t-virusx

[t-virusx]

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Fem!Virgin!Reader

Fandom: Call of Duty

Character(s): Simon Riley, Reader

Summary: A training mission puts you and the lieutenant Simon Riley in close quarters. That wouldn't be too bad except there might be some desires shared between you, lingering in the background, and after getting pinned beneath him in a pivotal moment, maybe those desires comes flooding to the surface in a big way. Too bad you have a secret that needs to be revealed.

Word Count: 5.4 k

Warnings:

From the ask HERE (forever ago now someone asked about a virgin!reader with Simon and I finally finished it!)

The old, abandoned factory creaks and groans as the amber light of the late afternoon fills the space. Captain Price waits for the last of the straggling members of his task force to make their way over from the transport vehicles and line up before him. The delay makes you impatient and you look around you to see who it is holding everything up, but that is immediately abandoned as the person your eyes end up making contact with are those of the skull-masked lieutenant who is standing only a few feet behind you. 

Suddenly you can hear your heartbeat in your ears. Why is he standing so close? 

Not that you’re trying to read patterns that aren’t there, but you swear that that hulking military officer has been in your bubble more and more lately. Could this just be an intimidation tactic… or possibly something m… No, you aren’t even going to allow yourself to entertain such a ridiculous idea. Sure, there might have been a time where it almost seemed like there was something there between the pair of you, but that time had long since passed after you decided that someone as seasoned as the lieutenant couldn’t possibly want to get involved with someone as inexperienced as you.

Quickly you break eye contact and turn your body back around, but it doesn’t feel fast enough and that fills you with anxiety; you don’t need him thinking your look means something more than it does. His presence is just a surprise, that’s all… at least that’s what you keep trying to convince yourself of, repeating the phrase in your head until your heart rate slows. 

Behind you, Lt. Riley watches you fidget with your hands while you keep your head plastered unnaturally straight ahead. He’s grateful for his choice in attire as his balaclava perfectly hides the smirk that is now on his lips as he silently chuckles to himself. You were quick, but not quick enough that he wasn’t able to catch the heat that had risen in your cheeks as you hurriedly turned away from his sight.  

Those coffee-colored eyes linger on the back of your head as he recalls all the times in the past couple of weeks the same thing has happened, when he’s caught you off-guard by being nearer than you expected. It had started by accident, just being at the right place at the right time, but once he saw the flush in your cheeks as that nervous smile filled out your mouth he found himself interested in making it happen again and again. Now it’s become a game and even though he knows he shouldn’t, he likes how flustered you get just being under his silent gaze. 

Just a bit of innocent fun, that’s all, he thinks to himself, not letting himself even entertain that it might not be so innocent at this point.

You just make it so easy for him to mess with; it’s not like he has to have some ulterior motive behind his actions, right? He had already made his decision to not allow to get involved with a bastard like him, but that doesn’t mean he can’t enjoy making you nervous with barely any effort.  

The loud sound of a throat being cleared brings the lieutenant’s attention back into the present. The last of the members have finally gathered around and the captain moves back to the front of the group ready to speak. Lt. Riley makes one last move and takes a few steps closer towards your back to watch you tense to his presence which causes certain intrusive thoughts to suddenly creep up to the surface of his mind, making it harder to pay attention to what the captain is talking about.

“Rules are simple,” Captain Price says in his usual firm, authoritative voice as he hands a stack of blue velcro patches to the closest member, beckoning him to pass them around. “Each of ya take a patch. You must wear it on your shoulder and it must be visible at all times. Once the word is given, the timer starts. You have ten minutes to prepare your initial hiding point before being let loose.”

The stack of patches gets handed to you and you take yours before passing them back to the lieutenant with a slight tremble in your hand as your gloved fingers brush past one another. You curse yourself at how pathetic you’re being about this; you want to prove yourself with this training and there is only one person that you worry about: the lieutenant. If you can’t pull yourself together, you may be out of this before it even begins.

“After that, a gunshot will signal that the game has begun,” Price continues after a brief pause. “You’ll have till 2100 hours ta gather as many of your fellow team members patches as you can however ya see fit. Don’t make me regret this by injuring each other. Keep it safe, but do what ya must ta get your marks.”

There is heat near the side of your face, but you don’t turn to face it. Instead, you catch yourself holding your breath to stand as still as possible as the lieutenant’s gruff voice is now in your ear. “Good luck, little mouse,” he says before moving back.

You struggle to regain your composure again as Price’s voice cuts back in. “Your ten minutes starts…now.” 

And just like that everyone takes off in different directions, plotting as they move, concocting strategies that they hope will get them a win. You clamber your way to the outside of the building at first, but once you catch sight of a few others that also seem to have had the same idea, you suddenly feel too exposed to stay and cautiously make your way back inside.

The sun sits lower towards the horizon as you make it to the top floor of the building, up a back stairwell. You risk diverting your eye line on your surroundings to check the watch on your wrist; it’s been a good hour and a half since you’ve seen another soul, but you don’t feel safe in the slightest. Just because you don’t have visuals on any movement, doesn’t mean that there’s no one there. Years of experience and training have taught you to stay on constant high alert no matter the circumstances. Even though you are apparently all alone, you try to slow down your movements to reduce any unnecessary noise and yet even with how carefully you advance through the area, even the sound of your heartbeat seems to echo off the walls. 

The thrill of being on high alert makes your limbs tingle, but you can’t afford to slack, not when every person on this team is at the top of their game and if you want to come out on top you’re going to have to push yourself harder.

You come to yet another corner and you pause to listen before slowly peeking around it. There’s nothing but empty space waiting for you in the next room and you take a couple steps out into it, ready to clear the area more thoroughly, when everything comes crashing down as you are grabbed, pulled around the wall, and slammed into it. Your eyes focus on the person pushing into you and your breath catches in your throat as you realize who is staring back at you– it is none other than the masked lieutenant himself.

The decaying wall behind you gives slightly under the pressure as Lt. Riley pins you against it by your shoulders, using his wide forearm to bear down on your sternum to keep you contained while also keeping one of his hands free to use. “Well, well, well, seems I caught a little mouse creepin’ ‘bout,” he mocks and you can hear the cocky, self-satisfaction brewing in his tone. “Gotta be more fuckin’ careful than that, luv. You’re not as quiet nor as stealthy as ya think ya are. Been tailin’ ya for a while, just waitin’ for the perfect moment ta move in.”

You struggle against his arm, but it does little good. There’s too much of him and not enough of you. 

“How did you even hear me?” you ask. “I barely breathed.” 

He chuckles in that deep, bassy voice. “Ya should fuckin’ know nothin’ gets past me.”

Those dark eyes from within his skull mask look down to find the bright blue patch at the top of your arm as you continue to struggle to unsuccessfully wriggle from his grasp. His hand reaches to the patch on your bicep to rip it off and claim his prize, but before he can grab it you react by kicking at his shin with the heel of your boot which makes him stumble back just enough that you are able to wriggle your way from under the pressure of his arm. 

You take a quick step to pivot so you can run off and you almost get away, but his recovery is too quick. Striking out his foot he trips you so that you tumble to the ground; now he can keep you better subdued. 

Quickly you try to roll to your side so you can get yourself back up, but he is already on top of you, pushing you back down so that you lay supine as he swings a thick thigh over your lap. You’re pinned under him and with the bulk of that 6’4” military man on top of you there is no chance you’ll get lucky enough to escape again.

It’s over for you.

That dark gaze stares back down with you as he works to regain his composure, his chest heaving up and down laboriously with each strained breath that he intakes to recover from the sudden rush of adrenaline through his veins.

"Not fuckin’ quick enough, little mouse," he pants. “Did ya fuckin' think ya could get away from me?”

Once more his hand reaches for the patch on your arm, this time without any worry that he won’t get it. “Best hold still,” he says, that gravelly tone lower after the noisiness of the tussle as to not draw any unwanted company before he can get himself up and out of the area. 

Lt. Riley still has more hunting to do and being detected already isn’t going to help. 

Even as the velcro starts to pry apart, you still decide to give your last bit of effort and squirm in his gasp, not ready to admit defeat even in the face of the inevitable. “You’re not gettin’ away, luv,” he says as the distinct sound of velcro ripping away from itself echoes across the bare walls that conceal you both.

“If you think I’m gonna give up without a fight, you’re dead fucking wrong, lieutenant,” you say through gritted teeth as you twist your shoulders, but to no avail.

“Feisty thing,” he picks, slapping your patch just below his on his vest. “Lotta good it did ya.”

Secured on his person, he looks back down. “Now, what am I gonna do with ya?” he questions with a chuckle. 

You scowl up at him as you lay there panting through your own rush of adrenaline. Is it all from the struggle, though? As you continue to look up at him from your position on your back, you aren’t so sure anymore. You can feel something changing in the atmosphere between you both, the charging of the atoms around your bodies as you stare back up into the intimidating masked face of your lieutenant as he towers over top of you, his wide thighs resting against the sides of your waist.

Catching his eyes, you notice something wash over his gaze: instead of that determined, steady gaze, he peers down at you with a look that makes your heart skip a beat. 

And for good reason. There is only one thought going through Lt. Riley’s head now: Fuck, you look good on your back. 

You flush hot all over, drawn into the intensity in his eyes. It’s intoxicating to be under that coffee-colored gaze, being the only person who has his full attention. Lost in that revelry it takes you a minute, but that's when you feel it: the outline of something hard poking you through the crotch of his pants. 

Is that what you think it is? Oh fuck, he’s getting hard. You should stop, right? But you don’t want to and for some reason he isn’t stopping you. At least he wasn’t, but now your gloved hand is in his as he brings up off of him and towards his mouth. 

And yet… 

You watch on wide eyed as he pulls up the lip of his mask up and situates it to rest over the bridge of his nose, exposing the lower half of his face. Grabbing the cuff of your glove between his teeth he rips the fabric up to expose the delicate skin of your palm. He spits the fabric from his mouth, tossing it aside before bringing your hand back down and placing it over the bulge growing near the zipper of his pants. 

"Ya feel that, little mouse? How hard I am?" he asks as he presses your hand into the stiff peak. "That's what you fuckin' do ta me." 

Your breath catches in your chest as your heartbeat thuds violently against your ribs. The feel of a distinct pulse now rhythmically thumps against your palm, making the heat in your face rise until your cheeks feel swollen and on fire and your mind goes static.

What do you do? What do you want to do? 

Suddenly, as if piloted by instinct alone, you begin to move your hand up and down over the swell and he can't help the deep groan that escapes through his lips. The bassy sound causes a throbbing between your closed thighs, an ache that suddenly gathers in the pit of your stomach. You continue to slowly rub along the mound, enjoying the way his cock leaps at your touch as it grows even more stiff.

Silence fills the space around you as the lieutenant reciprocates your action by rolling his hips into your hand, grinding against the warm surface of your palm in a motion that fills your head with a need to see him actually take you. Desperately you squirm beneath him to clench your thighs together tighter to relieve the building pressure and he senses your movement. 

"Is it achin'?" he questions quietly, his voice husky with his need. “Do ya need somethin’ ta take the edge off?” 

It takes you a few seconds for your brain to comprehend the question, but when you do you can only nod your head in response as your mouth suddenly feels too dry to create sounds. 

The lieutenant sits still for a moment, head cocked to one side and then the other. It looks as if he is listening for something, but other than the sound of the beat in your ears and his panted breaths there is nothing. You are both all alone, secluded in this remote section of the large building, as the shadows grow ever longer with the incoming night. The last he had seen the rest of the team they were nowhere near this area.

There’s no one to interrupt what is rapidly unfolding between you, but he knows that could change in an instant. He needs to be fast. 

