ffushiquro

Latest Posts by ffushiquro

Nine Lives

Simon Riley posts an ad for a stray cat he does not want, and you answer.

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x F!reader

Tags: fluff, short n’sweet, eventual romance/smut

Pt. 1 | Pt. 2 | Pt. 3 | Pt. 4 | ao3 | mlist ✎ᝰ.ᐟ

Friday comes as planned, Simon’s week consumed by anticipation of seeing his girl and his cat.

But Churro doesn’t seem to have the same plans, doesn’t come to see her self-proclaimed father.

She doesn’t show, no aggravating meowing or grating scratching on his porch. All he’s met with is silence, a noise grown far too unfamiliar, leaves something in his core unsettled in its absence.

You show up on his doorstep anyway, don’t seem to realize Churro hasn’t made an appearance, smiling wide at him when he opens the door.

At least now he knows you’ll still smile so sweetly at him even if he doesn’t have a furry cat in his arms.

“Hi!”

“Hi, bird. Is Churro at home?”

Your brows pinch, confusion painting your expression, “No, I thought she was visiting you? Came to pick her up like always.”

“She’s not here,” He explains, “Didn’t show up earlier, that’s why I didn’t text you yet.”

The corner of your lips droop, “Well, she wasn’t at home. I figured she was with you even if I didn’t get a text.”

You fidget from heel to heel when he shakes his head in disagreement, shifting your eyes swiftly as worry etches into your irises, wringing your fingers together.

“I’m sure she’ll be here soon,” He reassures, attempting to dry the flood of emotions that are surely surfacing in your lungs before they burst out of control, ushering you in with a hand on your back, “We’ll lay out her favorite food, yeah? She came real quick that first time remember? Wait an hour tops before we start worrying too much, okay?”

You nod quietly, following his lead to his couch, but your face stays stiff, each curve contorted anxiously. Doesn’t smooth the entire time the two of you wait, reminiscent of the first time you met him, except this time you’re nerves aren’t alerting you to run from him, flee from the danger of a man he appears to be. Instead, you’re looking to him for comfort, darting your wide eyes to his every time he starts to speak like you’re clinging to every word in an attempt to distract you from the fact that Churro isn’t in either of your laps.

By the time forty-five minutes passes he’s sure you ripped the skin around your fingernails tender and bloody, burnt a hole in your shoe from the speed you're bouncing it. Maybe before he knew you, before he knew Churro, he would’ve thought you were being dramatic, caring for a bloody cat entirely too much, but you’ve grown on him. Maybe a little too much because the sight of you nervous, anxious, scared, upsets him, doesn’t want to spend another second watching you peel yourself apart.

Maybe he’s a little upset at Churro— don’t you know you’re worrying your mom, his girl, too much, pest?

It’s enough to make him stand, waiting does nothing to ease your nerves, so he prepares a search for a cat he used to cast away, a cat he used to wish got lost on the trail to his house. The two of you should’ve expected it to happen one of these days, it wasn’t necessarily a short distance between your homes, but Churro had seemed smarter than that, memorized her trek through town to find Simon.

You start on foot, separating in two to cover more ground, walking through Simon’s neighborhood calling for her at the top of your lungs. The search lasts for an hour, scavenging through every nook, bush, tree, and alleyway the two of you can find to no avail. Simon even goes to his neighbors, asks if they’ve seen the fawn-colored cat. Maybe the cat lady ended up taking her in by mistake, but they all deny, haven’t seen her.

When you don’t find her, your search widens, desperately exploring multiple blocks around his neighborhood until the sun starts to set, desperately searching with the flashlight from your phone in the dark. It takes some convincing and negotiation on his end to get you to return to his porch without Churro in your arms, argue that you won’t be able to sleep unless you know she’s safe. Still, he manages to wrangle you back to his house, promising that the two of you will search for her tomorrow, that she’ll make her way to his home in the night like she always does.

You agree begrudgingly, but when he finally gets you to his front door and looks down at you, your eyes are downcast, your bottom lip wobbling as you shift your eyes to his. You’re dewy-eyed and beady, fists balled at your side in an attempt to stop the inevitable dam from cracking.

It doesn’t work, of course, it doesn’t, not when the look in his eyes is sincere, slams the finishing wedge in your control with one look.

“Sweet girl.”

His voice is softer than he’s ever used before, more tender than he even realized he could use, foreign to his own gruff ears, but it doesn’t help your restraint from breaking on the spot. He reaches out, placing his hand on the back of your head, tangling his fingers in your hair before pressing you into his chest, snug under his chin.

The embrace punches the breath straight out of your lungs, inhaling a shattered wheeze before a sob wrecks from your core. Fisting the fabric of his shirt in your palms as you hiccup over your breaths and tears, staining his shirt wet.

The constricting in his chest is unfamiliar, burns strangely, painful, and bitter at the mere sounds you make, at the way you cling to him like he can absolve you of your pain, like you need to feel his touch to mend your weary heart. It congeals something protective in the back of his mind, large palms finding the backs of your thighs to hoist you in his arms. You don’t even pull away, just band your arms over his shoulders like it’s where you need to be.

He carries you to his kitchen, grabbing a water before maneuvering you to his bedroom because he’s not going to send you home crying and distressed when he can keep his girl comforted in his arms. You fall onto his bed willingly, sitting on the edge of the mattress as you watch him rummage through his drawers. He presents a pair of shorts, to which you nod teary-eyed, let him peel your jeans off, and replace them with his own clothing.

He climbs into bed with you, guides you under the sheets with him, and into his arms. Pulls you flush against his chest once again, smoothing his touch down your back and through your hair in his best attempt to soothe your nerves.

“Don’t worry,” He murmurs when you shift to look into his eyes, “Won’t do us any good looking for her when you’re all teary-eyed will it?”

You huff a laugh, not entirely amused as it should be, only making more tears well in your eyes, but he takes it, pressing a kiss against the crown of your forehead.

“We’ll look for her first thing tomorrow morning, yeah? Our pretty lady will come home to us.”

@lighthousebats @cococococ @sai-int @tessakate @starboykel @imrandomstuffsblog @your-internet-tenshi @glossy01 @orangegreensun @uriahs-barn @ye-olde-trash-panda @akkahelenaa @h0lydrag0ns @pukbadger @dawnnightshade666 @lizziesfirstwife @little-b33 @topaz125 @v1x3n @hadassery @afanofbeans @definitely-not-sammie

Baby You're a Star

Art in the banner by Kerravi on x!

Pairings- Pornstar Satoru x shy f!reader

Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream of the boy you like. Just how will that go for you both!? WC this chap- 11.5k (longestt)

Warnings- WOW this chap has it all, heed the warnings - filming porn masturbation ( m) oral (m and f receiving) spit kink HIGH KEY, mentions of cum, multiple rounds, switching positions, size kink, swallowing (M and F) explicit sex, feral Gojo, squirting, mating press, tummy bulges, lots of fucking goddamn- Gojo is whipped mutual pining, obsessive Gojo. Angsty asf in places, lots of jealousy

A/N- Taglist closed- This was so smut filled I took MULTIPLE breaks aha, maybe my most smut filled one ever? don't read in public actually - please comment/rb if you enjoy <3

<<<Chapter Two - Masterlist- Playlist- Chapter Four>>> (coming soon)

Chapter Three

You can’t escape the desire you have, even in your dreams.

Waking up cumming was not just new, it was ridiculous, and you didn’t even know that happened until this morning. Waking up with your cunt throbbing around nothing, and gushing arousal, as your dream was filled with Satoru kissing you, fucking into you with that thick, huge cock, hitting spots deep inside that felt real even in your dreams.

That’s it, sweetheart, cum all around my cock, hmm? Lemme feel her- there you go, baby.

That had done too much to your sleeping brain apparently, because you couldn’t stop cumming either, crying out and whining when you’d touched your cunt and felt the slick coating everything. After shaking violently from it, you’d peeked and seen a good morning text from him, all while you had to go get cleaned up, trying to compose yourself before you texted back.

Jenna calls now, shaking you out of your reverie, and the two of you plan lunch the next day. “You’re having dinner with him?”

“Yeah, but as a… friend?”

“Oh baby, you’re too cute.” You sigh, leaning back as you stir up some dough for cookies you were baking later, the sunlight filtering in through the little kitchen window you have open wide. You peer out into the sky, thinking it’s not as pretty as Satoru’s eyes.

“I do really feel things, but Jenna I can’t not be near him, if it’s as a friend, then it’s as a friend.” Jenna sighs louder than you did. “Are we having a sighing contest?”

“I’ll win any loud moan contest, but your sighs are cuter.”

“Jenna!”

You both laugh then, and a beep sounds on your phones. “Ah, looks like he’s going to stream. Gonna go watch your friend?”

“You’re an instigator. Maybe.” She giggles again, as you finish preheating the oven, scooping the dough onto the parchment paper.

“Be careful, you’re a grown woman, and things change, but don’t forget yourself, okay?” You pause then, emotions catching in your throat at her words. “I’m not trying to be the ‘mom’ I swear.”

“I know, Jenna. I love you, see you soon?” You end the call after she says goodbye, popping the cookies in the oven and turning them on. You set up your laptop, deciding to do some work for the weekend on a project your friend hired you for, but the temptation of seeing Satoru keeps nagging at your mind.

The man certainly has a pretty cock, but you think it’s the way he looks at the camera that fucks you up, it’s probably why he’s so good at it, his job. And he clearly enjoyed it, even though you know he was having a little difficulty with the last shoot, perhaps he prefers solo lately? To think you had anything to do with that was foolish, so you wouldn’t allow the thought.

The timer beeps, you stand up and stretch, turning off the timer and oven then, grabbing a bright red oven mitt and pulling out the sheet pan, smelling delectable, the steam hot and rising, scent filling your nostrils. You loved to bake, especially when you were stressed, and you suppose you were, having feelings for a man currently stroking his cock for the camera was conflicting at best.

You keep trying to tell yourself that it’s not feelings, that you’re inexperienced and confused, but you know you’re lying to yourself. You eye that silver laptop again, remembering the last time, the image of him sucking his own cum off his fingers is burned deep, a core memory at this fucking point. You shake it off, then sigh, giving into temptation.

You’d just tip him a hundred again to be supportive, you tip Jenna all the time, it’s fine, it’s something a friend can do.

Right?

You log in to the onlyfans platform, the black and blue OF making you just a bit nervous, clicking on the stream then, taking several breaths as you click on it. Fully prepared to be soaking wet, the sight that greets you is not Satoru stroking his cock, it’s another woman, her thighs spread, while Satoru runs circles on her clit. She’s propped on his lap, her head against his bare collarbones, moaning.

Your heart shatters then, and it shouldn’t, no you’re so stupid!

You are Satoru’s friend, and it was your choice to check his stream, to tip and be supportive but ultimately you know what you potentially signed up for. You saw him with Jenna, and for whatever reason that had not bothered you- maybe because it was before he touched you, looked at you like that.

The girl in front of him has two of his fingers shoved deep as he has her feet propped up on his thighs while you blink away stupid tears that shouldn’t exist, there’s no anger but there’s so much jealousy you shock yourself. You’re a girl’s girl, you’re supportive, what is this!? You’d like to rip her right off his lap, and you hate yourself for it right now.

You shake it off, looking away as the cookies fill your home with the sweet scent of sugar and chocolate. It should be a cheery morning, but you can’t even focus on anything but the conflict in your heart. You stare back again, hearing Satoru’s soft, husky voice, watching all the comments in the chat while he grips one of her breasts in his big hand.

Her head falls forward, and the way you vividly imagine it being you instead has you heating up, in more ways than excitement, embarrassment - you’d never be that girl for him, you wish you could be that way. But Satoru and you together felt too special, especially to share, how could you fall when this was your idea!?

You can’t be upset.

You take a breath, shutting your eyes and looking away as his voice resonates through the laptop’s speakers, echoicing in the quiet. If you were crazy enough you’d say it sounded different than with you, that he let go more, that you were even wetter when he touched you, but you’re starting to think you’re delusional.

“So, we wanna hit this spot right here, for any men watching, you’re gonna curl up here, that spot feels good, doesn’t it honey?” Your jaw sets, swiping tears from under your glasses now.

“Ah, y-yes Gojo!” Her moan echoes too much, he pauses then, the squelching of her cunt stops, it’s all quiet as he just stares at the camera like he’s staring at you, his lips parted, eyes widening just a bit, but there’s no way.

You’ve lost it.

You tip him the hundred as you’d intended to, quickly shutting your laptop and damn near hyperventilating. What’s wrong with you!? His job is to fuck women, so you saw him touching one, what do you expect? The man had a gang bang scene just yesterday, and dinner with you tonight. You have to shove it all down then, you have to remember what he does.

It didn’t mean it wasn’t special though, for you.

Did he do things off camera with-

Stop it!

The phone rings a few minutes later and you just stare at it, lost in your own head, wishing you could compartmentalize it so much better, that you could separate the two. You were so stupid for engaging and knowing, but at the same time, to not have Satoru seems like something you can’t compute, even if it is just as a friend, even if you can’t be sexual.

Maybe you read it all wrong, that night.

Satoru calls again, shaking out his hand as his co star is now fucking herself quite expertly on a dildo, since Satoru can’t get hard for anything - it’s worse today than yesterday - he decided to turn it into a guided masturbation video. At least his fucking fingers still work, despite jerking off to you so much his cock is raw, remembering your lips surrounding it.

Even fingering her he’s picturing your pussy, fuck he wants to just bury his face in it again, he knows the two of you are ‘friends’ or whatever the fuck this was, but it’s exceedingly difficult when it’s affecting him like this. He keeps wondering if you all sleep together, will it make it worse or better? Was he all in his head, as if you would go for someone like him if he did date.

What was he thinking lately?

He saw your name in the stream and his stomach had dropped - and why, you’re just a friend, it was fine if you wanted to see a bit of a stream and tip, he knows it is to be supportive. You’re supportive and sweet, so sweet, god your taste and scent still haunt him, he’s been dying to see you tonight, in any capacity, but when he saw the name he felt awful.

He only wants to fuck you, touch you, but he has a career and commitments, to get her to agree to this instead of fucking was already difficult and he was slowly losing it as his cock kept refusing to work. Even if he could get it up, he didn’t like the idea of fucking someone else at all, after the debacle of a gang bang yesterday. But even touching someone was doing nothing for him.

Now he saw you leave so quickly, and decided to gently smack his co star’s ass, smiling as he bent her over, murmuring he needs a break. She eagerly took over the spotlight, the opportunity was a huge one for her anyway as a smaller star. Satoru keeps staring at your picture, sighing as he notices the little reflections in your glasses, touching the screen softly.

You saw him touching someone, did you care, did it bother you-

Why is he thinking like this!?

He calls again, and you answer, much to his relief, as his hands let go of the bathroom counter he’d gripped too tightly. “Hey Satoru, sorry I popped in, I thought it was um… you…”

“Jerking off?” He finishes the sentence, leaning back against his wall and shutting his eyes.

“Yeah, I didn’t know you did um… shoots at home. You should get back to it, why are you calling me, silly? Looks like um… you were, ah… doing… good.” You’re breaking out every voice, cursing yourself quietly, why can’t you just speak? You’re shoving it all down, trying not to cry - there’s no reason to!

“Ah, yeah I thought I’d try to teach people how to make women cum, they fail often you know.” He tries to make it light, as his stomach clenches, a sick feeling when he hears your forced laugh.

“That’s very true. Someone should give you a Nobel prize for this work.” He snorts then, as the laughter becomes a little more genuine. “No you’re amazing at that. Why not show them how?”

“You thought I was amazing, hmm?” His tone changes, cock throbbing when he just hears your sigh, picturing you vividly in his mind, while the sounds of his co-star echo, moans and squelching wetness that does nothing for him.

Didn’t he used to enjoy all of this?

“You know I thought that.” Your heart pounds, you have to remember, Satoru is amazing and just because you’re hurt, you can’t be mad or upset at him. He’s not yours in any way, even if you’re starting to wish he was. “Isn’t your co-star waiting?”

“She’s occupying herself fine. It’s not… sex…” Because I can’t get hard unless it’s you. “It’s just a tutorial.”

“Oh,” your relief shouldn’t exist, you shouldn’t care, but to hear that does make you slump over just a bit, before taking a breath. “Do you want to do dinner another day, it’s already four-”

“No, no!” Satoru panics then, since when does smooth pornstar Satoru freak the fuck out and act desperate? “I mean, no. I want to see you tonight. I have time to shower and get there.”

He wants to wash any of this girl off, frantically actually, he wants you all over him, even if it’s just him pleasing you more. But moreso, even if you just wanted to have dinner and that was it, he’d be happy, though the thought of fucking you with his fingers while you eat dessert is insanely tempting, making his tip drool precum quite annoyingly as he glares in the mirror.

“Okay good, I was looking forward to it.” Your whisper is soft and genuine, as he sees the red on his cheeks, the black pupils, just thinking of you shifts his entire face.

Fuck.

“I’ll start getting ready, I think it’s time you see I can get dressed up.” You tease softly, swiping stupid tears and trying to plaster a bright smile on your face as you stare in your mirror. Your eyes are puffy, the color drained from your face, lips trembling - just seeing that has affected your entire face, taking off your glasses so you don’t even have to look at yourself for a moment.

“I bet you’re gonna kill me, you look so pretty any time I see you,” his voice is hoarse, as he spills the vulnerable truth, and the two of you shut your eyes, leaning against your bathroom counters. “But I’m excited to see you dolled up.”

“Are you, Satoru?” You try to hide the insecurities haunting you, hearing his sexy, heavy sigh on the other line.

“Very excited. I’ll see you soon, sweets.”

The two of you hang up and you sigh, eyeing the clock now - you have about two hours to get ready, and you’re so nervous your palms are sweaty and numb. It may just be two ‘friends’ having dinner, but you want to shove that image back you just saw, and focus, and try to look beautiful tonight.

Satoru’s own hands are numb, as he curses, slamming a hand on his forehead, unable to think of anything but you, barely able to pull himself together. When he walks out, Suguru is there, nibbling in the kitchen, raising a brow at him. “You good, Satoru?”

“Fine, I… you wanna finish that for me?” He gestures to the room, while Suguru sips down water. “I think I have a kind of date or something.”

“A date!? Huh?” Satoru just looks away, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I don’t think it’s a date, it’s friends or something? Maybe... I don’t know. Is dinner a date if it's not with a costar?” Suguru rolls his violet eyes, sighing as he washes his hands now, patting them dry with a paper towel.

“You’re acting weird as fuck lately, that cute little good girl got you simping?” Satoru scoffs, rolling his blue eyes now.

“Suguru, just do me a solid.” Satoru pouts, earning Suguru’s scoff.

“Fine, fine, but you owe me one.” Suguru and Satoru enter the room, as Satoru eases the transition, the notes in the chat are going insane, he can’t help but exhale in relief, before pausing at the thought.

Was there some way to save his malfunctioning dick?

*****

Satoru whistles when he meets you at the restaurant that evening, running just a little late, you're sitting there nibbling on your thumb, peering at the menu when he arrives. Your eyes light up behind a different pair of glasses, these have cute red rims, matching the red dress you're wearing that's making him ache.

He hasn't seen you in something like this, not that you weren't always pretty, but when you stand up and he sees how it fits your body it almost takes him everything to hold back. Vividly picturing bending you right over that table and fucking you in front of the entire restaurant, gripping the red shimmery fabric that drapes across every line and curve of that body.

He can't form a word, notoriously known for never shutting up, but he can't think of anything to say, when you shyly look down, hands fidgeting in front of your lap, and he’s standing there sputtering. It’s awkward even, until the waitress comes up and smiles over at Satoru, gesturing to a seat, saying - ‘This must be the friend you were waiting for!’

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting, you look beautiful.” He says finally, pressing a kiss to your cheek, feeling it heat up against his lips. You shake your head with a sweet turn of your lips, kissing his cheek in turn.

“You’re fine, Satoru, I still haven’t learned LA time.” He chuckles at that just a bit, sitting across from you now, before deciding to sit next to you instead, shoulders brushing together.

“This feels more comfy? It feels all formal the other way.”

“Does it feel too… date like?” He falters then, because that was not it, but the doubt has crept in on your face, when the waitress asks you all for your order, and he has to blink back the confusion. “What do you suggest?”

“Want me to order for you?” You nod shyly, god the submissive nature of you makes him ache in way too many ways, knowing how perfect of a girl you’d be for him in every aspect. “We’ll have this,” he says, pointing to the menu now. “And bring two glasses of champagne please.”

“Are we celebrating?” You tease, handing the waitress the menu, Satoru chuckles a bit, shaking his head while you take in how handsome he looks, brushing your fingers against his suit jacket. “You look so good, Satoru.”

“Thank you, sweets.” He holds your hand then, fuck it feels too good, pressing it against the dark red suit jacket that truly only he could pull off, black button down shirt left open, showing enough of his chest to make anyone die over. Your eyes look at it now, a few of the chains he wears resting along the strong muscles, settling between his collarbones. “You’re making me look bad, wearing in that dress.”’

“No way!”

“Absolutely, you are. You’re so pretty, fuck…” He’s brushing back a tendril, as you eye him, that look that drives him insane, the look that’s ruined him since he met you. He tries to smirk, to act calm, teasing, “I look that good?”

“Yes, shit. Sorry.” He laughs softly, shaking his head when you pull your hand back gently.

“We match, great minds you know.”

“Indeed, we clearly coordinated telepathically!” He laughs then, and it's just like that first night, when you and him just hit it the fuck off. It’s comfortable, it’s fun - so fun - that people smile at the two of you, as you laugh like friends for years. It’s how it feels, like you’ve known him, a way you can’t explain.

But you wished it was just the friendliness, not the heat in your tummy when he wipes a droplet of clear, bubbly champagne from his plump lips, if every time his thigh brushed yours you didn’t melt. Someone comes up then, a really pretty girl, and you feel Satoru stiffen a bit, making you tense, sipping on the tart champagne and averting your eyes a bit.

“Gojo, it's been what, a year?!” He smiles with ease, standing and kissing her cheek, hugging her tightly.

“It has been, shit, how you been?” It’s all very Hollywood, their exchange, you feel you’ll never figure it out, the two years you’ve been here after relocating and you still couldn’t get being kissy on everyone.

It makes you think of him earlier, his fingers in that-

Stop that!

He’s saying your name you errantly realize, you plaster on a smile as she looks at you curiously, eyeing you up and down. “Co-star?”

“No, no, she’s my friend. She’s a good girl.” He winks down at you, and she giggles then, holding her hand out.

“It’s awesome to meet you!”

“You too. Are you um…”

“A former co-star, yeah. Satoru is the best in the industry.” Ah, so she fucked him, too. You want to be petty and scowl and you hate yourself for it more.

You never, ever are like this.

You never have been.

She’s touching his shoulder and making you sick, when your eyes catch a familiar face, a man standing with a group of other men, smiling over at you, he’s one of your co-workers that is always working. You wave at him while Satoru finishes his conversation, and he adjusts his tan jacket, touching the arm of one of the men, letting them go as he walks to you.

You tense just a bit, while the girl finally leaves, and Satoru’s sitting next to you once more, as his phone rings. He turns it off, jaw tensing when a blond man takes your hand and bends down at the waist, like some old school gentleman, pressing a kiss to the back of your delicate wrist, the pretty bracelet slides down your arm as he does it, and he watches your blush.

The fuck.

He was trying his best to get that girl to go on, so he could get back to talking to you, but now some random guy has your attention, and Satoru doesn’t like it, not one fucking bit. “Nanami, this is Satoru.”

“Nanami, huh?” He leans back, flipping off his phone again, you look at him curiously.

“Need to grab that?” You ask, and he shakes his head, swiping it off once more, ignoring his manager while this Nanami guy eyes you behind green glasses.

“You look stunning, is that alright to say?” You giggle again, Satoru glares at you, how dare you giggle at him!?

He told you that you looked beautiful. Did you giggle?

He wants to punch this smirking man in the face.

What’s wrong with him!?

“Thank you, Nanami, I guess you don’t see me too dressed up at work, huh? You always dress so well.”

“Oh stop, you’re flattering me. And this is your…” He trails off, looking at Gojo, who has to wipe the glare off his face for a moment.

Say it, Satoru.

More than a friend.

You look at him then, as if you’re waiting for him to say that, to say something, while Nanami’s lips quirk up just a bit, making Satoru want to smack him again. He takes a breath, smiling then instead of glaring, but his hand is on the small of your back. “We’ve become close friends, very quickly.”

“Oh? I’ve known her for a long time,” Nanami says, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away. You look at Satoru, whose phone starts ringing again, and he curses, rolling his blue eyes. “Need to take that?”

“It’s my manager, they have horrible timing. I’ll be right back.” He murmurs, you smile understandingly, while his manager trips on him about earlier.

He knows his dick doesn’t work, and now he knows he hates touching anyone, but he doesn’t know how to explain it to anyone when he has no fucking clue why this is happening. He’s obsessed with a sweet, shy little thing that is currently getting hit on by a dude buffer than him.

Maybe he’d be good for you.

Satoru is too petty to admit it though, glaring instead while his manager goes on and on. “Listen, I get it, you need content.”

