#swagger x reader

When you met him, you could never have imagined what would unfold.

You felt a light tap on your shoulder, drawing your attention. Turning, you saw him standing there, his eyes filled with a mixture of nervousness and determination. His tousled hair framed a face that was both familiar and strange, and his hesitant smile betrayed his anxiety. As your eyes met, he quickly glanced over his shoulder. You followed his gaze to a group of his friends a short distance away, who were subtly gesturing and encouraging him to approach.

"Hello," you said, your voice tinged with confusion. You studied his face, trying to place him and understand his intentions.

He coughed lightly before speaking, "I, erm, can I buy you a drink?" His voice wavered with uncertainty. You shrugged nonchalantly before nodding; after all, a free drink is a free drink.

The bar you were in wasn't exactly dingy, but it wasn't high-class either. The dim lighting and slightly worn-out furniture gave it a lived-in feel. You had already witnessed several people slipping into the bathrooms, emerging with suspiciously energized demeanors, likely having indulged in some illicit substances. You supposed plenty of wealthy folks did that too in their higher up bars and clubs.

After he, who you learned was named Eric, got a bit more drunk, as did you, his shyness began to fade away. His words flowed more freely, and his laughter became more genuine. The awkwardness that initially coloured his approach had dissolved into a comfortable camaraderie.

Eric's friends had moved on from this bar to the next, but he stayed by your side, engaging you in lively conversation and playful flirting. The noise of the bar buzzed around you, but you were both in your own little world.

After he made you laugh for what felt like the hundredth time that night, you—emboldened by the alcohol—swayed forward and kissed him. He melted into the kiss, his initial surprise quickly giving way to reciprocation. The world around you seemed to blur as you shared that moment, the energy of the bar fading into the background.

"Wow," he muttered, his eyes wide with amazement and a touch of awe. "Wow," he repeated, as if he couldn't quite believe what had just happened. His expression softened, his gaze lingering on you with a newfound tenderness, clearly smitten.

As the night wore on and the bar began to empty, Eric looked at you with a blend of excitement and a touch of hesitation. The ambient noise had dwindled to a quiet hum, leaving just the two of you in your own bubble of shared connection. He took a deep breath, his eyes searching yours with a mixture of hope and a hint of mischief. "You know," he began, his voice slightly husky from the alcohol and the intimacy of the evening, "I don't live far from here. DO you wanna come over? We can continue this— open another bottle of wine or whatever."

Your pulse quickened as you weighed his invitation, the anticipation in his eyes and the warmth of his smile drawing you in. After a moment's pause, you nodded. "Sure," you said softly, feeling a rush of excitement.

Eric's face lit up, and he quickly settled the tab. He took your hand as you both stepped out into the cool night air, the bustling city around you a stark contrast to the quiet anticipation hanging between you. The walk to his place was filled with light conversation and laughter, the chemistry between you two undeniable.

When you arrived at his apartment, Eric fumbled slightly with the keys before opening the door to reveal a cozy, dimly lit space. It was tidy but lived-in, with personal touches that made it feel warm and inviting. He gestured for you to enter, and you stepped inside, taking in the soft ambient lighting and the subtle scent of his cologne lingering in the air.

"Make yourself at home," he said, his voice carrying a new, deeper warmth. He moved to the kitchen area, retrieving a bottle of wine and two glasses. "I thought we could continue our conversation here," he added, his tone playful and inviting.

As he poured the wine, you settled onto the plush couch, the soft fabric comforting against your skin. Eric handed you a glass and sat down beside you, closer than before. The tension between you grew, electric and palpable. You clinked glasses, his eyes never leaving yours, and took a sip, the wine smooth and rich.

The conversation flowed easily, interspersed with shared glances and subtle touches. Each laugh, each shared story, drew you closer, the outside world fading away. When the bottle was nearly empty, Eric leaned in, his voice low and husky, "I'm really glad you came over."

You felt a magnetic pull, your faces inches apart. Without hesitation, you closed the distance, your lips meeting in a passionate kiss. The softness of his mouth against yours sent a thrill through your body, and he responded eagerly, his hand gently cradling your face. The kiss deepened, the room around you blurring as you lost yourselves in the moment, the night unfolding in ways you hadn't anticipated but fully welcomed.

He wasn’t exactly slow, he immediately dragged his hand sensually from your neck to your waist, to your inner thighs. He wouldn’t admit it, but he moaned when he felt his fingers inside of you, you were beautiful, moaning as his fingers curled and pressed against your sweet spot.

