Warnings: ⚠️ NSFW in the beginning and throughout chapter.
You've been warned
Or fed.
Both?
Yeah, I guess.
Lol
Anyways.
Back to the story.
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ho·ly
/ˈhōlē/
adjective
1.
dedicated or consecrated to God or a religious
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Sacred.
Consecrated.
Worship.
They all truly have the same meaning.
Truly.
You'd wager for a cross on someone's wall or the mighty hands of twisted fate to drawls out the warm feeling in your guts lining, searing you hot and heavy as the water bated agaisnt your skin.
Seemed the only luxurious thing of this job here at the base where SpecGru and KorTac where able to get along when stationed was a shower.
More so, 141 was your team, a small little holed up home of your own, sacred.
Funny..
Your thighs shuddered at the preening stretching of your own fingers, it's not enough to make you see stars, but enough to bite your appetite to keep to yourself.
Easier to hide and work your own unwarranted and unholy taste throughout the time here on your own hands movements.
Bones, flesh – they shatter and rip and leave you with nothing but sand-grain memories that slip like water.
It’s hard to indulge in something so fragile. Heedless, stupid. There are constants assured to never waver; you all have your vices.
A silly hope bubbles, absent of all logic. You want to push it; to tear at delicate petals, chanting. He loves me, he loves me not. Silly recess games, dancing around each other on the playground: what is your type, Colonel?
Girls in sheer dresses to welcome you at the door? God forbid – a husband or wife waiting at home?
Probably far away from someone who have their inhibitions compromised – who run on nicotine and not much else. Vacant husk.
Fuck.
But if it were him. If he was the force between your fingers – blood-filled, thickset, shooting into your willing mouth – you’d abandon it all in a heartbeat. Cheek on his shoulder, cunt speared on his knuckles. Pumping, slick. Licking the salt up off his forehead as he mumbled soft words into your ear, coaxing you.
Telling you how good of a boy you where for him.
Praises.
You ached it as you slid your hands against your own heat, relishing in the waters spewing water, it'd turn cold moments..minutes ago, hours?
You didn't care.
Relinquishing in the pooling bubble of euphoria tearing through your own speared cunt as you worked yourself..
Remembering how your lips felt on the Colonels the night before as you pressed smoke into his lungs, before sucking it back out and leaving.
The buzz.
The head rush.
You smacked a hand to your mouth as you moaned into your hand..
Eyes squeezing shut as you felt yourself physically clench against your own two fingers.
Barely take that.
Let alone the man's huge hands.
You swallowed thickly at the mere thoughts of it.
Speared on just a finger let alone two of three of them..
God forbid the man's own cock.
Justified by your own imagination.
The man was 6'10 and three hundred pounds of muscle.
He was in all means huge on every aspect.
Perhaps what laid beneath matched?
You should be ashamed of these thoughts - you curled a finger, emitting your hips to jerk against your own hand as you shuddered, whimpering- but your not.
By the gods your not.
Basking in the bubble of a heavenly feeling in the base of your spines life giving tendons.
Licking at it like a flame.
Husky compliments for only you to hear, cleaving you open on his cock. (Your fingers slip over your t-dick and slid back into your weeping hole)
Folding you in half, pumping you full, overflowing. (You whimper into your palm.) Biting down on his shoulder, divotting yourself amidst battle-borne scars.
He’d pinch your guts, you’d feel him in your chest. Tummy bulge, too much, too big. (Your hole quivers around the meagre thrust of your hand.) Spitting in your mouth, filthy, pushed down into a pillow, a wall, the floor. Bruised glutes, pistoning hip. (A bubble in your core nears popping.)
Euphoria builds, a swelling cacophony of string-plucked and pressed pedalboard longing. A colourful sunset bursting into sight. Your legs squeeze; the air tastes like mist and warm sex – you chase the hints of masculinity that drift into the mix. His shampoo, his eyes. A presence more profound than anything else, unmoving and stubborn in the undercurrent of your life. Lodged into a river bank, a buoy when drowning.
You snapped.
Body shaking in pleasure and the release as you felt heat rush to your face as a small whimper and moan flowered out of your lungs, blooming.
You picture his broad spread – shadowed gaze, hulking thighs. Arms powerful enough to manhandle you into anything and everything, wet clay to his ministrations. It’s not enough – this frantic rutting, hurried masturbation confined to a cubby. You need to feel the extent of him, every bit of skin pressed into yours. Domesticity, the type you lacked back home.
A knot clusters at the base of your spine, stuttering in and out of existence. You won’t be able to place it, can’t coax it out. Only him, only him as you spilled into your hand palm and fingers as you gingerly pulled out..
Like a sickly sweet marigold against a churches golden archways.
Heaven.
No.
This wasn't that either.
Purgatory perhaps?
Higher powers delving and feasting on the own warranted phantoms clouding your life and ached taste for someone.
How foolish.
To kiss rhe Colonel last night and avoid him at all costs today?
Day just started.
December 28.
Almost holidays.
A week break.
You and your cat back in your small apartment.
Comforting.
But lonely.