“We need you with women, a lot of your viewers are men, they’re not gonna tune in to watch you solo. Find someone that works for you, I don’t care who at this point, but we’re just not gonna make profit if you keep turning down roles. Or, I heard, you shoved a girl off on Geto.”

“I didn’t… shove her off, I just…” Satoru frowns again, the blond man is sitting next to you in the other seat, your eyes are on Satoru however they turn away when he catches your gaze.

He just wants to fuck you right in front of that fucking man now. God, if you would be interested in starring in something, you’d make bank, it’s not just his obsession, your pussy is the prettiest one he’s seen. Your tits, your body, they’re all so sexy, and your pretty face with those glasses? You’d kill any sexy nerd shoot there was.

“Satoru!”

Shit.

He can’t get the vision of you in some slutty ass librarian outfit from running through his head.

“Yeah, I got it. I’ll try to get something going, I mean I was gonna do a solo tonight anyway.”

“That’s fine, but remember you’re a lot more than just Onlyfans. You’re a star, Satoru, that comes with a certain level of appearances. So whatever is going on, you gotta get it together, or we’re both not making shit.” He sighs, leaning back against the wall now, eyes going back to you, giggling at something he’s said.

He’s too close to you.

Why does he mind so much?

“I’ll get a shoot done.” The words feel horrible, the thought of fucking anyone else just seems like an impossibility, and he doesn’t know how to compute it in his mind.

What did you do?

“Alright, I expect some video with a woman - not with Suguru. Though…”

“I’m not fucking Suguru.” He chuckles as people look at him a bit, running a hand through his white locks. “He is pretty but not my type.”

“He’s gonna be your type if you turn down every other actress.”

“Ugh.”

“Mmhmm, talk to you later.” He hangs up, frowning at his phone, trying to gather himself before he does something so stupid, jealousy filling him and for what?

You’re talking. You’re not his. He had his fingers buried in a girl this morning, why does he care if you did anything? He knows you’re not that girl, though, but you choose to be with him. It makes him feel far, far more special than he’d admit, the fact that you want him, that you trust him. Was he mistaking the look in your eyes, was it just desire there?

“If you are single, would you mind a date sometime? I haven’t had so much fun talking in a long time.” Nanami says softly, making you look down shyly, lashes casting shadows on your cheeks from the soft lights hanging above you in the dimly lit, pretty restaurant. “Am I too bold?”

“No, no. I just haven’t been on a date in forever.” Satoru feels like he’s been punched in the chest as he hears, nearing the table and acting like he didn’t wanna yank you to him and kiss you then and there.

But he chose to tell him you’re friends, that’s what you were, a friend he wants to fuck all night in every position imaginable. Then lick his own cum out of your cunt, abused from his cock, and fuck you all morning. God he can’t stop thinking about them all, have you dragged on his face, his hands on your waist, let you ride his mouth till he couldn’t breathe.

Real fucking friendly.

Satoru’s hands grip and release while he hears your answer, “I will think about it, Mr. Nanami, it may be fun.”

That’s almost a yes.

Fuck.

“Think about what?” He asks with a smile, leaned back in the booth, a hand brushing your bare thigh under the table, where your dress had slid up from you sitting, he feels it tense while he drags his fingertips across it, eyeing you then.

Was Satoru trying to confuse you more? You look at him again, some toxic part of you that you don’t recognize wants him to claim you, what the fuck was that!? You have never been that way, you’ve never been a lot of things until you met this blue-eyed man, however, and even with a handsome Nanami flirting, you can’t get Satoru’s moans out of your mind.

Snap out of it!

“A date with your lovely friend. You two are just friends?” He looks between the two of you now, and Satoru opens his mouth, but what can he say?

It’s what you ‘are’.

Would he be worthy of dating you if he wanted to, when his job was fucking other women? You didn’t deserve that, you deserved to be the only one, fuck you literally had become his one singular, consuming thought. He smiles good naturedly, eyeing you now, watching you bite your lower lip, teeth digging into the plush of it, while your thighs tremble just a bit.

“We just met at a party a few weeks ago, but we are really close. Quickly.” He murmurs.

“Can’t see you partying.” Nanami’s hand comes to touch your other thigh, and for a girl who hasn’t had any in forever, the sensation of two big hands on your thighs is addling your mind. “No offense, darling you seem a little straight laced…” his words are trailed off with his hand squeezing gently.

Satoru scowls at him.

Is he touching you!?

Do you like it?

“I don’t party, it’s true.” You smile now, a hand over his, thumbs brushing his knuckles, while Satoru’s squeezing so hard you wince before he realizes it, letting go of his grip, but the hand staying on your knee. “I think we could go on a date sometime, as long as it doesn’t make work weird.”

“Not at all, all right I’ll leave you two to hang out then,” he stands, holding out a hand for Satoru, he squeezes the shit out of Nanami’s hand with a forced smile, only for Nanami to squeeze tighter. And fuck he’s strong. Then, he takes your hand, murmuring a - “I’ll see you at work, then,” and kissing the back of your hand. “Darling.”

Darling.

Satoru will show him darling.

You giggle, only pissing him off more, nodding shyly, fuck you’re cute even when you’ve made him furious. He’s shared women so many times he can’t count, even girls he got closer to, regular girls that you could almost say he ‘dated’ he’d still regularly bang out with his friends. He’s not possessive in general, he’s open minded and a free spirit.

Or he was!?

“Sounds good, Mr. Nanami.” He hates how you say his name, when the man in the khaki suit and dumbass cheetah tie leaves, finally. “He’s so sweet.”

“Yeah, so sweet.” You look at him then, narrowing your eyes curiously.

“You don’t like him?”

“I don’t know him. Seems boring, pretentious.” You blink in confusion, eyeing the retreating figure walking out, he even waves at you, which you return.

“He doesn’t seem like either to me. Satoru, you said we are just friends, are you worried that we won’t… do all that we do if I date someone?” Your words drop to a quiet murmur, and he sighs.

“Yes I would be very upset if I didn’t get to taste you again, why wouldn’t I be? It’d be a fuckin’ tragedy, sweetheart.” His words are too husky, when he leans against you, turning just so, his fingers slipping up your inner thigh, a side of sweet, nice Satoru you hadn’t seen yet, you almost think he looks…

He can’t be jealous.

Right?

You're delusional.

“I don’t just sleep around, so if we went on a date I wouldn’t do that. But, if I hit it off, and got serious, I wouldn’t continue our… lessons. I can only be with one person at one time.” He tenses then, is he going to lose you before he even gets you? “I don’t care if you do the same, I know it’s your job, but I couldn’t.”

“I’m not fucking anyone right now. My manager is bitching at me about it.” You tilt your head curiously, the chandelier earrings dancing in glittering prisms along your neck as you study him. “I’m having issues on set.”

“Is everything okay?” You ask, concern in your voice now, as he shakes his head. “Satoru, what's wrong?”

“I’m not in a good headspace it seems, the gang bang I failed, and I pushed the girl this morning on Suguru. So if I don’t give my manager something, they’re gonna be pissed. And no money for us if I can’t show up.”

“What’s wrong though, you seemed fine with Jenna in what I watched? Is this a new problem?” God you’re clueless to your effects, aren’t you? You touch his thigh too, instantly making his cock hard, looking down and getting flustered, he feels your heat, just making him harder. “You seem to work fine to me. Are the cameras getting too stressful?”

“I don’t know, but it really is a problem. Do you think… you could help your very handsome, amazing friend out?” You look up at him, curious.

“Help how?”

“Your good video skills, film a hot jerk off stream, good angles? Maybe that will get enough money he’ll chill some until I get over this.” You look away, the images of Satoru stroking his cock are burned in your brain. “Too much?”

“No, no. I can help, I feel I am taking up your time-”

“You’re not.” He cups your face then, turning it to him. “You’re never taking up my time, I enjoy being here. Okay?” You exhale, fuck had you been worried about that!?

How could you not know how badly he craves your presence?

“I feel bad that you’re going through this, is it the lesson?”

“The lesson did bring your taste into my mouth, and maybe no one tastes as sweet, it’s true,” his thumb brushes across your jaw line, smiling at how embarrassed you get then. “I think your taste would help me out.”

“Then, I’ll film you, but I can’t guarantee the quality.”

“It’ll be impeccable.” He raises two fingers, making your mind go to places it shouldn’t, you know another ‘lesson’ or session, or any time at all with Satoru was dangerous.

You’re teetering on the edge of feelings constantly, but you can do this, right, separate the two? He seems so good at it, at being your friend and then doing more, and you almost failed completely. You almost couldn’t say yes to Nanami because you are currently so delusional you think this star is so interested in you for more.

You have to accept him for who he is, no matter what, this was your choice to join his life at all. You take a breath now, trying to flip that switch off, the one that can’t stop thinking how much you’d love to kiss him, every minute of every day. The side that’s upset his fingers were inside someone, you have to throw her aside, and enjoy what’s here while it’s here.

He makes you question so much constantly, like every minute spent under that cerulean gaze brings out a side of you that you never knew of, some inner sexual side that only he can ignite. It’s so beautiful and special, his breath against your lips, you want to press them to yours, but so unsure, was he not about to be affectionate in public with you?

Was this just left for home?

He changes your thoughts when he kisses your forehead, far too sweet, then your cheeks, hot to the touch, down to your nose, making you giggle, relax. “You never ever waste any time.”

“I needed that.” You exhale, kissing his lips quickly as he smiles against your lips, and you pull back quickly. “I’d love to help you out.”

“I’ll make it worth your while, pretty.” His thumb brushes the slick on your upper thigh, right by your panties, watching your lashes flutter shut, as you take a shaky breath. “Come back to my place?”

“For the night or…”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure-”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Satoru’s paying the bill, signing a signature and leaving a hefty tip, then, holding out a hand for you.

“Did you drive here?” You shake your head, and he smiles, snatching up his phone now. “Perfect, I’ll have my driver take us over.”

*****

The second time coming to Satoru’s home was a little different, you were more comfortable, slipping off your heels now, he bends down to help you again, kissing your knees as he does, hands slipping up your thighs. Your hand brushes a lock of his white hair back, the unreal way you feel this comfortable, this drawn to him, makes your heart ache.

You’re so scared you’ll get hurt more, but you can’t stop yourself from being near him, from him looking at you like you’re the only fucking girl there is, are you so delusional?

Just enjoy it.

You close your eyes, sighing as he stands, kissing your lips again, easing your hand bag off your shoulder, brushing his thumbs across the mark it’s left on your shoulder. “Want another drink?”

“Yes please, if I’m going to be a porn director.” He laughs softly, shaking his head and taking off his suit jacket, laying it across the back of a chair when he pulls out the same bottle you’d sipped last time.

“You liked this one, hmm?” You nod, surprised he’d remember, taking the sweet liquid in the crystal glass, fingers brushing now. “Don’t get drunk though, I can’t have a shaky ass camera.”

“So demanding already, you really gonna make it worth my while you say?” You’re trying to tease back, like you can breathe or function in his presence, he just sighs, brushing back your hair behind your ear.

“That and more, sweetheart. We have hardly started doing things together, there is so much I can think of,” his hands slip lower, down the side of your neck, watching the goosebumps raise as he does, sighing at how perfect you look in his kitchen. “So many positions.”

“How many are there!?” He laughs now, at your embarrassed little look, pressing a boop to your nose.

“You’re endlessly adorable. Corruptible.”

“Oh!” He’s taking his own glass now, guiding you by your hand.

“Suguru’s out for the night, so we won’t get interrupted.” He’s leading you to his room, yanking off that black top, pausing as he sets up the ring light and grabs the camera, handing it to you, fingers brushing against each other. “You ready?”

“Ready,” your squeak of an answer makes him pause, taking your free hand, putting it on his bare chest as your heart hammers, trailing the hand lower to his belt and swallowing. “Need help?”

“Yes, I do.”

He needs you.

He’s desperate for you, fuck.

You’ve helped him undress, on your knees on the soft, plush carpet, when you start the stream, and he starts stroking that long, thick length right in front of you, he keeps looking at you, even when you gesture to the camera. He’s moaning, spitting on his tip, making it slicker for his big hand which still can’t come close to covering it, twisting and moving it all for you.

For his fans.

It’s hard to remember them when your cunt throbs, when you’re so overheated you can hardly stand it, and Satoru’s talking, low and hoarse. “Gonna cum so much, fuck…”

When he’s cumming you damn near do just looking, thighs pressing together for that friction, mouth fucking dry when your shaky legs nearly give out, while you come from a lower angle, reading the comments of his spurting cum, shooting up against his silvery happy trail, sticking all over, making you ache to drink it up.

“Fuck, I’ve made a mess, need someone to clean me all up.” Satoru whispers, while you barely are able to hold up the camera any longer, the livestream is avid with questions, namely - who is filming Satoru Gojo? And offers from many viewers to lick every bit of him up.

Satoru should stare at the camera, but he’s looking up into your eyes instead, stroking his cum soaked length slowly, just pumping more cum out of his tip, so much it’s ridiculous, dripped down to his balls and inner thighs. You swallow nervously, tummy clenched with desire, knowing you needed to stay quiet for the stream of curious viewers.

Satoru murmurs cut then, and  you do just that, shutting off the feed, and setting down the phone with a shaky hand, clearing your throat. “They loved it I think.”

“C’mere.” He crooks two fingers, and you eagerly obey, walking up to him now, tempting him to no end with the way your eyes drink him in. “On your knees, sweetheart.”

You obey again, eagerly in fact, looking up at him under lowered lashes as his clean hand slips up the side of your pretty neck, then around to the nape of it, entangling in your locks. Your soft whine and shift of your hips are all he needs to know you’re enjoying it, your hands obediently on your thighs, as if waiting for his every order, so sexy he feels his cock twitch back to life.

“Do you want to clean me up?” He asks softly, but the command in his tone is there, you nod and he exhales, tugging you towards him then. “Then do a really good job, sweets. Lick every bit clean like a good girl, and I’ll reward you.”

“I’ll do a good job.” Your whisper wrecks him, as he guides your head down, and you suck him, still hard, into your hot, eager mouth. Your soft whine vibrates around him, his head falling back as your mouth moves.

He can’t help but think of earlier.

A date, you were gonna go on a date, and he hates the idea, no, he fucking detests the idea in fact, the rage alone making him fuck your throat deeper, harder, feeling you gag and choke on him instead of anyone else. He shouldn’t feel possessive over his friend, a friend who’s sucking his cum, who’s swallowing him up, all he can think is his, his, his.

But you weren’t his.

How could you ever be?

Satoru’s never felt anything better than your throat, except he’s a million percent sure your cunt is better, he knows it would suck him up so greedy. When tears fall from your pretty eyes, it’s hotter than any blow job he’s had on set, the eagerness and desperate need to please far surpasses experience, your glasses fogging up when you pull back to take a breath then.

Satoru looks at his slick, spit covered cock, to thin trails of saliva disintegrating between your lips as you pull back, swiping at your lower lip. “How did I do?”

“Perfect.” His whisper is genuine, the words feel too good, you know you should stop, that you already wish he was yours, but you’re too addicted to how those blue eyes make you feel like you’re the only girl there is.

Even if it’s an illusion, a trick of your brain, or a practiced look.

The feeling is too euphoric not to be corrupted by it.

“You did such a good job, look at it, not any cum left. You sucked it all down, so greedy huh?” His hand comes under your chin, squeezing your neck gently yet so possessive, he wants to say it - his - but he knows he can’t. But it’s too easy to teeter off the edge, when your breaths come faster, breasts pressed up in that dress, rising and falling with each one.

“Satoru… I can keep going.” Your soft voice nearly ends him, little hand stroking his cock again.

“I was thinking of something, but if you don’t want to, it's okay.” You blink a bit then, tilting your head, tendrils falling against your bare shoulders.

“What is it?”

“A scene with me, but not showing your face at all,” your gasp and pull back makes him sigh. “It’d be like me eating your pussy, we could have it zoomed so no one sees your face.”

The thought, along with Satoru's sweet cum down your throat makes your tummy clench, while he brings out more and more of you that you didn't know existed. Your hands tense on his thighs now, taking a shaky breath, fingers along the downy hair on his thighs. “I don’t… Satoru you have a million options for costars-”

“I want yours. It’s the prettiest I’ve ever fucking seen.”

“Satoru…”

“It is. Wanna argue about my expertise here?” You just get more flustered and flushed, looking down nervously, but he tilts your chin with his big hand, angling your gaze upward. “I’ll split all the pay, you get eaten out, and anonymously. I’d never tell anyone, I’d never risk your career or anything. But I do need to do one, and I hate the thought of it not…” Satoru trails off now, the words sinking in.

“You like eating me out that much?” Your whisper makes him chuckle then, nodding and swallowing nervously.

“That pussy is perfect. How about we film it, and you watch it, and if you don’t want to, I just keep it to jerk off to…” Shit, he said that.

He’s so desperate and pathetic.

But you flush again, surprising him with your nod.

“Shit really!?”

“We can film it for us to watch, and… I doubt I’ll be okay sharing it, but we can see if you- ah!” Satoru’s got you lifted so fast you barely can blink, unzipped and turned in moments, leaving you in the prettiest red lace lingerie that makes him groan, his fingertips trembling on your skin. “I said probably not, don’t get excited.”

“I’m excited to bury my face between your thighs again, sweetheart.” You cry out when he’s pressed you on the bed, spreading your thighs and groaning, fingers tugging at your panties.

“How can you make sure my face isn’t there?” You ask softly, he grabs the camera and the stand then, cock just swinging around, balls smacking his thighs, so used to being naked he doesn’t realize his effects. You can’t stop staring when he gets it at the perfect angle, clicking his tongue.

“Just like that,” he murmurs, viewfinder showing your pretty cunt up close, he’s almost furious to think anyone could see it like him, but his career is teetering on the brink of nothing, and if you truly were okay with it, he only sees it as a win.

You broke his dick and now he’s begging to just lick you, and split pay with you, he never thought he’d be so pathetic, but it’s no wonder, thumbing your pussy and spreading it, sighing. “Mnh!”

“So, to keep it anonymous if you decide to show this, don’t speak too personally, okay sweets?” You nod shyly, gasping as he shoves your thighs up. “Also, hold them up high, so all we’re getting is a view of your pussy.”

“Yes, sir.” You tease, but his cock starts leaking again, earning his moan.

“Don’t speak too much, to be safe, I don’t ever want you to feel like anyone would know it’s you. Speak when we’re done, though, you can absolutely moan.” You nod, so nervous, what are you doing!?

It’s as if Satoru Gojo brings something insane and wild out, because there is a thrill of your pussy on camera suddenly, and knowing he is about to worship you, potentially in front of people has your cunt drooling for him. He hits record then, angling his face so his tongue was in perfect view lapping up the arousal, exhaling now as he shoves your thighs up higher.

Perfect, you’re perfect.

“God, look at this pretty pussy,” he murmurs into the camera, parting your folds so all that syrupy arousal can pool out, he hears your sharp intake of breath, watches your red nails pressing into the plush of your thighs. His cock is already back hard, he has to stroke it and whines out as he laps you up, making you gasp.

He's slurping you then, head tilted just so the camera can see, smacking your clit gently, watching you jerk, pressing your thighs up higher and tilting the camera so it's higher, right over his head, looking at it and the reflection of your perfect cunt while he slips the tip of his tongue up. You're moaning at the sensations, twitching hips bringing your cunt more in his face.

Satoru can't stand it, how good you taste, he wondered if it was an illusion but no, you are the sweetest thing he's ever had. “You're so wet, god, take a look…” he's fingering you now, and you hear it while he watches it, glimmering from the soft ring light glowing on your perfect pussy. Making him so dumb he's just burying his face then, forgetting he's filming.

“Mnh!” You're trying not to call out his name, thighs still so high you can't see his face, to protect you from getting seen, until he adjusts it, spreading your thighs further, leaning up to look down at you under lidded eyes, chin coated in your slick. “Satoru…”

“You okay sweets?” His whisper touches you, his concern for you even during this, making sure you're okay. You nod and he exhales in relief, kissing you for a moment, knowing it's what you need, brushing your hair back, sighing as he looks down at you. “You're doing so good. Can you cum for me, baby?”

You nod again eagerly, and he’s dived back down, fingering you with two curled right in your cunt, hitting that spot that blinds you every time, his moans so filthy, guttural while he watches, angling his wrist and hitting something then, you feel so much pressure you panic, gasping, writhing under him.

“Oh my - ngh! Fuck!” You’re struggling to keep your voice a whisper, palming your mouth while you shatter.

“That’s it, right there, cum for me, lemme drink it up. Let everyone see how much you love my fucking tongue.” Pornstar Satoru was ridiculous to handle, hitting you with his fingers and the tip of his tongue on your clit, when the pressure releases, and your orgasm hits so hard you can’t help but scream, twitching as he pulls back in surprise. “Fuck, you’re squirting f’me?”

You have no clue what he means, you don’t see it as it starts pouring all over, making a mess, wet spot under you even as Satoru grabs you by the fat of your ass, licking up as much as he can. You’re a twitching, soaked little mess, your hands gripping his hair now, screams echoing in the room while he eases off you just a bit now, ready to fuck your slick, messy cunt.

He trembles as he pulls back and does one more shot, pressing a sweet kiss to your pussy before shutting off the camera, and leaning up, kissing you, so desperate, while your slick thighs rub together, and you feel the mess. He pulls up and takes a breath, flipping you then, making you gasp, handing you the camera while he kisses the backs of your shoulders, hands on your ass, spreading it wide.

“Watch it, sweetheart,” he whispers, kissing across your shoulder blades, brushing your hair to one side while you barely have the strength to press play, and that’s when you see it. “Look how perfect you are.”

Your pussy right on camera, and him eyeing it like he’s worshipping it, like you’re his fucking altar and his mouth is that offering. Your cunt starts throbbing while he works you, kissing every inch of your body as you fall more and more into the abyss of sin, of lust, of desire- of Satoru Gojo.

“You love it, don’t you baby?” His words are hot against your ear, while you watch him on the screen licking your cunt, watch your thighs tremble, all while he’s behind you, sinking his two fingers so deep in your quivering hole again. You arch your back, moaning now, it feels so good you can’t stand it, so erotic watching this video you two took, while he’s fucking you with his thick fingers.

“I do, but it’s insane… ah! Satoru…” He sighs now, taking his fingers out, pressing them into your mouth for you to suck, which you quickly obey, eyes fluttering shut, the image of his tongue fucking you reflecting in the darkness.

“Keep it for us, or share? It’s all up to you. I’ll never pressure you either way,” he’s soft then, turning your chin as he lays heavy weight over you, and you eye the phone now, hand shaking just a bit, to close it out or to share, he takes your hand, steadying it. “It’s fine to be how you are, you’re perfect, okay?”

“It’s fine to be how you are, Satoru Gojo. A… question, though.” He sighs, leaning close, while he keeps holding your hand, hovering just so.

“Mmhmm?”

“Would I be your favorite co-star?” Your teasing question makes him laugh at the ridiculous nature.

You’re the only one he can even get hard for.

“You’re the prettiest, yummiest, sweetest co star I could have,” his words are just a little broken, as he almost says more. That he hopes your date sucks with that Nanami guy, that he’s planning to show up at your work tomorrow to glare at that man, that he’s become fucking obsessed, but instead - “How could you think you’re not?”

“And we’re… still friends…” You ache for him to say - no, it’s more - but he nods, against your neck, pressing kisses against it. “Even if we fuck?”

God.

He’s dying.

“You think I wouldn’t be your friend anymore? I’m not the guy to get what he wants and go. I promise.” You nod then, smiling just a bit, and tap the share button then, surprising both of you.

“Holy fuck, I did that…” Your whisper is met with Satoru’s kisses now, as your video plays for all to see, your moans on camera mixing with the ones induced from his play, one arm wrapping your body as his cock presses insistently against your ass, hot and heavy.

“Stop me now, because I can’t think of anything but fucking your pretty pussy raw right now,” his desperate words and dilated eyes just serve to ruin you, when you arch your ass up. “Fuck, you sure?”

“I want you inside me, please,” he eagerly leans back, gripping his cock and lifting your thigh, pressing into your tight ring of muscles, almost cumming from the fucking tip. “Ah!”

“You’re so tight, relax I don’t want to hurt you, please.” Satoru whispers it as he grips your chin.

You nod, as he is slipping a little deeper from the back, the stretch burning so deliciously, you’re convulsing while the viewers are going wild over Satoru’s devoted pussy eating skills with his mysterious, faceless co-star. His silk hair brushes your cheek as he exhales heavy in your ear, whispering your name.

You eye the video, the comments, vision blurry, while he sinks his cock deeper, and he moans as he reads the comments to you, filling your cunt so full of his cock, inch by inch - and there are so many, each thrust deeper while you cling to his wrists, his arms wrapping you. He keeps reading them, even as he shoves in all the way, making you jerk and gasp.

“Perfect pussy, look at Satoru go, god she’s so wet for him, she’s cumming so much - is she squirting? Look at that, you’re a regular star, huh? F-fuck…”

“Mnh!” Your eyes roll back in your fucking skull now, lost in him, lost completely. So deeply unraveled under him you can’t remember what this is, that it’s a friend, that it was a scene, that you’re now the girl who did that, anonymous but to know it’s you on that screen with Satoru devouring you does something, fuck it does too much.

