burying his nose into your neck, his facial hair tickling your skin. You both inhale deeply, folding into each other.

The silence is heavy. You’re too aware of the ticking clock, the inevitable goodbye. You’ve barely had him for a few hours, and then you’ll be alone again, in this house designed for the two of you, constantly listening for the familiar sound of footsteps, desperately waiting for the phone to ring.

“You know, love,” John murmurs, “If anything were to happen to me, the boys would make sure you're looked after. Kate too.” He pulls back to look at you, his expression earnest. “Made them swear to it.” Your stomach drops like a rock, the tears you’ve been fighting all night rising back to the surface. John's thoughts have been in the same place as yours, lingering on realities best left unacknowledged.

You choke around the lump in your throat. “I don’t need anyone looking after me. I just need you.” You wrap your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him. “Just come back home, John.” Your bottom lip wobbles, tears leaking out of the corners of your eyes, and he sighs mournfully.

“None of that, love. You know I can’t stand to see you cry.”

“Just–” you cut yourself off to smother a sob. “Just promise me you’ll always come home.” You want to beg him to stay, beg him to never leave you again, but you know he has to go. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be the man you married. You’ll settle for an unsustainable guarantee, worthless words with no force behind them. Your wedding ring sits heavy on your finger, a noose around your neck.

The lie sours in the air between you.

John’s gaze is melancholy. His thumb gently brushes away the tears making their way down your cheek, and he leans in to press a tender kiss to your lips.

“I promise. Always.”

You walk the boys to the door, making sure they’ve got everything they need, slipping the last brownie to Soap when no one else is looking. You give your husband a tight hug, leaning up to kiss him on the cheek before turning towards his men.

“It was nice to meet you all.” Your face is blotchy from your earlier tears, eyes still rimmed with red, but you smile as sincerely as you can.

Gaz reaches his hand out. “It was a pleasure. Thanks for dinner, it was delicious.”

You ignore the offered palm and pull him in for a hug, hoping it’s not overly familiar. The way Gaz relaxes into your arms tells you he needs it, and you give him an extra squeeze before pulling back. “You’re all welcome anytime you want a home cooked meal.”

When you turn to Soap, he sweeps you into his arms eagerly, crushing you tight enough against him to draw a strangled squeak from your lungs. “You’re a dead brilliant cook,” he says, voice oozing sincerity, “Price’ll have ta beat me out the door with a broom.”

“Johnny.” Your husband’s warning tone is enough for Soap to release you, grinning cheekily. You shoot John a reassuring look before turning towards your last guest.

Ghost eyes you warily, his posture unnaturally stiff. You open your arms slightly, tilting your head, a silent offering. There’s a beat, and then Ghost steps into the hug with the faux indifference of a moody teenager, throwing one arm carelessly over your shoulder. You have to stifle your urge to laugh. “Be safe,” you say softly, and there’s a shock of warmth in his icy stare even as he grunts noncommittally.

You’re plunged into empty silence when the men file out of the house. You watch them get into their cars, a bitter taste in your mouth. John turns to look back at you, saying something you can’t hear to his men before running back, slamming the front door behind him firmly. Your heart leaps.

“Forgot something,” he says, and grabs you, pulling you in for a searing kiss. You melt together, lips parting against his, arms automatically reaching up around his neck. He pulls back, and you tighten your grip around him.

“I love you,” it’s a desperate plea, an impossible ask.

“I love you, too.” John says, and his eyes slide to the door, strong fingers untangling himself from your hold.

When he leaves, he takes the warmth with him.

[wildechildwrites]

I want to write and have hours of free time to do so today but every work in progress I have right now is just pissing me off

[wildechildwrites]

“do you write for work or just for fun” none of the above. this activity is neither profitable nor enjoyable

[wildechildwrites]

Run, Rabbit

König/Reader

Wordcount: 3.8k

Warnings: 18+, Violence, Injury, Smut, lightly noncon but in the way that you're fighting it but are down, König being insane

No use of Y/N

Summary: You're on a solo mission in Romania, and König goes hunting

A/N: "Oh look another predator/prey coded Konig fic how original" SHUT UP I KNOW

AO3: Run, Rabbit

18+

You’re in the forests of Romania on a solo mission, snooping around an abandoned military base that’s been the location of some suspicious activity, according to your sources. You find the ghost of the for-hire group Kortac in rat-chewed maps and files, faint footprints in layers of dust, but the trail has long gone cold, the building slowly being reclaimed by nature. The trees show no sign of the changes of autumn, but it's in the air, the late summer whisper of a chill in the breeze. You take your time picking your way along the overgrown roads, enjoying the tranquility of the forest. The extraction point is ten clicks west of your position, but you’re content with your steady pace, the sun still high in the sky, shining brightly through the thick foliage, and the hike is an easy one. Your meager findings are carefully folded in your bag of gear, your gun snug on your hip. Ten meters to your right, a red deer raises its head up, watching you warily, before bolting away into the trees. You smile to yourself and raise your face to better feel the sun. 