Turning his attention fully back to you, he pauses. This is a terrible fucking idea, but the way you look pinned beneath him, your hand stroking over his hard cock, that doe eyed, begging look that you keep giving him, it's too much to handle. Simon Riley is a man of restraint, but at this moment all the training he has endured to reach this point in his career fails him.

All that suppressed desire comes bubbling to the surface like a tidal wave. Lost in the heat of the moment he cannot deny his attraction anymore than he can deny the air trying desperately to enter his lungs to calm him, but failing. 

“Fuckin’ hell, ya don’t know how bad I need ya,” he says in a groan that nearly stops your heart. 

A haze clouds your mind that you drunkenly watch through as your superior leans down into you, the bulk of his weight compressing your chest as his hungry lips immediately steal your mouth with such deadly force that it feels as if the pair of yours are magnetized and he can’t keep them from being violently drawn together. The feeling is unfamiliar and overwhelmingly intense, knocking the wind from your lungs while filling you full of his contagious desire.

Pinned beneath him into the broken flooring and at his mercy, you are falling apart as your head swirls with an ecstasy you have never felt before. It is true that your lips had caressed others before his, but not like this, never like this, and it awakens something in you… something instinctual.

In that moment, you give yourself over to that feral side of yourself, the one that had always been hiding under the surface, but never allowed to come into the light. Everywhere he touches comes alive and the further he goes up under your clothes, pulling up layers to glide his hands along your curves, the more your body desperately craves.

Your movements are hesitant, but exploratory, greedily digging up under his tactical vest covering his torso to get to the burning, sweat-slick flesh lying beneath. A patch of short, soft hair meets your fingertips as you get up through the bottom of his shirt and make contact with his lower abdomen. His skin feels like it’s on fire under your palms and you moan into his mouth as your hands study the contours of his hips and stomach through touch alone. 

Fuck, he can’t wait; this needs to happen now before someone comes to ruin this.

“Gotta make it quick,” he pants as he hastily reaches between your bodies and rips down the zipper on his pants. “Are ya wet?” 

The sound hits your ears and suddenly it all becomes too real. This is really happening. And though you don’t want him to stop, there is a secret that is burning a hole in your chest that you can’t hide away anymore.

Lt. Riley can feel you suddenly go rigid under him and pauses his movements to prop himself up by his arms so that he can look into your face. He stares into your eyes, panting through his need. “Ya alright?” he asks.

You suck your bottom lip into your mouth to nervously pick at the skin with your teeth as you hesitate to respond. Anxiety has its grip in you at the thought of what you are about to admit, but you know that you are going to have to speak up because you are out of your element now and he is going to know it soon enough.  

“I- I’m…I mean, I- I haven’t ever…done something like this,” you stammer out the confession,  admitting the embarrassing information while you suddenly avoid his gaze. 

His brow furrows under the pulled up mask. “Ya mean where ya can get caught?” he asks to clarify as he doesn’t understand. “We’ll be quick.”

You shake your head. It’s worse than that, you think to yourself. “I…” you take a breath and your stomach drops, “I’m still a virgin.”

The realization of your words washes over the lieutenant like cold water. It never would have occurred to him that you had no experience in that area, but even so he isn’t judging. You probably have your reasons and that is fine, all he cares about is what he does right now. This isn’t the time or place to give you an experience that intense that you’ve never had before. He wants to be able to take his time and make it a memory you won’t ever forget and that isn’t going to happen on the dirty floor of this derelict building.

He begins to move back. “Please…don’t stop…” you beg as you reach out for him, but Lt. Riley is already sitting himself upright and zipping himself back up. 

Those big brown eyes look down at you and he shakes his head. “Not like this,” he says. “This ain’t how your first time’s gonna be.”

Throwing his leg over your body, he moves off from on top of you and kneels besides your legs. Your hands instantly move up to your face and you frustratedly cover your eyes in a vain attempt to calm the storm of hormones raging inside, thinking that all of this buildup is going nowhere all because you couldn’t just keep your mouth shut. 

You keep your face concealed while waiting to hear the fading crunch from the soles of his boots as he leaves, but the sound never comes. From the blackness behind your palms you feel something tugging at the clothing near your belly button and quickly you remove your hands and open your eyes to see your lieutenant leaning over top of you, his tactical vest removed and set on the floor as he hurriedly begins undoing the belt on your pants.. 

“We ain’t got much time left, but I can’t leave ya fuckin’ empty handed,” he grunts with a smirk as he finally frees the buckle from itself. “Won’t take your virginity ‘ere, never said I wouldn’t make ya come. Gotta finish what I started. Ya want that, little mouse?”

You don’t say a word, just stare while he works, but that won’t do. Lt. Riley isn’t going to take anything that isn’t explicitly given to him and unless he can hear you say it out loud that you want him to give you a parting gift, he isn’t going to continue.

“ ‘less ya want me ta stop,” he says as he removes his hands from your waist.

Immediately you sit up just enough to grab at his wrists and secure his hands back onto you right at the fastener on your pants. “Don’t you fucking dare,” you breathe the words in an angered huff. “I want it, please.”

Lt. Riley smirks. “Good fuckin’ girl,” he praises.

Those long fingers draw the waistband of your pants together to unhook the button, quickly ripping down the tab of the zipper before he is sliding the dense clothing off your hips and down the length of your legs. “Need these fuckin’ things outta my way then,” he says as he bunches the pants legs up at the top of your boots. 

Time is of the essence and he has to choose his actions carefully, wasting time taking off everything is too risky; just the essentials will have to do. As soon as he gets your pants low enough, he crosses his arms over his torso and quickly rips up his shirt off his body and throws it on top of his vest.

“Can’t risk gettin’ anything on me, don’t need them fuckin’ nosey bastards gettin’ curious,” he answers the curiosity in your cocked brow from the question that you haven’t asked. “This’ll be our secret, yeah?”

You can’t complain, as soon as that shirt is up over his head you get an eyeful of absolute perfection in the form of bulky muscles that line his thick torso covered in a mouthwatering bit of hair that leads down into the top of his pants. From the way his clothes always hugged his body, you knew that man was big, but fuck seeing it in person is a whole other story. And now you desperately need to feel that girthy torso spreading your thighs wide as the throbbing that was just poking against you fills you full. 

Not wasting another second he slips your legs over his head to wear them draped around his shoulders like a necklace as he slides his body in on his hands and knees so that his face is close to the panties still covering your pussy; one last impediment to his goal. Hooking his fingers into the crotch of the small swath of fabric cloaking your cunt, he pulls it out of his way and his breath hitches at the sight. 

It’s better than he could have imagined. Immediately he meets those soft, pillowy lips with his as he places a few tender kisses to them and already the contact has you squirming over his features. 

Goddamn, you have a pussy he could lose himself in.

Pulling his hand in, he spreads your lips with his fingers to find your clit through them. "Let's see how good ya taste, little mouse," he groans before he locks his lips around you and his tongue slithers its way from between his lips to find its mark. 

The moment the tip of his tongue makes contact with your clit you see stars and your back arches off the ground. Touching yourself was one thing, you know your own body, but having the control given to someone else with the experience to know just how to do it, makes you instantly weak.

With a hand gripped into your hip he takes you like he owns you and you've never felt more desired before. Over and over his tongue laps between the lips of your pussy, rolling over that sensitive nub with skill and precision. This is what he has craved all this time, to make you come undone, and several times his eyes dart up to catch a glimpse of your face as you lose yourself in the sensation of it all.

Your honey fills his mouth and dances along his taste buds as he buries his face into you even further, not caring about the cloth still sitting on his face. If your scent melts into the fibers then it will only serve as a reminder of what happened here. Everything outside of your thighs gets forgotten as his lips lock around that nub and he sucks it into his mouth and you buck wildly over his features, the heels of your boots digging into his back that only makes him moan at the delicious sting. 

Is this what it’s like to be craved by another? Fuck, you could get addicted to this. All that desire being unleashed in the way he devours mixed with the excitement from being taken by the lieutenant and the risk of being so exposed like this has your orgasm rapidly approaching faster than you thought possible.

“Ahh, getting… close,” you murmur out, struggling to keep your voice low. 

"Tha's it," he grunts as he surfaces for a quick inhale of air from between your lips, "come for me. Cum on my fuckin’ tongue, little mouse." 

His large hand spreads out across your pelvis to push it down as he nuzzles the tip of his nose against your clit so that his tongue can strike up inside that dripping hole. Your juices mix with his saliva and dribble down his chin and out from the corners of his mouth to pool on the ground beneath you both, but he doesn't slow. 

He keeps the pace of his movements steady, making sure that nothing breaks his focus so that he can keep up the tempo. You’re gonna come for him, it’s the only thing he wants now; he desperately needs his head to be crushed between these beautiful thighs. 

Suffocate me, sweetheart, he demands silently.

You whimper behind closed lips in an attempt to keep the noise down, but it is getting harder and harder to hold it in. The warmth in your belly is gathering quicker now to match the pulsing down between your legs. Just a little more and the wave of heat will flood your limbs violently. Reaching down, your fingertips dig into the muscles in his shoulders and he groans deliciously into your pussy.

You’re so close. 

Then you feel the tensing and all at once you fall silent as that tightness snaps with an explosion that makes your body go rigid with a severe arch in your spine. You dig the back of your head into the concrete with your eyes shut as your thighs forcefully clamp together and you moan deep in your throat. Waves of hot pleasure course through you until your limbs tingle and yet that agile tongue of your superior continues to stroke you through it all as you squeeze his head like a vice.

Lt. Riley can’t see, he can’t hear, all he has is the throbbing of your cunt to keep him going. And fuck is that enough. 

Time is forgotten as you ride out your pleasure to the very end and just when you think you can’t take anymore of that overwhelming sensation, the feeling begins to die down and you can relax and release your captive.

A coated and messy lieutenant emerges from between your legs with a smile plastered to his mouth that still wears you around it. “Ya did so fuckin’ good for me,” he praises as he uses the back of his hand to wipe away the cum and saliva from around his lips. 

Your legs are carefully moved from his shoulders and lowered to the ground and without a word, those strong hands are pulling them back up. “Lift your hips for me, tha’s it,” he says as he finishes bringing them back and up and rebuckles them even though you hadn’t asked.

Only once you’re situated does he redress himself and then offers you his hand to help you back up to your unsteady feet. “C’mere,” he grunts as he pulls you tight to him and leans down to kiss your lips and you can taste yourself off his.

Still in a daze you rub your hand absentmindedly over your stolen patch stuck to the front of his and the lieutenant laughs into your mouth, thinking you are trying to take back what he got fair and square. “Oh no, I’m still keepin’ this, luv,” he says. “We’ll call it a consolation prize for what I just gave ya.” The lieutenant kisses you one last time. 

“And ya know, the offer stands if ya still want me ta fix that other thing,” he says. “I’ll make sure ta do it right.”

With that he leaves you to finish composing yourself so you can walk back to the meeting point to wait for the rest of the team to finish the exercise. Your mind is still reeling a couple hours later with thoughts as you try to process everything even as the team loads into the transport vehicles to make the way back to base. Your sight continues to dart over to Lt. Riley’s form sitting down at the end opposite you, wondering what you’re going to do.

Do you take him up on his offer or do you let this be a one time thing?

At the other end, the lieutenant watches you from the corner of his vision as your eyes keep jumping back to him. Your scent is woven into the fibers of his mask even as it still lingers on his lips and the stubble around his chin and every time he breathes his heart races a little more. Will you decide to let him have you again and even go further? He won’t let his need get the better of him yet, but as the short journey ends and everyone begins to file out of the vehicles, he heads back to his room hoping that you’ll take him up on his offer.