He’s murmuring more comments, and his huge cock is stretching your slick, tight heat beyond its means. “That’s it, you love it, huh? They all want to be in your place, or they want to lick you instead, but it’s me, isn’t it baby?” He shouldn’t be possessive, he tries to tell himself it over and over, but how can he not be, when he’s shoved in so deep, he feels the bulge of your tummy, groaning. “Feel me, sweetheart?”

You can’t speak, just nodding desperately, while the feed goes insane, watching your cunt squirt on Satoru’s face while he’s buried inside you, filling you to the hilt, stretching you out so good you forget to breathe. “Toru!”

He pauses at the nickname, your slurred words and pulsing cunt ending him, he could almost cum then and there and he has amazing stamina, but he has to hold back, wrapping a hand around your throat and leaning up on an elbow while you gush down his cock. Satoru kisses up your neck hungrily, eyeing your pussy on the video and then your face, your eyes almost black with pleasure.

“Only I can hit that spot, hmm?” His tip drags along your spongy spot now, and you’re twitching, nodding, so consumed as he surrounds you, breath against your neck, moans in your ear, hand squeezing your throat just so under your chin. His cock twitches as he shoves deeper, impossibly deeper, while you helplessly grip the blankets beneath you. “Answer me, like a good girl.”

“Y-yes.” Your whisper drives him insane, feral, the way your walls quiver around his cock is exquisite, that grip unreal, but more than anything it feels perfect.

“Made for this cock, aren’t you pretty?” The words fall out before he can stop them, and your eyes rolling back, drool spilling out of your mouth while your cunt is pulsing is his answer. “Perfect, fuck…”

“Mnh!” You can’t take it, his words urging you when he shoves his cock so deep, the tip bruising your cervix, making you scream as his guttural moan fills the room, his hand squeezing just enough pressure to make your orgasm blinding, white hot.

“Cumming all over me, so good, listening f’me, hmm?” You just nod weakly, gasping when he flips you to your back, lifting your thighs and shoving them wide, slapping the tip on your slick cunt and groaning. “Wanna watch me fill you up?”

You nervously nod, swallowing now, and he sees it, you’re overwhelmed, he leans down, kissing you, and you’re desperately clinging to his back, eagerly kissing him despite being damn near slack jawed. You exhale nervously, eyeing him is even more intimate, impossibly more, his plush lips still tasting like your honeyed arousal from earlier.

“If it’s too much, tell me, I want you comfortable.” It’s hard for him to speak, but he does, making sure to reassure you, kissing your forehead before he leans back.

“It’s intense, Satoru but… I want it.” He moans at that, sliding his cock back inside, sucking in a breath when you’re gripping him fucking tighter this time, slipping in slowly, inch by inch. “Ah! Satoru, so d-deep!”

“I am, huh? I can get deeper, baby.” You cry out when he shoves his cock in deep with a sharp thrust, and then pauses, eyeing that bulge in your stomach. “Look.”

“Look at… oh.” You’re heating up at the image, and he’s all about angles, he makes sure your eyes catch every bit of his slow thrusts, filling your tummy full of his enormous cock, too much to take, but your cunt is willing and eager, struggling to take his size.

“Fucking you so deep, see it? Your body is so small compared to my cock, pussy stretched too much, f-fuck… god look at you…” He’s losing it, he was trying to talk sexy to you, which comes naturally, but now he’s just obsessed with the image, thin white brows lowering over his eyes, while he slams inside you, your thighs trembling as they wrap his slutty waist. “Oh my god…”

“Satoru… ah!” He’s done, he’s fucking lost in you, in your eyes when he shoves your thighs up, gripping your face with his huge hands while he’s got you bent in half, slamming so hard you scream. “Too much!”

“I need all of you, fuck… can you take more?” His eyes are so bright blue they burn to look at, but you can’t stop yourself, nodding and cupping his face in return.

“Kiss me please.” He moans at that, slamming his lips down when he rocks his hips, cock filling you so deeply you scream into his mouth, hands slipping to his hair while he’s got his heavy weight over you.

“I can’t control it anymore, baby, if it’s too much just fucking hit me at this point,” he’s nonsensical, leaning up now, hands on the back of your thighs in a mating press, fucking you hard now, powerful strokes that take you the fuck out, cumming in moments with a few strokes, making him whimper.

That’s a sound you know he’s never made.

You may be delusional, but you’re sure you’ve only heard him whimper for you, you’ve never seen that look in his eyes on any video or stream, not when he’s staring right into your fucking soul and slamming his cock deep over and over. You’re barely able to cling to the earth, so much pleasure rushing through your body, you feel every vein and ridge of that huge cock as it fucks into you.

“Perfect, pussy is perfect, fucking knew it but god. God… fucking feel her,” he slams into you again, head falling back, giving you a view of his throat before he eyes you once more, shaking his head and slamming his cock harder. “Can she take it?”

You just nod, you’d take anything, the way it feels to be ruined by Satoru Gojo is far beyond his balls slapping your ass, his cock stretching your cunt, his hands bruising your fucking thighs, no it was more. You want to be filled by him, folded under him, you want every bit of it, losing yourself in him, in his bright blue eyes, in his filthy fucking words, in his cock slamming your cervix.

You were ruined, and you knew it.

You feel too much, far too much, when he’s leaned back, holding your thighs high and watching his cock pull out and enter, slowing and rubbing your abused clit. “F-fuck, cum one more time, I’m close… your cunt is so fucking perfect, shit… c’mon, like a good girl, there you go baby…”

It’s like that goddamn dream.

Word for word.

You cum harder than you have, when he shoves into the hilt, stuffing your slutty little hole, blinded and dizzy, hardly able to breathe, while he watches you shatter under him, so fucking beautiful he can’t take it. Your brows drawn together, that sweat making your skin glisten, your mouth open in the sluttiest O, he can hardly stand what the image does to him.

He knows it then, he’s fucking beyond destroyed, and terrified at that fact, at the power you’re oblivious to over him. He almost busts inside you, something he has never done - he doesn’t even go without condoms - the thoughts of filling your cunt full are far, far too tempting. He stops himself, cursing and holding his slick cock at the base while you’re spasming around him, back arching.

“Where do you want all this cum, sweetheart?” He manages to ask, you’re so fucked out you’re dizzy, blinking Satoru’s white hair and pretty face into view as he pulses inside you, just thickening and making you whimper.

“W-what… where… you want, I… mnh!” You’re still cumming, aftershocks rocking you, making your skin so sensitive when he eases your sore thighs down, parting them and pulling out finally, stroking himself as you catch your breath, watching him spurt thick white ropes all over your cunt. “Oh! Oh…”

“Fuck, fuck… god… oh my…” He’s moaning as he’s desperately jerking his slick cock, so much cum it seems impossible, since he just busted so much, and you watch him, enthralled as the hot sticky sperm is coating your cunt. “God, look at it, fucking look at us baby.”

He’s too much, he’s too much.

You thought him eating you out fucked you up mentally, what is he, his insane ass eyes bright as he trembles, strong muscles bunching and tensing, a work of fucking art pouring his cum on you. You’re stuck, at a loss for words, mouth opening and closing, brain not even functional as you look up at this man, knowing this isn’t just sex, it fucking couldn’t be.

It can’t be like this with someone.

You almost spill every feeling then and there, lost in him, in his desperation when he rests his head on yours, moaning against your lips, tip brushing your engorged clit and making you whine out. “God, your pussy is too perfect, it’s… you’re too perfect, feel too good, look too good…”

“Satoru, are you okay?” You whisper softly, he’s slurring his words, almost hard to understand in their hushed whispers in between his pants.

He can’t even answer, pulling back and looking at your pretty cunt, all abused from his cock and puffy, covered in his white ropes. “Can I have a picture? Please, just for me.”

“Y-you want one?” He laughs softly, breathless, nodding, and you heat up at it, looking down shyly. 

“Only you can be adorable with your pussy beat up and coated in cum, huh?”

“Oh god!” He can’t take it, how cute you are, the affection eating at him, as he takes a deep breath, leaning back. “Just one.”

“Fuck…” He takes the phone, eyeing the amount of comments and tips while your breasts heave, trying to catch your breath, sticky cum dripping across your folds when you shift your hips.

“What is it?” You ask softly, he shows you the number, and your eyes nearly bulge out. “Holy fuck!?”

“This is good even for me, shit. Pussy is made for porn.” You’re blushing harder, biting your lower lip when he angles the camera, taking several photos and exhaling at how pretty it looks. “God, look at you.”

“Are you talking to me or my pussy?” He grins then, so boyish and charming it’s as if he wasn’t just fucking you into a mating press and filming your cunt. “Also I said one!”

“Sorry. I’ll make it up.” He’s kissing your thighs then, lapping some of his own cum off your slit, you gasp at the sensation, his tongue on your sore, overstimulated pussy now. Your hands entangle in his hair as he groans. “Fucking taste us.”

“Satoru you’re in-insane and- mnh! Fuck!” You’re shaking when he laps more off of you, desperately lapping at every inch of your cunt now. “Satoru!”

“Gotta clean my pretty costar up, she’s only my costar you know, only one I’ve ever-” He pauses, stopping himself, when you eye him, breasts still gently moving up and down as you eye him.

“Only one you’ve… ngh! Satoru!”

“Taste us.” He’s lapped more of his cum and yours, murmuring for you to open, which you eagerly do, letting him spit his cum and yours in your throat. “Swallow, there you go, see it’s perfect, huh?”

You’re lost then, in the filthy string of words, when he’s back down cleaning you up with a tongue that’s lethal in its precision, rocking his cock on the bed, hard for the third time with you as he moans desperately against you. He’s latched onto your clit, sucking, while you can’t stop cumming, pushed past overstimulation, but not once do you tell him to stop.

You want it.

You need it.

In tears from how much you’ve cum, desperate for more, swapping his cum and yours mixing, against your tongues as he talks you through it, as you lose yourself, Jenna told you not to, she told you not to forget. You are trying to keep it separated, but how the fuck can you?

It felt worth losing yourself, for him, under him, him inside you - around you - taking over everything, while he’s back inside you, his lips murmuring desperate, dirty words into your sweet mouth. When you’re so fucked out you actually pass out blissfully in his arms, you can’t even remember the girl you were a few weeks ago, waking up just to be filled by him again from behind.

Being in his arms, you hope it’ll counteract the pain when he moves on, when he’s kissing you while fucking you from the back, sweet little nothings against your lips filling the room along with the squelching of his cock filling your cunt again. Every inch of your body kissed by him, licked by him, head to your fucking toes, shifting you to some other dimension as you drink each other in, exhausted and desperate.

You’ll think about that pain later, for now it’s all pleasure, aside from the ache in your heart for more, endlessly more.

The love on this story is so sweet, it's FAR from over. Please be patient as these are long chaps and I have other projects, if you're not on the tags you can subscribe to me on ao3 or turn on notifs <3 Can't wait to hear your thoughts

Taglist 1 - @rjreins @juicu @kalulakunundrum @gojoswaterbottle @aldebrana @simp-plague @wedojustbevibin @lucciferr0 @officialholyagua @privthemis @coffee-and-geto @homesickes @msniks @emi311 @mai-505 @gojoslovelylover @ren-ren23 @yihona-san06 @emochosoluvr @sylvermoon @bunheadusa @karvokr @starmapz @queenexplosonmurderr @musiclover2119 @saitamaswifey @reagan707 @midorissi @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @itsinherited @maisiefrancesca @gyarubunny @theonlyhonoredone @chosslut @simperisksksk @xlilycoco @howlsdarling @femaholicc @maymaymarch @miseryyouth-99 @swoozleee @zeunys @cryingdevil @leafynightmares @princess-bblgm @gojosconsort @insomnicshello @joonunivrs @myahfig4 @silviscosplay

The Mask I Live With - pt. 17

The happy ending :)

I honestly had been going back and forth on this all week about the next post, and honestly I knew I had to give us all the happy ending we were looking for.

Not fully proofread!

Roommate|Reader x Simon Ghost Riley

The months that followed settled into a rhythm that felt almost suspiciously good. There were still sore mornings where your leg ached like hell, especially after nights tangled with Simon, neither of you knowing when to quit. But you learned to read your limits, and he learned to hover close enough without smothering you.

Light duty turned into moderate duty... and then moderate duty turned into cautious, evaluated runs at the flight simulators. Before long, real missions crept back into your life. 

The first time you stepped onto the tarmac again, helmet tucked under your arm, and a helo roaring in front of you, your hands shook—not from fear. 

From need.

You belonged here.

There were days you thought maybe you had lost that piece of yourself. That maybe you'd never sit inside the cockpit again without reliving the moment you and your Sergeant crashed. But standing there, wind whipping against your fatigues, it clicked back into place like it had never happened at all.

And Simon? 

He was waiting at the edge of the hangar when you returned the first day, arms crossed, eyes hidden behind his balaclava. You could practically feel the tension bleeding off him like heat waves. The second your boots hit the ground, he was at your side, hand hovering on your lower back, before his lips brushed your temple in a rare moment of public affection.

Big softie

You laughed. "I didn't crash this time."

"Wasn't takin' any bets." He grunted.

You didn't tell him about the orders until a few days later. Sitting together at the kitchen table, you slid the paperwork across to him. He blinked down, scanning it quickly before his brow furrowed.

"Permanent?" He asked, voice low like he almost didn’t believe it.

You leaned forward, propping your chin on your hand with a stupid grin on your face. "Talked to my commander. Pulled some strings. Used the crash. Used the injury. Hell, I used everything I could think of." You shrugged. "I get to stay here now. No more transfers. No more bouncing around."

He lifted his head slowly, expression unreadable, but his hand reached across the table and settled heavily over yours.

"Y'did tha'... for me?"

You squeezed his fingers, smiling so wide his heart skipped several beats. "For us..." A rare grin formed on his lips before you giggled. "And for Danny, Gaz, Soap, and Price...... For all of it."

He playfully rolled his eyes at the last part, but was happy none-the-less. 

Speaking of Danny. . . . 

His recovery had been slower. His injuries still needing time to heal. But it wouldn be no time before he could officially fly again per the doctors. In the meantime, he was back into desk duty, barking orders and cracking jokes from the safety of an office chair—which he hated but tolerated for now.

******************************************************

The Shack was alive tonight. Even though you had just gotten back from a small mission, you were surprisingly upbeat and not tired. So you messaged everyone, asking to come to the usual spot for some drinks. 

You tucked yourself between Simon and Danny at the table near the back, beers scattered across the wood, the guys already half into a shouting match over who would win an arm-wrestling contest between Johnny and Price.

"You're all dreaming." Danny snorted, shaking his head. "Price would mop the fucking floor with him."

Johnny threw his hands up. "Oi! I've got technique!"

"You got bird bones." Gaz countered, grinning wide. "Price sneezes and you go flying, mate."

You laughed, the sound bubbling out before you could stop it. Simon, sitting so close his thigh brushed yours, leaned in just slightly, voice low against your ear.

"Missed hearin' tha'."

Your chest warmed at the simple truth in his tone. The mission itself had you flying somewhere no cell service for a week, so Simon wasn't lying when he said it. You briefly rested your hand against his leg under the table, a small, quiet anchor between you.

Price lifted his glass toward you then. "So, Lieutenant..." He drawled causing both of you to look at him. "You're really stuck with us for good now, huh?"

Before you could answer, Johnny cut in, smiling like an absolute devil. 

"Please. She's just staying for our dear old Ghost here." He said, bumping Simon’s shoulder. "Can’t bear to be away from him."

The table erupted into laughter, even Simon letting out a rare low chuckle. You rolled your eyes, shaking your head, but you raised your glass anyway.

"For all of you." You smiled. "You're stuck with me now, like it or not. You're family."

That silenced them for a second. Not heavy or awkward... just... real.

Johnny grinned even wider, raising his own beer to clink against yours. "Cheers to that, lass."

"Cheers." Everyone echoed, glasses clinking together.

******************************************************

Five years later

The helo sputtered a little as you cut the engines, the rotors spinning down with a high, whining sound that faded into blessed silence. The poor bird was in immediate need of maintenance, but that was a job for another day, and another version of you who wasn’t running on fumes. 

You exhaled, muscles tight from the long string of flights, and leaned back in your seat. The helmet that had been digging into your forehead was quickly discarded, resting now on your knee. Next to you, Danny gave a tired chuckled, rubbing a hand through his hair.

"Remind me why we thought this was a good idea again?" He joked, voice hoarse from yelling over the comms.

You giggled, voice just as wrecked. "Cause we're idiots."

He snorted and pushed himself up, joints popping loudly. "And here I thought retirement sounded boring."

You smiled as you leaned forward, fingertips brushing the worn metal of the dash one more time before standing. But the ache in your bones wasn’t just physical. It was the weight of time but even through it all, you were still here... still flying... still chasing the sky.

Danny hopped out of the helo first, boots thudding against the concrete. You followed, stretching your sore leg carefully as you climbed down, wincing a little at the familiar pull. Sometimes it still ached... sometimes it still whispered those awful, distant memories you didn’t talk much about anymore.

The hangar loomed ahead, the evening light spilling across it in brilliant golds and oranges. You barely took a full couple of steps before you saw him.

Simon.

Casually leaning against a humvee parked near the hangar doors, his frame relaxed but unmistakably alert, civilian clothes hanging loose over his broad, muscled frame. The familiar black surgical mask covered his mouth, along with dark shades hiding his eyes.

But that wasn’t what had your breath catching hard in your chest (like it did every single time). It wasn’t what had your feet picking up speed without thought. Tucked securely in his arms, head resting against his chest, was a little girl.

Your daughter.

Three years old. A little ball of fire and sweetness, with wild curls that refused to be tamed and big brown eyes that somehow managed to look exactly like both of you. She was fast asleep against him, one tiny hand fisting the fabric of his T-shirt like a lifeline, and the other clutching her battered old stuffed bear that went everywhere with her.

The world around you—the ache, the exhaustion, the buzz of everything—blurred into nothing.

Simon tilted his head slightly when he saw you, that silent, familiar greeting that you could read in your bones after all these years.

Missed you. Proud of you. Come home.

Danny followed your gaze and let out a low whistle, clapping a hand on your back. "Look at that. Your welcome party showed up."

You laughed under your breath, quickly blinking away the sudden burn in your eyes. You wiped your gloves on your pants, shaking off the exhaustion and picking up your pace despite the tired pull in your leg.

You barely registered it, already running on something deeper; something that hurt in a sweeter way.

When you reached them, Simon straightened, peeling his mask down with one hand just enough to press a kiss to the top of your daughter's head before he reached for your without hesitation, his thumb brushing the inside of your wrist.

"Hey sweetheart." He quietly said, voice low and soft in a way he reserved for the only two people in this world. "Missed you."

You whispered back. "Missed you more." 

You reached out, smoothing a stray curl away from your daughter's forehead. She blinked up at you sleepily, heavy-lidded and disoriented, but the second she recognized you, a slow, shy smile bloomed across her face.

"Mama." She mumbled, little hands stretching toward you instinctively.

Your heart shattered into a thousand pieces in the best way possible.

Simon shifted, carefully transferring her into your arms. You cradled her close, small body pressing against yours, and the presence of her—solid, warm, yours—banished the mission behind you. 

You kissed her soft cheek, taking her in—sunshine, soap, and the faint lingering trace of Simon’s cologne.

He rubbed the back of his neck, mouth tugging up in a sheepish, boyish smile. "Figured... we could meet ya. Thought she'd like to see her mum be a badass." He muttered, almost embarrassed.

Danny chuckled behind you, slinging his gear bag down with a heavy thud. "Hell of a welcome wagon, mate. Setting the bar high."

You laughed, the sound bubbling up unfiltered, before you rested your forehead against Simon’s for half a second. Just long enough to feel him soak you in. Long enough to remind him you were real.

"Always knew you were trouble." You softly teased.

He smirked, the faintest crinkle hidden at the corners of his eyes behind his shades... but even though you couldn't see them, you just knew.

"You're stuck with me forever, love." He replied, before leaning down and giving you a sweet, lingering peck on the lips.

The kind of kiss that said: I’d wait a thousand lifetimes for you.

You cradled your daughter closer, your free hand gently grabbing his shirt, anchoring yourself to him like you had all those years ago without even realizing it when you were just........ roommates.

Well... that's it for my little story about roommate reader lol! I hope you all enjoyed this as much as I wrote it! As always, please like, comment, repost, and give me feedback!

If you're new here and interested in seeing my other stories, please check out my masterlist link below!!!

The next story I will be finishing is "Before The Ghost"!

Love you all!!!!

-Daydreamer 🩵

Pt. 1; Pt. 2; Pt. 3; Pt. 4; Pt. 5; Pt. 6; Pt. 7; Pt. 8; Pt. 9; Pt. 10; Pt. 11 (Simon POV); Pt. 12; Pt. 13; Pt. 14; Pt. 15; Pt. 16

Masterlist

Taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @kittygonap @nappingmoon @chaos-4baby @ohdrey89 @skeletonsucker @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @roastyyytoastyyy @simonexxx1 @mrmountainman @thebumbqueen @lucienofthelakes @letiferian @jennamelinda12 @mulletmcghee @kittykatgorl @strawberrygato @ghostslollipop @emeraldeyes1805 @chaosundcoffee @whos-fran @fangirls94 @rafaelacallinybbay @quiet-loser @shondlenoodle @iceblossom1013 @sssophia0-0 @a-lil-bit-nuts @kalypsoox @nicolebarnes @jesskidding3 @kissmeharderrrr

The Mask I Live With - pt 16

tw: smut - MDNI; lots of fluff; imagine a shower that has the glass door with it lmao!

Roommate|Reader x Simon Ghost Riley

It had been almost a month and you were back to how things were before the crash........ 

Sort of. 

The PT sessions were still going well, better than you expected. You still kept a crutch nearby whenever the ache would set in, but most days you could get around without it.

Work had eased back in, too. Light duty, desk assignments, admin nonsense. No field, no drills, no crazy shit yet. But it was enough to keep you occupied; enough to keep you busy.

And Simon?

Still the same

Same watchfulness.... same barely contained feelings lingering in the air whenever the two of you were in the same room.

You hadn't tried anything.... not yet at least.

But every time he stood a little too close, every time his hand lingered on the small of your back when he thought no one noticed, hell every time you caught him staring when he thought you weren't looking... it just built.

It crawled under your skin, becoming louder with the passing days.

Fuck it

You waited long enough. 

One night, he came home the same way he always did. Tired. Quiet. Worn from the day but taking up space without saying much. Just a constant presence that settled in you like gravity. You had light conversation over the dinner you cooked, but he hardly touched his plate, eyes darting to you every few minutes like a doting parent.

You cleaned the dishes and kitchen, gently pushing his hands away when he tried to help. 

"I've got it." You smiled, but he just stood off to the side, keeping his gaze on you with his arms crossed. That overprotectiveness seeping through as always. When you finished, you headed toward the hallway. "Gonna shower. Long day."

And then a thought immediately popped in your head. 

A crazy thought. 

You turned to look at him over your shoulder. "You can join me if you want."

His jaw instantly flexed, eyes flickering over you—quick, sharp—then back up to your face. Like he was forcing himself not to let them stray. Like he was fighting something hard. But he didn't respond; didn't even hum.

You faintly shrugged, walking into the bathroom without waiting to see if he followed and turning on the shower, letting the sound echo in the silence. After stripping out your clothes, you stepped in, sighing as the warmth soaked into you skin.

And for a few seconds, you thought maybe—maybe—he was still in the kitchen.

But then... heavy footsteps followed by the closing of the bathroom door captured your attention. Your eyes landed on his figure through the glass, eyes dark with lust and strained hesitation. You smirked, before focusing on getting your hair under the spray. 

A soft rustle behind brought you back to where he stood. Your gaze met his as he reached for the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head in one smooth motion, revealing what you'd seen before—the solid expanse of muscle, scarred and inked skin. Then, he removed his pants and briefs... and god, did your entire body heat up at the sight of him. 

He cautiously stepped in behind you, like he was giving you time to tell him to get out. But when you didn't, his hand rested gently on your hip. He opened his mouth to say something, but you leaned in and kissed him—slow, sure, not rushed.

Just... certain.

His hands came up to cup your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like he couldn't believe you were real. He kissed you back with the same soft urgency that had been simmering between you for months.

"Y'sure?" He breathed against your mouth, voice hoarse from restraint.

You nodded, eyes searching his. "I've been sure."

He let out a sound—half a breath, half a groan—and kissed you again. This time deeper and more intense. Water trickled down your bodies as he pressed you gently back against the cool tile wall, lips trailing along your jaw.

"Tell me now... If y'want me to stop."

Your breath caught in your throat as you shook your head. "Don't stop."

That was all it took.

His hands slid down your sides, lingering at your waist before he hoisted you effortlessly, pinning you on the wall, his breath host against your neck . You wrapped your legs around his hips, letting out an involuntary hiss as the movement shifted your injured leg, stretching it more than expected.

He immediately stilled, leaning back a little to look at you, worry etched across his face.

"Hey." He murmured. "Talk to me. Y'alrigh'?"

Your heart clenched at how quickly he froze, how his hands steadied you like you might fall apart at any second. You nodded, threading your fingers through his wet hair and pulling him back to you.

"I'm fine." You whispered, kissing along his jaw. "Just a stretch. I can handle it." His brows furrowed, still unsure. You leaned in, lips brushing over his. "I want you to let go." 