He eventually pulled his fingers out, grabbing your hips and guiding you to his bedroom, he didn’t bother in the romantic stuff, he was eager. Ripping your clothes off with fevour- as well as his own. He’s hard- thats obvious- what with it pressed up against your leg as he hold himself above you, leaning down to suck gentle on your nipple. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” He groaned. His voice vibrating against your skin making you moan.

He kisses down your body, his head coming to rest between your thighs. His tongue delving into your folds as you arch under him. He’s relentless, licking and sucking, teasing you. 

You already feel close, his tongue swirling around your clit, you clench your thighs around his head and he can tell youre done for. Your whole body trembles with anticipation before you release all over his tongue, he continues to suck until you have to push his head from over stimulation.

His eyes are looking at you lust and satisfaction, his chin shining in the dim lights from your own slick. 

He doesn’t give you much time to recover before the head of his cock is teasing your cunt, pushing into you making you whine. “Thats right, baby, moan for me.” He grunts out as he thrusts his hips into you. His eyes gleam in satisfaction with each whine you release.

He’s becoming more urgent, his hips moving in a more demanding pace, barely with rhythm. He grips your hips had, crescents being dug into the flesh, hes holding you steady. Driving into you with reckless abandon. Muttering about how close he is, his voice strained, words punctuated by grunts and groans.

Then his hips become as erratic as ever, he groans loud, as he reaches his peak, muscles tensing as he pulls out and spills all over your tummy. He breathes shakily, his body trembling with aftershocks.

After cleaning the mess from your skin, he lay besides you on the bed.

Eric’s breathing was heavy and uneven as he lay beside you, the aftermath of his release still palpable in the dimly lit room. His body trembled slightly, a mix of exhaustion and lingering satisfaction. Slowly, he turned on his side to face you, his gaze softening as he took in the sight of you, still catching your breath.

He gently brushed a strand of hair from your forehead, his touch tender and soothing. "Are you okay?" he asked, his voice now a hushed whisper, filled with genuine concern. He leaned closer, his fingers lightly tracing over your skin, trying to offer comfort after the intensity of the moment. His eyes were filled with a warmth that contrasted with the raw passion of earlier, showing a side of him that was caring and attentive.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached for a soft blanket draped over the side of the bed and carefully pulled it over both of you. The fabric was cool and comforting against your skin. He then retrieved a damp cloth from the bedside table, wiping away the evidence of your shared passion from your stomach with gentle, deliberate strokes. His touch was careful, as though he wanted to make sure you felt cared for and respected.

Once he was finished, he settled back against the pillows, pulling you close. He wrapped his arms around you in a protective embrace, his body heat a pleasant counterpoint to the cool air of the room. "You were incredible," he murmured.

She slowly positions her pistol, quietly aiming as her finger brushes the trigger. Once, to prepare herself for more blood on her hands. Twice, to make peace with his creator in his stead— he wouldn't have the time nor the delicate nature for it. Thrice, because she likes the feel of the cold metal against her fingertip; it grounds her, tethers her to the reality of what she’s here to do. Lucky numbers be damned, it was all for the thrill of it.

She pulls the trigger and the bullet rips from the barrel as she bites her lip.

To her chagrin, it buries itself in the wall behind her target. To her relief, it definitely struck. The man buckles to the dirtied floor with a groan, gloved hands reaching out to apply pressure to the gash in his calf. It's not enough to kill, they both knew it, but it would put the buck down long enough for her to reload and fire a shot right into his brain. She wonders if she could tell what his face actually looked like when his mask was blown off and gray matter spackled  the floor behind him.

"Knew you were in here, you slimy bastard."

The voice pulls her from her thoughts, and if she were forced to have any sort of virtue left she could be honest and embrace the fact she isn't the most coordinated mercenary out there. Her pistol clatters to the floor. She quickly slips further into the dark, not bothering with her lost weapon for the time being as she positions herself behind a crate to hide.

"Your aim is shit. Your hands must be shaking."

The man's voice continues to rasp. He's taunting her, wants to lure her out. There's something playful about his voice that sends a swell of unease from her chest to the pit of her stomach. The man had just been shot, and that surge of confidence couldn't stem from a wounded man unless he had some sort of a plan. She's been here so many times with so many different flavors of prey that the warning signs aren't lost on her.