The night is getting on fast when out of the silence there it is. Knock, knock, knock. Quick, soft, timid right on the lieutenant’s door. He gets up from his bed, heart beginning to pound as he reaches for the lock. 

More silence follows until the lock clicks and the door opens to reveal you standing there. The lieutenant meets your gaze, but soon your attention is drawn to the pair of old sweats that cling low on his hips and the lack of shirt that leaves his chest bare. He looks you up and down and chuckles as if he’s been expecting this.

“It’s late, little mouse,” he greets you before moving to the side, a gesture clearly meant for you to come in. 

The door quietly shut behind you before being locked. No sense in leaving it undone, you won’t be leaving before the sun rises. 

[t-virusx]

master list

SIMON RILEY ₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ᡣ𐭩ྀིྀིྀི

nsfw - slow intimate things with simon riley

nsfw - simon riley being intimate with his shy girlfriend

nsfw - loser! simon riley who is largely endowed using a flesh light

nsfw - breeding kink

nsfw - older bf! simon riley

nsfw - simon with his pretty nurse

nsfw - dbf! with breeding kink

nsfw - how simon riley fucks after not seeing you for months

nsfw - loser! simon riley getting pussy for the first time

nsfw - simon riley with his favourite cam girl part 1

nsfw - simon riley who is too big for your cunt

nsfw - simon riley who thought he was unlovable

nsfw - snowed in with dilf! simon riley

nsfw - lover boy simon riley x bimbo reader

nsfw - ex fiancés dad simon riley

nsfw - sucking simon off in the alley way

suggestive - simon riley’s favourite dancer

nsfw - simon being a pathetic munch

fluff - simon riley whose insomnia went away when met you

nsfw - “i hate you” reader x “you don’t feel like you do” simon riley

fluff - simon riley and his two girls

[t-virusx]

Masterlist

Just like Heaven

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

[t-virusx]

Just like Heaven Ch.2

You stared at the blinking device for what seemed like minutes, but was really only seconds before you grabbed Sam and turned quickly, hiding him behind your body and lurching forward as far as you could, until you felt heat. Strong heat, and then you were pushed by the force of what felt like God. 

When you opened your eyes next, you were staring up at trees, thick smoke blew across your vision as you remembered the device, and then the explosion. 

“Sam?” You gasped then, sitting upright, a ripping pain tugging at your skin so hard your vision turned white for a moment. You looked at your side, blood seeped through your shirt and you lifted it just a but, thankful there was nothing actually inside of you--but there was a massive bruise forming beneath the sliced skin. “Sammy..?” You croaked, unable to even hear your own voice until you heard someone else’s close to you. “You alright? She’s over here, Lieutenant!” You looked up to see the man with the funny hair, McTavish, calling over to someone else. 

“Where’s Sam?” You yelled, your ears were numb and ringing still, but as you looked around you spotted him. He looked to be alive, the other soldier--Garrick, was with him, but it looked like Sam was hurt. 

You felt hands on you, sliding under your armpits until you were hauled to your feet, and you were being carried closer to Sam, laid down and crying from the sharp pain. You lifted your shirt to show your wound to the mohawk man, and he was by you in an instant, using what appeared to be a first aid kit to clean the wound and stitch you, which your adrenaline thankfully numbed most of that. He wraps your side in gauze gently, with thick bandages taped over the wound. 

You turned your head to look at Sam, who must have fallen unconscious. Garrick was stitching his stomach, and there was blood. Lots of blood, enough to make you panic and sit up, crawling over to him. “What happened?” You asked, in which McTavish had to grab a hold of you to ensure you wouldn't rip your stitches, or mess up Sams. “He was shot, he’s lost a lot of blood. If we can get him to base, he’ll live. Lieutenant, any way for MedVac?” He asked, ignoring the rest of your questions that ended up spewing from your lips, and you nearly jumped at the new voice you heard coming from behind you.  

“Bravo Six this is Ghost, we have several injured survivors, please advise,” He spoke, his voice was deep and very British, gravelly and straight forward. 

He held s couple gloved fingers over his earpiece as he listened to the voice on the other end--did he have a hard time hearing something literally inside of his ear? Tinnitus, maybe? 

“N.E.R happened, sir. All are wounded. We need medical,” He grumbled back, turning around to pace. The pain was strong now, your body long drained of adrenaline. You’d never felt this before, not a wound in flesh as drastic as this, being caught in an explosion and a piece of a fucking Humvee slicing your hip open.

New England Raiders, huh? They hated the military. They wanted to rebuild the northeast, with their own governing. Didn’t know they were attacking civilians now too, though. 

“Medevac is being sent. Sergeant, get the survivors ready to fly,” He said, aiding Garrick with Manny and Mary, both of them were in bad shape. Mary looked dead already, she hasn’t said a single word and she hardly moved. 

“Medevac? Christ, will they even be here fast enough?” The Scottish man asked. “They’re coming from Horsham Air Guard Station, fifty kilos away. They’ll be here in no time.” 

It was true--the medical helicopter arrived quickly, when they landed two medical staff jumped out and immediately began to load the ones unable to walk onto stretchers. It was Sam and Mary who were loaded first, and then the co-pilot jumped out and jogged quickly to Ghost, the one with the hot topic mask. 

“Lieutenant, we can’t take everyone. We can only carry six more people on board. Some will have to stay behind, and either wait for the next pickup or make the trek on their own.” He tried to be quiet, but you could just barely make out every other word. “I recommend you let us take the wakest ones, and you and your boys can wait,” Ghost was already shaking his head, eyes scanning everyone. You could see a nurse tending to Sam, and you felt your chest loosen a little bit. It was easier to breathe knowing that someone was really taking care of his wound. 

“You, where are you hurt?” You heard his voice, but you didn’t realize he was speaking to you, you were too entranced on looking at Sam. “Girl,” his voice was suddenly louder, and it made you jump. 

“Uh…here,” You said, motioning with your finger to the gash that was on your hip, but closer to being on your back. 

“Can you walk?”

“Yeah…it’s mostly just a bad bruise.” You said, feeling scrutinized under his gaze. 

“I’ll stay behind, if there aren’t enough seats.” You heard behind you, it was Josef. “I got grazed on my chest,” He said, knowing that would have been Ghost’s followup question. He was listening before. 

“Alright. Three of us will stay behind. We’ll take rations from the others-”

“Lieutenant, what’re you talking about? Let us stay with you, send the rest of the survivors back to-”

“No, sergeant. You and Garrick will be needed, would rather risk it with these two.” Ghost said firmly. You looked at his chest, maybe to catch a last name, but there wasn’t one. There was an empty spot of torn stitches, but no name. Odd. “Get in the Helo, go back to base. Three days, we’ll see you.” He slapped McTavish on the shoulder, pushing him away. 

“Take our rations, at least. Give the wee one here something to make her smile,” He winked at you, in a friendly way, and you smiled a little. Just a little. But he did as he said, taking out spare MRE’s from his bag and tossing one to you and to Josef, and then he handed over his water to Ghost. 

“Three days, Lieutenant.” He yelled as he walked backwards, closer to the chopper, before climbing in with everyone else and taking off. You held your hands over your ears again, wincing away from the loud sound and the giant gusts of air being blown around, whipping your hair. 

“Alright, we’re making this on foot. Headed to Rhode Island. Once we get to civilization, I need you both to do exactly what I say, and when I say it. Understood?” His deep voice unnerved you, but you nodded frantically, placing the MRE his sergeant tossed and shoving it into your bag. You looked up at the chopper, silently praying that Sam would pull through. “Your friends are gonna make it, don’t worry about them. Focus on yourself.” He said, before nodding to his left. 

You followed him for hours, your legs ached from constantly climbing over boulders and stepping over roots, not to mention that you’ve been walking uphill since you three left the zone. You kept quiet most of it, not saying anything except for the random check-ups from Ghost. 

“Why did those people attack us?” Josef asked, and it took a moment for Ghost to reply.

“Not everyone is fond of us in uniform.” He replied. It was short, and definitive. 

“There’s no more law, why would they want it back? Anyone can get away with anything. It’s like a dream for mankind.” You added, tossing a side glance towards Josef, who eyed you with a look that made you feel uncomfortable. 

“So you soldiers killed them back there. Why aren’t there more?” Josef asked, his voice was becoming irritating. Why was he so talkative all of a sudden?

“There are.” Ghost replied, before you three came to a slow stop. There was a relatively wide creek in your path, without a bridge. 

“Try to jump. Don’t want wet feet.” Ghost said, before making Josef go first. He made it, although he did barely keep his grip once he landed, the other bank was muddy. 

Simon braced his thighs, and then jumped himself--he made it perfectly. You were nervous. 

“I-I’m definitely not making this,” You said nervously, swallowing. “You guys just barely made it,” You were beginning to freak out. 

“Just get a running start, for fucks sake.” Josef rolled his eyes, sighing hard and turning around to busy himself with the scenery, or whatever. 

“I’ll catch you. You won’t fall,” Ghost said, keeping his feet braced and his hand outstretched. You debated just walking through the water, and save yourself from looking like an idiot when you do fall face first into mud and water. But Ghost had a point, wet feet were a bad idea. Biting your lip on the inside, you backed up a few paces, and breathed deep. 

Fuck. You took off and when your left foot hit the edge of the bank, you jumped across, but your takeoff wasn’t as graceful as you had hoped. The jump put strain on your wound, as it was already aching and throbbing from so much walking. 

You felt a strong hand grip your forearm before your feet even landed, your face slamming strongly into Ghost and your feet sliding under you from the impact, you nearly fell on your ass from it. But he pulled you upright, and turned so you didn’t run the risk of falling back into the water. 

“See? Easy as pie.” He said, gathering his rifle back in his hands. You were embarrassed, but hey, your feet were dry. 

“You’ve taken this path?” Josef asked some minutes later, looking around. You stared at the back of his waist, where you knew he kept his revolver. Maybe that was something Ghost should know he had..

“Taken it ‘alf a dozen times,” He said, and his accent was thick with those words. You smiled a little. “Usually set up for the night just through this wet part.” He half pointed ahead, where you could see the solid ground turn to mud. “Just keep walking on the grass, you’ll be fine.” He added, and you fell in step behind him, whereas Josef walked parallel to you. He kept stealing looks at you, for whatever reason. He wasn’t concerned about your wound, was he? You doubted it. 

When you three made it past the wet parts, Ghost stopped at a tree with a blue ribbon around one of its branches. Must be his marker.

He had a tent in his backpack, lucky bastard. It was small and more like a ridge tent, basically all you can do is sleep in it, but still--he had his own privacy. Josef and I only had thin sleeping bags rolled up in our bags, which we had set up. I collected some firewood and set up the sticks, using the firestarter to get it going. Ghost stayed further from us, keeping on guard, while Josef pulled out some food to eat. 

Angling my body away from the men, I lifted my shirt to examine my wound, gently removing the gauze and bandages to see what it looked like now. It was an ugly thing, deep blues and purples surrounding the cut, all the way down to my hip and to the dimple on my back. Wincing, I moved the bandages and gauze back to cover it. 

“Here,” I jumped from Ghost’s voice. “It’ll numb the area.” It was a bottle of cream, and you took it from his hand. 

“Thanks.” You said, not looking up at his face before you sat back down, and gently applied the cream to your skin. It hurt like a bitch, and you groaned with effort as you covered yourself back up, and finally allowed yourself to eat. You figured you’d save the MRE for the morning, when you know you’ll be more hungry, so you settle for the rest of the canned peaches Sam gave to you the other day, and a half eaten bag of salted peanuts. 