If he had any thoughts to pause what he was doing, you kissed them away, urging him to continue.

His hands gripped your thighs, supporting your weight. You could feel his length growing as he got hard and it made you softly moan when he brushes against your entrance. He wanted to tease.... he wanted to warm you up, but he was just impatient as you were. With tantalizing slowness, he rolled his hips as he slid inside you. You gasped, arms tightening around his shoulders, nails digging into his back as he filled you completely.

"Fuck." He groaned—wrecked—forehead resting against yours. "You feel.. fuckin' perfect."

You moaned, grinding your hips in sync with his. Every deep and measured thrust making your breath catch. He moved like he couldn't stop, like every second apart had been bottled up and was now breaking loose.

Even with the pace—strong, relentless—he never let go. His hands remained careful, but firm and possessive, holding you like you were something he needed to anchor himself to.

"Simon." You let out, barely audible.

His head snapped up at the sound of his name, eyes blown wide, before his mouth crashed back into yours with desperate hunger.

"Say it again." He growled against your lips, hips snapping harder.

You whimpered, nails gently raking down his back. "S-Simon."

That shattered whatever control he had left. His pace faltered, teeth hovering over your throat before he bit down and leaving his mark. Your orgasm hit—sharp, blinding, your legs trembling around him—and he followed right after, burying himself deep with a low, raw, and guttural groan that shook right through you.

Neither of you moved for a few minutes except the heavy rise and fall of your chests against each other, and his delicate kisses along your throat where the hickey was forming. His hands softened, sliding back and forth on you like he couldn't stop touching you.

You kissed the corner of his mouth, voice quieter now. "Told you I could handle it." His lips quirked but his eyes stayed locked on yours.

Eventually, he eased back, slowly lowering you to your feet. His hands hovered at your waist like he was half-expecting you to stumble. He scanned your face, like he was checking for cracks.

You met his gaze, a teasing glint in your eyes. "See? Didn't break." 

He hummed, smirking with fondness in his own.  "Still don't like pushin' y'too hard."

You reached up, running your fingers along his jaw, feeling the damp scratch of stubble beneath the tips.

"You didn't." You softly said. "Not even close."

He stayed quiet for a second, watching you like he wanted to memorize the way you looked right now—bare, flushed, completely undone because of him.

He then reached past and shut the water off, grabbing one of the towels hanging nearby. He gently tugged it around your shoulders rubbing it over your skin. But it wasn't about drying you off. It was about grounding. His way of easing you down after everything without saying a word. 

And you let him. Let him take his time, let him wrap the towel snug around you before reaching for one for himself.

When he was done, you slightly limped back to your bedroom, leg sore but manageable. When you glanced back, he was right behind you, close enough to catch if you fell, but far enough to give you space.

He didn't speak as you slid under the covers; just went to his room to change before coming back and sitting down at the edge of the bed. You watched him for a moment, eyes tracing the lines of his back, his broad shoulders still tense like part of him hadn't fully come down yet. You reached out, touching his forearm.

"Simon." He glanced back before you shifted, patting the empty space beside you. "Come here."

He hesitated for a split second, then exhaled and slid in next to you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His arm slid around you, arm warm against your back as you rested your head against him.

For a long moment, you stayed like that. 

Quiet. Close. 

"Didn't think I'd want this." He finally said. "Didn't think I should."

You tilted, glancing up at him. "Why?" His jaw flexed a little, chewing over the words before he responded.

"Everythin' tha's happened." He darted to your leg, then back to you. "Didn't wanna be the reason y'got distracted. Or..." He trailed off, tone dropping. "The reason y'got hurt again."

Your chest clenched, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. "You've never been the reason I got hurt. If anything, you're the reason I'm still alive." You swallowed as his gaze remained somewhat expressionless. "And I've wanted this too. For a while now."

He pulled you closer, hand flexing before tightening as if he couldn't stop himself. He didn't say anything right away. But you felt the worry bleed out of his posture; felt the shift in him... like he finally let himself have this.

Have you.

You pressed a couple of soft kisses to his jaw. "Not going anywhere, Simon." 

That earned you the smallest sound from him. Something like a quiet sigh.. almost a laugh.... almost relief.

"Good." He murmured back before moving his head to kiss softly kiss you. "Didn't plan on letting you."

Awkwardness if fully gone now 🤣

Also... idk why I imagined Simon having a shower that's a walk-in and has the glass door with it... but I did lol!

Pt. 1; Pt. 2; Pt. 3; Pt. 4; Pt. 5; Pt. 6; Pt. 7; Pt. 8; Pt. 9; Pt. 10; Pt. 11 (Simon POV); Pt. 12; Pt. 13; Pt. 14; Pt. 15

Taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @kittygonap @nappingmoon @chaos-4baby @ohdrey89 @skeletonsucker @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @roastyyytoastyyy @simonexxx1 @mrmountainman @thebumbqueen @lucienofthelakes @letiferian @jennamelinda12 @mulletmcghee @kittykatgorl @strawberrygato @ghostslollipop @emeraldeyes1805 @chaosundcoffee @whos-fran @fangirls94 @rafaelacallinybbay @quiet-loser @shondlenoodle @iceblossom1013 @sssophia0-0 @a-lil-bit-nuts @kalypsoox @nicolebarnes @jesskidding3 @romanceloverrrr

Baby You're a Star

Art in the banner by Kerravi on x!

Pairings- Pornstar Satoru x shy f!reader

Warnings- mentions of sex and sexwork, masturbation ( f) oral (m and f receiving) fingering, spit kink low-key, cum swallowing, reader is innocent DON'T read if you don't like that, mutual pining, obsessive Gojo, he can't get hard if it's not you, this whole damn chap is smut so, aftercare and feelings. A little bit of angsttt, a lil bit of cuteness, demisexual reader and pornstarr Satoru what a pair.

Summary- You meet Satoru Gojo at a wild Hollywood party, insanely out of place, waiting for your friend to show up. The two of you hit it off, spending time together, and share a kiss, but you're a good girl, and you just don't do this, but he is the top pornstar there is, and the top .01 % on OnlyFans. Once you find out, you know there's probably no match, as Satoru doesn't date, and you don't sleep around, but after meeting, you keep in touch- and soon Satoru can't get hard without thinking of you, and you get over curious, and join a livestream of the boy you like. Just how will that go for you both!? WC 10.6k!

<<<Chapter One - Masterlist- Playlist- Chapter Three>>> (coming soon)

Chapter Two

“Come in.”

You shyly take him in, how fucking gorgeous Satoru Gojo looks, shirtless with just a pair of dark jeans sound low on his hips, showing that perfect body up close. You can smell the shampoo he’s used, wafting in the fancy penthouse, just standing there and staring with your lips parted.

Pull it together!

“Thank you, it’s good to see you again.” You say softly, when he shuts the door behind you with a gentle click, and you eye him now, his gorgeous eyes bright and glittery, lips quirked up.

“You sure saw a lot of me.”

“Shit.” You cover your face, and he gently eases your hands down, smiling at you, laughing just a bit.

“Where are your glasses?”

“Contacts today. Do you um, like them?”

“I do, they’re cute on you, but I do like seeing your pretty eyes better.” He’s gently cupping your face as he murmurs, you’re trembling from his touch, his proximity. “Take off your converse. Keep on the kitten socks.”

“You like these huh?” You’re feeling so comfortable already, despite your nerves, of why you’re here, how fucking bold you are, so out of your comfort zone, but it feels fucking perfect. You ease off your shoes, and he kneels, making you gasp, as he runs his fingers over the soft fleece of those socks.

“They’re so hot. Shit.”

“They a-are?” He sighs, pressing a kiss on your thigh and looking up at you then, on his knees, he can inhale your arousal, making him almost press you up on the wall and eat you then and there. He barely controls himself, knowing you’re clearly not experienced, kissing your other thigh and standing slowly.

“Very hot. Need a drink?” You nod shyly, and he takes your hand, as you cross the luxurious expanse of his beautiful home, the finest furniture everywhere, plush shag carpet that would be impossible to clean, over to his kitchen now. “Pick your poison sweets.”

“Do you have wine? I do drink that a bit.”

“Do I have wine? Psh, what vintage, what year?” He pulls open a blue lit wine fridge then, stocked full, and you blink in surprise, peering down with him.

“Nothing fancy! Goodness, I like Rose?”

“Rose it is.” Satoru opens it with ease, some fancy electric cork opener that fascinates you, just making you cuter as you study it. “It isn’t that fancy, swear, this bottle is just ten years old.”

“Isn’t that fancy then?”

“No, not really, but it’s really sweet. You’ll love it.” He leans up, as you take in the enormous kitchen, he reaches a high up cabinet, snatching up two crystal glasses, your fingers brushing the pretty black marble.

“Your home is gorgeous.”

“It better be, fucking expensive as shit.” You can’t stop the little nervous laugh, praying you don’t snort this time jesus that had been embarrassing, thanking him when he hands you a glass filled with pretty pink liquid.

“Thank you so much. Mmm!” You taste it and sigh, eyes fluttering shut as the juicy strawberries hit your tongue. “Oh it’s to die for.”

“I taste better.”

You almost spit out the wine, and he’s grinning and wiggling his brow, you take another sip for courage. “That will be burned into my brain.”

“Good, it should be. I can think of a lot of things I’d love burned into my brain right now.” He sips that wine, just a drop spilling, which you lean over to brush off with your thumb, sighing as he grabs your wrist now, pulling you impossibly close. “Images of you have been steadily fucking me up since that night.”

“So it’s not um, one sided?” He scoffs, setting down both of your glasses, walking you until your back is against the counter, his scent overtaking your sense while his touch burns you.

You wondered, was it the party, was it in your head?

No.

His touch is everything, your eyes are drawn to his, while he leans lower over you now. “One sided?”

“Well, it’s insane and… Satoru I don’t just see you as some object, please know that, we could just… talk and I’d be happy.” He pauses as you murmur nervously, looking down, biting that lip too hard.

“Think I’d mind if you used me? I’d let you use any part of my body.” You gasp, eyes wide when they go up to his now. “Think you haven’t been on my mind since I blew that smoke in your mouth?”

“I didn’t know if- mnh!” He’s pressed you against the counter now, arms barring you on either side, your breath comes so fast as he towers over you in his elegant kitchen, eyes locking on his, head falling back just so.

“I wanted to respect you, despite my very disrespectful thoughts, of everything I wanna do to you.” He’s leaning lower, cupping your face with a hand now, breath mingling as he brings your face so close, lips a mere centimeter away. “Filthy things, I’ve been thinking of.”

“O-oh y-yeah?” He can’t stop his little laugh at you, sighing and tilting his head, pressing a kiss on your lips, just a brush of them that ignites need in your body, heart and fucking soul, which you try to shove down, to focus on how good your skin feels against his.

“Precious little thing, would be so fun to ruin you. Filthy fucking thoughts. But we’ll start with this one.” He picks you up now, you cling to him, arms around his neck, as your eyes meet, and he’s holding you like it’s nothing, hands gripping your ass under your skirt, squeezing and pressing you against him. “I wanna watch your pretty face when you cum so hard you can’t think.”

“God, Satoru…” He’s kissing you again, carrying you effortlessly to his room, you can’t even look at the luxe surroundings, enwrapped in his arms, drowning in his messy, expert kisses. “Mnh!”

“The little sounds you make.” Satoru certainly doesn’t fuck girls that aren’t co-stars or in the industry, but he can’t think of any time he’s ever been this ready, this filled with need for anyone. You feel so perfect in his arms, but you look even better when he pulls up, seeing you in the center of his huge bed, pretty lips swollen from his kisses.

“I love kissing you,” at your sweet words he pauses, and you clear your throat, feeling that flush hit your cheeks, looking down at his chin, touching it gently with a finger, before slipping fingers down his throat. “Too much?”

“No, I love making out.” You smile in relief, he should say how much he loves kissing you, but he doesn’t do that, right? He doesn’t just go dating, falling in love, with his lifestyle, it would just drag a good girl like you down, it’s why he held back, but now that you’re here, he can’t prevent himself from feeling it all.

He wondered, was it in his head?

How good you tasted, felt, your scent?

It wasn’t, and it’s even more intense now, the need unfulfilled by jerking his cock to you constantly, nothing like your soft, yielding lips and body under his, your breasts so soft even as nipples press hard through that fabric. He pulls back, littering kisses down your chest, your collar bone, watching you writhe under his sure touch, his ardent mouth.

“So good, ah!” Your hands grip his blankets, sweating just slightly as he drags down your cardigan, moaning then.

“No bra?” You’re shaking your head, and he smirks now, some of that LA Satoru Pornstar showing through. “Slutty.”

You giggle, before you moan, as his kisses delve lower, and he reveals a breast fully with an unbutton and tug, sighing as he sees one of your pretty tits. “I’ve never been called that.”

“I’m always called that.” You both laugh again, it’s easy, fuck, you feel so good just being under him, his huge hand gripping your breast now, eliciting a moan. “Like me calling you slutty when you’ve been such a good girl, hmm?”

“Oh my god.” He’s chuckling again, the man knows his effect, but you can’t argue, all you can do is gasp out, as he plucks a taut nipple between two fingers.

“Perfect tits, mmm.” He’s kissing down one now, tongue lapping your nipple, tastebuds rolling over the peak, and your eyes flutter shut, tummy clenching with ache for him. “Pretty, perfect, bet all of you is.”

You’re melting under his expert touch, perfect pressure everywhere you didn’t even know you were craving. “You’re so sweet.”

“I taste sweet too. Remember?” You’re furiously blushing now, covering your face as he grins down at you. “You asked, you know, slutty, it’s proven now.”

“It is slutty,” you’re giggling before he yanks the material apart further, mouth latching on to a sensitive peak. “Mnh, Satoru!”

“Mmhmm.” He’s sucking your nipple, pulling back with a pop of his lips, trails of saliva dripping from lush lips, and your heart won’t stop hammering, hot desire shooting through you.

A girl that has to have feelings.

But you already fucking do, admitting it or not, it’s more than his beauty, it’s so much more. You don’t want to scare him off, you just want to experience this, the longing so tangible it’s eaten you alive all week. The videos of him and your friend, him and other girls, dying to know what it feels like, but the way he is with you?

It’s different.

He’s gentler, more careful, sweet, with every caress you’re getting wetter, but also you’re falling into the abyss that is him. “What all have you done before, sweetheart?”

His question brings you back to the matter at hand- experience. “I have had sex once.”

He blinks now. “Once a day?”

You snort at him, as he grins, undoing the rest of your sweater and sighing at how beautiful you are. “Silly. No, just once with my ex, but I guess it was not very good, we split up the day after.”

“Your pussy probably ruined that boy.” You’re giggling again, god it feels good, natural under him, no wonder he’s just so very popular. He makes you feel so pretty as he’s slipping up your skirt, moaning softly. “Oral?”

“No.” He pauses a bit, running his fingers up and down your slit.

“Fingering?”

“Ah!” You can’t stop the cry that escapes your lips when your sticky wetness pours against his fingertips over your panties.

“Asked a question, pretty.”

“Hard to focus.” You’re crying out again, when he eases them down your thighs, eyeing your bare, glistening cunt and almost losing it.

“God it’s perfect.”

“Oh, Satoru, you don't have to say that.” His jaw clenches a bit, eyes narrowing, those white lashes shielding just a bit of the dazzling blue.

“I mean it, I am kind of an expert, you know.” You’re flushed underneath him, so adorable as you run a hand up and down his body, feeling every strong muscle, his cock is twitching, aching to fuck into you. But he holds back a bit, spreading your thighs, hands slipping up them now. “That’s why you asked, because I’m an expert?”

“Because I’ve never felt so comfortable, so…” you trail off, looking down shyly, lashes casting dark shadows on your cheeks, from the soft light over head. “I haven’t felt so wet.”

“Fuck…” He’s running his finger up and down your slit, watching you fall apart from that damn near, thighs tensing, your eyes shooting back up to his own. “You are soaked.”

“It’s a new problem.” He grins again, cocky and self sure, but there’s something to that smile, you try to pin it down but soon he’s thumbing your clit, and you’re gushing further down his hand, dripping onto his bed. “Oh!”

“You touch yourself?” You nod, covering your face again. “Show me.”

“Show you?” He nods, easing back and gently pulling your hand off your face, until your fingers are kissed so sensually, and he puts it down to your pussy, enjoying the color spreading across your cheeks. “Like now!?”

“It’s how I’ll know what you like. Women please themselves better than most men do, so I avidly study. Are you a clitoral girl, a g spot girl? Penetration, friction?”

“It’s like a science to you huh?” You’re fascinated, but not as fascinated as Satoru Gojo is when he’s watching your tiny little fingers part your plump folds, pressing up to find your little clit. The action is sexier than anything he’s seen, and he’s seen so many lewd, wanton things, but this?

God you’re just art.

How your lips part, brows together in concentration, as his hands press into the plush of your thighs, blue eyes drawn right to your slick cunt, drooling wetness out of your little hole. He’s barely hanging on by a thread, a man of his experience and profession, decimated by the pretty girl tentatively rubbing her clit for him, in nothing but a little skirt shoved up her hips, that sweater laid out under her. 

“Mnh!” Your quiet little moan elicits something feral, he tries to remain calm on the outside, give you a smirk, as he leans down, pressing a kiss on your inner knee, feeling you tremble underneath him.

“So you like your clit played with?” His husky words just make you wetter, more sensitive, as you play with yourself spread wide for this man.

“Y-yes.” Your little nod is met with a gasp, as you look at his fingers, slipping slowly up.

“Can you cum from it?”

“Usually… the wand…” He kisses higher up your thigh, watching as you get so wet you’re slippery, fingers slipping as he watches you avidly, watches the way you’re shifting, tilts his head to see where you’re pressing.

“She’s probably tiny and hard to get. Allow me?”

“Yes sir.” He chuckles at that, taking his thumb and pressing up, hitting your clit so good you can’t take it. “Oh! Oh my god…”

“She’s very tiny. But that’s good, easily stimulated,” Satoru’s murmuring now, touching your slick, bare cunt, making him die to taste you, pressing the quivering little clit while you cling to his wrist, whining out. “You like that, sweets?”

All you can manage is a nod, as he brings you to the edge, pleasure filling you, the sighs mixing with the sounds of your slick cunt clicking in his room, echoing and making it even more lewd, wild, while you let the man you hardly know touch you. Fuck you want him to, as he presses up harder, and you’re gripping his forearm, feeling those muscles tense as he works you.

“Satoru!” He moans softly, god he loves how you say his name.

“Ready for a finger inside you? Bet you’re so tight.” You nod nervously, when he slips his middle finger in then, so long it’s insane, making you gasp out, as he exhales, moaning out softly with you. “Knew it, so tight, but… here’s a spot baby.”

He curls his finger just so, and you’re gasping for a breath, while his thumb still presses your clit, your body writhing as he builds pressure. You are so tight, he’s questioning how much work up you’d need for his cock, but he’s sure it’d be worth it, to stretch this perfect little cunt out. He swipes back a little drop of drool off your lips when your back arches off the bed, tits begging for his kisses.

You realize then, it’s not just his skill, how good his thick finger feels inside of you, how beautiful his lidded eyes are, it’s the energy emitting from his being, with every exhale, how he looks at you underneath him. You gasp as he hits a spot deep inside your slick walls, making you see white hot stars for just a moment, soft cry escaping your lips, you’re so wet you can hear it, the squelching of your cunt so loud in his penthouse.

But it’s not just how good it feels, you know it’s something more, how Satoru looks at you like you’re the prettiest thing there is, like you’re all there is. His other hand strokes your hair back, as your thigh hitches up over his hip, allowing him to sink deeper with an impossibly long finger now. The way he feels, his weight on you, everything about him overwhelming all your senses.

“Look at you, fuck…” His soft murmur causes his hot breath to brush your lips, you taste just how sweet he is, your hands gripping his chest, as your eyes roll back with how his fingers hit. “There you go, feel her pulsing around me, can you take two, sweetheart?”

“They’re so thick…” He chuckles now, cocky in his little grin, pulling one out to suck it off, and your throat goes dry, seeing his cheeks hollow, and his own eyes fluttering shut as he moans.

“It tastes so sweet, god.” He sucks his other clean finger, tapping your thigh now. “Relax, if you can’t we’ll go back to one, okay?”

“Y-yes.” You’re so cute laid under him, the little squeak when he slips two into your tight little cunt making him chuckle. “You’re laughing at me.”

“You’re so adorable. Sorry.” He’s smiling at your half assed little glare, but you’re all flustered, your cheeks heated to the touch when he presses his lips on one, sinking both fingers in now, making you cry out at the stretch. “Loosen up, sweets, relax. Just feel it.”

Just feel.

But you feel too much.

Fuck.

You nod as he leans up, dying to yank his lips down on yours, craving the connection even as he eases you to relax, to take more of him, and when you do, when you’re that full, your moans get throatier, cunt slicker. He exhales as he feels it, as he watches you, easing back to shove that skirt higher up, to look at your little hole sucking him in so greedily.

“God I wanna bury my fucking face in her, can I?” Your lips part in a gasp, when he’s laying prone between your thighs, easing his fingers out to spread your lips, watching your little hole wink and twitch as it leaks more of your arousal out of it.

“Y-you do?” He smirks now, soft tousled hair falling over his brow, you brush it back then, making him even harder, cock twitching in response to that, as he inhales your scent.

“I would die to have you cum all over my face, drown me in it.” How is he. He’s insane and ruining you. “Your cunt is even fucking cute.”

“How can it be cute!?” He’s chuckling again, breathing against you, and yours comes faster, breasts rising and falling in your open sweater.

“They can be cute, especially yours.” He smacks a kiss on it - ‘muah’ making you giggle then, instantly relaxing, as you realize…

You trust him.

He’s a stranger, but fuck if it doesn’t feel like you’ve known this insane man forever, exhaling and spreading your thighs more, he notices the action, you relaxing under his palms, earning more of him dying to enter you. But he has this feeling, that once he does?

You’ll fucking ruin him.

Your taste alone is sweeter than any wine he’s had, the most corny shit he should not come up with in his sex addled mind, but you make him think of more, of every reaction of your pretty body. How you cry out, your sighs, the way your hips shift now, your little hands gripping his shoulders, nails pressing in, making him vividly picture how good it’ll feel when they’re raking down his back.

“You want it, hmm sweets?” He asks again, kissing higher, sighing as he nears you, feels your heat against his face. You nod then, shyly, and he leans up a bit, pressing one more kiss over your hood, chin brushing your needy little clit. “I need explicit consent, enthusiastic consent before we go further.”

Fuck he’s perfect.

You’re playing a dangerous game, you already feel yourself falling into the unreal swirling blue storms of the eyes looking up at you, from between your thighs. Your hands relax then, cupping his cheek, which he presses a kiss on your palm, and you decide any of him is worth it, how badly he makes you need him, how willingly your body is ready to respond, your heart needs to stay in its chest.

“Yes, I would love you to, please.” Your words end him, sweeter from your lips than he could imagine, and with that he doesn’t just lick you, no, Satoru Gojo devours you then and there. “Ah! S-Satoru!”

“Mnh…” He’s buried his face against your pretty pussy, and fuck he’s ruined further just from it, from sweet arousal seeping into his tastebuds, as he dives that tongue in your pulsing little hole. You’re tensing under him, tummy trembling when he presses down on it, making his next stroke so intense you start to fall apart under him, hands yanking his silky locks.

You taste sweeter than anything.

And fuck if Satoru Gojo doesn’t have one hell of a sweet tooth.

The way he devours you then is surreal, you’re clinging to his hair just to grasp the earth, his hungry moans vibrating your sensitive clit as he flicks his tongue up to it, sucking it in his hot mouth, making your toes curl under those socks, the sensations so overwhelming, and he’s just getting started. He’s got that smug look in his blue eyes when he glances up at you.

Your taste is something he can’t describe, Satoru loves eating pussy, but fuck if you’re not an entire delicacy, spread just for him. Some possessive, psychotic instinct takes over then, knowing he’s the first to kiss your pussy, lap you up, having you pull his hair so hard it hurts, as he presses his cock against the mattress. Why is he so fucking feral over you?

Every insane fucking instinct kicks in while he slathers your cunt with his saliva, his tongue lapping up your juices, and god there’s so much. You’re soaking his face, manicured nails pressing against his scalp, while you scream out hoarsely. Your moans and little cries just make it more intense for him, when he’s flicking his tongue just so, making you writhe under him.

He grabs at your hips, dragging you more impossibly on his face, and sucks on your clit, hard, making you jolt and moan his name now, your body arching off the bed. Satoru is relentless, his tongue flicking and circling, his teeth grazing, and it’s driving you wild, making you want to grab him and push him deeper, grind against his face. But you hold back, biting your lip, your hands tight in his hair as he devours you.

“You can fuck my face till you cum, don’t hold back.” His whisper is met with a lewd kiss on your clit, grinning against you now, you feel every line of those straight white teeth on your sensitive cunt.

“I c-can’t do that!”

“Yeah you can. Use my face till you get off.” You’re blinking in confusion, even when he’s literally been with so many women, you can’t help but feel special, how he looks at you then.