A constant assured to never waver – blameless vice. Like sweets, like cigarettes.
You digressed and washed yourself, grimacing at the flushness and shaky of your own joints as you finished cleaning yourself and stepped out of the shower, reeling into a small divided manner.
Like the devil on your shoulder and the hand of God at your throat.
Both tearing you either which way in a staunched manner.
Trying to stop the bleeding of your own pungent aches..
You preened out of the shower and dried, and changed.
Simple clothes.
A tight black under shirt, sleevless black turtleneck and a green sweater over it, before sliding on boxers, flinching at how sentimental of a sensitivity still down there.
Bracing you onto a small breath as you slid them on, before grasping military issued kahki cargo pants and slid them on.
Followed by socks, boots, tucking the pants, and then deodorant, face wash, brushing teeth-
Your testerone shot.
And then out the door of your barracks.
A small heft of your phone and a pack of American spirits in your pocket delved with a new lighter.
You where no saint.
Not an angel.
Reaper?
Devil?
No.
A wraith.
Whisped like the mere man whose trained you: Ghost.
You both had an unerring undertaken understanding.
Father and son even.
Something you both never had.
You digressed a small scoff as you entered into the halls of the hustling base, whipping into a hardened stride and broaching to hope none noticed the quiver in your step.
Or the flushness resting agaisnt your cheeks still..
You still got stared at for the scar on the left side of your face.
You didn't blame them.
It was grotesque.
Mangled even.
Like a dull Halloween decoration in the military.
Maybe that's why König and Ghost wore the fabric that hide their faces.
You ignored the stares and found a certain behemoth of a man, smeared with the white of a skull mask in black.
Ghost.
You approached, lustered like a puppy with its tail wagging as you shot a small look to Ghost who knodded, non-communal grunt as he walked alongside you, more so a stride ahead but a stride back to keep you close.
Father and son indeed.
Strange.
Always finding mannerisms to pretain to even the most fickle things, child hood trauma..Relinquished smoke breaks. A sniper hood. Emerald eyes-
You shoved the thoughts away and walked next to Ghost.
Not an awkward silent, Comforting.
Normal.
A safety net to the both of you.
It's a routine.
Walk, coffee for you, tea for him.
Office runs. Training, mentoring, and then lunch.
You'd both most likely spend the afternoon of free scheduling with reading or lounging in small pertained pacings filled with you both lulling.
You most likely falling asleep the elder and he'd most likely watch like a hawk, and continue reading.
Father and son indeed.
As you stepped into through the halls and into the commons room, both bee-lining for your respective and tightly wound routine, but still held at one anothers hips, you spotted a frame.
How could have missed him?
Sniper hood and emerald eyes piercing your frame.
Eyes boring into yours.
A twitch in the corners of his eyes with the crow feet at the corners narrowing as his eyes shot to the slight wobble to your knees and stutter of your hands from the adrenaline packed moment in a lodged up cubby in the shower.
He noticed the flushness of your cheeks.
He noticed.
And he knew that you noticed..
A nudge broke you out of your thoughts as Ghost bumped his elbow against your side and hummed a small grunt at you, causing König to tilt his head, hawk even.
You glanced and finished making your coffee and hurriedly strode next to Ghosts frame as he began to walk, like a lost puppy.
---
König knew.
And he was smirking beneath the hood watching you, like a hawk..
Pertaining a small breath frolicking out of his flared nostrils watching you and Ghost interact.
Like a well oiled nabbing machine of one would when someone had found one they'd know like the back of your hand.
But the small looks you give Ghost and the ones Ghost gave back diminished any thoughts of jealously in königs brains gummed and lackluster lining of a hardened skull.
Fatherly in the skull mask wearing man to your frame.
König held back a scoff and watched.
His eyes daring to glance as you turned and walked out with Ghost, tearing down your frame.
Way your muscles shuddered and bunched, how you carried yourself.
Yearned from a distance.
Like a God would when preening at a pupil. A worshiper.
How holy you seemed with the small innovation of innocence in your body language.
He knows better.
He's seen you gut men twice your size, cracking ribs, tearing pancreas.
Blood soaked cuticles days afterwards.
He yearned from a distance.
And waited.
He'd wait.
Till you where alone.
Tonight perhaps.
Under the moon, of the under worlds of Nxy's river in the abyss of the stars above on the moonlit barracks you call home.
Rumble words out of his chest and revel a small glimpse of a heart beneath layers and a sniper hood.
And then lull the proposal of a holiday spent together perhaps?
Perhaps.
Like a fickle thought through sand.
If not tonight.
Then soon.
He knows you'll come around.
Like a stray cat.
And he'd be waiting with a small promise of shelter , warmth and a collar of ownership.
Not literally..well..he entertained to the silly thought and almost laughed at it.
You with a collar on.
Funny.
He watched you leave, and went back to the cup of coffee he was nursing himself, and kept his thoughts hidden beneath a sniper hood and pierced emerald eyes.
Morals now long gone out the window-yesterday your lips on his. Pushing smoke into it. You leaving.
And he was itching like a bomb about to blow.
'Little fucking minx'