The sun dipped low and you found yourself staring up at the tree canopies, thinking about Sam, and then Benny, and then your dad. You prayed he was still alive, that your goal wasn’t in vain. You hated being alone. It was bearable with Sam, but now…you were alone, with a man you didn’t know, and another man you didn’t want to know anymore. 

You look at the others; Josef is staring at a photo of his wife that he’s kept this whole time, and Ghost is standing guard. You assumed that those two would keep watch for the night, seeing as you were young and a girl, not that it meant you weren’t capable--but men usually tend to take it easy on women for this type of stuff. For that, you were grateful. 

You closed your eyes with a sigh, letting the sounds of distant birds and the wind lul you to sleep.

------------

Ty for reading!! I'll be trying to post every couple of days, I haven't written a fic in so long lol I forget how to schedule myself lmao

[t-virusx]

DISCORD BOYFRIEND KÖNIG

sfw + nsfw. this is just an amalgamation of all my ideas

könig has never been one for putting his face on social media. even before the scars that pull at the skin of his cheek, reshaping his expression in ways he’s never fully grown used to, the idea of being seen, really seen, has never sat right with him. there’s a certain comfort in anonymity, in keeping the world at arm’s length. easier that way. safer.

that unease, paired with what some might consider his more nerdy interests, means he gravitates toward spaces like discord rather than the highly curated feeds of instagram or facebook. there, he doesn’t have to worry about photos or videos— just a username, and a presence in text.

his handle is simple: king 👑. a nod to the name he’s carried for so long, stripped of rank, stripped of weight.

even in the server where he’s most active, he keeps things vague, blending into discussions about games, military history, or whatever niche interest has caught his attention that week.

every now and then, he’ll let something slip— a mention of deployment, an offhand comment, disappearing for months at a time, only to return with a sudden burst of activity. some put the pieces together. most don’t. and könig prefers it that way. it’s easier to let them think he’s just another guy with spotty internet.

your first interaction is rather simple in retrospect.

he’s back after weeks of recon, shaking off the mission like dirt from his boots, easing into the familiarity of a gaming server he’s called home for years.

it’s not a small server, so new people come and go. he does his usual routine— an automated, slightly impersonal welcome but what he doesn’t expect is the sheer enthusiasm in return.

“hi!!!!”

he stares at the message for a second, counting the exclamation marks. three. four. five? a small smile tugs at his lips before he even realizes it.

it doesn’t take long before you’re at his metaphorical side, sending a friend request before the conversation even shifts from your college courses.

the older members tease him. something about his last deployment scrambling his head enough to take a newbie under his wing. he lets them talk. he doesn’t mind.

soon enough, you’re in his private messages, dramatically lamenting your latest loss in a game he’s only vaguely familiar with. könig listens— well, reads— as you rant, words spilling out at a rapid-fire pace, interspersed with keyboard smashing and increasingly incoherent frustration.

he’s not much for new releases, preferring to sink his teeth into a single game for months on end, grinding away until mastery is muscle memory. still-

one evening, without preamble, he sends you a link. his profile. in your game.

the response is immediate. ‘king!!! 🥺’ you type, followed by an onslaught of keyboard mashing that takes up half his screen.

he exhales a short laugh, shaking his head. he wonders if you know how easy it is to make him grin like an idiot.

the calls are… an unexpected development.

könig doesn’t make a habit to join server calls. ever. it’s not even about anxiety, not really, just preference. too many voices, too much noise. he never expected to be comfortable enough with anyone to want to be in a call, let alone initiate one.

but when you start gaming together, it becomes a necessity. typing mid-match isn’t exactly efficient, and you’re the first to point that out.

“okay, listen, king, i am not about to lose another ranked match just because you take five years to type ‘behind you.’” he huffs, amused, but relents.

soon enough, calls become second nature— no longer tied to gaming, no longer requiring an excuse. you always ask first, polite thing that you are, and könig always agrees. sometimes it’s an unspoken invitation, a simple “call?” sent in the quiet hours of the night. sometimes he beats you to it, pressing the button before he can think too hard about it.

one time, it’s you who calls. he answers on the first ring.

“are you- wait.” you pause, listening. there’s a distinct, rhythmic thud-thud-thud in the background. not footsteps, but something heavier, more controlled. “are you on a treadmill?”

“mm.” his voice is steady, unaffected. a quiet confirmation.

you gasp, and he can practically hear the amusement brewing in your tone. “oh my god! you actually work out? i thought you were lying.”

he snorts, breath hitching slightly as he adjusts his pace. “why would i lie about that?”

“i don’t know! you just- i mean, you sit at your desk all day, playing the same game for hours, and you’re always online at weird times-”

“you are describing yourself,” he points out.

“shut up.”

there’s a pause, and then, with the kind of mischief that only comes from knowing exactly how to push his buttons, you add, “prove it.”

he slows to a walk, swiping open his phone. a moment later, you receive a picture. him, flexing. the lighting is dim, but you can still make out the cut of his forearm, the solid shape of his bicep. just to humor you, he throws up a peace sign.

“not stolen from pinterest.”

you burst into laughter so sudden and bright that he finds himself smiling before he can stop it.

you learn what it means to miss könig pretty early on.

it happens suddenly. one day, he’s there, active as usual, sending the occasional meme, idling in voice chat even if he’s not talking. the next? radio silence. not even a ‘typing…’ indicator.

at first, you don’t think much of it. maybe he’s sleeping in. maybe he’s busy. time zones are weird. it’s fine.

but then a whole day passes. then another. you check his status— nothing. not offline, not do not disturb, just… gone.

curiosity turns into concern, and before you can think better of it, you ask in the server.

“hey, anyone heard from king?”

the response is casual. unbothered. “oh, dude’s probably deployed again.”

you blink. reread the message. “deployed?”

“yeah, king’s military.”

there’s no warning for the way that statement knocks the air from your lungs.

military? as in, real-life combat? as in, war zones and danger and actual life-or-death situations?

you stare at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, unsure what to even say to that.

he doesn’t resurface for weeks.

you don’t realize how much you’ve come to rely on his presence until it’s gone. his absence is loud in the quiet moments of your day, in the spaces where a message from him would normally be.

you check the server out of habit, catching yourself before you can search his username. it’s stupid, you think. you barely know him. he’s just some guy from a discord server.

but the worry lingers.

and then, one day, just like that— he’s back.

his return is as unceremonious as his disappearance.

no dramatic entrance, no fanfare. just a simple “hello.”

you see it the moment he sends it. your stomach flips.

before you can stop yourself, you send a private message. “you’re alive.”

a moment passes. then— “yes.”

you frown. “you were gone for weeks.”

“i know.”

frustration bubbles up. “you could’ve said something.”

“i couldn’t.”

you hesitate, fingers tightening around your phone. you don’t know what you were expecting. an explanation? reassurance? but it’s clear you’re not getting one.

but then, a follow-up message. one that feels heavier, more careful. “i’m sorry.”

and just like that, the irritation dissolves.

it’s strange, the way things slip back into place after that.

he doesn’t talk about it, and you don’t ask. but something shifts. after that deployment, könig starts telling you when he’ll be gone. nothing in detail, really. just a simple, “i’ll be away for a bit.”

(it means everything.)

slowly, you get used to it. the rhythm of his presence and absence, the way your conversations pick up right where they left off, as if no time has passed at all.

it goes on for months. this… thing between the two of you. könig doesn’t hesitate to call it friendship, though he knows, knows, it’s something else entirely.

something with edges softer than companionship, something that lingers in the pauses between conversation, in the way you had whispered his real name under your breath when he revealed it to you.

he doesn’t rush to name it. doesn’t push. he lets it simmer until it feels inevitable.

in the end, it’s you who breaks first. technically. not that he’s keeping score. not that he would ever rub it in your face, especially when he was a mere day away from asking the very same thing.

it starts with a message. no preamble, no buildup. just a simple: hey, what are we?

könig sees it and reacts before thinking. presses the call button so fast his thumb practically smashes the screen. it rings once, twice—

“you didn’t even ask.” your voice comes through, half exasperated, half amused.

“didn’t want to give you time to unsend.” his own voice is steady, but his heart is anything but.

you huff. “bold assumption.”

“not really.”

a pause. he hears you shift, fabric rustling, the sound of you settling in. something warm and slow uncoils in his chest at the familiarity of it.

“so,” you start, hesitant. “what’s your answer?”

könig exhales, tipping his head back against his pillow. “do you want the truth?”

“obviously.”

he hums, considering. in reality, he’s known the truth for a while now. probably before you even realized it yourself.

“i like you,” he says, simple, sure. then, because he knows you, because he knows your deflections, your habit of teasing when you get nervous, he adds, “and i’m very aware you like me back.”

you sputter. “that’s a bold assumption-”

“not really,” he repeats, smug this time.

you groan, but you’re laughing, and it sends something bright flickering through him.

könig doesn’t ask for nudes. not once. he flirts, he teases, but never pushes. he knows your boundaries, respects them, never even hints at wanting more. if anything, he’s careful. too careful, sometimes. like he’s afraid of crossing a line you haven’t even drawn.

so when you finally send something, it’s your choice.

the first picture is tame. barely anything. it's a shot of your thighs, soft and warm in the low light of your room. nothing scandalous. nothing too revealing. but the second you hit send, your stomach twists with nerves.

könig sees it immediately. you watch the typing bubble appear, disappear, then appear again. and then— “fuck.”

you grin. “good?”

“you have no idea.”

it only escalates from there.

könig never requests more. but when you send it, when you want to send it, his reaction is worth it. he worships you through the screen, tells you how beautiful you are, how much he wishes he could touch you.

“pretty,” he texts once, attached to a voice message.

you press play. his breath is ragged, like he’s just run a mile. “pretty thing,” he repeats, voice tinged with something almost reverent. “you’re going to ruin me, love.”

the first time he sends you something, it takes him forever to work up to it.

you don’t ask for it. wouldn’t dream of pushing him into something he’s not comfortable with. könig isn’t shy, necessarily, but he’s private. you know that by now.

so when, out of nowhere, a picture pops up on your screen, your brain short-circuits.

it’s cropped carefully, but there’s no mistaking what you’re looking at— bare skin, broad shoulders, his stomach flexed just slightly.

“you like?” he texts after a minute.

you swallow hard. “yes.”

“good.” and then— “more?”

you bite your lip. “please.”

könig gets bolder after that.

he sends more. never too much, always teasing, always just enough to leave you wanting. sometimes it’s his hands, sometimes it’s his abs, the sharp cut of his hip bones, the waistband of his sweatpants hanging just low enough to make your mouth water.

one night, he sends a voice message instead. you press play.

at first, all you hear is his breathing. then, slowly, softly— your name, whispered through a noise that makes heat bloom low in your stomach.

“wish you were here,” he murmurs. “wish you could see what you do to me.”

the actual nudes don’t take long. not ar all. you’re both desperate. buzzing. könig’s the one who caves first.

it starts with your text. 10 p.m., the hour where inhibitions slip through grasping fingers like sand.

“wanna see your cock so bad, könig…” you murmur to your propped phone, cheek pressed to your pillow, another one stuffed against your chest like it might replace the hollow ache between your ribs. a distraction. a poor substitute.

on the other side of the screen, he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. fingers tensing, then flexing, like he needs something to hold onto. “love-” your whine cuts through before he can even think. instinctive. needy. his stomach clenches. “okay, okay. as long as you're sure.”

his heart pounds as he opens his photos. he doesn’t exactly collect dick pics, but there are a few kept locked away, private albums, a passcode he suddenly fumbles to enter.

three minutes. that’s how long it takes to choose the best one. the right angle. the right lighting. enough to make your breath hitch when you see it.

he hits send before he can overthink it, then leans back, phone balanced on his thigh, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

your phone buzzes. the photo pops up. you blink, breath hitching sharp in your throat.