You hear the crack of the shot and drop, but not quickly enough. Your ears ring, your shoulder burning agonizingly, like someone’s pushing a hot poker against it. You fight against the nausea and pain, willing yourself to move, scrambling into the brush for cover. The shot came from your six, and you grapple for your binoculars, trying to locate the shooter on the hill above you. You recognize the mask first, the bleached tear tracks down an executioner's hood, the hulking form of the figure wearing it unfortunately familiar. König is standing casually, seemingly unafraid of any return of fire, staring down like he can see you through the trees. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle instinctually as he begins to move, a sauntering pace down the hill like the slow lope of a wolf. You drop down again, ignoring the pain in your shoulder as you crawl through the underbrush. 

Nestled low on a hill, large body half buried in the underbrush, König watches you through the scope of his rifle, toying with the idea of killing you. He recognizes you from the files he’s seen on the 141, but there was nothing left at the base for you to find, no reason to draw suspicion and attention back here. You were harmless like this, and magnetic, head tilted towards the sun, your face lit up in a wash of gold light that plays up the color of your hair. His finger brushes lightly across the trigger as he contemplates his options. He rolls his neck loose before glancing through his scope again.

You stop behind a small boulder, pressing your back to it, breathing heavily, and pull your radio off of your hip. “Bravo Six, this is Bravo Seven Four, over.” 

The crackle of the radio is a relief, Price’s voice faint but firm. “Go ahead Bravo Seven Four, over.” 

“Enemies one; direction east of my grid two hundred meters, injury sustained, six clicks out of extraction point, over.” You peek out from behind the rock, but can't see anything, so you continue your crawl, waiting for a response. The birds have stopped singing, a deadly quiet that warns of danger.

“Stay calm Bravo Seven Four–” Price’s voice is cut off by the sound of another bullet whizzing near you. You can’t have your radio giving away your position, and the squad is too far away to reach you before König could. You grab your radio and quickly press the button. 

“Bravo Six, silence, meet at extraction, over.” You turn it off, not waiting for a response, and tuck it back into your belt. Ignoring the growing burning in your shoulder, you move as quickly through the underbrush as you can. You need to cover more ground if you’re going to make it out of here, so you weigh your options, propping yourself into a low crouch, scanning the woods behind you. You can’t see or hear anything. You inhale deeply, then break into a sprint.

The cracking of branches is faint, but König is listening for it, his rifle slung over his shoulder as he searches for you. He immediately changes directions, moving towards the noise and quickening his pace. If you want to run, he’s more than happy to indulge you, relishing the adrenaline of the chase. Your trail is clear, broken branches like a beacon beckoning him closer. He spots blood on one of the low boulders, and swipes it up on his gloved hand, smiling under the mask. 

You're hyper aware of your disadvantage, the sounds of snapping branches as your pursuer draws closer, the sluggish flow of blood down your shoulder from where the bullet grazed you. Your lungs burn, head woozy as you run hard, branches scraping at your form. You risk a look over your shoulder, searching for König behind you, and your heart drops when you miss a step. 

All of a sudden, you're falling, hands stretched out in front of you as you tumble down a steep hill. You hear and feel the snap of your ankle in your boot, a whimpering sob yanked from your chest as you finally land heavily in some thorn covered bushes, branches scratching your body even through the thick fabric of your uniform. You pull yourself out, ignoring the pain as thorns drag against your face, drawing blood, then scan yourself quickly, the prognosis bleak. You can't run, not with what is definitely a broken ankle, and your shoulder is still oozing freely, but you won’t go down without a fight. You drag yourself through the dirt using your good arm, stopping periodically to listen to the sounds of König moving through the trees. Your entire body burns, and you fight against the growing fatigue that’s threatening to overwhelm you, trying to hold onto your quickly waning adrenaline. 