“You sure?” He nods, and you yank him against you then, to his satisfied moan, hips arching up to fuck his pretty, perfect face now, grinding on his long, talented tongue, as he continues to fucking ruin you with each stroke. “M’cumming!”

He just moans, as you can feel your orgasm building, a crescendo of pleasure that’s going to shatter you, hitting your tummy and making it clench, the heat spreading while he works you so good, like he knows your body better than you do. And then he does it, he pushes his long tongue inside you, curling it just so and pressing on your gummy walls.

At the sensation your hips pause, his nose bumping your twitchy little clit, and you cum so hard you’re blinded, your body shaking as you scream out, so loud it should embarrass you, but he’s loving it all. Your cunt squeezing and spasming around his tongue, pussy pulsing with the force of your climax. He groans into you, the vibrations sending aftershocks through your body now.

“Oh my god, oh my f-fucking… Satoru!” You’re pushing at him now, when he flicks his tongue back on that clit, making you clench around nothing now, struggling as he pushes you into another fucking orgasm. “S-sensitive!”

“Good.” His first word since drinking you up. “Messy, slutty little cunt, she loves it huh?” He’s damn near talking to your cunt now, smacking another messy kiss along it, face glistening with you, making you flush. “Can you cum one more time?”

“It’s a lot I…”

“You can, hmm? C’mon, one more f’me, pretty please.” You manage a shaky breath, nodding while he sinks a finger into your pulsing hole.

“Oh! Mnh!” You’re reduced to noises, words can’t be formed when he curls his finger just so in your messy cunt now, pressing up and hitting the sweetest pressure, your hands grip his blankets until they crumple underneath your hands, as he pushes you once more, this time more intense. “Cumming, cumming!”

“Mhmm.” He just moans that, watching you with dilated blue eyes that appear almost black, curling a long finger so deep you shatter, weak and dazed as you come down from the high, blinking away stars.

“Holy fuck… what the…” He’s sighing now, easing his finger from your tight little cunt, pressing kisses to your inner thighs, as you brush back his hair, trying to catch your breath. “You’re better than any vibrator my god.”

“Of course I am.” He’s grinning, when you swipe off your slick, embarrassed and flustered. “You’re so messy baby.”

“I’m so sorry! I’ve never done all this!” You lean up on your elbows, looking at the wet spot under you, drooling across your thighs, and all over his lips and chin.

“It’s sexy, stop it.” He leans over you now, you gasp as his hot heavy length presses against you under his pants, taking several shaky breaths, eyeing his lips.

“Can you kiss me again?” Your whisper is raw and vulnerable, you’re trembling under him, as he leans closer. “Sorry I just need it.”

“Of course, you should taste yourself.” He slams his lips down, the charge between you both unreal, you’re drinking yourself off him, thighs pressing against his hips now. Your hands slip up his strong back, feeling how hot his skin is, while his tongue delves into your mouth, and you taste your sweetness.

“Thank you.” Your little whisper ends him then, between smacks of kisses between you two, he should be thanking you for letting him, since when has he thought that way? “God, fuck that was intense.”

“You came pretty easy for me, you know.”

“Oh!” He’s grinning and wiggling his brows, and for a moment it feels too natural, too easy to be under him, making you both pause.

This was what he did for a living.

He’s certainly having fun, but you can’t get too confused.

“What else would you like to do? Are you sure you’re ready for it all?” His intent makes you so nervous.

“I wanted to suck you? Is that okay?” Satoru’s cock hurts so bad it takes everything to hold himself back, from grabbing your pretty face and fucking it, stretching that little throat out. He thinks he’s dreaming, swathed in your taste, your scent, brushing your now messy hair back gently.

“Is that okay? Fuck yes.” You giggle now, as he helps you sit up, switching positions and lying on his back now. You are almost naked, the skirt still on along with your kneesocks - those kittens, so cute he thinks - something so seductive about you keeping them on as you get on your knees.

“He’s very pretty. Is that weird to say?” He shakes his head, letting you unbutton his pants now, watching you avidly, your hair falling to the side, just over one breast, which he puts back over your shoulder now. He watches you shiver from the contact, goosebumps on your breasts.

“He’s very pretty, I already know this.” You roll your eyes a bit at him, but his laughter dies when his cock is free, and he’s helping you take the rest of his boxers off his slim, long legs. “Blushing again?”

“It’s bigger in person!? How.” He’s just beaming, you’re sure this is merely stroking his enormous ego, but you can’t help it.

“The camera subtracts two inches.”

“Does it now?” You’re leaning down, hair brushing his thighs as your tiny hand wraps his thick, massive cock, tracing a pale blue vein under taut skin, watching as he jerks, whining out softly. “Is that okay?”

“God yes…” He’s swallowing now, it was easy to be conceited eating you out, but he’s a fucking mess when you barely touch him. He shuts his eyes, trying to pull himself together, he’s supposed to teach you, not get flustered like some damn virgin, about to bust from a touch. “Have you jerked one?” You shake your head. “I’m so confused, how did you have sex at all?”

“He just put it in, and it hurt.” Satoru frowns now, seeing the expression on your face.

“You can’t just put it in, you’re stupid - ah - tight.” You’re stroking a bit, laying down now, breaths against him.

“Two virgins I guess we sucked.” You muse softly, sighing a bit. “But you’re… much, much bigger.”

“Well I wouldn’t hurt you. Okay?” You nod then, smiling because you already know, pressing the flat of your tongue to his slit, making him whimper, the sound has you pause, as you taste him, sticky precum coating your tongue.

“You are yummy.” Satoru can’t take it then, yanking you up and making you gasp, pinning you beneath him. “Satoru, let me suck it please?”

“I can’t take it.” He kisses his taste off you, drool pooling in your mouth as he hastily unzips your skirt. “I’ll bust quick.”

“How? I’ve watched you, and your stamina-”

“No stamina right now. Shit stamina.” He’s kissing you again, and something shifts, hungry and desperate, overwhelming your senses, filled with him. Your hands grip his obliques, feeling them tense as he moves, as he breathes with you. “Let me have you cum again.”

“I wanted to make you cum.” Your soft whisper elicits a low growl from him, as he clutches you so tightly you almost can’t breathe, wondering just what the fuck you’re making him into. “If it’s fast won’t that mean I’m doing good?”

“That’s one way to look at it - ah!” You’re touching him between your bodies, stroking him again, watching how his lips part, his jaw clenched, muscles so tense his arms are shaking. “Shit, okay.”

He stands now, as you’re on your knees, brushing your hair into a ponytail and holding it there, pulling just a bit as he touches your cheek. “Tell me what to do?”

“Open.” His soft command is husky, reverberating through you, as you do just that, forward on your hands and knees, as he slips the tip of his cock against your open lips, painting the precum along them like the prettiest gloss. “Fuck…”

You stay open, god you’re a good girl, aren’t you?

“That’s it, use your tongue sweetheart- f-fuck…” As you do just that, and his cock fills your mouth, Satoru loses his tentative control, pulling your hair so hard you cry out just a bit. “Shit, you okay?”

You pull back with a pop, looking up at him with dilated eyes, lidded and full of desire. “I’m good, I um… liked it.”

He pulls it again, pricking pain that makes your cunt impossibly wet again, as you suck him in, trying to remember what you’ve seen before. Satoru’s moving now, sucking in a breath when he sinks deep in your throat, feeling you gag around it, he has to pause his thrusts, exhaling.

“Relax the throat, just like that, such a good girl, aren’t you?” You’re whining out, pressing your thighs together as you suck up and down his length, so long he makes you choke, tensing. “Breathe through the nose, there you go.”

You’re listening so perfectly, would you listen to anything he said?

Satoru’s never been one for too much bdsm, but fuck if you don’t elicit every goddamn thought of anything he’s seen. Tying you up, blindfolding you, making you cum until you faint from it, waking you up and doing it again. He struggles to cling to any sense of composure as you shut your eyes, nostrils flaring a bit, sucking him in so deep inside your tight throat, squeezing him.

“Fuck, you’re doing so good, look at you. Sucking him so deep, can you bottom out?” You try to concentrate, relaxing your throat, nodding just a bit, and Satoru can feel the bulge of his cock in your delicate throat as he brushes his hand along it, sighing at how goddamn sexy you are.

His abdomen flexes, the muscles taut and defined as his hips move, as his cock pulses in that tight chamber, gripping him and making him think just how perfect your pussy will feel. The thoughts of it have him fucking your face harder, faster, as you reach down, touching yourself, unable to take it, balancing on one arm now.

“Gotta touch your pussy again, love my cock so much?” This isn’t Satoru’s ‘pornstar voice’ no, it’s husky, desperate, broken, as he feels you pushing him closer and closer with each suck, flick, gag, god when you gag it feels so good, so much he wants to keep causing it.

You’re slipping two little fingers in your slick hole, they slip in easily which has never really happened before, but how can it not when Satoru had stretched you with one of his long, thick fingers? Something is heady when you look up at him under your lashes, hitting your own spot, whining and choking on his cock, watching the flush of his cheekbones, feeling him tense.

You feel so much, more than just sucking a beautiful cock, the intensity and care of him fucking your throat means too much, how he’s delicate, careful, holding back. You see it in his tense body, you feel him shaking, holding back so he doesn’t hurt you, testing just what you like. And you want to please him, god you do, you want him feeling just a bit of what he just gave you.

Satoru’s breaths themselves are pornographic, heavy and stuttering, his words broken as he fucks your face so goddamn good, you’re pumping your fingers in quicker, but god nothing felt like his. Long and thick, compared to yours, so short and not hitting a goddamn thing, squishing and clicking, along with the sound of your suction, slobbering all down Satoru’s length now.

“You’re so good, d-didn’t need a lesson, for shit- ah! Mmm!” He’s louder than you expected, in the clips you watched he was a little more quiet, he’s so loud and vocal while he thrusts, pausing then, pulling back, letting you take a dizzy breath.

“You like it?” Your whisper ends him, he shakes his head.

“Like it no.” That wasn’t a good word for whatever your innocent mouth is doing to him, he’s had the most practiced girls, he’s had multiple sucking him at once, as he came all over their faces, crossed eyes and tongues sticking out. But nothing is like your nervous little look, as he grabs your hand now, yanking it off you.

“Ah!” You’re gasping as he sucks your cunt off them, moaning as he does, making your jaw drop.

“I’m about to cum, where do you want it?” You turn into a flustered mess when he releases your spit soaked fingers.

“Wanna taste you.” Your answer has him desperate, he’s pressing your lips open again, cock shoving deep, you moan around him, pushing Satoru over that ledge.

“Wanna swallow all my cum, like a good girl?” He knows what that does, it’s so clear, and you manage a nod, when he fucks your face faster and faster, hands gripping your face delicately for as hard as he’s going. “Ready baby?”

You merely whine out, shaking as you feel him pulse in your throat, he pulls back, and then you feel it, hot and sticky, so much cum, ropes of it pouring in your mouth now, as Satoru whimpers again. This time you know it’s different from what you heard, his usual moans, looking up to see his eyes fluttering shut, his hands gripping your face harder as he keeps filling your mouth.

You swallow him all down, he is sweet, just a tiny bit bitter, but flooding your senses as your hands grip his thighs, and you suck him all down, every rope of white cum filling your throat and now your tummy. You’re so full, sucking more and more, until he’s sensitive, gasping.

“F-fuck, god, I’ve… you…” He can’t form a word, as an innocent, nerdy little thing has destroyed him, made him into a whimpering fucking mess.

How the fuck.

He eases back, and tilts your chin up, as your hands slip up his abdomen, brushing the soft white hair above his still hard cock. “Lemme see, did you swallow it all?”

You nod, opening as he guides your jaw, and he sees your pink tongue, your mouth devoid of his cum aside from some that had spilled on the corner of your mouth. Satoru exhales, swiping at it now.

“Want more of me?”

“Yes.” It’s instant, you don’t even think of it.

“Then open again.” You do just that, when Satoru spits right down into your open mouth, lewd and filthy, the saliva stringing down until it hits your tongue. “Swallow.”

You gulp him down, as his hand wraps your pretty throat, and he can’t stand it then, a cock that’s cum twice today won’t go away, it’s coming back if anything at how debauched he’s made you. How obedient you are, looking at him in shock, wiping at your lips, cheeks tinged with color.

“Pretty fucked out little doll.” You whine out as he kisses you again, craving his lips more than anything, the way you feel in his arms, as he presses you against his hard body. “Are you sure you’ve never done it?”

“Y-yes, um… you’re very sweet.”

God. Ruining him.

You’re ruining him.

He’s kissing you again and again as his phone goes off, he smacks at it, scowling, mouth back over yours, tits squished in his huge hands. His cock is hot and heavy against your thigh when it’s going off again, he sighs, leaning up and peering over at it on the nightstand.

“Manager, shit.”

“It’s fine, go ahead Satoru.” You whisper, stroking his cheek now, he moans and kisses you again, before leaning up now.

“Yep.” He answers, still running his hands down your tits, your nipples, eliciting cries you try to bite back, much to his pleasure. “Yeah I know I just… have wanted to do solo for a bit.”

You’re trying not to listen in, caressing a bicep, feeling just how strong and cut he is, while he smiles down at you. You hear the manager’s voice, and watch Satoru roll those baby blues, sighing now, sitting up a bit. You go to do so as well, but he gently pushes you down, shaking his head.

“I don’t wanna do the gang bang, too many dicks.” You can’t stop the little laugh, and Satoru smirks at you, pressing a little kiss to your collarbone. “You’re gonna scare my friend off. Yeah I have friends, the fuck?”

Satoru continues the conversation, still kissing on you, something you didn’t know how badly you needed or craved after doing so much with him, god his cum is inside you, along with his spit. Imagining him just… leaving you… or sending you home after he came was a big fear, and what you expected, but the fact that he’s so touchy is making you feel even more comfortable.

It’s like you’ve known him.

Since you met him you felt that way, your heart aches at his cute, almost boyish grin, while he keeps speaking. “Fine, I’ll do the shoot if it’s that much money, but I swear I’m tired of Sukuna lately. And Toji? Ugh. Fine, fine then.” He hangs up his phone, and you bite that lip, making him gently tug it. “I hate gang bangs.”

“That’s not something I thought I’d hear from anyone?” He tosses his phone aside, kissing up the side of your neck, making it tickle. “You have a shoot?”

“Yeah, I avoided them all week.” He pauses then, not wanting to say why, surely you don’t… feel anything other than pleasure, right? And if so, you’re a good girl - what if this life hurt you?

“Why are you avoiding it?”

Satoru sighs, kissing up to your ear, dying to say it - you.

But that’s fucking insane.

“I get a little exhausted sometimes from it all, I figured I’d focus on the OF.” He leans up, brushing fingers across your cheeks, still hot to the touch, your gaze affixed on his collarbone now. “I really hate working with Toji and Sukuna. Suguru is fine, we’re so close I guess. But those two are so annoying. And one girl, four dicks? Dicks touching, balls touching.”

“Oh god.” You’re nervously laughing as he does. “So why do it?”

“It’s my job, I can’t keep turning em all down, already got my manager angry as fuck clearly.” He sighs now, because he can’t even fathom having a girl under him, it’s like you’ve done something.

“So a gang bang.”

“Yep. Ugh. Let’s not talk about it.” He’s kissing you again, and you can’t help but again feel envious of anyone that gets him, and you damn sure should not think this fucking way. “Do you want more?”

“I think maybe a pause. Because that was a lot. I’m a little worn out.”

“Amateur.”

“I’m not a pornstar!” You shove at him playfully and he laughs again, but this time you feel it, the tension, his hand gripping yours gently, warm and wrapped around your little wrist, as it rests on his chest.

“There are amateur pornstars you know.”

“Well that certainly couldn’t be me. I don’t think I’d let so many people see me naked- not that I mind that you do! Did that seem judgy!? Shit-”

“Shh. No, you’re just you, and that’s okay.” You heave a breath of relief, hoping he would never think you’d judge him, as you fall deeper into that gaze. “So when is your next lesson, student?”

“Student!” You can’t stop the blush, the giggle, that makes him die for you over and over, when the door opens. “Oh!”

“I forgot to mention, I share the penthouse with Suguru.” He quickly buttons your cardigan, as you slip on your skirt, and the two of you hear kisses and soft moans, Satoru steps out curiously, literally still naked. “Oh, hey Mandy.”

“Gojo!” Suguru is kissing down a pretty girl's neck as Satoru leans in his doorway, dick just out like he couldn’t care less, and you step up behind him, earning Suguru’s curious gaze.

“It’s the pretty girl from the party.” He smiles, as the girl - Mandy, you guess - looks at you as well, and you recognize her.

“Oh it’s Jenna’s friend, hi.” You wave and she giggles, bouncing over to you, while Suguru takes his jacket and shoes off. She gives Satoru a kiss on the cheek, then takes your hand. “You take the best pictures of her, oh my god!”

“Oh, that’s sweet of you.” Satoru finally goes to slip on his jeans, giving you all a good look at his little round ass, as he slips them up over them. “She told you I took those?”

“She did. Hey, I’d pay good money for a shoot.”

“Oh, I don’t do it professionally…” Satoru comes back now, a hand at the small of your back.

“You took those of Jenna?” You nod now. “Shit they look pro.”

“There are always side hustles love.” Suguru says now, holding a hand out to you, and you put your much smaller one in his, as he brings it to his lips. “We didn’t officially meet. Suguru Geto.”

You give him your name shyly, and then he’s dragging Mandy to his room, as she waves at you now. “If you change your mind, let me know!”

“I will.” You’re fidgeting a bit as they shut the door, laughter echoing through Satoru - and Suguru’s - penthouse. “A co-star?”

“She’s mainly Suguru’s co-star, but I’ve joined in. That is about as close to dating as he gets I think.” There it is, the word - dating. He clears his throat then, tilting your chin up. “Seriously, those pictures are so good. I didn’t know you took them.”

“Jenna is just beautiful, it’s easy.” Satoru frowns, watching you look down nervously.

“I mean lighting, angles baby, that shit matters in the industry. You said you did graphic design?” You nod. “Not too far off art in general, and bodies are art.”

“You think bodies are art?” Satoru leans down now, one hand on either side of you.

“Yours sure is.” His words do too much damage, words you die to hear from his perfect lips, but here you are - falling - when you know damn well you can’t.

“You’re way too nice.”

“I am not even. I told you I’m an expert.” He grabs your waist now, and you can’t stop your heart from racing, from feeling too much, for a man that apparently will be having a whole gang bang tomorrow. No, you have to keep this separated, you got pleasure, he did, and that’s okay.

Right?

Get out of your head!

“Let’s get you something to eat, bet you forgot hmm? You’re all shaky.”

“You notice a lot.”

“I like to pay attention,”

He’s perfect, aside from… his job is to fuck people.

Shit stop caring!

“Let me heat you up something, come on.” You follow him into the kitchen, hearing the moans and cries, and Satoru smirks as he peeks at his phone. “They’re really on cam right now.”

“Oh!”

“Wanna see?”

“No, no. No way.” Satoru turns on the microwave, leaning on the counter, eyes raking over your body slowly, you feel it like a caress.

“Only watch me, hmm? I’m so special?” His lips turn up, and he’s teasing, but you almost say yes, he is, holding it back nervously.

“Maybe you are.” You want to seem teasing, fun, but your voice is just soft and nervous, Satoru’s lips part, as if to speak, then the microwave beeps. “You don’t have to feed me, Satoru.”

“Yes I do. It’s nothing, I have a million of these meals, and they’re full of protein- you need that after sex you know. Sit.” You sit up on the bar stool now, as he places the little meal in front of you, then turns to the fridge, to give you the best view of this man’s back.

God it’s sexy, the curve of his spine, the dimples in his lower back, the bulging muscles so defined, your mouth goes dry for a moment. He pulls out a water bottle, before going over to one of those pretty white cabinets, pristinely clean for two bachelors living here you notice. He takes a little packet, smiling at you as he tears it now, pouring it in.

“Electrolytes, for the waterfall.”

“Oh god.” You’re covering your face as he laughs, the sound is so nice, it’s too nice, how thoughtful he is, when he shakes up the bottle and hands it to you.

“It’s hot, stop. Eat.”

After eating as much as you could, and drinking most of the bottle he’s mixed up, Satoru has you in the bathroom, tenderly helping you clean up, fixing your outfit while you’re waiting on your ride. He is by far the sweetest guy you’ve met, careful when he wipes you up in places that make you blush, then tackling your hair with a flat black brush.

Satoru’s brushing your hair gently, you see him towering over you, behind you in the reflection, so careful as he slips that brush through your messy hair, so relaxing you almost fall asleep. “You’re spoiling me.”

“This isn’t spoiling, sweetheart.” God the thought of spoiling you fucks him up. Images of fucking you in just some diamond body chain, and nothing else, brings the cock he’s trying to calm down get hard all over again. “Aftercare is important.”

“I see this. You do… for your co-stars?”

“Of course I always make sure they’re cleaned up and okay, but especially for you and not being so experienced. I imagine you didn’t get that with your ex?” You shake your head a bit.

“I thought we were in love, after that I really closed off. But no he was sweet it was like we both were a little too sheltered, and then that kind of cinched it, that we weren’t compatible. Do you think everyone can be physically compatible?” Satoru purses his lips then, shaking his head.

“I can make anyone cum, because I know how, but,” his hand puts down the brush, now he’s eyeing you in the fancy gilded mirror, brushing your hair over your shoulders, studying your pretty face. “I don’t think everyone ‘vibes’ if that makes any sense.”

“It does, actually.” Was that it, you two mesh well? Not whatever fantastical ideas run rampant in your addled mind? When he rests his chin on your head now, holding you, you try to remember, Satoru is sweet, he does this with his costars. He’s just a good guy who knows women.

It can’t be more.

While Satoru remembers that he could not ever be good for a girl like you, and he shouldn’t even let this happen, because you’re fucking his brain up. The thought of fucking anyone makes him cringe, god all he wants to do is bury his face between your thighs again, keep having you cum. He’s got to remember you trust him to show you things, and that’s all it needs to be.

He has a career he loves, right?

His hands slip further down your body, your breaths quicken, his big hand splayed on your tugged cardigan. “You really are art.”

“Satoru, the things you say- mnh!” He’s lost now, cupping you between your thighs again, as he presses you against the counter, eyes so bright with those shrunken pupils, as you feel fingers glide against your panties again. Your eyes roll back, head falling against his chest.

“Let me have you cum one more time before your car gets here?” You weakly nod, how can you not, and he moans, bending low so he can slip your panties to the side, fingering you with two, you try to cover your cry, and he yanks your hand off your mouth. “Wanna watch that pretty face.”

You’re so fucked.

He has you gushing down his fingers, making a mess all down thick knuckles, hasty and quick in the bathroom, as his lips touch the shell of your ear. “I can’t wait to sink my cock so deep in this perfect cunt.”

“Ah! Satoru… ngh…” You’re ended, wrapped in his dangerous embrace, eyes losing focus when he murmurs again.

“Look at yourself when you cum.” You never have done this, you’ve never seen your face this way, the way your eyes are so dilated, you can barely see a ring of their color anymore, your parted lips, when he slips another hand under your chin, keeping your face forward.

You’re pulsing around his fingers once more, this time so sensitive from your orgasms it’s even easier for him, when he kisses up your neck, up to your ear, breaths heavy against it. Your vision shakes when you’re getting closer, ass arching while he presses you even more against the marble sink, the soft cream walls all fading as you begin to shatter.

“Art… see?” His whisper is so raw and genuine, you nod weakly, falling against his strong body as he eases his fingers, pressing them to your clit and eliciting one more orgasm, running in circles while he watches you, hungrily, and you know it even more, cunt spasming for him.

You really fucking like Satoru Gojo.

You want to be dumb and say what’s in your heart, but it can’t be, it’s his enigmatic charm, it’s his sweetness, it’s how sexy he makes you feel. It’s his presence it’s… god, all of him, intoxicating like some drug, and you’re not sure if a taste of him is anywhere close to enough, when he takes his fingers out, leaving you empty, putting his fingers to your lips.

“Suck.” His quiet orders are so easily obeyed by you it drives him to insanity, pulling you close as you taste his fingers, eyeing how sensual and fucked out you look in his arms, wondering how he lets you go.

*****

The Next Day 

The bright lights of the set are fucking blinding, there’s too many dicks, that must be it, not the girl that’s in his fucking head constantly, that he would do anything to have gushing down his face again. The one he kept thinking how beautiful her goddamn eyes were while she swallowed him, versus just thinking of the pleasure, no it was more, far more.

“Satoru, you really need Viagra buddy.” Sukuna says with a chuckle, when the director yells - cut! - and Satoru sighs.

“Oh fuck you, it’s all your dicks.”

“You look like you really don’t mind-”

“Toji, stop.” Suguru pauses him before Satoru and Toji fight as they tend to when they butt heads on a shoot. But, the directors wanted the top stars, and here they all were in one room with a beauty, who pauses sucking Sukuna and jerking Toji then, looking at Satoru curiously.

“I need a minute.” Satoru’s manager frowns now, having seen this before in the last shoot. He comes up to him now, as Satoru frowns at his usually at least semi hard cock just hanging there, irritating him to no end.

“Go take a break. Try to… get back to it.” Satoru nods, heading to the dressing room and downing a bottle of water from the fridge, leaning over the counter where they do their makeup, though Satoru never really needs anything but a little clear mascara for those long white lashes.