“oh my god.” the words spill out of you before you can even think to stop them. “könig…” you stare at the screen, gaze locked on the thick, heavy length of him. the way it curves slightly, resting against his thigh like it’s weighed down by its own sheer mass. your breath stutters.

“you're so fucking big.” it barely registers that you've said it aloud.

“yeah? you like it?

“like it?” you shoot back. “i want it inside me.”

his breath leaves him in one harsh exhale. he shifts, hips rolling involuntarily like he can feel your words on his skin.

“can i see you too?” he sounds so polite. and then, as if that wasn’t enough to twist the knife deeper— “please?”

your stomach flips. you bite your lip, already reaching for your phone camera, the need to show him everything burning through you like wildfire.

your breath comes shallow as you slip your hand lower, phone steady in the other. the need is a pulse under your skin, throbbing, insistent. you pull the covers back just enough, the cool air prickling against the heat between your thighs.

the camera catches everything. your slightly parted thighs, your swollen clit, the wetness gushing out of your hole. it feels like baring a secret you’ve never told anyone. you hesitate for half a second, heart racing, then hit send.

the second the message disappears from your screen, it hits you— you just sent that to him.

on his end, könig freezes. the photo loads slow, torturous, and when it finally pops up, he feels his whole body tense, blood rushing south so fast it’s dizzying. “f-fuck, i need to be inside of you-”

sex with könig, if you can even call it that, at first, sneaks up on you. you never thought you’d be the kind of person who got into this. sending texts that made your face burn, leaving voice messages you could barely listen back to without cringing. but with him, it’s different. easier. less embarrassing because it’s him.

still, going from nudes to actual phone sex takes some time.

“gonna sleep,” könig texts you once, attached to a blurry photo of his bed.

“alone?” you send back, teasing.

the typing bubble appears. then disappears. then— “obviously.”

you grin at your phone, satisfied. but then— “but i could use some company.”

you stare at the message longer than you’d like to admit.

didn't tell him that you had woken up panting, arousal between your thighs, könig’s name on your lips too many times. didn't tell him that you had pressed your hand against your clit during your calls, to the sound of his voice, to his laugh, to the quiet, wrecked groans he sometimes lets out when he stretches after a workout.

in the past, you hadn't told him how many times you’d dreamt of him because you thought you'd scare him off, kept your mouth shut about the images that haunted you at night, of his hands pinning you down, his mouth at your throat.

but you wanted to.

and tonight, you would.

the conversation turns slow. lazy. heavy with something unspoken.

“you sound tired,” könig murmurs, voice warm. he’s always like this late at night. soft, unhurried, like he’s sinking into the sound of you.

you swallow hard. your skin feels too hot, too tight. “i’m not.”

a pause. then, lower— “what is it, love?”

you hesitate, pressing your lips together. it’s too much. too embarrassing. but he knows something is different.

“talk to me. tell me what you’re thinking.”

you let out a shaky breath. “i had a dream about you.”

the silence stretches.

you can hear him inhale. you bite your lip. force yourself to continue. “i think about you. when i-” you stop. you can’t say it. can’t admit it.

könig exhales through his nose, like he’s trying to steady himself. “when you what?”

your stomach is a knot of nerves. but you want this. want him. so you take a breath, close your eyes. “when i touch myself.”

his breath stutters.

“fuck.” the word is almost a groan. your pulse hammers, blood rushing through your ear as heat pools in your stomach.

“könig,” you whisper.

he exhales, whispers his next words like a beg, “say it again.”

you swallow. “i touch myself to you.”

“i do too.”

your stomach flips. “what?”

“i-” he cuts himself off with a quiet curse, like he's frustrated with himself for hesitating. “i touch myself to you too.”

your breath catches. heat blooms in your chest, spreading down your spine. “könig-”

“all the time.” his voice is lower now, raw, like he's aching with it. “when i can't sleep. when you're on call with me, laughing, teasing me. when i wake up hard in the middle of the night and can’t stop thinking about stuffing you full.”

your body is burning again, despite the aftershocks still rolling through you. you're about to choke out a reply when you hear it— the rustle of fabric, the faint creak of bedsprings, the wet slide of skin on skin.

“are you-”

a sharp inhale. “yes.”

“let me hear you,” you whisper, thinking about his pretty, pretty cock. uncut, soft skin stretched over the flushed head, the way it would slide back when he’s fully hard, revealing the deep pink of his leaking tip. the veins that wind down the length, standing out against the pale skin

there's a pause, a hitch in his breath. then, slowly— “okay.”

there's a small rustle, könig adjusting himself on the bed. the faint sound of him pumping lotion on his hand. a quiet sigh. and then, a low grunt as the warmth of his palm wraps around his cock.

könig looks down at his hand, eyes half-lidded, hips bucking up in small thrusts. he imagines your pussy instead of his fist, hot and tight and so fucking warm, fluttering around his length as he pushes in, spearing you open with a cock too big for your little cunny.

he knows you’d cry for him, little gasps and hiccupped moans, squirming beneath him as he bullies his cock deeper, past that tight ring of muscle into the slick, warm clutch of your cunt.

“a-ah- fuck, ah-”

your breath stutters at the sounds, hips grinding against your palm. “wish i could see you.”

“on cam?”

you groan, squeezing your thighs around the pillow in-between your legs, grinding your clit against the material softly. “yes, please..”

fuck, you're so polite.

[t-virusx]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Call of Duty (Video Games) Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Simon "Ghost" Riley/Reader, Simon "Ghost" Riley/Original Female Character(s) Characters: Simon "Ghost" Riley, John Price (Call of Duty), Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, Johnny McTavish, John "Soap" MacTavish Summary:

When the world collapses under the wide-spread infection of the Rage virus, you are left to fend for yourself. Your goal is to now find your father, no matter what, and you start by looking into a base protected by the military. But before you get there, it all goes up in flames, and you are left to your own devices as you continue your search--with a new companion.

[t-virusx]

Just Like Heaven (Ch. 1)

“Benny! Seriously, don’t get coffee in it, you’re gonna be bouncing off of literally every wall in the city, just ask her for decaf!” 

“But maybe I want to be crazy, I’ll run home instead of taking the metros!”

“Benny you will literally die,”

“Holy shit! Was that a bomb?”

“Why is everyone running?”

“Benny? Where are you?”

“Benny get up! Please!”

“Stop! Please, stop! Can’t you see him down there?!”

“Benny! Please stand up! Why aren’t you moving?”

“Benny!”

Sweat dripped from every pore of your body, your fingers clutching tightly around the slowly rusting necklace. Your breaths were shaking, uneven, and your mouth ran dry. How many times were you going to have this dream? 

You cried quietly, the base of your palms digging into the sockets of your eyes, lips curled inward to keep yourself quiet. 

It felt like every night was the same dream. Of the day the world all went to shit, the day the virus hit the United States in its core, the day Benny died. The day the world died. Benny’s screams would never leave your head, the image of his mangled little body…

“Hey. You up? We move out soon,” The voice made you jump, your hands dropping from your face, but not before quickly wiping your eyes. It’s not like anyone would judge you, but you don’t want to seem so frail anymore. Mary, the woman who’d snuck up on you, would never judge. She was a lovely woman. 

She lost her husband on outbreak day, most people lost loved ones that day. And the day after, and after, and so on. Everyday, everybody risked death.

Dawn was breaking, which meant it was time to go. You packed up your backpack, it was an old red Jansport bag, one that you’ve managed to keep all throughout high school and even now.

There wasn’t much to pack up--a thermal blanket, water canteen, some rations. 

After the outbreak and all the bombs, not many people were left. The ones that did survive, created groups, and factions. Like this group, it had a goal. You’d heard rumors of a base for survivors, that you could be picked up by the military and brought to this safe haven of sorts. Of course, there were those who preferred to live on their own, without law and order and regulation, but you didn’t. Why would you? It was dangerous, and it’s not like you had the greatest set of survival skills. 

You watched your brother die that day, and somehow you were able to make it home, hoping to find your father, but he was gone. Phones weren't working anymore, so all you did was pack a bag and leave, until you found this group. Maybe your dad was escorted to this base, he is someone of importance. Or, was, really. In the old world. 

“Sam, you got everything?” You asked the young boy. He reminded you of Benny, in a lot of ways. They were close in age, too. He was the youngest in the group, out of the six of you. The oldest is Manny, a man in his late fifties, and his brother is Josef-- he was thirty. Anna was the second oldest, a fearful woman in her early thirties, you guessed. She never told. And then there is Mary. She always had this look in her eyes that told you she wouldn’t mind death anytime soon. She missed her husband.

“Yeah, I got everything. Saved you some canned peaches last night, you fell asleep before I could give them to you,” He said, handing you a newly opened can of the orange fruit, and you smiled. He was such a sweet boy. “Thanks, Sammy. This is why you’re my favorite person in the group,” You winked and patted his head, pouring some of the peaches into your mouth, the rest of the group already starting ahead. 

 You were headed for the pickup point, which was apparently in Philadelphia. Josef was the one leading the group--he mostly kept to himself, only really talking to either his brother or addressing the group like you were children, which seemed fair. No one knew how to navigate through the lands like this, or know where’s safe to make camp and whatnot. Sometimes he’d mumble about his wife, but would stop the moment anyone asked about her more. 

Two more days passed, it took your group longer to get there because the older ones were not able to walk in the woods for longer than a few hours without having to rest. You could tell they weighed down on Josef, even his brother seemed to be a thorn in his side. But safety in numbers kept him from ditching you all, which you were grateful for at the very least. Plus, he was the one who had a gun. 

Some infected stragglers crossed your group's path here and there, people who were being chased to the pickup zone and weren’t so lucky, you’d wager. You were all prepared for this, prepared to hide or climb. Josef was prepared to shoot.

A giant tree loomed before your group, it was marked with flags and paint, marking it as the pickup zone. No one else was here, which you were thankful for, because most people couldn’t be trusted, not anymore. They’d either rob you, or kill you and then rob you. That was the type of darkness people turned towards after the world ended. 

“So what do we do, Josef? Make camp until those bootlickers decide to drop down on us and rescue us?” Manny asked his brother, he wasn’t very fond of the military. He thought they were too harsh, too brutal to humans that relied on them for safety--yet here he was, anyway. 

“Shut up. Make a fire,” Josef looked at Sam and you. You had the firestarter kit, and Sam always stuck around you anyway. As you and Sam collect some wood to make a small fire, the rest of the group checks their map to make sure this is the right spot, just in case. They set out their sleeping bags and took out some food, none of them knew when we’d be saved. 

It could be days until the next pickup, there was no indicator of when they would come, if there even was a schedule. 

Some hours later, you were all huddled around the fire, cooking squirrels and rabbits that Anna and Manny caught with their wired traps. No one spoke, all focused on the meat before you, waiting until the little pieces were done and ready to eat. 

You shared your rabbit with Sam, Manny shared with Josef, and Anna shared with Mary. Sam took out his deck of cards that he picked up from another town some weeks ago, and you and he played a couple rounds of War before you turned your head to the sky, because you thought you heard something odd. 

“Um, is that them?” You asked, pointing to the sky--it was a helicopter, slowly descending, with a giant vehicle below it that it seemed to be carrying.

You told Sam to pack his cards as you packed up your water and any leftover pieces of meat you had, everyone backed away from the tree to allow the helicopter to land, and it was the loudest thing you’ve ever heard in your life. You covered your ears as your hair whipped around, scratching your squinted eyes as the helicopter set down the vehicle first, and then dropped a ladder. 

Three men slid down, all yelling over the loud sound of the chopper to back up, the first one to touch his boots to the ground immediately raised his rifle at us. 