The sound of breaking branches draws nearer. He’s moving faster, heavy footfalls that make your leg muscles twitch with the urge to run. König whistles, high and loud, and you reach for your gun, cocking it as quietly as you can, turning around to face the direction of the noise, crouching low. Your heart pounds in your chest, fear creeping in, the weight of your situation crashing down on you.

“I heard you cry out,” a voice rings through the trees. There's something light in König’s tone, like this has all been a game of tag. “You can't be too far.”

Then the only sound is the breeze, rustling in the leaves. Blood from a cut on your forehead drips into your eye, and you resist the urge to wipe it away, scanning your surroundings as best you can without moving.

The unwelcome feeling of the muzzle of a gun presses against the side of your head, and your body shudders involuntarily. 

“Drop your weapon, Häschen,” König murmurs. You comply immediately, tossing it at his feet, unwilling to argue with a Beretta at your temple. The large man quickly kicks your gun into the bushes. “Sit up,” he commands, and you move slowly, trying not to aggravate your broken bone. 

The small shack hasn’t been used in a while, the table in the center of the room is covered in dust, and spiders have made their home in the corners, spinning silvery streamers that hang down, brushing against his helmet. König places you lightly on the small bed in the corner, stooping over uncomfortably in the low room. Your hair is full of sticks and leaves, your face scraped and bleeding. He needs to look at your shoulder, and the ankle you’d been hovering over protectively, but work comes first. You’ve thrown him off, his fingers tingling where he held you to him, the phantom pressure of your head on his chest as he carried your unconscious body through the woods haunting him even now. He grabs your gear bag, dumping it unceremoniously onto the table, pulling your medkit to the side before rifling through the papers you’d found. The information was outdated, but he shoves the papers into one of the pockets of his pants for disposal later regardless.

You knew he was large, but kneeling at his feet he feels like a goliath, towering over you, the gun held in his grip looking comically small in his giant hands. He holsters it, and you get a stupid, moronic, brilliant idea. In a quick motion, you’ve ripped your radio off of your belt, pressing down on the button and bringing it to your lips. “MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY–” König slams the heel of his palm into the back of your head, and the world goes dark.

He doesn’t bother stripping you properly, just takes his knife and slices it up through the collar of your shirt, baring your shoulder to him. His eyes, unbidden, trace the line of the now exposed column of your throat, and he swallows loudly in the quiet of the room. König draws his attention back to your injury with some difficulty. He barely even grazed you, the puckered wound bleeding sluggishly, and he quietly gloats at his own aim. When he pours alcohol on it, you awaken with a hiss, throwing your arm out hard in his direction reflexively before your brain catches up with you. He deflects you easily, wrapping large fingers around your wrist, enjoying the feeling of the delicate bones, watching with silent smugness as your confusion reads clear on your face. 

“Guten tag,” he says, pleasantly casual, as though you’ve run into him at the grocery store. Your head is pounding, and you’re thrown, trying to grasp your surroundings. Your shoulder is burning, and you’re suddenly aware of the air on your bare skin. You rip your hand out of his grasp, pulling yourself as far away from him on the small bed as you can manage. He tilts his head, studying you. 

“What are you doing?” You ask, your voice hard. 

König gestures with the alcohol he’s holding. “I’m patching up your injuries.” His voice is low, his accent curling around the syllables of his sentences like smoke. 

You blink at him, utterly disarmed. “Why,” you pause, biting your cheek as a wave of pain radiates through your ankle, “Are you patching up my injuries?” 

“Would you prefer it if I left them?” He volleys back lightly, tilting his head. 

You don’t say anything, staring at him with suspicion. He’s got you cornered, quite literally, and there’s no way you can get away from him with your ankle like this unless you can get your hands on a weapon. There’s a knife tucked in your boot, but you can’t exactly pull it out subtly. His beretta is on his hip, his rifle is leaning against the table, but you’d be lying to yourself if you thought you had a chance in hell of reaching either before he could. 

 König takes your silence for compliance and goes back to dabbing your wound with alcohol. You flinch when he places his hand on you, and he makes a dissatisfied noise in the back of his throat. “Such a nervous little rabbit.” The mask conceals his expression from you, but you can hear the frown in his voice. 

“You shot me,” you respond dryly. “Doesn’t exactly foster trust.” 

 “Just a scratch. I could’ve killed you, if I wanted to.” He shrugs, a casual movement that’s unintentionally intimidating, your eyes on the way his shoulder muscles move beneath the layers of clothing he wears. 