He came in your mouth, he had you on his face, shouldn’t that have fulfilled something, the longing and desire? Did he need to fuck you to actually be able to function? Or if he fucked you would he be good and ruined!? Considering her mouth and hand could do nothing to him, and his annoying co stars talking shit certainly didn’t help anything.

How were you?

He hadn’t heard from you today.

Since when does he care if a girl hits him up? He frowns now, wrapping a towel around his hips, hanging low, pulling up his cell phone and seeing it then, making him smile, and he sees how lovesick and goofy the smile is in the mirror. He immediately tries to stop it, the grin, but his lips keep twitching when he looks at the text again.

Good Girl🫦 (yes that’s what he saved you as, no he’s not sorry) I hope you have a great shoot today, Satoru. I am not working tomorrow if you’d like to get dinner? Is that weird? It’s weird. Just have a good day! Ignore me!

He laughs a bit, you’re too fucking adorable and just awkward, god he fucking loves it.

🌽🌟 Satoru (yes that’s his name in your phone, no you’re not sorry) You’re cute. Of course we can do dinner, you pick a spot?

He sits down as the three dots do more to make him hard than this stupid ass shot, wondering at you then. Was dinner code for a lesson, or did you want to hang out with him? Spend time? He fears that would make him fall just as much if not more as touching you, kissing you, because god if he doesn’t just love listening to you talk, like that night at the party.

You fascinate him.

Good Girl🫦- I sure can, six pm work for you?

🌽🌟 Satoru - Sure thing sweetheart.

When he calls you sweetheart you can’t stop the goofy smile on your face, but then you remember where he is. He’s probably on a break from… a fucking gang bang, and you can NOT be jealous about that. You cannot be upset that you already want him to yourself, greedy, stupid and selfish. God you knew you probably couldn’t handle this well, but the fact that it’s more intense than you anticipated is hard to swallow.

But you want him near you, even just for dinner, you were so nervous he’d turn you down, but god if you don’t enjoy his presence altogether. He makes you laugh, he makes you feel so good, as if this… emptiness you’ve had for a long time is filled by a big white grin and sparkling blue eyes.

🌽🌟 Satoru - We’re friends, right?

Good Girl🫦 - Absolutely, no matter what ‘lessons’ we do, I want to be your friend.

🌽🌟 Satoru - Then can I get a favor, pretty please? I will make it up by buying us dinner.

Good Girl🫦 - Of course, what is it?

🌽🌟 Gojo - Another picture of you.

You’re flushed now, surely on a shoot with a beautiful girl he didn’t need some picture of you? You’re home now, just in gym shorts and a crop top, hair in a messy bun, your glasses on.

Good Girl🫦 - Satoru I look like crap.

🌽🌟 Satoru - Bet you look hot.

Good Girl🫦 - Picture of what?

Satoru sighs in relief, biting his lower lip, wondering if he should just come out and fucking say it - he doesn’t think he can get hard if you’re not there, in his head, if he doesn’t see you. It’s a theory that’s getting more and more tangible by the moment, that he doesn’t know if he can perform his damn job anymore because your taste is soaked in his tastebuds.

🌽🌟 Satoru - Your perfect tits, please? I’ll show you mine.

You giggle then, shaking your head, skin so overheated when you nervously look in the mirror in your room, scattered books and stuffed animals covering the dresser. Can you do this, take a picture of… your body for him?

Good Girl🫦 - why? Aren’t there tits for you waiting?

You’re bratty, he didn’t realize till now. It makes you hotter.

🌽🌟 Satoru - Not even close to as pretty as yours - and there are so many dicks and balls. Help your friend out :’) I will make sure I kiss them as a thank you.

Good Girl🫦 - Image.

You freak out as you send it, the picture of your tits in your mirror, and Satoru moans out loud at it. Yeah, he saw them, but fuck, you’re perfect, hair up in some messy bun, your glasses on the bridge of your pretty nose, little baby yoda plush front and center against your mirror, god it makes you even hotter. You’ve wrapped an arm under them, pressing them up and together.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

He’s throbbing now, looking down at his cock straining the terry cloth towel, scowling back at the phone, realizing he thinks you have put some spell on his perfect cock. Are you some witch disguised as a sweet little thing!? He eyes your tits again, almost whining at how pretty they look, at how badly he’d love to fuck you between them, cum all over them.

He’d cum on every inch of your body.

🌽🌟 Satoru - You’re so perfect.

You’re covering your face, sighing as his words - probably just being nice - are too much, they mean too much from him. You’re questioning everything you are and everything you’ve ever known, throbbing with need from his mere words, nipples aching for his touch. You look back at the phone, fingers hovering on the cool dark screen, shaking slightly.

Good Girl🫦 - You still on set?

🌽🌟 Satoru - Unfortunately. That brightened my day. My cock is smiling, you know.

You snort at that.

Good Girl🫦 - You’re silly. I’ll let you get back to work.

He doesn’t want to get back to work.

He wants you on the set, but fuck if he’d let anyone else touch you if you were his-

Wait.

What fucking kind of thought is this!?

He doesn’t think that way.

Looking at your picture again, he rushes back out, trying his very best to keep up the tentative erection, he can’t manage to get involved however, touching skin that’s not yours seems wrong somehow. You’re not together - he doesn’t date, he can’t date - but he can’t stay away from thoughts of you here instead, and how he’d film just the perfect video with you instead.

You would never, but the porn he imagines you two could make is what feeds his brain for the next twenty minutes or so, he tries to let the other men fuck her, as he lets her jerk him, or suck him, shutting his eyes and picturing the tits on his screen. He doesn’t even know if he’ll be able to cum, finally settling to jerk himself, when they’re all putting the money shot on the star.

He wants to cum all over your pretty face, god. He vividly sees it as his ropes of cum pour out, and he notices with relief the shoot is over. Usually he would have some friendly banter, but he’s distant, odd as he cleans up, it feels like he’s so uninvolved, even that night he’s staring at your pretty tits again, cock in his hand when you’ve messaged him.

Good Girl🫦 - Sweet dreams, Satoru.

Fuck.

He wants you in his bed so bad, but not just to finally fuck into your perfect little pussy, shit it would be nice to hold you. He’s never done that. To just kiss on you and watch your cute reactions, the little giggles you make. His cock throbs in response, since when has Satoru became someone to masturbate to a fucking photo?

You’re laying there, hating the thoughts in your mind, that he was with someone else today - but you’re friends. Friends with some ‘lessons’ that should not mean as much as they did the other day, not just the pleasure, or how badly you want him inside you, no it was his sweet kisses, him brushing your hair, fuck he fed you and made sure you were okay constantly.

You just want him, any of him.

Cruel, cruel joke - making you fall for a pornstar who will never date. But, here you are, watching three dots move now.

🌽🌟 Satoru - Good night, sweetheart.

The LOVE on chap one is insane for me, I am so glad you all love it! Taglist is closed bc it's too much but I'll keep everyone updated!! <3 I hope you enjoy I can't waittt to hear your thoughts hehe

Taglist 1 - @rjreins @juicu @kalulakunundrum @gojoswaterbottle @aldebrana @simp-plague @wedojustbevibin @lucciferr0 @officialholyagua @privthemis @coffee-and-geto @homesickes @msniks @emi311 @mai-505 @gojoslovelylover @ren-ren23 @yihona-san06 @emochosoluvr @sylvermoon @bunheadusa @karvokr @starmapz @queenexplosonmurderr @musiclover2119 @saitamaswifey @reagan707 @midorissi @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @itsinherited @maisiefrancesca @gyarubunny @theonlyhonoredone @chosslut @simperisksksk @xlilycoco @howlsdarling @femaholicc @maymaymarch @miseryyouth-99 @swoozleee @zeunys @cryingdevil @leafynightmares @princess-bblgm @gojosconsort @insomnicshello @joonunivrs @myahfig4 @silviscosplay

The Mask I Live With - pt 15

Roommate|Reader x Simon Ghost Riley

Gaz, to his credit, hadn't hovered after dinner. He'd given you space, letting you retreat to your room like he knew you needed time to yourself. You were grateful.... but also a little unsettled, left alone with nothing but the hum of the night and your own thoughts. Your leg still throbbed, but you barely noticed it. Instead, all you could think about was the strange fluttering in your chest. That kiss still echoed somewhere deep in your bones.

You laid on the bed, phone resting on your hand, thumb hovering over the screen. You couldn't shake the feeling that you needed to reach out. To say something.... something small; something just to tether yourself to him for a moment.

After a moment, you typed.

You: House feels weird without you here.

You stared at it for a second, feeling like an idiot and debating whether to delete it. But finally, your thumb hit the send button before you could talk yourself out of it.

You didn't expect him to reply at all. You knew better. He was probably already in mission mode—shut off, focused, unreachable.

Let it go. Just put the phone down and go to sleep.

But five minutes later, your screen lit up.

Ghost: Not the same here either

Your eyes widened, breath hitching, and chest tightening. The fluttering in your chest soared up your throat. 

Another message came through immediately after.

Ghost: Won't be gone long. Don't wait up.

Short. Controlled. But you could feel it—the weight of his words, the way he was keeping himself in check, balancing the same line you were.

You hesitated, biting your bottom lip as your brows furrowed, before you texted back.

You: Be careful.

This time, the pause was longer.... so long, you almost thought he wouldn’t answer.

Ghost: Always.

You didn't text back. You knew he couldn't let himself get pulled too deep; knew he'd shut it down before it could distract him. And you didn't want to be the reason something happened all because you wanted to text.

But somehow, just knowing he did, knowing he'd seen the message—and took the time to even talk—settled low and warm inside your heart.

******************************************************

What you thought was a short mission, ended up being a little over a month. The sound of the front door unlocking jolted you from the nap you were taking on the couch.

You sat up, heart thudding, almost not believing it until you heard heavy footsteps and saw his figure in the doorway. He looked... worn. Shoulders tense, posture tight, exhaustion written in the lines of his eyes. There was still that ever-present sharpness in his eyes, but it was dulled now, tempered by fatigue and something heavier.

His gaze landed on you instantly, scanning you head to toe like he had to make sure you were still in one piece. You carefully stood pushing up with one crutch, softly hissing at the slight, unfamiliar weight shift onto your injured leg. 

You had been cleared to start walking with partial weight-bearing a couple of days ago. A big win. One you hadn't had time to tell him about yet.

Before you could say anything, Gaz appeared from the hallway, grinning like he'd been waiting for this exact moment.

"Look who finally decided to show up." He quipped, slapping Simon shoulder as he passed. "My babysitting shift's over, mate. She's all in one piece." Simon shot him a look but didn't reply, eyes flicking back to you. Gaz continued as he glanced over his shoulder, smirking. "Gotta say.. you're a real pain in the ass to watch over. Think I deserve hazard pay."

You rolled your eyes, lips twitching despite yourself. "Pretty sure I'm the one who had to keep you entertained."

He grinned. "Whatever you say, Riggs."

Simon exhaled through his nose, clearly done with the banter, brow furrowing slightly. "You alrigh'?" His voice tired, but focused solely on you.

You nodded, swallowing the lump rising in your throat. "Yeah. Got cleared to start walking."

His eyes dropped to your leg, assessing, and you could almost see the calculations running in his head. Before he could do anything, Gaz grabbed his jacket from the chair.

"Well, my job's done. Off to get a proper meal that doesn't involve frozen pizza." He winked on his way out. "Don't break yourself again."

You slightly flushed, glaring at him, but looking back at Simon who was waiting for the door to click shut.

"Didn't tell me." He quietly said.

You shrugged, shifting your weight awkwardly. "Didn't want to bother you."

His jaw ticked, but he said nothing, crossing the room instead as he removed his skull mask. His hand reached out, hovering just shy of your waist, gloved fingers twitching like he wanted to steady you but was holding back.

"Try walkin' on it yet?" He asked.

You hesitated. "A little." He gave you a look.... clearly not thrilled. And you knew better than to lie. "I was gonna go to PT tomorrow."You added, trying to keep your voice light. "You should rest. I've got it."

That did it.

His eyes darkened, a muscle in his jaw flexing as he took a step closer, crowding into your space without even touching you.

"Not happenin'. Not goin' anywhere on y'own."

You blinked, caught off guard by the intensity in his tone. "I can handle it." You insisted.

He shook his head, eyes still locked on yours. "Y'don't get it. Been away too long already."

Your throat tightened. The room felt still, like the air between you had thickened.

"You're back now." You whispered.

He stared at you, hand finally settling at your waist as his fingers pressing just firm enough to ground you without throwing you off balance.

"Yeah. And m'not leavin' y'to do this alone."

Your breath hitched. It wasn't about the injury anymore. Not really. It was the exhaustion in his eyes, his thumb brushing against your hip, the look he was giving you.  He'd fought like hell to be here. And now that he was, he wasn't letting go. Not even for something as simple as physical therapy.

"Okay." you said, giving in, leaning into him. 

"Good."

The was the last of the conversation until you woke up the next morning. You tried to slip out of bed quietly, thinking maybe you could manage to get dress and go to PT without waking him. He needed to rest. But of course, before you even had both crutches under your arms, you heard the soft creak of floorboards behind you.

"Where d'you think you're goin'?"

You sighed, fighting the urge to roll your yes as you glanced over your shoulder to find him standing in the doorway. Still rumpled from sleep, grey t-shirt hanging loose, hair messy from where he'd run a hand through it.

"I was just getting ready." You said. "Didn't wanna wake you."

His brow twitched, a small frown at the corner of his lips. He crossed the room, taking the crutch from you before you could argue, steadying it as he held it out again.

"You're not goin' anywhere without me. Told you." You opened your mouth to protest, but the look on his face made you shut up. So, you nodded instead, trying not to let your heart beat too fast.

By the time you made it to the rehab wing on base, Simon was walking half a step behind, watchful. Overbearing....... definitely in your personal space. The physical therapist glanced between the two of you when you checked in, clearly recognizing him but saying nothing.

But the moment you were a few exercises in—practicing weight-bearing steps between the bars—Simon's posture shifted. He didn't say a word, but you felt it. His eyes never left you... watching every shift, every grimace you tried to hide, like he could somehow take the pain away just by being there.

You tried to ignore it; tried to focus on the task at hand. But you knew how stubborn he could be. Which made it almost inevitable when someone else caught wind of the situation.

"You're hovering."

Price's unmistakable tone, cut through the room like a scalpel.

You glanced up from the parallel bars, where you'd just finished a set, and sure enough, there he was, eyebrow raised and standing next to Simon.

Simon didn't flinch, didn't even look at him. "Makin' sure she's doin' it right." He simply replied, eyes still fixed on you.

Price huffed under his breath, lips twitching into a tiny smirk. "You've been back.. what? Twelve hours?" He murmured, voice low enough that only Simon and you could hear. "And you're already glued to her side like you've got nothing better to do."

He still didn't react, but you caught the faintest change in his posture—shoulders squaring, jaw tightening just a bit.

"Nothin' more important." 

That one sentence made your stomach twist. You felt Price's gaze look to you, his expression briefly softening before he shook his head, amused at the situation.

"Well, don't let me stop you, Lieutenant." He teased. "Just remember, she's got to learn how to walk without you at some point."

When he didn't get any further reaction or response from Simon, he walked off, chuckling under his breath as he gave you a curt nod. 

You exhaled, wiping sweat from your brow, glancing over at Simon.

"You know you could've stayed home."

"Didn't want to."

It was simple. Final.

You swallowed hard. "Well, I guess I'm stuck with you then." You muttered, a teasing glint in your eyes.

He was lucky his balaclava was on. You were sure the physical therapist's mouth would have dropped to the floor if he saw your roommate do anything remotely of a smile. 

"Damn right you are."

I'm already working on the next chapter and I can't wait for you all to see it!! 🤭

Pt. 1; Pt. 2; Pt. 3; Pt. 4; Pt. 5; Pt. 6; Pt. 7; Pt. 8; Pt. 9; Pt. 10; Pt. 11 (Simon POV); Pt. 12; Pt. 13; Pt. 14

Masterlist

Taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @kittygonap @nappingmoon @chaos-4baby @ohdrey89 @skeletonsucker @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @roastyyytoastyyy @simonexxx1 @mrmountainman @thebumbqueen @lucienofthelakes @letiferian @jennamelinda12 @mulletmcghee @kittykatgorl @strawberrygato @ghostslollipop @emeraldeyes1805 @chaosundcoffee @whos-fran @fangirls94 @rafaelacallinybbay @quiet-loser @shondlenoodle @iceblossom1013 @sssophia0-0 @a-lil-bit-nuts @kalypsoox @nicolebarnes @jesskiddingg

The Mask I Live With - pt 14

Sorry.... wanted to have this done earlier this week, but work was killing me lol!

Roommate|Reader x Simon Ghost Riley

The next morning, you tried to pretend the day before hadn't completely fried your brain. You woke up still feeling the ghost of his hands on your skin, his lips burning onto yours like a brand.

But it was short-lived. . . 

A message came through from base that morning. Some administrative nonsense needed your signature. And it couldn't wait.... apparently. That was how you found yourself hobbling into HQ on your crutches, cursing whoever decided the paperwork was so damn urgent.

The moment you stepped inside, you caught a glimpse of Simon across the building—shoulders broad, sleeves rolled up, posture relaxed but unmistakably sharp. He was talking to one of the newer recruits.

You hadn't meant to stare.....

Well. . . . .

As if he could sense it, his eyes peered up, locking onto yours. And everything came flooding back. 

You quickly dropped your gaze, focusing on why you were actually here, before you combusted in the middle of the fucking room. But you could feel his eyes following you. Even when you made your way toward the admin offices. 

As you spoke to the clerk and signed whatever forms they needed, it felt like an electric current trailing beneath your skin—tight, sharp, knowing.

You were imagining it... you had to be.

Until you turned to leave... and nearly ran straight into him.

"Careful." He murmured, gently grabbing your elbow to keep you from stumbling. His voice was casual enough to pass for polite concern to anyone watching. But you felt the way his fingers lingered, as you glanced up, pulse skipping a beat when you noticed the faint crinkle at the corner of his eyes. "Didn't think I'd see y'here."

"Didn't exactly want to be here." You replied, keeping your tone light even though your stomach was doing somersaults.

He hummed. "Could've waited. Would've taken care of it." 

You swallowed, hands tightening around the handles of the crutches. "Didn't want to bother you at work." 

His eyes darkened almost imperceptibly, as his thumb brushed against the inside of your elbow. "Doesn't bother me."

Your sucked in a breath, but before you could say anything, a voice called his name—Price. Simon's hand dropped, his face going blank again as he took a step back.

"Later." He muttered, eyes glancing down your body one last time—lingering at your lips for a second before he turned away, walking over to his Price and the recruits.

Later.

The word blazed like a moth to a flame. And it didn't ease up when you made it back to the shared flat. The racing thoughts continued until he got off work, walking through the door and seeing your leg propped up on the couch.

Neither of you said a goddamn sentence but..... you didn't have to.

He kicked off his shoes while simultaneously pulling off his balaclava, before heading to the kitchen, his presence filling the space even when his back was turned. It was unbearable. Delicious. Torturous.

Eventually, he leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, watching you with that stoic expression.

"Gonna stare at me all nigh', or gonna say wha's on y'mind?" He asked with a tiny smirk on his lips.

You froze, feeling the heat coil in your lower stomach again. "I don't think I'm the only one staring."

His lips twitched, eyes holding yours. "No. You're not."

Damn him for being so direct. You wanted the couch to just pull you through the cushions. 

The silence that followed was suffocating. But he didn't move.. not yet.

"Still healin'." He darted over you. "But when you're ready...."

You swallowed, a slow smile pulling at your lips. "Yeah.... I know."

******************************************************

It had been calm all morning.

Too calm, honestly.

You'd noticed Simon acting... off the past couple of days. Restless. On edge in that barely noticeable way—his jaw a little tighter, his answers clipped when his phone buzzed, the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening every time he glanced at you.

You hadn't pushed. But you'd could tell.... something was coming.

And sure enough, this morning he got the call. The one he couldn't brush off; couldn't argue his way out of like the others.

Another mission.

Too important that his usual bullshit about "stayin' to help" didn't work this time. He didn't say much before leaving. Just stood in the doorway, hovering longer than necessary, eyes peering down to your leg like he hated the idea of leaving you like this.

"Won't be long. You'll be fine." He said. You'd nodded, told him not to worry.... but it didn't really ease his nerves.

And now hours later, the house too quiet without him. It was worse than the last time you missed him. 

A sharp knock at the front door pulled you from your thoughts. You hobbled over, and swung it open.... only to blink in surprise. Gaz stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, a grin tugging on his mouth.

"Afternoon." He greeted, stepping inside like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You raised an brow. "What are you doing here?"

His grinned widened as he glanced around the living room, nodding approvingly. "Got myself reassigned for a bit."

"Reassigned?"

He leaned against the back of the couch. "Yeah. Orders came this morning. Got told to hang back. Keep an eye on you."

"Wait—WHAT?" You asked, mouth dropped. "Ghost... ordered you to stay?"

"Didn't exactly have a choice." He gave you a knowing look. 

How the fuck could Simon even pull strings like that??

Your face flushed, heat creeping up your neck. "Oh my god." 

He chuckled. "Man's a stubborn bastard, isn't he?"

You grabbed your phone, thumbing out a quick message before Gaz could tease you any further.

You: Did you seriously make Gaz babysit me while you're gone?

It didn't take long for the reply to come in.

Ghost: Didn't like the idea of you being alone. He owes me a favor. Ghost: Behave for him. Be back soon.

You stared down at the screen, heart thudding wildly. Gaz watched you with that grin still plastered on his face, enjoying this way too much.

"So..." He drawled. "Gonna tell me how long this thing between you two's been going on, or should we just keep guessing?"

We.... him, Danny, and Soap.

You glared. "Focus on your assignment... Sergeant."

He laughed, pushing off the couch and wandering toward the kitchen. "Oh, I'm focused." He called over his shoulder. "You're the easiest assignment I've ever had."

You groaned, already regretting everything, but your phone buzzed again, another message lighting up the screen.

Ghost: Already annoyed I'm gone.

You couldn't quite fight the small smile tugging at your lips, could you? He missed you... even if he didn't actually say it.

You'd expected Gaz to hang around for a bit, maybe dote over you or entertain himself on the couch until he was free to get away. But what you hadn't expected was how stupidly good he was at this particular assignment. By the second hour, he'd made himself at home—flicking on the TV, commandeering your kitchen to make tea, casually tidying up as if he lived there. You were halfway convinced Simon had given him a checklist.

He didn't push, though. Not about you and Simon, not about why you kept glancing down at your phone every few minutes..... he just kept up light chatter, making sure the silence never felt crushing.

"Hey, Gaz?"

He glanced up from the mug he was nursing, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

You hesitated, fiddling with the edge of the blanket draped over your lap. "Would you mind taking me to see Danny?"

For the first time since he walked in, his eyes softened. Less of the smirking, and more of the guy who'd been around both you and Danny long enough to know how close things had gotten before everything went sideways.

"Course I can." He said, no hesitation. "Should've asked sooner."

"Didn't wanna make you my chauffeur."

He snorted. "Babysitting's boring anyway. Let's get outta here."

The drive to the base hospital was great, the usual banter between you fading into a comfortable silence. You stared out the window, fingers lightly drumming on the crutches resting beside you.

Danny had been moved to a different recovery unit a week ago. He was way better than before, but still banged up from the crash. You hadn't really seen him since before your own release because Simon wouldn't let you overdo it, and you didn't argue. But now the need to check on your Sergeant felt unavoidable.

When you reached the hospital, Gaz helped you out of the car, falling into step as you made your way inside. Danny looked up the moment you stepped through the door.

"Look what the cat dragged in." He smiled.

Relief flowed through your chest. "Yeah, yeah. Don't get up on my account." You shot back, easing down into the chair.

He glanced at Gaz, who gave him a lazy salute before leaning against the far wall, giving you space, as you talked about whatever came to mind—him teasing you about your leg, you firing back about the bandages on his body, both of you skirting too carefully around the memory of how you both ended up here in the first place.

Eventually, his eyes raised up toward Gaz, then back at you. "You watching her now?" He asked.

You groaned lightly, while Gaz walked over to the bed. "Orders."

"What?" Danny's eyes widened. 

A sigh escpaed your lips. "Ghost has him watching me while he's on a mission. It's stupid—"

"What the—" He got out before you cut him off.

"Drop it."

They both chuckled, before Danny spoke. "You might as well kiss him at this point."

Silence.

Your eyes slightly widened before you glanced at the floor, your face turning pink. You wished the chair would fold you in half before they figured it out..... but of course..... they did.

"Wait...." Gaz's eyes narrowed. You didn't look up yet. 

Danny's mouth dropped. "Holy shit... you kissed him already?"

"Can we stop talking about this please?" The embarrassment washing over you quick. 

Gaz let out a loud, exaggerated gasp and immediately turned to Danny like he'd just won the lottery. "You owe me twenty quid!"

He groaned. "No way. That was supposed to be a joke!...  You really kissed him?"

You dropped your head into your hands. "This was a mistake. I regret asking to come here. I regret ever talking to either of you."