“Back up! Hands on your heads!” He ordered. He was tall, thin, and his skin was dark, with a black gator mask covering most of his face. 

You all raised your hands to your heads, Sam was scared, afraid that this was something else than a group of saviors. 

Once the last of the three men hit the ground, the helicopter recalled its ladder and ascended back up before taking off. The silence that settled seemed almost louder than the chopper’s blades. You looked around at the other men--one had a short mohawk, with a glaring gaze and a thick Scottish accent as he spoke over his comms. The final man was behind the two. He was big, with wide shoulders and he walked with confidence and pose. He wore a balaclava like the Scottish one wore, except he had a print of a skull on it, like something you swore you’d seen at a hot topic before. 

“Everyone on your knees, we’re checking for infection. If you are infected, we will kill you. No questions asked,” The first man said, and as he got closer, you could see on his uniform the name ‘Garrick’ velcroed on his breast. The other one, you couldn’t see his name yet, but the one with the Mohawk walked around behind you all with a cubic shaped device in his hands, one that he held to each one of your necks as you kneeled to check for infection. 

Which truthfully, didn’t make sense to you. Infected people turned within minutes of being bit, but they had to be as careful as possible, you guess. No one beeped, which was relieving despite you knowing for a fact no one was infected, but the anxiety of waiting clung to you. 

You couldn’t stop staring at the skull guy, he was scary looking. And he wouldn’t stop staring at you, but that was probably because he was growing suspicious of your staring. You gulped and looked down, until Garrick announced that we could stand up, and to grab our things. You grabbed your bag and Sam’s, you were last in line, but before any of you made it to the Humvee, the mohawk man ordered you to all stop. 

“What is it, McTavish?” Garrick asked. It went silent, before you knew it, McTavish was announcing ‘Movement!’ and opening fire in the distance, Garrick was shoving you and Sam to take cover behind the Humvee. 

All three soldiers were shouting out words that you didn’t understand, you were more worried about the flashing device hidden under the engine of the vehicle. 

(Oh my god I've never posted to tumblr so I hope this looks fine 😭😭 but this is basically a 'zombie' AU that is Ghost orientated, I lowkey rushed this first chapter along cuz I'm just too excited to write about him lol. I hope u all like it so far! It's gonna be slowburn, def will be smut too hehe ok ty for reading!!)

(I'm also going to be posting this to my Ao3 account!! Here is the link;

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63142648

[t-virusx]

[t-virusx]

GHOST IN “KILL OR CAPTURE” | MODERN WARFARE II

[t-virusx]

You know the woman in line behind you is getting impatient, hearing her not so subtle exasperated sigh as you continue to search through your bag, your cheeks burning a deeper shade of crimson when you catch the barista’s tight lipped smile in your direction, her attempt at reassuring you as part of her job, though you can tell she wishes you’d hurry up as well

As if your debit card declining a mortifying four times hadn’t been enough, but then your attempt at using your credit card was just as unsuccessful, the sound of the failed transaction on a stupid 6£ drink sounding out for everyone in queue to know how broke you really were

Embarrassment coursing through your veins, already thinking about how you’ll never have the guts to come back to this cafe again as you desperately search for enough spare change at the bottom of your purse to cover this morning’s coffee, your scrambling comes to a pause when a large shadow suddenly eclipses the overheard lighting above you

In the midst of your frantic searching, a tall figure has come to stand just next to you, their gloved hand stretching past your figure to tap a card against the machine, the happy beep of the teller confirming the transaction’s been accepted this time

“I’ve got tha’ for ya.” A deep, gravelly Manchester accent mutters low enough for only you to hear, before the figure tries to retreat back into queue unnoticed

You eyebrows shoot up in shock, the barista equally appearing surprised but not displeased as she finally gets to hand you your drink and quickly wish you a good day before she’s already trying to help the woman waiting behind you

You step aside out of the queue, swinging your head around to try and spot your mystery saviour who stepped in and helped you out without even needing so much as a thanks in return apparently

You spot him instantly, the absolute size of him easily giving him away. No one else in the small cafe could have created such a large, intimidating shadow, let alone spoken in such a deep voice that sent chills down your spine

He stands a head above anyone else in queue, currently last in the line after he stepped out to pay for you. He’s wearing a simple black medical mask on the lower half of his face, a black hoodie with the hood pulled over his head offers you only a small glimpse of his eyes, which are noticeably pointed at the ground at the moment

You’re walking towards him before you even realize it

“Th- thank you. I don’t-” You’re cut off when those same eyes glance up to meet your own, stealing your breath away. He seems almost as surprised that you’re speaking to him as you were when he stepped in and paid for you, his eyes betraying his shock for only a fraction of a second before he’s steeling himself and his eyes darken. You get the vague impression that he isn’t someone who’s used to being caught off guard

“I don’t know what I would’ve done if you weren’t here.” You say to him, wanting to express just how grateful you are to him for his random act of kindness, but he says nothing in return, hardly blinking once as he simply stares back at you

“I can’t understand why my cards weren’t working today. I promise I don’t like- this isn’t a thing I do. Go into coffee shops and pretend I can’t pay, hoping someone else will…” You awkwardly laugh to yourself, beginning to ramble in an effort to fill in the silence

“Anyways I just, really wanted to say thank you. I don’t know how to repay you.” You’re scrambling now, attempting to save face as this man just looks at you, an arm beginning to swing your purse off your shoulder in hopes of maybe finding enough change to appease this guy

“Not necessary.” The deep voice finally says again, his eyes leaving yours to scan you from top to bottom and then back up again, almost examining the sight before him. You almost feel like a deer caught in the headlights for a moment, seeing the mask moving along with the sound of that gravelly voice an enrapturing vision

“Oh- well I- I mean that’s really nice of you, but I swear I can pay you back.” You recognize that feeling beginning to swirl low in your stomach, familiar with the warmth gathering in the apples of your cheeks; your body realizing it a split second before your brain catches up. You’re kind of into this guy. You can’t see much of his face, but the sliver you do see certainly isn’t unattractive, his height and build speaks for itself, with a voice like that and the fact that he’s just saved your butt and expected not even a thanks in return, you’re wondering if he’s too good to be true

“Do you come here often?” You’re asking him before you can stop yourself, watching a single one of his eyebrows arching ever so slightly. “I just mean that- I come here a lot- sometimes. And if you’re here next time I’m here, then maybe I can pay you back, buy you a drink.”

You’re losing confidence the longer he stands there, not answering. What were you thinking? This guy was just trying to be nice, get the annoying girl holding up the line out of the way so that people can order their drinks and go about their day, and here you are holding him up even longer-

“If it’ll make ya happy.” He’s suddenly answering, snapping you out of your downward spiral. If you could see the grin that slowly creeps upon your face, you might be otherwise embarrassed, but right now you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Oh okay, amazing. I mean- yeah that would- that would be cool. Okay.” You reply, glancing at your watch. “I’m not sure for you, but um, I’m almost always here each Sunday. Around this time.”

“I’ll be here next Sunday. Around this time.” He says matter-of-factly.

“Next in line please.” The barista at the corner calls out, interrupting the two of you. You glance back to see that it’s now his turn to order, feeling bad that you’re about to hold up the queue yet again.

“Great. I’ll see you Sunday then. Thank you again, seriously. I really owe you one.” You say, gripping the straps of your bag tighter as you offer him a sheepish smile before ducking out of the busy cafe, a small grin playing across your face.