You spend your time with large men, the boys of your team all averaging above six feet, but König is just startlingly gigantic. You scan his torso, eyes tracing across the wide planes of his chest, lingering too long to be decent. You catch yourself and drop your gaze down to your hands. “If you don’t want to kill me, what do you want?”

“I want to know what you are doing here.” His tone is still pleasant, but interrogative. His fingers are deliberate, surprisingly gentle as he bandages your shoulder, but there’s an unspoken thread of tension in the air. 

You’re much more docile when he patches up your ankle, an uneasy truce between the two of you. You sit still as he splints it, legs draped almost intimately over his lap, his large fingers curled around your injured leg, gentle pressure holding you steady as he works. He adjusts his hold, squeezing lightly on the meat of your calf, and your breathing stutters. His eyes flick to yours, something dangerous in their expression, and you hold his gaze as you deliberately drag your uninjured leg closer to you, your boot trailing across König's upper thighs intentionally. His eyes slip close at the sensation, just for a moment, and that's when you act, yanking your knife out of your boot and sinking it into his thigh and launching yourself to the floor. He lets out a snarling cry, and you scramble up, your vision going white from the pain of your ankle, but you push through it, sprinting out of the shack. 

“Chasing shadows.” You respond, your voice equally mild. You know he looked through your pack and probably found the papers. You wonder if he thought it was ironic that you came sniffing after KorTac, just to run right into him. You certainly did.

You can't run properly, reduced to a hobble that's made all the more difficult by the fact that you're on uneven terrain in the quickly growing dark. You need to figure out your location and find a way to contact your team, but you’re disoriented and disarmed. You haven’t made it more than a few meters when you hear the sound of the front door slam open. You pick up the pace, trying to put as much distance between you and the very angry Austrian hot on your trail. 

“Häschen,” König’s voice rings through the trees, and a trickle of fear runs through you. You duck behind a tree, pressing yourself against it firmly, trying to blend in with the darkness. 

“Always trying to run away,” he snarls, shoving his body against yours. He thrusts his uninjured thigh between your legs, pinning you further, and you let out an unintentional gasp at the sudden pressure of hard muscle against your core. König instantly pulls away, his eyes shooting down to your ankle with concern, before dragging slowly up your body, his gaze accusatory.  

He can hear you breathing, light and quick, and he doesn’t even try to disguise the heavy sound of his footsteps as he closes in on you. He whips around the tree you’re cowering against, and you try to bolt, but he wraps his fingers around your bicep, yanking you back, slamming his hands above your head, trapping you against the tree. 

“You like this,” he says, and you shake your head desperately. 

“I don’t–” he interrupts any denials you might have, deliberately grinding his thigh in between your legs. You clench your teeth against the noise it draws from your throat. 

He leans impossibly closer, your noses almost brushing through the hood he wears. “Did you like the chase as well?” His voice is a husky rumble, full of heat, and you have to bite back a whine. “I liked the chase.” You realize the hard length against your stomach isn't his Beretta, and an unwanted spike of arousal shoots through you in response.

“You’re insane,” you snap, grappling for some semblance of control over the building pleasure in your core. König pulls away from you abruptly, and you flush at how wet you are, soaking through your underwear. 

“How about a game, Häschen?” his voice has lost its edge, back to the pleasant tone he used in the shack, and your head spins at the sudden change.  “I'll give you five minutes to run or hide, and if you can make it ten minutes without me finding you, I’ll take you to your extraction point myself, safe and sound.”

Your heart races. You don’t trust him, but there's no way you'll get another chance to get away from him. “And if I can’t?” You ask. 

You know you’re fucked, but you scramble through the darkness as quickly as you can, trying to find a good place to hide. If your ankle wasn’t broken, you’d climb a tree, but you’re stuck searching for ground cover, listening with mounting paranoia to the quiet noises of the forest. You’re a celestial body pulled unwillingly into König’s orbit; collision unavoidable.

He says nothing, just purposefully presses his hard cock against your center. Traitorous want flows through you.

You hear him coming, branches breaking as he stalks towards you. You stand as straight as you can, letting him approach you, his eyes bright in the dim of twilight. When he comes within range, you lunge for his gun, almost succeeding in yanking it out of the holster before he grabs you around the waist and pulls you to the ground, pinning you roughly beneath him. 

Even as he manhandles you, you're hyper aware of the delicate way he avoids putting any weight near your injured shoulder. He's got your legs splayed around him, but he's careful, adjusting you just so, keeping your ankle tucked safely away, angled so he won't jostle it. His hips press obscenely against your ass, and you can't help arching your back into him, begging for his cock even as you swear at him.