She swears she hears the click of him replacing his magazine, the static of his radio, the sound of ripped fabric and a lightening quick application of a makeshift tourniquet. The thought that the gunfire gave out her position crosses her mind.

"Come out, fucking coward."

She's been here so many times, in the dead of night, playing this one-sided game of cat and mouse. She's seen blood, felt the sting of a bullet carving it's way through her, and she's never been afraid. Not until tonight.

This isn't a night to die, yet she's pissed off the fucking grim reaper.

A church bell rings out in the distance, some small mercy. It plants the seed of an idea and she follows the path her mind carves with her hand grasping for a knife at her belt. The knife rips through the quiet air of the warehouse, coming to a clatter some three meters behind him after she tosses it. The man takes the bait, fires several shots in the direction of the noise as she quietly finds her escape. Delivered from death by the heavenly portal of a broken window.

But when it comes to the intricacies of being victimized, it's very rare that things play out so simply. Hunting is a messy task, and one slip up can so quickly prove that prey often have fangs, too.

Her target, some Polish elite soldier, Roland Kaminski, isn't a buck at all. Bucks are easy, they're skittish and stupid. You fire off a shot at one of them, they buckle or prance back into the plush foliage of the forest for cover. When thundering footsteps can be heard in the dark, just past the safety of the broken window, she realises she's not dealing with another deer. Shes got a frenzied boar at her heels.

She's defenseless, her arms scattered in the darkness of the warehouse the boar is charging from, and she finds she lacks the will to break her ankle jumping down onto the pavement below. This is the line where the hunt becomes a proper fight. Her pulse beats like the thunder tearing apart the sky above her, every muscle in her body pulled tight like a spring waiting to maul her impending threat.

The fight never comes.

One moment, he's charging through the wreckage inside like a behemoth with a taste for human flesh, and the next he's simply staring at her while he's shrouded by the dark. It's almost comical, really, her thoughts flood with pictures of horror mascots as she teeters on the windowsill, staring right back into the wide, dark eyes of his mask. They remain in a stasis for a moment, both breathing shallow, both watching the other. Then, he does something that surprises her. Surprises and infuriates her.

He pulls his radio up to his mask, breathes out a heavy sigh as the sound of static cuts through this pair's silence. The grim reaper has the audacity to pretend his frustration over arches her own, and she's gritting her teeth wondering how likely it was she could free his esophagus from the column of his neck with her mouth alone.

She feels his gaze rove over her, lingering along the empty holster at her hip and the garter on her thigh.

"Target's down."

He's lying to his team, lying because he pities her, and she can't think of a thing more insulting. A mercenary is no different than a prostitute, money for flesh, pain or pleasure. She's aware of it, she's seen her fellow mercs gunned down without a second thought from their enemies. She's heard the men in her company boast of ravaging paid women without thought. For some time, she's considered they may all be beasts, but the grim reaper is sparing her. Sparing her, because he doesn't see her as a threat at all. A defenseless woman clinging to a broken window like it's the only tether she has to the world at all. He's no boar, no blood-stained reaper, just a person. He doesn't see her as pounds of flesh to march into battle before him. She sees humanity, and he sees an insect unworthy of his bullet.

"I tried to kill you," she breathes out, enunciates each word careful and slow as she tries to get a read on him, praying her assumption isn't true. There's the creaking of broken glass beneath the toes of her boots as she pivots herself to fully face him, standing in the window with the backdrop of a dark sky threatening violence. The man shrugs his broad shoulders, turns away, as though nothing has even happened. Her stare drifts to the tourniquet on his calf, and it dawns on her that he isn't even limping.

"I wouldn't even need a minute with you." He sounds bored. The pity stung enough. She wasn't just a hapless rabbit in his eyes, she was a gnat. A nuisance to top it all off. "Who are you working for?"

She falls silent, teetering on the ledge of the windowsill in silent debate. The jump would end in injury, but the darkened sky and the rain could cover her. There’s a building less than half a mile away and if she just made it there then—

“Answer.” Roland’s gruff voice sounds out in the quiet warehouse again, and she hazards a glance up just in time to catch those dead eyes of his peering at her from over his shoulder.

“I don’t know.”

“No?”

“I don’t have a name.”

Roland merely huffs at that, rolls his shoulders a little. He’s confident, a bit too arrogant for a man that’s been shot. She may have seen a boar, and he may have seen an ange, because he has the audacity to give her a comforting pat on the shoulder with a gentle swipe of his thumb along her neck.

Tells her, “Get lost.”