Ghost watches your figure through the large windows as you walk out of the shop, across the street, disappearing into the crowd of morning goers strolling about. Only once he cannot see you anymore, does he walk up to the counter, slipping a 20£ note to the barista along with a slight nod of acknowledgement, before he himself is turning to walk out of the cafe, empty handed, intent on catching up to you from a distance.

~~~~~~~~~~

AKA Ghost has been stalking you for months and finally comes up with a way to have you approach him

[t-virusx]

simon who leaves a random drunken stranger that started to flirt with him in order to talk with awkward! reader, unintentionally making them all flustered instead :(

(a little continuation of this)

awkward! reader who silently listens in to the conversation between simon and the drunken stranger. the interaction was filled with rambles and very questionable remarks from the woman while he just grunts in response.

simon who just ends up pissed at the woman after a few minutes, causing him to lift himself up from the seat, grabbing his glass of whiskey before walking towards you. you noticed, watching as simon walks away from her without a word.

"mind if i sit 'ere?" simon spoke up with a tinge of annoyance, and, of course, you can't refuse.

he sat beside you, the couch slightly shifting at the sudden weight. you swore you could feel him leaning back on the pub's couch, his legs spread and balaclava pulled up until the bridge of his nose. he quietly took a sip from his glass while you do the same.

"ya drink often?" the sudden question catches you off guard, and you fumble for a response, your voice quieter than you'd like.

"not really," you admitted.

"never pegged ya as the bar type," his eyes flickered over to you.

"... uh, 's that a good thing?" you heard a small grunt leaving his lips at your response.

"think tha's for you to decide, no?"

"I... guess so."

the silence took over the conversation, causing the chattering of others to be more prominent. a few minutes of silence had passed, and you felt like burying yourself into a deep, deep hole.

"so... d'you usually go to pubs?" you asked, hoping to break the gnawing silence.

"no, not often. usually jus' go 'ere after several missions."

"that's nice."

"... fuckin' 'ell." he paused for a moment, "this 's your idea of small talk, eh?"

fuck. you could feel the heat rising up in your cheeks before you turned your head away from your lieutenant, hoping to hide the sheepish expression on your face. the couch squeaked as he shifted, his head leaning in closer to yours while his knee brushed against yours. simon could feel himself getting slightly tipsy from all the drinks.

"don'tcha worry 'bout it. 'm not teasin' ya for tha', sweet'eart. d'ya want me to teach ya a thing or two 'bout this... interestin' topic of conversations?"

kruegerspillow © 2024 ➵ do not feed my work into ai, repost or translate my work. Reblogs are much appreciated ୨ৎ

[t-virusx]

Alone; But Never Alone

My ode to the alone skin. Self indulgent maybe. Spooky maybe? Cerberus 141, unrequested incorporeal oral, gothic style pining and obsession by the creature made of many? I like the thought they’re all blended into one. I don’t know how to tag this. Fuck knows at this point.

There are four men that haunt you.

Never more than shadows in the periphery of your vision, yet still the flickers of them caught from the corners of your eyes, makes your heart pound. Even as your gaze seeks out the figures languishing just out of sight, they vanish into darkness like they never existed. It causes your stomach to turn cold with dread, a mist of fine sweat beading on the back of your neck, potent and chilling. You know they lurk in the recesses of your home, though they hide from the full glare of comprehension.

You always feel them before your brain registers anything worth making sense of, appalling, a doom filled aura with no substance. Though you turn on every light and flood each room in a golden glow of reassurance, the oppression remains. You are but an object to be studied. A test subject in the confines of four walls rendered down to the little routines you follow, sinew and fat disregarded until the bones of your life remain. They aren’t interested in your mumbled curses and prayers, how your head swirls with fear when the key you own turns in the lock of your front door as you cautiously move across the threshold. The men seek your base instincts, wish to unravel them until you’re nothing but churning fright running from corner to corner, just out of reach as they are.

Sometimes when you drift off to slumber, you see them closing in. A pack of demons which wrath, envy, lust and all of the sins have not a chance against. Many hands snatch at you through tendrils of unconsciousness, several pairs of eyes rove across your form. Ripe for the plucking, a tender fruit without one thorn to halt their snatching fingers. Frail and unguarded, skin unblemished and unbroken by the worst mankind's potent curiosity can inflict.

They’ve seeped into the foundations of your life. At times they feel overwhelming, others you almost mourn their incompleteness. Shades of blue shattered across obsidian coloured orbs. Bronzed and muscular bodies blending into bloodless, scarred flesh. The hint of tar like cigar smoke hanging ominously in the air, followed by the traces of amber and strong scotch. Never whole, always muddied as if the silt of a river bed has been disturbed by ceaseless currents. Churning fragments of men who were, forever changed into something unearthly.

You could leave your place in the woodland, run far enough away to escape the oppressive force of the men that inhabit the inky lines of trees and bracken. It wouldn’t last though, somehow you recognise that you’re their guiding star, a treasured beacon in the midst of furious anguish. You’d think they’d be at war with themselves, your looming and restless spirits, creeping across the floorboards of your tiny home. Instead they feel purposeful, a force of nature honed to a spear point and aimed directly at you. For what purpose you couldn’t say, friend or foe they could be both. Though friends don’t make your skin prickle or cause you to close your eyes tight and count to ten when entering a dim room.

Coexisting if not companions. While they remain intangible you make the best of a bad situation. You allow them to observe the sanctity of your life with little complaints. Docile reverence will keep you safe. If you hear the rumble of deep voices downstairs as you lay huddled under blankets, it’s nothing. If you notice many footprints outside in the sodden earth beside your front door, there’s an explanation based in logic.

Tenuous as you feel your connection to sanity is becoming, you’re never alone. Maybe you can seek shelter in that. Build matchsticks of comfort from the knowledge your spirits won’t vanish truly, though they hide from your eyes.

One particularly disturbing night, you dream of teeth bared and snarling, broad hands resting at the hollow of your throat as you thrash, flecks of saliva lathed across your cunt by a wicked tongue. It may as well be barbed from all the pleasure it brings you, and you wake sobbing tangled in your own sheets. How restless your spirits grow, confined to captivity like animals, lonely bars to gnaw on when they wish only to plunder the sweetness of your flesh. Lines are paced along the bare concrete floors, synchronised footsteps wearing down layers of dust beneath heavy soles. They long for you, their singular purpose is to find you, be reunited by your side as Persephone was to Hades when the leaves began to fall.

Each day you rise for work, shaking off your lingering ghosts and replacing them with the dour drabness of a military base. A tiny cog in a wheel with minimal security clearance, you read your stacks of paperwork and daydream in the spaces between pages.

Every now and then, you think about a boy you once knew. The first flush of love springing eternal in his tawny eyes, freckles dotted on the apples of his cheeks. Once the intensity of it had faded, so did the image of him, until he began to blend and change with time. Maybe his stare was deep cerulean instead of black? Perhaps he wore his heart on his sleeve instead of close to his chest? You can’t recall with certainty whether his hair was the colour of ash bark or mahogany, but he plays on your mind all the same. One ever changing image of perfect adoration flavoured warmly by the summers breeze in your minds eye. You wonder occasionally what became of him? Then your ghouls replace any nostalgia with harsh oppression.

He thinks of you too, that boy. No longer a boy but a man, part of a matching set equal in its fervour and obsession. A melting pot of torrid instincts each clamouring to be heard.

It’s a dangerous thing to be the person a man lives for. Even more deadly to be the one four men would die for.

It’s autumn now, only drizzle to accompany you to your car, ready to drive back to the prison of your boys, relentless echoes driven into the cracks in the floorboards and the seams of the wallpaper you plastered up when you moved in. The base is almost deserted, low lying buildings made only for functionality look like hillocks under orange spotlights that never quite illuminate the horizon. You’ve stayed too late, they’ll be locking up soon ready for the night watch, you should really hurry.

The passenger door unlocks with a click, your mind on dinner and what demonic actions you’ll have to ignore tonight, it’s not immediately obvious that there’s another sound in the mist behind you. A dull thunk. Metal hitting metal with ferocity. Unusual, disturbing the peace of the evening. You cast one eye over your shoulder, seeing pure blankness behind you.

But the noise only grows, ricocheting in the stillness, so loud it makes your ears ring. It isn’t your job to investigate it. But curiosity calls to you, beckons you in with a sultry voice.

The sound is coming from the back of the base, a building with thick walls and no windows. You’ve seen it before, usually the iron entrance is flanked by armed soldiers. Tonight though, they’re nowhere in sight, replaced by that relentless rattling from deep within the vibrating concrete prison.

Your passkey doesn’t work, but the crack in the door is just wide enough to slip through. Carefully you ease inside, trembling slightly in the icy temperatures. It feels cooler still now, like you’re entering some long lost tomb, shrouded in secrets and death.

Something smells wrong, cloying at the back of your throat, acrid in the way only explosives and gun smoke can be to a palette not acquainted with it. There’s movement ahead from persons unknown, the shuffling of weighted feet across wet ground. You fumble at the cheap torch on your key ring, given to you at a work conference long since forgotten. The brightness flares, startlingly cold, dust particles curling in the air.

Your eyes adjust enough to see the switch for the lights, refusing to take in a ground coated in fresh burgundy, remnants of a body lain to waste underfoot. Light will cleanse the scene, make it based in reality rather than putrid horror. Fluorescents blink into life overhead, but the scene doesn’t clear. If anything it intensifies into sheer chaos, horror that makes your brain malfunction for several haunted minutes.

Towering. Abysmal. Three heads with milky, blue sheened eyes. Arms simultaneously working against each other, shaking individually against the metal security gate barring the door, the steel looks weak in broad-backed hands, thick fingers grazed and clasped tightly as if they could snap each bar entirely. A true monster, summoned from hell itself, standing over you on two strong thighs. Your own legs are numb, unfeeling, not able to move you draw in rattling gasps of oxygen while your head spins.

But the devil speaks your name, in a blended sound of different voices. So lonely they’ve been, now you’ve come for them. Unlock the door love, let them hold their bonnie thing, much longed for and prized above all else. Come on darlin, nothing to be scared of, let them out and they promise no one else has to get hurt.

Your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth, pulse stammering a staccato of terror in your veins. Several staggering steps are taken backwards as you claw for the door, go to press the security alarm for help, fingers paused to hit the button slick with gore.

It’s deepest winter when the most valuable asset in the worlds arsenal disappears.

The frigid ground trembles under their feet, breath coming in sharp gasps and forming clouds of vapour in the crisp air. Free at last, the taste of iron bites on each tongue like acid, while the hunger for retribution thirsts into every unforgiving action.

For they own silver tongues and iron wills. Perhaps it’s not surprising they’re coming for you.

But your ghosts will keep you safe, stop man made Cerberus from crossing your threshold as they stand should to incorporeal shoulder.

Won’t they?

@cutiecusp @murder-hobo @pxssygxblin @misshugs

[t-virusx]

The Good Friend

Chapter 2. Favoritism

Summary: Johnny discovers his purpose in Ghost's experiment.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, kidnapping, stalking, suffocation, mentions of blood, drugging, psychotic behavior, obsessive behavior. Do not read if you are sensitive to these topics.

It was the lack of control – the lack of having a life in his hands, the lack of having someone beg for their soul. Ghost had gone almost two months without hearing it. That was Johnny’s reasoning for his behavior.

Ghost believed he had saved you – that’s what he said to Johnny. He rescued you from that dingy, roach-infested flat; the sleazebag neighbor would have snatched you up if Ghost didn’t get there first. Your job was draining, the turnover rate so high you were constantly picking up slack. Father dead, mother remarried and living in a different country, and no siblings. Your friends were your coworkers, who didn’t care about you when you were clocked out – and the bartender in the local pub you frequented, but he certainly wouldn’t miss you (he called you an under-tipper, however untrue it was).

So, he did the reasonable thing: he shoved his way into your flat while you were in the shower, sobbing about the stress of your job and your pitiful, little life (you really are a crybaby, aren’t you?). Waited patiently in the front closet as you tried to cheer yourself up, lighting that sickly-sweet candle, pouring a glass of wine, and settling on the couch with a copy of “Animal Farm”. Was nearly going to change his plans and pounce on you then and there, until you finally put the book down and placed your glass in the kitchen, padding back towards your room with a weary face.

You didn’t wake easily. It had taken almost a minute of Simon plugging your nose and mouth with his thick fingers before you started flailing. A knee to your pelvis did a good job at keeping you still, and it wasn’t much longer before you were out like a light again. It was easy to carry you to the truck, still wrapped in your blanket, looking all peaceful and dreamy, besides the tears on your cheeks (that made you look sexy, in Ghost’s opinion). And don’t worry, he made sure to grab some of your things for the long run. He’s willing to keep some knickknacks of your previous life if it helps you settle into your new one.

Johnny listened to each word Ghost said, filtering out your screams as he had stitched you up. Now he was processing it – his lieutenant had kidnapped a civilian.

He’s still kneeling in front of you, head in your lap as he battles with himself. He had to stitch you up – it wasn’t even the wrong thing to do. Either you would have bled out, or Ghost would have killed you himself. You should have been taken to the hospital, but Ghost wasn’t having it. Soap had to shush and beg you to stop crying as he patched your headwound – “stop cryin’, Bonnie, please? It’ll be over soon, you’ll be right as rain, I promise ye. Know it hurts ye, but I cannae have ye bleedin’ all over yerself, aye?” – now that you’re not dripping blood onto your lap, he’s got his head there, trying to catch up with his hammering heart.