Gaz was practically vibrating with glee. "Mate. Mate. When did it happen? Was it dramatic? Was it like—'Oh Ghost, I thought we were gonna die!'—and then boom, mouth-to-mouth but, like, with tongue?"

You reached out blindly and swatted his arm. "Shut up."

Danny was laughing now, slightly wincing as he did, hand clutching at his neck. "You're killing me. Stop, I'm literally held together with tape right now."

"I should've known." Gaz went on, pacing dramatically like he needed to walk it off. "The way that bastard's been walking around like someone finally ironed out the stick up his arse."

"I hate this." 

"Don't worry." Danny said, leaning back against his pillows with a smug grin. "It's not like we're gonna tell anyone."

Gaz added. "Definitely not.... But, like, Soap's gonna lose it."

"Soap's gonna explode." Danny continued, eyes beaming. "He's been betting on Ghost combusting from pent-up sexual tension before actually making a move."

You glared at both of them. "If I hear my sex life come up in a single squad briefing, I'm reporting both of you."

"Oi, I just got in here. I'm an innocent bloke."

Gaz grinned, having the time of his life. "All right, all right. I'm done." You didn't believe it for a second. 

Danny just chuckled, then looked at you with a gentler expression. "Jokes aside.... happy for you, Lieu."

You met his gaze, some of the heat fading from your cheeks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. About damn time."

You and Gaz stayed a while longer while Danny grunted about how bored he was, how the nurses kept giving him shit, and how he couldn't wait to get back out there. But eventually you wished him speedy recovering and the two of you left. 

"Thanks. For taking me."

He shot you a sidelong glance, like he already knew.

"Didn't mind. You need anything else, you tell me."

Pt. 1; Pt. 2; Pt. 3; Pt. 4; Pt. 5; Pt. 6; Pt. 7; Pt. 8; Pt. 9; Pt. 10; Pt. 11 (Simon POV); Pt. 12; Pt. 13

Masterlist

Big brute catching feelings more and more lol! How are we still liking it?

Like, comment, repost, give feedback!!!

Taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @kittygonap @nappingmoon @chaos-4baby @ohdrey89 @skeletonsucker @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @roastyyytoastyyy @simonexxx1 @mrmountainman @thebumbqueen @lucienofthelakes @letiferian @jennamelinda12 @mulletmcghee @kittykatgorl @strawberrygato @ghostslollipop @emeraldeyes1805 @chaosundcoffee @whos-fran @fangirls94 @rafaelacallinybbay @quiet-loser @shondlenoodle @iceblossom1013 @sssophia0-0 @a-lil-bit-nuts @kalypsoox @nicolebarnes

Part Eight of Simon Riley x Single Mother, they're really doing this thing <3

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six - Part Seven

By the time Emma’s first birthday rolls around, Simon has a ring in a box that lives in his nightstand back at his apartment. He keeps it there, safe and sound, instead of slipping it on your finger like he really wants to.

It’s not because he’s still thinking about it — he knows exactly where that ring belongs. It’s because, all told, it hasn’t been all that long since you got together. And while he wants nothing more than to lock this down, to breathe a little easier with the help of a sturdy gold band looped around his ring finger, he doesn’t want to scare you off. Wants to give it time to make sure that you’re in the same place he is.

So he waits. And every day he wants it a little more.

What pushes him to act, to move past his fear of rejection, is a close call during a mission gone wrong.

It's strange, he thinks, because he'd definitely been in worse predicaments. He didn't even get hurt, just felt the whizzing of bullets flying past him, a little too close for comfort, and he can't get it out of his head. If he'd been a little less aware, even if the wind had been off, he could have died, and while that never bothered him before, it's unsettling now.

The thought of you on your own again, of Charlie and Emma wanting for anything, forgetting him ... it aches. It keeps him up at night, even when he's laying in your bed, your warm, solid weight resting against him.

He tries to sleep, but it's no use. It's his third day back after coming home, and he's exhausted, but he can't rest like this. He finds his fingers running lightly your arm, up and down and back again, and before long you're stirring, turning slowly to face him.

"Simon?" you ask, your eyes still closed. "Everything ok?"

On one hand, everything is ok -- more than ok. Everything is beautiful. He can hear a faint stream of white noise coming through the baby monitor by the bed, telling him that Emma and Charlie are fast asleep in their room. You're in his arms, too, and it's perfection.

But tonight, just like last night and the night before, it feels too fleeting.

He clenches his jaw, struggling to find the words, and at his silence you open your eyes, sleepy concern etched on your face. He lifts a finger to smooth out the crease in your forehead, then trails it down your temple and towards your jaw.

You're so delicate. Strong too, he knows that, but now ...

"Marry me."

It's not a question, but a plea. Your eyebrows shoot up, and he puts his hand on the back of your neck, keeping you close.

"I ... really?" you ask. "You're really asking me to marry you?"

"Begging, love," he admits quietly. "Please."

He got the ring months ago at this point, and in all that time, he'd never landed on just how he wanted to propose. He never imagined this specific scenario. You deserve better -- than this, than him -- but he's desperate.

"... You sure?"

"Got a ring back at mine," he tells you. "Got it ages ago, never been more sure of anything."

It's hard to put into words how much this means to him, so he keeps his gaze steady, hoping you can, in that special way you always do, see it in his eyes.

And you do.

In a flash, you're pressing yourself against him, kissing him deeply. He pulls you closer, indulging you, but still, he needs words.

"If this is a 'yes,' I need to hear it," he says.

"Yes, Simon, of course ... yes."

That night, he sleeps better than he had in recent memory, and in the quiet of the morning, he slips away, just long enough to retrieve the ring from his place before you and the kids start stirring. When he's back, he slips into bed beside you, gently takes your hand and slides the ring on your finger.

It's a weight off his shoulders. He can't imagine how good it will feel watching you sign the marriage certificate.

This time, you don't quite wake up, you just snuggle up against him. But before long, he starts hearing soft sounds playing through the baby monitor: Charlie muttering what he knows are good morning rambles to his little sister. There's some rustling, and soon he hears two sets of little footsteps coming through the hall, then your bedroom door opens and Charlie and Emma are there, hand in hand, ready to start the day.

"Come on then," you mutter, still nestled against Simon.

The two children scramble up into the bed quickly. Emma tucks herself against your side, still sleepy herself, but Charlie is characteristically alert and energetic, and he throws himself across you and Simon, burrowing himself in the middle.

It's the morning routine now. The four of you stay in bed, slowly (or in Charlie's case, with minimal patience) waking up together. After a few moments, you finally notice the ring newly placed on your finger, and you smile, holding your hand up to get a good look at it.

"What's that?" Charlie asks.

"A present from Simon," you answer.

"But it's not your birthday or Christmas or anything."

"Doesn't have to be a holiday to get a present," Simon points out, and Charlie swiftly turns to look at him.

"Do I get a present too?"

You laugh, warm and happy, and tell him, "In a way."

Simon wants to do it all, and he wants to do it right. Marry you, then work on adopting Charlie and Emma. Sort out everything for all three of you, make it so that you're safe and taken care of, while he's here and, if anything ever happens to him, when he's gone.

But for now, this sleepy Sunday morning will definitely do.

Seeing Double - Chapter 5

Pairings - Simon “Ghost” Riley x MacTavish!Reader, Platonic! John “Soap” MacTavish x MacTavish Reader, Platonic! Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader

Summary - Wherever a Banshee cries for death, a ghost always follows

Warnings - depictions of reader being tortured for info (bone breaking, punched, etc, plz be wary), blood, nausea, mentions of vomit, canon-typical gun violence, graves is a slimy eel

Author’s Note - enjoy! Lmk if I missed a warning

Word Count - 4.4K, I really tried to make this longer but I didn’t have it within me

Masterlist / Pt.1 , Pt.2 , Pt.3 , Pt. 4

Johnny’s blood ran cold as he saw the butt of Graves' gun hit your head as your body slumped. The man not even feeling a bullet hit his arm as he hit the ground, a dead shadow sitting on top of him. 

“Go Johnny get out of here, now! Soap, go!” Simon’s voice rang out loud and clear as he realized the lieutenant was right. As much as he couldn’t bear leaving you again, he couldn’t do you any good if he died. So he shoved the Shadow off of him and slid down the hill. 

“Get him - now!” Graves, commanded as a shadow, tried to shoot at Soap as the Scotsman slid down into the darkness, Johnny shooting off a few shots of his own. 

“You there, Ghost? That was a big mistake, brother. It did not have to be like this. All you had to do was hand over Banshee and the base…” Graves trailed off as he rounded around the corner, rain pouring down harder as he saw that Ghost had vanished. 

“Son of a bitch, find ‘em! Now!” Graves shouted as he turned back to you, “They’ll eventually find their way back for you, won’t they?” The Texan smirked as he looked down at you. 

You didn’t wake again until you were already in the dark room. You woke up gasping as you peered around the room. Your chest heaving as you looked around. The room was dark, except for the bright light above you, blinding you of all sights not immediately in front of you.

You could feel dried blood make a matt in your hair as you starkly noticed how naked you were, well not naked but still. Your gear was missing, as well as your outer level of clothing. You were in a tight fitted tee, some shorts, and your boots were missing but your black socks were still on. You felt your hands and legs still stuck in the zip ties as a familiar voice rang out through the room.

“Still stuck with those dreams, huh?” Graves taunted, “Still trying to save your men with your screams?” 

“Jealous I’m not screaming for you?” You snapped back.

“Oh not after seeing what you do to yourself when you sleep.” Graves shot back. 

“Oh you wish I wanted to sleep with you for one night.” You responded, 

“No, I wish you would tell me where your brother and that damn Ghost is.” Graves said. An idea flickering in your head.

“They’re right under your nose, can’t you see it?” You spoke, venom in your voice. But was quickly silenced by the sound of a shadow’s fist making contact with your cheek. 

“Aww Graves, you don’t want to touch me? I’m hurt.” you continued on. 

“Oh that hurt me more than it hurt you, sweetheart. But you’re about to be in a whole world of pain, if you don’t tell me where your team is.” Graves spoke.

“Would you believe me if I said I didn’t know?” You tested the waters.

“You don’t know where your brother, his lieutenant, and your old team of two years past are located, yeah. Sure I’ll believe you sweetheart. Right after you cross over my dead body.” Graves shot back. 

“That can always be arranged, especially after you betrayed them.”

“What can be arranged is a nice easy death for you, a quiet passing. Even give your Mama and your sisters some compensation-” 

“Don’t you fucking talk about my family.” You spit out, your saliva landing on Graves’ cheek. The man swiped it off quickly before he got close to your face.

“Then start talking about yours.” 

“Not a fat fucking chance.” You answered. 

“Grab her feet.” came Graves voice, loud and clear, your socks being ripped off. Your scream tearing from your throat as you felt your left foot get crunched, a blindfold coming around your eyes. 

“Where are we?” Soap said as he and Ghost walked up to an abandoned house in the middle of the countryside. The two soldiers had just barely pulled themselves out of Las Almas and all he could think about was what Graves was doing to you. The dawn sun just barely broke out through the horizon, almost symbolic of how you were barely holding on. 

“Alejandro’s safehouse. Gave me the location just in case.” Ghost said, the own man worried about you as well but hid it better. Johnny had already torn off his nails as he bit them in anxiety.

“Why didn't he tell me?” Soap asked.

“It was need to know.” Ghost shrugged.

“What if I needed to know?” Soap shot back at the lieutenant before being shushed. Both men peering down to see a rigged booby trap lay on the ground, barely covered by a cardboard. 

“Pressure plate…” The sergeant said softly. 

“Alejandro rigged it.” Ghost said definitively. 

“Smart bastard.” Soap murmured. 

“There.” Ghost said he saw a nearby open window. 

Soap made the jump first as he landed safely inside, his boots echoing. Simon followed soon after. The lieutenant paused as both of them saw a shadowed figure move. 

“Don’t move.” Ghost shot out as his knife landed into the board behind the figure, barely missing. Both of the men tense as they waited a moment

“¿Quién está ahí?” Who’s there? the voice shouted out.

“Rodolfo!” Soap said suddenly 

“Soap! Ghost! You’re alive!” Rudy responded as he peered out through the shadows. 

“Affirmative.” Ghost spit out, the man easing up only slightly. Rudy quickly grabbed the knife from the board and didn’t say a word as he recognized it as yours. 

“Good to see you, amigos!” Rudy said, not mentioning the missing woman, everyone was already painfully aware of it. 

“Igual Amigo.” Soap responded, a soft smile on his face as he said it without thinking. 

“Nice throw. Where were you guys?” Rudy said as he passed a knife back to the lieutenant, a look passed between them. 

“On the run.” 

“I was on the run. Ghost waited for me.”

“Of course, no?” Rudy said. 

“No.” Johnny said definitively.

“Yes-” Ghost said immediately after. Johnny looked up at the lieutenant, surprised for a moment. 

“We're a team... All of us. This happened on my watch and I'll need help to fix it. No one fights alone.” Ghost said as a look passed over his eyes, his guilt eating his insides alive. Soap nodded in agreement.

Your scream curdled the paint off the wall as the shadow broke your other foot. The pain shooting up your body as your bones were further crushed by Graves using his boots to stand on them. 

“I didn’t really want to do this sweetheart. You know that.” Graves said

“Oh yer General’s gonna ‘ave yer head when he sees tha’ you’ve roughed up his favorite toy.” You spit back at him, your accent slipping out. 

“Oh that’s the fun in this, sweetheart. He doesn’t care what I do to you, as long as you come crawling back to him, and seeing the state of your feet, I don’t see you walking away from this any time soon.” Graves spoke with a sick joy.  

“Why did Graves turn?” Rudy questioned. Ghost’s brain flashing over the memory of the man mentioning something about handing you over, but he kept it to himself, his guilt only compiled the situation further.

“We don’t know.” Soap said, “we thought you would.” 

“Las Almas can corrupt anyone.” Rudy said with a nod. 

“Not us.” Soap said. 

“For now, General Shepard, Laswell, and anyone else outside this room is considered hostile. With two exceptions.” 

“Alejandro and..” Soap trailed off, even mentioning your name made his heart lurch but he didn’t need to, the other men understood. 

“We need them back.” Ghost murmured

“Ven..” Come.. Rudy nodded, walking the men towards a map. His finger pointing to an x on the spot. “Graves is holding them there.” 

“His own personal black site prison.” Soap growled.

“My team is locked in there too.” Rudy spoke. 

“How do we get ‘em back?” Johnny said, his fingers tensing. 

“By breaking in.” Ghost nodded to him. 

“And that’s why I love The Ghost.” Soap said with a knowing smile. 

“It’s gonna take more than this.” Ghost said, pointing to all of the surrounding machinery. Rudy walked over to the door and slid it open, revealing a fully-stocked armory of weapons and gear.

“It’s well stocked.” Rudy said. 

“Alright.” Ghost nodded. 

“My man - we’re gonna need new wheels. Preferably up-armored.” Johnny said as they walked into the armory. Rudy then suddenly tossed a set of keys to Ghost who caught them quickly, the lights coming on to reveal a sleek armored vehicle. 

“Alejandro really thought of everything.” Ghost said with a low sigh. 

“Yeah he did. Let’s go get ‘em.” Soap growled out. The men approached the vehicle as Soap gripped a new gun and multiple mags. 

“The old prison is in a remote area outside of Las Almas. It was maximum security until the Narcos took it over, and it was permanently closed.” Rudy explained as the men surrounded the map. A headshot of you and Alejandro were on the map. Ghost felt his heart lurched at how different you looked in the photo, still bright eyed and bushy tailed. He noticed how your eyes still twinkled, no jagged scar in sight.

“There is no airstrip, but expect helios for security and resupply.” Rudy continued, his hand moving to another part of the map labeled, ‘entry’ and ‘guard tower’ written on it. 

“We’ll drive up to an offset and ruck up to our infil - here. If the security towers are manned, we’ll need to take them out first and rope up the wall for entry.” Ghost said with a nod.

“What about cameras?” Soap questioned, the man ready to enter guns a’ blazin’ if it meant bringing you home. Rudy pointed to a security room labeled ‘CCTV’. 

“There’s CCTVs in the security room.” Rudy answered. 

“We’ll use them to locate Alejandro, and Banshee.” Ghost spoke. 

“Let’s divide and conquer. While Rudy finds Al, I’ll use the cams to help Ghost plant charges in key areas, and find my sister.” Soap said, setting an explosive onto the table. 

“Diversions and sabotage. Nice Johnny.” Simon almost smiled under his mask. 

“I learned from the best, L.T. Once we pinpoint Ale, my sister, and Los Vaqueros, we regroup and pry ‘em loose.” Johnny smiled at the idea of you being safe back with them and then blowing Graves to bits and pieces. 

“We’ll carry extra guns in to arm them and fight our way out the way we came in.” Rudy nodded.

“Any questions?” Ghost spoke out.

“The hell are we waitin’ for L.T?” 

Just as you were about to sleep, ice cold water was splashed all over you. Before you could wonder where the hell Graves found ice cold water in the desert. Pain shot up your body as two boots roughly stepped on your broken feet. 

“Fuck me!” You cried out before gritting your teeth.

“Oh I’d love to, but another time.” Graves smirked before he whispered in your ear, “Now you tell me where your brother is, and I’ll get you a nice pillow and a blanket-” 

You reached out blindly, as the binds tore against your wrists. Your teeth ripping against Graves’ lobe. A violent smile tearing across your face as you heard the man cry out. 

“Get the rope.” Graves said as you were ripped out of your chair. Your hands suddenly wrapped up in a rope and you were strung up high. A slight whimper of relief leaving your body as a pressure was taken off your feet, but then the weight of being hung pulled at your arms harshly and your back. Your body weight was tugging you down. 

“Last chance, tell me where they are.”

“I said I don’t know!” You cried out. Then the pain came. At first you expected it to be worse than what you went through two years ago, but for some reason, this was easier. But yet Graves hand dug deep as he punched you in the gut, you could feel the skin starting to bruise and your bones ache as he continued to beat you into a pulp but you didn’t falter.

 ‘Just a little longer.’ You told yourself as warm blood and vomit pooled into your mouth. Suddenly you bristled as Graves stopped.

“The fuck was that?” he said as the sound of gunfire got closer. The man suddenly getting up as you smirked

“Leaving so soon?” You said confidently, concealing your fear. Nothing was said and that was scarier. The room was just quiet as the commotion got louder outside. 

Ghost, Soap, and Rudy had taken no time to run through the base. The men tear through shadows like a hot knife through butter. 

“Ghost, what's your status?” Soap said through the comms, seeing the entrance through the cell block. 

“Comin’ your way.” The man clipped out. 

“Copy tha’. We’re on the move.” Soap reported.

“Heads up on the helo.” Rudy warned, hearing it pass over. 

“Looks like we’re out of sight.” Ghost said as they reached the entrance of the cell block. Soap began to fidget as he knew you were close. 

“Cell Block. Entry’s ahead. Shadows blocking the way.” Rudy blurted out. 

“Let’s send ‘em all to hell and get inside.” Soap growled. Suddenly Ghost grabbed one of the guards and snapped his neck as Rudy shot the other. 

“All Clear.” Rudy said as they entered the block. Soap tried the door but to no avail. 

“It’s locked.” 

“We’ll need to breach it.” Rudy suggested

“No Rudy - just knock.” 

“On me.” Rudy said as he knocked. 

A shadow opened the door and stepped outside only to be ambushed by Ghost who snapped his neck and the man crumpled as three more shadows stepped out. 

“Enemies on the second deck-!” Rudy cried out.

“More comin’ down the stairs-!” Ghost said back.

“Soap we’ll keep ‘em busy up top! Press forward..!” Ghost commanded. The Scotsman pushed forward, taking down a Shadow as he did so.

“Comin’ up behind you Sergeant.” Ghost said.

“They’re both up there. Let’s go” Rudy said. The three men climbed up the stairs. 

“Alejandro’s down the hall, right side.” 

“Expect contact lads.” Ghost murmured just as they saw two shadows guarding Alejandro’s cell. 

“Light ‘em up-!” Ghost yelled out. 

“¡¡Mueran, pinches sombras!!” Come on, you shadow fucks! Rudy said as he shot them down. 

“There’s Alejandro’s cell.. Open it up, I’ll cover you.” Soap said to Rudy as Ghost pulled out some bolt cutters, 

“Johnny, when I pop this lock, you push in. This is what we came for..” Ghost said to the man. Ghost broke the lock and Johnny pushed in his door. Alejandro suddenly tackled the man as he entered the cell. 

“Al! - It’s me, hermano!” Soap cried out. 

“Coronel, relájate, cabrón, somos nosotros.” Colonel, relax, it's us. Rudy spoke quickly, Alejandro then relaxed, looking relieved to see the men. He released Johnny quickly.

“Your sister is in the room down the hall.” Alejandro said as Rudy gave him some gear and weaponry. 

Soap and Ghost heard the conversation continue as they walked down the hallway. Soap’s hands were shaking as they busted down the door. Ghost was ready to fight you as he entered the room, instead he was horrified at the sight that laid before his eyes.

You were strung up by your wrists, bloodied and bruised, hanging off the ground like a piece of meat to be slaughtered. Your feet were black and blue, clear evidence of being broken inward. Your clothes were soaking wet as you shivered slightly, parts of the clothes torn. You whimpered softly at the sudden intrusion as you heard the door broken inward. Soap was frozen still as the lieutenant quickly came to your aid and cut the rope. You fell into his arms and thrashed, still thinking it wasn’t over. Ghost’s voice came out as soft as a whisper as he held you in his arms. 

“Hey, it’s me,” he said as he pulled up his mask just short of his hairline, before realizing you couldn’t see from your own blindfold on your head. 

“Ghost?” You croaked out, as he pulled it off.

“Simon, love. It’s Simon.” He whispered as you finally saw his face. Both of you finally see each other without the mask. A moment passes between you as you study his features, a feeling of relief overcoming the fear coursing through your veins. 

 In another life, he would’ve kissed you and walked out of here without caring who shot him, as long as you made it home safe. In another life those blue eyes approached you at the bar, asked you for a drink, maybe even gotten your number. In another life, those blue eyes gazed into yours with the same amount of care but in the safety of a bedroom, with a ring vowing you both together for all of eternity. In another life, those rough hands that held your head were soft, free of all the calluses of war, softened by a life of peace and love. In another life the body that cradled yours was plushy from a life of relaxation, not hardened from war.

But this was not that life, in this life, in this stale bloodied room, you both held onto each other like two separate halves searching for a whole. His blue eyes piercing through yours as a hand came up to his face, before you tilted your head and croaked again.

“Johnny?” You said softly. Your brother quickly comes to your aid, snapping out his disorientation. 

“I’m here. Right here.” Johnny said as he undid your bonds. A cry leaving your mouth as your feet struck each other, pain shooting up your body. Simon felt his heart lurch in his chest at the noise. 

“I’m gonna kill the fuckin’ bastard.” Johnny said as Simon passed you into your brother’s arms. His hand trailing your back as he made sure your brother had you secure in his arms. 

“Place is crawlin’ with Shadows. There’ll be hell ahead.” Ghost said as he pulled his mask over his face. Rudy and Alejandro appeared at the door. Alejandro holding a submachine gun. 

“Let’s fight fire with fire.” Alejandro said. Simon glanced back at you but you were already turned in safely into your brother’s arms. 

“Let’s get out of here boys.” Johnny said as more vaqueros came into his vision as they left the cell. The Scotsman was desperately aware of your pain as he avoided Simon’s gaze. 

“Órale, on you, Rodolfo.” Alejandro called out. 

“You seen Graves here?” Soap questioned Alejandro.

“No, but I plan to pay that cabrón a special visit.” Alejandro growled out.

“Not before I do.” Soap said. 

“You four, on me.” Alejandro said as he pushed the other vaqueros in another direction.

“¡Ninguna prision puede detener a Los Vaqueros...!” No prison can hold the cowboys...! One cried out. 

“El unico que puede matar a Alejandro es Alejandro... “The only thing that can kill Alejandro is Alejandro… another shouted into the night. The group of you entered a dark mess hall. 

“This was the mess hall.” Alejandro said softly.

“Let's make a mess then.” Soap said as he held you tighter.

“Órale, Jabón.” Alejandro nodded, suddenly the glaring lights came on. 

“Shadows know we're here, stay sharp.” Ghost said. Suddenly they opened fire and Simon grabbed Johnny and yanked him behind his larger body. The group wasted no time in clearing the entire prison as they made their way out, only stopped by a large door. 

“Big room, make sure we’re clear!” Alejandro called out to Rudy.

“Despejado Coronel.” Appears clear Rudy called back 

“It’s padlocked.” Alejandro said, checking the door. Simon cut through with his bolt cutters, making Alejandro chuckle. 

“El fantasma, siempre preparado.” The Ghost, always prepared.

“On you, Colonel.” Ghost nodded, the colonel then kicking in the door. 

“Weapons hot, hermanos. Stairwell leads down and out. We’ll link up with the others and exfil the fuck out of here.” Alejandro nodded to the group.

“Ye hear that? Almost home. Just a little longer” Johnny whispered to you, you only whimpered in his chest. 

“Exfil vehicles are set. Ghost planted charges to help us out.” Rudy said to Alejandro.

“With Johnny’s help.” Ghost added.

“I can’t call Jabón, ‘Johnny’.” Alejandro spoke.