Follows it up with, “Let us never meet again.”

She doesn’t die on this frigid, rainy night, but a part of her is lost with him. Lost with a man that looks at her as though she had tiny angel’s wing, buzzing at her back. Lost with a man who’s entire existence is an enigma to her. Shoot to kill, and she hadn’t. Shoot to kill and not ever would she again, not to him, not to the man who gave her mercy when she deserved none.

— — —

She finds herself working alongside the Polish GROM. Realistically, she had returned sopping wet to her shabby hotel and spent hours researching how to work her way in. She doesn’t know why, but she’s found herself enthralled in a shadow, worshipping him in her own way. All for a chance to see her should-be reaper. And she’s no elite, can barely keep her trigger finger steady, but supplementing for a fallen soldier is the standard and she’s got enough falsified experience under her belt to look the part of a proper gunman.

It pays enough to keep her afloat until the next thing piques her interest or her contract ends, whichever comes first. Her room is simple, a barren mattress and dark walls, a concrete floor. It doesn’t feel homey, but no place ever does nowadays. Small blessings are found in the fact she doesn’t have to share the space, it’s hers and hers alone.

She spends her first few hours inspecting the place for bugs, then takes to staring up at the ceiling, listless, because what the hell had made her so impulsive? Roland could have already had his head blown clean off by anyone else by now. Did she even want to see him? To choke him with his own words or thank him for his kindness?

All of this uprooting driven by impulsivity for a man who told her not to meet him again and yet she’s here, walking about the compound like she truly belongs.

She should have cut her hair, tried to make herself look different from the trembling mouse on the ledge that night, but a part of her wants him to see her. Recognize her, bring him down from that gilded throne of his where women like her are just nuisances instead of a proper challenge.

Only, she’s not a challenge. Not at all, because the second she meets him in the stairwell her mind starts swimming and all she can do is stare. He looks a bit tired, likely having just returned from some dreadful mission, even wearing all black he’s covered in sprays of dust, the denim of his trousers painted darker in some places, blood.

“Ja jebię.”

He hadn’t forgotten.

His breath sounds shaky, and she’s not sure if it’s because the gas mask in its proper place or if he’s actually surprised, startled. If anything could shake him down from his pedestal she imagined meeting the woman who tried to kill him once again would do it.

“How’s your leg?”

“Better than your aim, pizda.”

She imagines that he would probably like nothing better than to put a bullet through her right then. The man merely laughs, something breathy and low. She’s surprised him, probably both startled and impressed that she even had the balls to face him again. She likes that, likes that little laugh, that his voice isn’t angry, that he’s playing with fire just as much as she is.

“What are you doing here?”

“Contract,” she states simply, not bothering to hide the way her gaze rakes over his body in the yellow haze of fluorescent lighting. “Just a few months, filling in a gap.”

He mutters something under his breath, a string of Polish and French that she doesn’t quite catch. She knows that he knows she’s infatuated, taking to follow after a wild coyote like a house pet.

It’s a dirty word, infatuated; dangerous in a way that scares her more than facing down the barrel of a gun.

Roland takes a step towards her, brushes her hair from her face with a touch too rough and leans in close to look at her, inspect her as though she’s not even really here, some figment of his vile imagination. She just… lets him. Despite her better judgement she lets him grip at her face like she’s nothing but putty in his hands.

“Here to kill me?” He asks his question as he retreats from her and drops his hands to his sides, staring at her as though she’s not an implant in his force, but an implant on the planet itself.

“Not this time.”

He gives her a tilt of the head and a grunt in response before brushing past in a hurry.

— — —

The following morning, she wakes to several rapid knocks at her door. Sounding just impatient enough to pull her from her sleep with her heart fluttering like a small bird in her rib cage. She readily hops out of bed and dresses before turning the knob to reveal something she didn’t expect— Roland. It’s the first times she’s seen him without his gas mask, but she recognizes him immediately. He’s more handsome when he doesn’t look the part of a famished buzzard seeking out carrion.

“Kaminski.”

“Swagger,” he corrects and she can’t help but laugh at the usage of his callsign. She wants to know how he got stuck with that, something so embarrassing it makes him sound as though he’s some teenage boy desperate to fit in or perhaps even a pirate, not the man she sees before her.

“We aren’t on the field.”

“Today we will pretend.”