“Come n’ wash your hands, Johnny.” Ghost calls from the kitchen.

Soap lifts his head; you’re still crying, much less now that there’s not a needle tugging at the skin of your forehead, but you’re still choking on your tears. You look down at him, your lip trembling as you suck in a breath.

“Please don’t go-“ you sob, looking down at him with earnest. Your voice is hoarse from crying – the fight is nearly drained out of you. “Please… he’s going to kill me-“

“He’ll nae kill you.” Soap says, gently grabbing the sides of your face. “I won’t let ‘im. I’m goin’ to clean up myself, then I’m gettin’ ye a towel and a glass o’ water, how’s tha’ sound?”

He doesn’t wait for you to answer, already up and in the kitchen when you protest with a whine. Johnny wants to be the saint here, keeping both you and his friend safe and out of trouble (as much as he’s able). There’s just one problem, something that has him feeling the weight of shame in his gut – you’re so pretty when you’re crying, fat globs of tears spilling down your cheeks as you look at Soap with recognition and familiarity. You think of him as your savior, just waiting for the perfect, opportune moment to snatch you up and carry you to safety. Admittedly, he hasn’t thought of an escape plan yet; he hasn’t had a moment to think about it, but he hasn’t tried, either. He’s not a monster, he’s just… not ready to be the hero.

“She’s warmin’ up to ya.” Ghost says, leaning against the counter as Soap washes his hands of your blood. “Already callin’ out to ya for help.”

Soap takes the moment to try and redeem himself. “She’s in pain.” He states bluntly, not meeting Ghost’s stare.

“I’ve got somethin’ for it. Might help ‘er finally sleep, too. She kept complainin’ ‘bout the basement bein’ too cold n’ dark-“

God, of course he keeps you in the basement.

“I dinnae want any part o’ this. Ghost.” Soap finally snaps, flicking his hands to get rid of the water. “That poor girl should nae be ‘ere. Ye need help, man.”

Ghost smirks. “’Course I need help – n’ you just helped me earlier. How can you say ya don’t want any part of this, when ya just helped stitch ‘er up?”

“Ye said ye’d kill ‘er!”

“You still could’ve left, Johnny.”

Soap huffs angrily. “Feck off. I’m not doin’ this, LT.”

Ghost glares at him for another moment, then scoffs. He grabs his Percocet prescription off of the counter and leaves the kitchen, shoulders tense with ire. Soap sighs, rubbing his hands on his thighs. He opens up the refrigerator and pours a cup of water from the pitcher within.

He needs to think. If he takes you out whenever Ghost isn’t watching – if such a moment ever were to happen, considering the way the lieutenant guards you like a hawk – and if he brought you to the hospital, or even just set you free… Ghost’s life would be over. He’d go to prison. At this point, Johnny might also – he was only trying to save your life when he had stitched you up, but that alone shows participation. He didn’t call the police right away, which would have been the right thing to do. He can’t even call Price, which is who he usually goes to when he needs to complain about him. He wouldn’t risk Simon’s freedom – he wouldn’t risk letting him get too far beyond his reach. He needs him.

He hears you gurgling and gagging in the dining room: he spins around to see Ghost, holding you by a fistful of your hair, two of his thick fingers shoved down your throat.

“Simon!” Johnny barks.

“Swallow.” Ghost commands, looking down at you with a cold glare. You sputter and choke around his fingers, until your lips seal over them and your throat bobs.

Soap rushes over in an instant and pushes Ghost back. He smacks the glass full of water onto the table. Ghost caps the lid to his prescription pills and stuffs it in his sweatshirt pocket.

“Feck is wrong wit ye, feckin’ bampot?!” Soap growls. “How many did ye give ‘er?!”

“Jus’ a few.” Ghost mutters, staring at Johnny. His eyes display authority, as if he’s giving him an order.

Finally, Soap gets it. He understands. Why Simon bothered to get him involved in the first place, what exactly he’s trying to get Johnny involved with – he’s the mediator. You’re the experiment, Ghost is the figurehead, and Johnny’s the one trying to make sure you don’t perish in the process. He’s the comfort shield, the one you’ll deflect to when Ghost is being too rough. Place a source of comfort in the cage, and you’re bound to reach for it when escape isn’t an option.

Soap is seething with anger – he didn’t want this. He was furious that Ghost had roped him into such a fucked up situation – but he hates that he can get himself out, but he won’t. Not at the lieutenant’s expense. Unfortunately for Johnny, Ghost knows that his sergeant’s loyalty is solid and strong, and he’s using it to his advantage.

Soap growls, staring daggers into Ghost’s own, smug expression. He then turns to you, cupping the back of your head. “’S alright, Bonnie- jus’ tilt yer head back, got some water fer ya-“

You sob, though you offer no resistance when he touches you. “What did he give me?!” you cry, fear and resignation written across your face. You’re steadily becoming more and more tired, too exhausted to put up a fight anymore, but you know to ask the important questions.

“Jus’ some pain killers.” Johnny replies quickly, offering a tight-lipped smile. He nudges the glass against your lips, and you instinctively part them to drink in the water. “Gonna make yer head feel better. Cannae have ye sufferin’, aye?” The words are sour coming out of his mouth, but this is what he has to do. He’s the buffer between you and Simon, balancing his lieutenant’s damage and your wrecked emotions.

Ghost hums in approval when you gulp down the water. Your eyes flit to him at the sound reverberating through his chest, but you’re decently not panicking and screaming, with Soap in between the two of you.

“She likes you.” Ghost comments, folding his arms over his chest.

Johnny doesn’t respond – he has nothing to say, and everything to say all at the same time. He’s got to figure out how to keep the peace around here, and it’s clear that Ghost isn’t has no intentions of making it easy for him. But, he did get one thing right – you do seem to be warming up to Johnny, and the sergeant doesn’t know if he’s thrilled or repulsed at that fact.

Next ->

Taglist: @chickennn-soupp @t-virusx @liminal-chickenskin @a-sadmilky

[t-virusx]

The Good Friend

Chapter 1. A New Hobby

Summary: Johnny regularly checks up on Ghost after he sustained a bullet to the hip on their most recent deployment. It's already too late for him to escape, once he sees what's kept his beloved lieutenant so occupied over the past few days.

Warnings: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, kidnapping, implied violence, restraining, psychotic behavior, blood, forced to help in kidnapping, obsessive behavior. DO NOT READ IF YOU ARE SENSITIVE TO THESE TOPICS. By clicking "Keep Reading" you are consenting to be responsible for the media you consume.

A/N: The people have spoken

Simon on medical leave: a disaster and a headache for the rest of the 141.

There's a daily text along the lines of "Let me know when we get shipped out next." It never mattered how many times Price responded with "You're not joining us for a while. Find a hobby, Simon." He was persistent in coming back to work as soon as possible - shattered hip be damned.

Price had given Soap the job of checking up on the poor brute. "Maybe he misses the usual company." He'd say. "Go see 'im, check in with the muppet."

Soap was a good friend, but there was only so much grumbling he could stomach from Simon. Those "check-ins" would turn into a pity party, with Simon saying "I should be out there, helpin' you lot. Only wastin' away in 'ere. Losin' my head." And it was true - every time Johnny visited, there was an open can of beer on the coffee table, or a glass of whiskey in his hand. The bottle of prescription, opioid pain killers on the kitchen table. Some ill-advised coping mechanism within arm's reach.

It hurt Johnny to see it, it really did. He cared about Simon, missed him, would do anything to get his beloved L.T. back on the team. But he knew the man needed rest and recovery, despite how much it was sending Simon into a spiral. Johnny offered to help clean up his place, but Simon angrily denied the offer. "Don't need a bloody caretaker." He spat.

Just tryin' to be a good friend, Soap wanted to say, but instead he answered with a slam of Simon's front door and a hushed "feckin' bastard."

Johnny was tired of it. When the fuck was this medical leave supposed to end? Apparently, in two weeks ("thank the feckin' lord") -

But, Soap soon discovered, Simon had requested more time off.

Price stated he'd said something about "still not feeling right", which immediately had Soap confused. That old bawbag would've been back in the game the second the bullet was out of his hip, if it wasn't for regulations. It festered in the back of his mind all day: why would Simon do that? What could possibly hold his attention more than the task force? More than Johnny?

There was only one way to find out.

Soap stands in front of Simon's door, knocking loudly against the dark wood. An unexpected visit, which Simon might be frustrated by - but Soap is dying to see what's got his lieutenant so preoccupied. Hopefully, he hasn't fallen into a pit of depression, choosing to drink himself to death, rather than come back to the team.

However, after just a few moments of standing on his porch, Simon answers it rather quickly. And he looks happy. Delighted, even.

"'Bout time, Johnny." Simon says, stepping aside to let him in. "Was wondering if you got lost."

"Was wonderin' if you'd gone crazy." Soap banters back, kicking the door shut behind him. "Cap said ye want more time?"

Simon chuckled quietly, locking the deadbolt behind Soap. He shoves his hands - gloved hands - into his sweatshirt pocket. "Took his advice. Found a hobby."

"Lemme guess: knittin' me a Christmas sweater?"

"You fuckin' wish."

It's good. It makes Soap sigh with relief (internally), seeing Simon in such good spirits. He tosses the pack of blems onto the coffee table and follows Simon into the kitchen. The smell of rubbing alcohol hits him before he sees the counter; bandages, gauze, bloody gauze, hydrogen peroxide, and an open suture kit.

He stops in the doorway to the kitchen, his teeth bared in a wince. "Shite, Ghost- ye reopen tha' bullet wound?" he says, lifting up one of the bloodied pieces of gauze.

"Hm?" Simon turns to face him, then looks at what he's holding. "Oh- nah, I'm fine. Luvie here bumped her head."

Johnny looks up, confused, following Simon's back with his eyes as he makes his way into the dining room - his mind goes blank when he sees the poor, bloodied thing, tied to one of the chairs.

You're staring back at him, hair messed and blood dried against a nasty gash on your forehead. Fabric is stuffed into your mouth, with a strip of duct tape securing it around your head. Your eyes light up with hope as they take Johnny in; you're heaving, poor thing, breaths more like whines as you fight through the delirium of your concussion. Your right ankle is swollen and a nasty shade of purple. Blood all over the chair, your thighs, and now, Johnny finally notices, Simon's hands.

"Dinged 'erself pretty good on my bookcase." Simon says, too calmly, his broad frame standing behind the chair you're strapped into. "Slippery lil' thing, she is."

Simon rips the duct tape off - your voice immediately fills the room, echoing inside Soap's head with your begging and pleading, please please please get me out of here, please help me, he kidnapped me, he's a monster, please-

Johnny has to look away - there's too much noise, too much going on - his eyes trail down the dark hall and into Simon's bedroom. The bookshelf is toppled over, volumes strewn about the floor, a lamp shattered on the ground and casting an eerie angle of light through the room. He hears the sound of his own blood pumping, his chest and throat feel tight, mind racing a million miles a second. Did his LT do this? His Simon?

"Johnny."

He turns back to you. The duct tape is back in place, and now you're weakly thrashing about as much as you can - which really isn't much. Ghost is staring at Soap, one of his hands wrapped around your shoulder, knuckles white with how hard he's gripping you; which is most likely what's making you cry so much.

"Need ya to help stitch 'er up." Simon says, his eyes cold. It's an order. "'Fore she bleeds out on us."

Johnny feels like he's going to vomit. He needs to stop thinking, to stop shaking, and do something. His lieutenant's kidnapped a bloody civilian, for Christ's sake. Why? And what the fuck did he do to her?

"Won't let me touch 'er. Hard to stitch the wound when she's throwin' a fit - damn near stabbed 'er in the eye. I'll hold 'er while you do th' job."

Johnny finally inhales after holding his breath for so long. He stumbles backwards into the kitchen, remembering where the front door is, thinking he should have been in his car and on the phone with the police by now. If he does, though, Simon will be gone forever. Locked up in prison, far away from Soap. How can he save this? How can he save you, and him? "Simon, ye- ye can't be serious, mate-"

"If you walk out tha' fuckin' door I'll kill 'er before you reach it."

That ruffles your feathers. You're whimpering again, screaming against the gag - at him? At Ghost? He freezes where he stands, trying to remember his training. Act first, think later. Do what keeps the most people alive in the moment. That's what Simon had taught him. The same man who was threatening to kill you, ironically, based on what Soap decided to do.

"Get the sutures off the counter." Simon ordered, apparently sensing Soap's inner turmoil. He knows Johnny wouldn't leave you there, not after the threat.

He couldn't.

Soap exhaled heavily through his teeth, forcing his muscles to move. He snatched the suture kit off the counter and stormed back into the living room. He heard Ghost hum in approval as he slapped it down on the table.

"You do it." he said, his voice low and full with grit. "Ye stitch 'er up, I'll help ye take her to the hospital. We come back n' clean up-"

"Shut the fuck up-" Simon growled out to Soap, gripping your chin in his large hand and yanking your head back against his abdomen. "Get to work. Don't let 'er die on me, now."

Die. Die. You had a concussion and a headwound, but you weren't dying - still, he knew that wasn't what Ghost meant. If Soap didn't help, you would die, one way or another. He had to think of this differently, for the time being. He was helping you. He'd take this little by little - first, patch you up. Figure out what the fuck to do with you later; also, how to keep this from ruining Simon's career, because he couldn't leave the task force. Soap wouldn't let that happen.

So, he took the needle and sutures in his hand, and knelt on the floor, between your restrained legs. Ignored the way you screamed and thrashed, only held still by Ghost's meaty paws. Didn't focus on Ghost's satisfied grin. He was doing this to save your life, you'd understand that later. He was doing this to save Simon's career.

Like a good friend.

Taglist: @a-sadmilky

[t-virusx]

some fucking resources for all ur writing fuckin needs

* body language masterlist

* a translator that doesn’t eat ass like google translate does

* a reverse dictionary for when ur brain freezes

* 550 words to say instead of fuckin said

* 638 character traits for when ur brain freezes again

* some more body language help

(hope this helps some ppl)

[t-virusx]

[t-virusx]

touching grass