hey don’t know if you’re french but you did write in french in that konig in date while breaking his chair (really good fucking drawing btw amazing vibes)
but as a french…. what does choubipomme means lmao? maybe i can’t really read your cursive but that’s what i read sorry 😭
adj. synonym to cute/adorable, used when cuteness overloads
“Hero soldier pulls you out of the rubble, next thing in your head’s probably my cock. What now, love? You offer me tea, I give you a good fuck, and we call it even?” —only that it wasn’t a good fuck for either of you.
❗️rough sex, smut under cut | entire work on AO3
The first time it happened, it happened with a jumble of broken, scattered images that flashed through your mind, none of them making any sense.
Fog. Graffiti. Red brick walls. Old train tracks. A rare clear morning, sky washed in cold blue just before sunrise.
Hot metal and white smoke. The sour tang of beer. Petals of a daisy, trembling in the damp night air.
Ghost.
What could possibly go wrong when you invite the soldier that pulled you from the wreckage of a bombing in for a cup of tea?
After what felt like a lifetime, Ghost finally moved. He let go of the mug, leaned forward, elbows braced to his knees, fingers knotted tight. He didn’t look your way. When he spoke, his voice was rough and low.
“Love, I’ve seen girls like you more times than I can count.”
The first word punched through the silence—two clipped syllables, spat out with a northern bite, every trace of sweetness stripped away. All that lingered was a dry, bitter irony that left no room for kindness. He let the words hang, almost daring you to flinch first.
But you didn’t. Not a blink, not a step back. And that, for a moment, made the muscle at his jaw tick, almost involuntarily.
“The way you look at me? Screams fantasy.”
His voice dropped lower, as if dragging himself down into a place he’d been too many times before.
“Hero soldier pulls you out of the rubble, next thing in your head’s probably my cock.”
You remained still. But his head snapped up, eyes gone hard and wild, burning with a desperation that meant to wound, or be wounded—either way, it was familiar ground. And in that single look you saw it all: he was waiting for you to wince, to falter, to see the spark in your eyes flicker out, like he'd seen it happened a hundred times before, until nothing was left but ash and cold.
But you didn’t.
So he pressed harder, reaching for the weapons he knew would hurt the most: sarcasm, contempt, the rough edge of a laugh that never reached his eyes. When he spoke again, it was gravel and iron, every line thrown hard:
“What now, love? You offer me tea, I give you a good fuck, and we call it even?”
The words hit like a bullet too long chambered and finally let fly, splitting the air between you. For a heartbeat, there was no telling which of you was bleeding. He fell quiet, gaze sharp enough to cut. He was waiting. For anger. For tears. For disgust. Anything you gave him, he’d take as his cue to vanish, to go back to the cold.
It hit you then, that bitter ache at how certain he seemed that softness could never touch him. So this was how he tried to break things before they ever had a chance to live: while the light in your eyes still held, while the daisies hadn’t wilted, while you hadn’t even said a single word. Wreck it first. Leave nothing for hope.
You held his gaze, your own carrying no shame or accusation, but a quiet and bare pain that even you hadn’t realized was there. And after a long, raw silence, your voice found its way out, soft but clear, settling between you like a knock at the cold high wall he'd built around himself:
“Then would you?”
The words were so quiet and calm that they landed with a weight sharper than any lines he’d thrown at you.
It wasn't a dare. It wasn't even a plea. You only wanted to stay. And as you looked into those eyes, hurt recognizing hurt, you kept repeating it in your mind, for him, for yourself:
If this is the only way you know, if you can't believe in anything softer, then let it be. I won’t turn away.
Simon.
Cover art by the incredible Sunrise Cockroach—yes, there is a physical edition of this story (though only in its original language). I know my writing style probably isn’t the easiest to get into, even more so when translated into English, but I wanted to share a few snippets here in case they find their people. Any comments or likes/kudos would truly mean a lot!