He grabs her arm in the very same boorish way he had grabbed at her face just yesterday, and leads her down an empty hallway in silence. Each step seems to echo louder than the last. She wonders for half a moment if he does intend to kill her, hazards a look up at him expecting to see some flame of gruesome determination in his eyes only to be met with a calmness that makes her reconsider.

Today isn’t a day to die, either, it seemed.

He leads her to a room of bulletproof glass and well-placed targets. Pulls his gun from his holster after inspecting that she hadn’t thought to bring her own. She feels silly when his touch goes to prod at her hip, dips along the waistband of her trousers to seek out a weapon that just isn’t there. She’s ill-prepared and now her face feels hot all while Roland didn’t seem to have so much as a care.

“I’ll teach you to shoot,” he huffs as he steps behind her and places his gun in her hands, an ugly thing she recognizes to be a SIG P226. The metal feels cold and heavy in her hands, but she handles it well enough. It doesn’t particularly help that one of his arms curls around her middle to keep her steady. It’s even worse that one hand remains splayed over hers as she holds the gun.

Shooting when you’re in a desperate situation is difficult enough. The thought that death could be approaching doesn’t keep most grounded, not her at least. It makes her shaky. This is far worse. The man is so close she can smell him, gunpowder and something pungent and clean like mint. She feels his warmth cover her back, his fingers digging a bit into her side.

“I’m ready.”

He grunts in response, maneuvering her a bit closer to a small window carved out in the glass.

“Then shoot.”

So, she does. She misses, of course, and she feels even more silly when he mutters something into her shoulder and deliberately moves and angles her arm properly. The only thing good is that the gun’s recoil is soft, because if she were pushed any further against him she may very well melt down into putty.

Again and again she takes aim and fires at the brightly colored target through the window. After what feels like hours she’s finally hit some place that makes Roland give her an appreciative pat to her tummy.

“I’m improving.” She feigns his confidence, puffing out her chest a little in pride.

“Are you?”

He steals the gun from her hand and draws away to face her properly. There’s a tension she can’t place, something strange in the flicker of his eye.

“You saw—“

Her words are cut off when the man tackles her to the floor, covering her entirely as he pins her from either side. A sharp intake of oxygen is stolen as her spine tingles in pain from the sudden force. She yelps, he laughs, and none of it is funny because he’s still holding a loaded fucking gun. Only, worse, when he presses the muzzle against her cheek and uses his free hand to fix her wrists to the cold floor beneath her.

He tuts at her when she doesn’t try to fight him off, only looks up at him with wide-eyes and parted lips, a face too warm to only depict fear. If he didn’t know before, he knows now. She catches a mischievous glimmer in his eyes right before she tilts her head to kiss the cold steel clutched tightly in his fingers.

Roland stiffens above her for a moment, every muscle in his body pulled taut, jaw clenched and eyes fluttering.

“Not pizda,” he whispers as he clicks the safety back on and shifts to holster the weapon. “You are like a…”

“Ange?”

“Non,” he laughs. “Aniołku.”

If she didn’t know before, she knows now.

— — —

Any training session is spent with Roland.

Every mission they’re tethered to one another.

Any free time she finds yourself having is spent with him, even seeking him out herself just as often as he comes pounding at her door.

It feels both natural and absurd, sharing meals with the man she almost murdered, covering him as he covers her, both finding themselves less and less willing to be on their own as the days pass by. The progression just doesn’t halt, a train plowing off track, the man has his blunt talons curled into her and she just doesn’t have the sense to beat him back because she knows she’s got her teeth embedded just as deeply into him.

It doesn’t even come as a surprise when she starts her mornings peeling herself away from him, still sleeping peacefully in her bed. His room lacks taste— too barren, too bogged down with well-oiled metal and violence. She’s spruced hers up in the free time she has with small items, things she can pack up and carry with her to whichever side she finds herself pulled to next.

The thing she keeps most sacred, however, is a little photograph of him, one he had insisted on her keeping on the bedside table, despite being in flesh, wrapped tightly around her each and every night.

She picks it up, turns it over in her hands a few times before the weight of a heavy hand splays itself out across her middle, languidly tugging her back down.

“Stay,” he murmurs, someplace lost between dreaming and waking.

“Just for a bit,” she whispers in reply, nestling close, curling against his chest.

“Forever, aniołku.”

With a soft inhale, she falls back against him in a tangle of limbs and warmth, a part of her lost to the fantasy of permanence.

.・゜゜・　　・゜゜・．

ange: angel (French)

Ja jebię: fuck me

pizda: cunt

non: no (French)