“Get the fuck off of me,” you spit, and he just laughs, an off-putting, mean sound, before reaching around and ripping open your pants. The button pops off, and the zipper teeth split forcefully apart as he shoves a hand into your underwear. 

“Complain all you want, Häschen, but you're soaked for me,” he coos into your ear, roughly rubbing your clit. You moan at the contact, and he moves his hand lower, pressing his palm against your clit before shoving a finger into your wet center, roughly splitting you open. You gasp at the sudden stretch, König giving you no time to adjust as he pulls his finger out for a moment and plunges it back in, moving in and out at a punishing pace.

“Tell the truth.” He orders, adding a second finger. He curls them, stroking your inner walls, bullying you open until he finds the spot that makes you see stars.  “Say you want me to fuck you.” 

You're beyond words, making a derisive noise that transforms into a whine as you move your hips back, driving König's fingers deeper, your ass rubbing against his clothed erection. All you can focus on is the press of his body against yours, his fingers unspooling you, pulling you apart as he pants along with you. The tension is building, the knot in your stomach tightening as König forces you closer to the edge. 

He pulls his fingers out abruptly, leaving you devastatingly empty and unsatisfied, and you let out an anguished whimper despite yourself. He pushes your pants roughly down around your thighs, and the purr of his zipper opening makes you clench reflexively around nothing. 

He presses right against your entrance, a breath away from splitting you open on his cock. You shove your hips back, trying to fuck yourself onto him, and he pulls back. “Say you want this,” he demands. 

“Fuck. You.” You snarl, even as your thighs tremble. He drags the head of his cock up through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, and you gasp. 

“Such spirit,” he murmurs. In a single motion, he sinks into you, splitting you in open, pulling the air from your lungs. 

He thrusts into you fast and hard, like he wants to tear you open, and it hurts, even with how soaked you are. You cry out, trying to squirm away from the pain. His fingers find your clit again, his breath hot in your ear. He dwarfs you, your legs shaking from pleasure and the weight of him on top of you, pressing you into the dirt. 

“You wanted this.” His voice is a panting snarl, his talented fingers stealing your senses as he forces you closer to your orgasm. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the forest air as he pounds into you without mercy. “Say it.” 

“I want this,” you whimper. You feel the shocking whisper of his lips against the junction of your neck and shoulder and realize with a start that means he’s not wearing his hood. All thoughts are shoved out of your head as he sinks his teeth into your skin, and you wail as you snap, the sensation dragging you over the edge, your body trembling as you cum. His thrusts become sloppy, his cock twitching inside you as he shoves his hips against yours, filling you up. He stays like that, flush against you, as his dick softens, keeping you full and trapped under him. 

You lay in the dirt panting, hollowed out and raw. There are pine needles prickling against your skin, soreness awakening in your limbs as you come back to yourself. König climbs off of you, still cognizant of your injuries, and pulls you into his lap, wrapping his arms around you like a lover, the brutality melting into tenderness like watercolor. His hood is back in place, and the world comes crashing down around you as your senses return, the weight of your actions pulling you down as regret and shame bubble under your skin. 

The walk to the extraction point is silent. König holds you cradled against his chest; your hand fisted in the front of the vest he wears. His thigh burns, his entire body consumed with exhaustion, but he clenches his jaw against the pain, focusing instead on your face, turnt up towards him, open and vulnerable, eyes rimmed with red. If he was a better man, he'd be sorry. 

König notices your eyes glazing over, the warble of your chin, and reaches up a large hand to cradle your face, wiping away tears you didn't realize were threatening to fall. “Hush bunny, you did so well,” he croons down at you, his saccharine actions thrown in high relief against how violently he handled you before. “Such a good girl for me.”

He sets you down gently on a large rock, and pulls your knife out of a hidden pocket, his hand raised in a placating gesture as he slowly places it beside you. It’s still got his blood on it, dried to rust on the tip. You don’t reach for it, pulling your uninjured leg up and wrapping your arms around yourself. You look even smaller than you did before. 

He straightens his spine against the odd sensation in his chest. “Tell your captain to keep a closer eye on his men,” He orders, then reaches out a hand, hovering just above your cheek bone. Neither of you bridge the gap.  

You watch him disappear into the trees, the shadows swallowing him whole, the sound of a helicopter in the distance.

[wildechildwrites]

"you should be at the club" I should be working on my fanfic