“Don’t. Only Ghost and ma’ family can pull tha’ off.” Johnny quipped back as they made their way down the stairs. The men freezed seeing the yard. 

“We’ll have to cross the yard to get everyone out.” Rudy said softly.

Alejandro led them, then Rudy, then Soap, then Simon. Soap carefully leaned forward to shield you with his body. 

“The roof, right side!” Rudy called out before the shots rang out. The men returned the fire and took out the shadows before a stray sniper bullet grazed Johnny’s uniform. 

“Sniper on the roof!” Alejandro called out right as Simon took him down in a single half second. 

“Not anymore.” Simon quipped. The group made it safely across the yard before halting seeing some Shadows get out of a pick-up. 

“Johnny, that truck has one of our chargers on it, detonate it.” Simon said. 

“Here it comes.” The sergeant said as he pushed the button. The truck exploded, killing the surrounding shadows. 

“Ka-freakin-boom!” The sergeant said with a soft smile. 

“Keep moving!” Ghost said as he came behind the sergeant. Alejandro led the men down the road from the prison safely, but a pickup truck in the distance with a turret gun appeared. Johnny immediately donated without warning to the others. 

“¡Órale, qué belleza!” That’s a thing of beauty! Alejandro cheered out before turning to Rodolfo. “Where to next?” 

“Cut through this building up here.” Rudy said with a nod. The men continued on to the exfil point without worry. Johnny held you closer and closer as you shivered in the night air. He was beginning to become distracted by your movements until the sound of a helicopter came from the distance. 

“Ye hear that?” Soap called out. 

“Helicopter, searching for us!” Alejandro said. 

“We’ll need more than what we have to take it out.” Ghost said, his worry clouding his judgement. 

“All stations, this is Bravo-6. Get down lads!” came Price’s voice, a breathless smile covering Johnny’s face as the men got down. A missile suddenly comes out of a nearby helicopter to take down the Shadow aircraft. Johnny could see Gaz hanging out from the other side of the wall, waving a green flare. 

“It’s Price!” Simon yelled out.

“Hell-fuckin-yeah!” Soap cried out, before he spoke to you, “Cap’s here, just give me a little longer.” 

“All Bravo and Vaqueros… Top o’ the wall. Get over here and I’ll get you out!” came Price’s voice again through the comms. 

“Loud and Clear, Price!” Ghost said. 

“Who is that?” Rudy questioned as they moved towards the wall.

“A friend.” Johnny said with a knowing smile.

“I like him already.” Alejandro laughed, before commanding his men, “¡Vaqueros, vayan al muro, entre las torres, ya!”  Vaqueros, get to the wall, between the towers, now!

“I’ve deployed ropes!” Price said over the comms as they approached the wall.

“I’ll need to be pulled up, I’ve got cargo!” Johnny said over the comms. The rest of the men, including the vaqueros, used the ropes to climb and Johnny grabbed the final rope. Gaz grunted as he and Alejandro pulled the rope, their combined muscle not being enough. Ghost acted quickly to make a pulley system with a few pieces of metal. 

“I got your sorry asses.” Ghost said, in reality he knew they would pull you up, he just wanted you to be here faster. His arms burned as he helped pull up the two of you. His muscles bulged with each tug as you both got closer and closer. He finally breathed a sigh of relief when he pulled you and Johnny to the top and your brother slid you both down. 

“Sergeant Mactavish, and..” Price’s smile fell as he saw you in Johnny’s arms, bruised, battered, and shivering. 

“Good to see you cap’.” Johnny said with a nod. 

“Ghost.” Gaz nodded, taking notice of how quick the lieutenant acted to help Johnny and you.

“Garrick, Price.” The lieutenant nodded.

“How’d you know?” Johnny questioned. 

“Laswell.” Gaz answered.

“Soon as Shepard went dark, she called us.” Price finished. 

“Laswell, still solid as a rock.” Ghost nodded as his gaze fell over you, Johnny’s clothes were wet from yours, only worsening your shaking in the desert cold. Johnny saw Simon’s look and quickly passed you over. Your form softened as Simon quickly shushed your whimper, recognizing the man. Simon held you bridal style and tucked your legs in to avoid your feet hitting anything and further damaging them. 

“Colonel Vargas, meet Captain Price and Sergeant Garrick.” Johnny introduced the two men now that his hands were free. 

“Thanks for the assist!” Alejandro said. The men turned to see their escape vehicles. 

“Let’s get out of here!” Gaz yelled as they made a break towards the vehicles. Gaz took the driver’s seat, Price took shotgun as Ghost piled into the back with you in his arms and Johnny behind the driver’s seat. Alejandro and Rudy communicating over the radio about meeting back at a safe house. 

“Hit it Gaz!” Price barked at the man as Gaz’s boot roughly hit the gas as he pulled out quickly. A silence fell over the car as Ghost finally spoke up. 

“Shepard burned us.” He said as he looked down and noticed your lashes fluttering with the temptation of sleep. Simon’s guilt ate at him, you could’ve been safe if he had just caught Graves earlier.

“He sent Graves and his Shadows to kill us and round up Los Vaqueros, and take ‘er.” Johnny said as his gaze fell upon you safely in his lieutenant’s arms. 

“We know why.” Price said as he too saw the same image in the rearview mirror. 

“Laswell did a bit of digging.” Gaz said with a glance into the rearview mirror. 

“What did she find?” Ghost said as he watched you finally fall asleep in his chest, your hand curling up against his shirt, his chest gear long gone. 

“The truth…” Price said with a certain look in his eyes. The men all exchanged a glance at each other as they rode back safely to the meeting point.

Author’s note - heyyyy, so a lot happened, but more will come. I had to get this chapter out. Also did anyone notice the shift in Simon and Ghost being used? (Plz say yes)

My requests are open!

Seeing Double - Chapter 4

Pairings - Simon “Ghost” Riley x MacTavish!Reader, Platonic! John “Soap” MacTavish x MacTavish Reader, Platonic! Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader

Summary - it was time to infiltrate, so why did you feel so nervous about something that was your talent

Warnings - flashbacks, mention of torture, blood, nausea, vomit, canon-typical violence, idk reader looking sexy for a mission?

Author’s Note - there is an allusion of rape but it will not happen, I will never write rape or sexual assault for any character. Anyways, part 4, enjoy!

Word Count - 5.1K

Masterlist - Pt.1, Pt.2, Pt.3, pt.5

Your eyes shifted around the dark room. Squinting softly as you studied its walls. A feeling of uneasiness washed over you as you realized where you were. As you stood up to run, rope bids held your ankles and hands back. Your skin tearing as you tried to move.

As you peered down at yourself, bile began to rise in your throat. You were covered in your own blood from head to toe. You could feel the welts and the cuts as they dig into your skin. You were stripped down to your base level of undergarments. 

A man stood over you. His eyes were concealed by the shadows but his body wasn’t. He held something that you couldn’t see, but you heard his voice speak. 

“Solo te voy a preguntar una vez más, Cariña.” I’m only going to ask you one more time sweetheart. He paused to let your eyes meet his. “¿Por qué estás aquí?” Why are you here?

“¿Y si no respondo?” and if I do not answer? You shot back. Glaring at the sick man. 

“Entonces mis hombre te harán responder.” A slimy grin ran over his face “y no les importa tocar tu cara bonita.” then my men will make you respond, and they don’t mind touching your pretty face. 

“Ya te lo dije. Soy periodista y escribo sobre la mala calidad del aqua-” I already told you. I am a journalist here and I write about the poor water quality-

“Mentirosa!” Liar! The man cried as he slapped you. Your face stung but not as much as the rest of your body did so you could ignore it. 

“Es la verdad!” It’s the truth

“Tenemos fotos que sabes.” We have photos you know. The man spoke as he pulled out zoomed in photos of you. You with Los Vaqueros at the bar. You and Rudy together in your room as he- 

You couldn’t bare to look any longer. Bile rising in your throat, coming up to your mouth. 

“¿Cómo se sentiría tu precioso Rodolfo hm? ¿Seguiría queriéndote así? ¿Seguiría queriéndote después de que dejara que mis perros se salieran con tu cuerpo?” How would your precious Rodolfo feel hm? Would he still want you like this? Would he still want you after I let my dogs have their way with your body? He was so close you could smell the beer on his breath. 

“Vete a la chingada” Go fuck yourself. You said right as the vomit left your mouth. The vomit landing right on his face and all over his clothes. The man cried out as he grabbed his own face. Growls being heard around you. Even in your beat up state, a small smile creeped it’s way up. 

“Puta madre!” The man cursed out, suddenly grabbed a knife. “Agárrala” Grab her. Suddenly multiple hands were on your body. Holding you completely still as the knife suddenly came going for your eyes. 

You woke up with a shock as somebody banged on your door. Your jaw loosened as if you were ready to scream as you shot up. Slowly you touch your surroundings as you gather yourself. 

“Yeah?” You called out, slowly making your way to open the door. Ghost’s talk brooding figure looking down at you. Back straightening as you sniffled up your tears. 

“Alejandro says we have help arriving for the mission later. Johnny’s in the shower.” he grunted, you nodded. His lips quivered under his mask as if he wanted to say something but he didn’t. 

“Is that all?” you hummed. The man nodded, maintaining eye contact so as to not look at your body. Noticing how you quickly moved to cover it even though you were in minimal sleep attire. He turned and started walking down the hallway. Your meek voice shooting out, “Ghost?” you said softly. 

“Mm?” the man murmured back. 

“Thank you.” You said. Confusion wiped over his features but you couldn’t see that. He didn’t know what you were thanking him for but he nodded and then turned to walk off. 

Ghost could hear your laughter as you walked behind him with Soap. The three of you made your way to the conference room. He had noticed your distinct change of clothes. You now wore full tactical gear from combat boots, to black pants, and a black tee with a slight turtleneck to hide your claw marks. Ghost stopped just short of the conference room seeing Alejandro and Rudy outside, both of them looking unhappy. 

You walked out from behind Ghost and Johnny. Concern written on your features seeing the anger in Rudy and Alejandro.

“¿Qué pasó?” What’s wrong? You spoke. Before either men could respond a certain texan spoke up.

“Nice to see you again, Banshee.” Graves smirked, “glad to see you found your way back to Las Almas.” 

Ghost took immediate notice of how your body tensed up, it was a full body reaction hidden carefully by your clothes. The lieutenant recognized your body tense as the same one you had when they talked about coming here in the first place. Suddenly the mask slipped over your face again as you turned around, 

“Pleasure to see you again, Graves.” you smiled, taking his hand in a firm shake. The texan’s smirk only deepened as the group filed into the conference room to discuss the mission. You sat on the right side of the table, Rudy snagging a chair to your right and Johnny took one to your left. Alejandro was at the head of the table as Graves sat down and even leaned back in his chair. The texan awfully comfortable for all the tension heating up the room. 

“Tonight we are going to capture El Sin Nombre.” Alejandro spoke. You blinked processing it. “There is a meeting going on tonight where we may also be able to capture the rest of Hassan’s missiles.” 

“I thought we were here for Hassan?” You spoke up.

“El Sin Nombre will lead us to Hassan.” Rudy spoke knowingly.  

“Well Ghost will be playing look out as he is the most experienced sniper, Rudy will also be working on comms.” Alejandro continued and then took a deep breath before he spoke, “Chiqui, we need you to infiltrate with Soap and I”

You nodded, you could understand why it would look good if you came. Women had no problem coming and going from the narcos houses, you wouldn’t be questioned harshly. 

“Ale will be working as a guard, you and Soap will waltz right through the front gates. Soap is posing as a member of The Shadows here to give up Graves’ team since The Shadows have been thwarting Las Almas Cartel’s attempt to get the missiles out of the country. You will be posing as…” 

“Una prostituta?” a prostitute? You questioned, cutting off Rudy but he didn’t mind. A deep feeling settled over you, something you couldn’t quite pin. 

“Sí, we’ve already set up plans so they should be expecting you. They will also be expecting Soap. But we will be there every step of the way.” Alejandro said. 

A wave of nausea rushed over you, this is exactly how it worked last time and you slipped right through their fingers and straight into the hands of the cartel. You swallowed a big lump as you zoned out. Not needing to pay attention to what everyone else was doing as your role weighed heavy on you. Rudy’s knee barely knocked your own to bring you back into focus. 

“Las Almas Cartel has undergone new management so you shouldn’t be recognized.” Rudy whispered to you. The room fell silent as you stared at Graves. 

“So why are you here?” you stated, to everyone else it was a simple curiosity, but Rudy and Alejandro internally tensed at the venom you laced within your look at Graves. 

“Just here on behalf of representing the great states.” he smiled back, “now why are you here? Least I can see the colonel and his sergeant major can speak English just fine, without you.” 

If Rudy and Alejandro were lesser men, without military patience and control, they would have taken turns at tearing Graves apart. Instead, Rudy let his fists clench under the table and Alejandro let out a deep sigh.

“Yes they can, but also I’ve been assigned to the 141, they were sent here, and so I was tasked with joining.” you responded cooly as if you had just told Graves the weather. 

Alejandro dismissed everyone from the meeting with a nod. You were aware of how a certain lieutenant’s eyes studied you as you left. 

Ghost didn’t see you again until that night. Rudy, Graves, Alejandro, and the lieutenant all stood on the roof of the building talking as you and Johnny set up comms in the car. 

You slipped on your heels with a whine as the 4 inch death shoes were pushing your arch up. 

“What happened here two years ago?” Johnny said randomly as you worked to put in the wire on your ear. 

“Nothing Johnny.” you passed it off as you applied lip liner and some gloss. 

“Don’t bullshit me. I’m yer damn brother and yet you’re closer with Ale and Rudy than with me. For Christ's sake I see how you sleep. You claw at your neck and wake up in cold sweats. Something happened here and I have a right to know!” He said, his voice raising a little. You took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling. He extended a hand towards you, his big eyes staring into yours, as he whispered, “Please.”

“I’ll tell you when this is over okay?” You smiled back, tears in your eyes. A knowing look passed between you both as you interlocked pinkies. He was right, you should have told him by now and you never understood why you hadn’t yet. 

“Clock’s ticking.” Ghost chimed in. The man stood next to Rudy as he set up his scope. The lieutenant was itching to ask Rodolfo about you but he just decided to fix his scope. 

“Showtime, Chiqui” Rudy’s voice came through the comms. Alejandro had already disappeared into the night and Graves had left to go scout. Simon grabs a pair of binoculars to look at the entrance. 

Soap was dressed from head to toe in shadow gear as he entered the building first. Suddenly he was grabbed by a man dressed in a cartel uniform with a mask. Soap got ready to fight when Alejandro’s voice whispered “Cálmate.” calm yourself. 

“¿Quién es este cabrón?” Who is this fucker? Came the gruff voice of a guard as Alejandro pushed Soap forward, into the cartel house. The Scotsman allowed himself to be pushed around by the colonel. 

“Está aquí para hablarle al Sin Nombre” He's here to speak to El Sin Nombre. Alejandro nodded and there was a tense moment as Soap was being watched by the cartel men. Until the sound of your heels hit the pavement. Ghost quickly found you within his binoculars and for a mere moment he forgot the circumstances of the occasion. The street lamps illuminating your curves as you walk with the confidence of Aphrodite.

Each step echoed as your four-inch black stilettos hit the ground, your tits bouncing a little with the power of each step. Your hair was styled down and jewelry sparkled in the light. You were dressed in a sleek black cowl-neck mini dress, one with a deep cut in the front, with a sparkling necklace. It was a beautiful lariat necklace with a diamond at the intersection of the y and a small knife dangled at the bottom of the chain. You pulled your hair to the side to show off the back of the dress, or the lack thereof. Your whole back was on display as the fabric barely wrapped around the back of your neck and the bottom barely covered your rear. The bottom of the dress rode up to the tops of your thighs as you gently pulled it down. You were covered in dangly jewelry so you clinked as you walked. You had on a thin layer of sultry make-up, including eyeliner and a deep colored lip gloss. You practically dripped with sex to every man in proximity, including Simon. 

The lieutenant, for the first time ever, regretted being so far from the scene. He also found himself wondering if you smelled just as intoxicating as the night before when he was near you.

“Quite the seductress she is, mm?” Rudy murmured to Ghost, as he noticed the lieutenant tense. He was trying to break the silence by the common thread between the two of you. Sure you and Rudy had a past but he could see that your future lies elsewhere, even if you ignored it so blatantly. 

“I can see why she specializes in infiltration and undercover ops.” Ghost murmured back, passing off the compliment, as you easily passed by the guards, whispering sweet nothings into their ear. You came to the rescue of Ale and Soap quickly. 

“This is her element, her natural habitat” Rudy responded, he had seen this bit before. 

“Hay una problema muchachos?” Is there a problem here, boys? You spoke, your tone sultry as you slowly looked up and down the guards. Your every word being replayed in the comms, including the way you purred to the men. Silence fell over the groups as you held the guards attention, saving your teammates but at the cost of yourself. 

“Solo hay problema si estás aquí por otra persona en lugar de por mí” There 's only a problem if you're here for someone else instead of me. The bodyguard said as he slid over to you, his hand sliding up your inner thigh, the man’s hand sliding dangerously close to your core. You swallowed the feeling of nausea. You smoothly took the man's hand and moved it to your rear instead as you purred to him. Rudy and Ghost watch the scene unfold through the windows.

“Estoy aquí por El Sin Nombre. Pero puedo ahorrarte un beso o dos” I'm here for El Sin Nombre. But I can spare you a kiss or two. You hummed, your hands moving up the man's chest, almost as if you were stroking his ego with your bare hands. Winking at the last bit. None of your english-speaking counterparts were able to tell what was being said, but considering the man wasn’t tense, they all considered you to be doing your job well. 

The man led you to the elevator, letting Alejandro and Soap follow. 

“Tendré que revisarte en busca de armas, por supuesto.” I'll have to check you for weapons, of course. The guard had a slimy tone as he spoke that even Soap and Ghost could pick up on. Rudy suddenly bristled at the words, but sighed in relief seeing you cooly respond without missing a beat.

“Adelante, guapo” Go ahead, handsome. You spread your legs slightly as the man’s hands traveled up and down, over every curve before stopping at your face. The man moving to kiss you as you politely moved to let him kiss your cheek as he kissed your own. 

Ghost felt his left hand tighten over the trigger as he watched the man’s hands trail over your body through his scope. The guard finally relinquished as he let the three of you enter the elevator alone, swiping his key card, giving you access to the second floor. The second the elevator closed you breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Are you armed?” Alejandro questioned. 

“Yeah, wearing two knives on a strap on my thigh” you said as you lifted your dress to adjust the strap where you had sneakily pushed it up earlier right before greeting the guard. 

Ghost had to take a deep breath as the image played in his mind, ‘Get your shit together, Simon’ he growled to himself. The poor man wondered where all these feelings came from. 

You entered the second floor confidently as you were met with the second lieutenant of the cartel and the sicario.

“Finalmente, llega la perra. Me ha estado doliendo la verga toda la noche.” Finally the bitch arrives. My cock has been aching all night. The man groans, adjusting himself, and wastes no time rushing over to you, roughly grabbing your wrist, his intentions clear. 

“Oh, cállate Diego y dale un poco de espacio a la pobre mujer. El hecho de que sea su trabajo no significa que se lo deba.” Oh shut up Diego and give the poor woman some space. Just because it is her job does not mean she owes you it. A voice suddenly spoke. You assumed it was Sicario until you noticed how feminine it was. That was when Valeria stepped forward.

“No mames.” No way. Rudy muttered. Alejandro stiffened but didn’t say a word. If Valeria recognized you, she did not show it in any manner. You never met the woman but Alejandro had mentioned her in passing at times. 

“Yo estoy aquí por El Sin Nombre, no por ti.” I am here for El Sin Nombre, not you. You spoke as you stepped out of his grasp. Valeria smiled as she looked at you.

“Entonces estarías aquí para mí, princesa” Then you would be here for me, princess. Valeria smirked as she stepped forward. Valeria looked at her lieutenant and smirked, a hand waving off to dismiss him, the man only leaving

“¿Tú eres El Sin Nombre?” You're El Sin Nombre? You clarified. The woman nodded. The two of you forgot about the men surrounding you as Alejandro cleared his throat.

“¿Y para qué está aquí?” and why is he here? Valeria pointed to Soap, her hand trailed up your back as her hands found your scars. She turned and finally recognized you. She froze for just for a moment but that was all you needed. That’s when all hell broke loose. You swiped out your right leg and brought the woman to her knees, your arms quickly pinning her wrists. 

“Ale, ahora!” Ale, now! You yelled as she thrashed. Alejandro quickly came to put the cloth against her face as her eyes frantically looked between the both of you. A knowing look of recognition glazed over her eyes right before her eyelids fluttered shut. The woman going limp in your arms. 

“We got her, let’s go.” Soap reported over the coms. Rudy quickly packed up his gear as Graves spoke over the radio. 

“Shadows are coming any minute now. I’m around the corner waiting. Get over to us, quickly!” 

Johnny slid you his spare gun as Diego quickly came out of his room at the commotion. So much for stealth you said as you quickly grabbed a knife from your garter and nailed it between the mans eyes, His body crumbling quickly as you walked over to collect your knife. Alejandro binded Valeria’s hands and feet and then threw her over your shoulder. 

“Que haces?” What are you doing? Alejandro barked as you bent over to rip off your heels. 

“My heels will give away our position.” You seethed back. 

“Too late for that.” Soap said as more guards came from the elevator. You and your brother quickly picking them off.  You all easily slipped out of the back way, your heels in your left and your gun in your right. The street lamps were dimmer at the back of the house but still laid a clear path through the city. 

You ignored how the ground began to pain your feet as you ran barefoot, the three of you ran in a line. You were at the front, Alejandro in the middle, Johnny in the back

A van suddenly drove in front of you and you held up a gun as the back doors flung open. Ghost suddenly grabs you as Rudy helps Alejandro. His strong arms around your waist disappearing just as quickly as they were there. You turned around just in time to help Johnny up as the doors slammed closed. You quickly found a spot beside Ghost, Johnny sitting on your other side. A soft silence took over the group. Small conversation between Rudy and Alejandro brought some relief. 

“Ye turn into Cinderella?” Soap smiled as he referred to your shoes. 

“Maybe.” You smiled back. You bent over again to put them back on, a quiet whine passed your lips as the arch of your foot was stretched out again.

Ghost was silent as he finally saw the outline of scars on your back. He didn’t say a word as he recognized the soft lines as previously healed lacerations from an object striking your skin. 

Johnny noticed them too but had a different reaction. A quick breath in was taken but he didn’t say a word as he exchanged a glance with his lieutenant. 

You leaned back and took a deep sigh as you moved your garter down and took out the two knives. Even as the van turned you still flipped one of the throwing knives between your fingers. Your brain still recounting the events as it played through your head. 

“Why’s Cinderella so bad at football?” Ghost murmured to you. You peered up at him, a curious look as you responded. 

“Beats me.” 

“She always runs away from the ball.” 

A quiet chuckle passed through your lips as you leaned back fully. A sleepy feeling overcoming your body as you let it take you, a little nap couldn’t hurt right? 

Ghost was tense for the rest of the ride as your head lay on his shoulder. He wasn’t going to move an inch even as the three men stared at you and him. You were completely relaxed as if you were in a queen bed and not resting your head on the massive boulder of muscle that Ghost called his right shoulder. The softness of your features juxtaposed your outfit and the demeanor it was supposed to give you.

While Johnny was shocked to see you sleeping on his lieutenant, he wasn’t going to complain. For once, you weren’t clawing at your skin or sweating like you had a fever. Even if you found comfort in a man who scared the shit out of everyone, maybe that was what you needed. To feel safe, guarded. 

The lurch of the van suddenly stopping woke you up. Your body whipped up and tensed again as you woke. Your hand gripping the gun like you were ready to snap. 

Everyone quietly walked into the safe house as a chair was set up to put Valeria on in the interrogation room. 

Graves was watching you like a hawk as Rudy handed you a change of clothes when you made your way to the bathroom. 

By the time you had gotten back the interrogation had started. 

“Alright. How do you know eachother?” Graves barked out as you stood by the door. You wouldn’t enter, not just yet. 

“Know is a strong word.” Came Alejandro’s response 

“Las palabras fuertes son importantes. Nuestra palabra es nuestro valor, ¿no?” Strong words are important. Our word is our worth, right?

“Vete a la verga, hija de puta. Que te voy a matar!” Go to hell, you son of a bitch. I’m going to kill you! Alejandro suddenly lunged and you saw Rudy and Soap grab him. Rudy slowly got him to calm down 

“Hola Chiqui.” Valeria's clipped response, ignoring the rage of her old comrade. The woman quickly noticing you even though you had changed out of your clothes, jewels, and taken off your makeup. 

“Hola Valeria, are you going to tell them how you know Ale or am I going to have to?” You said as you slowly approached her.

“Vamos, tell them.” Alejandro growled.

“I don’t take orders anymore. Even the dogs at Las Almas know not to bark at me.” Valeria quipped back before you slowly approached her. 

“Bueno, entonces, ¿podría decirles a mí? Me lo debes a mí, teniendo en cuenta a quién sirves ahora” Well then could you tell them, for me? You owe it to me considering who you serve now. You said as you met her gaze. A look passed between you, the woman knew exactly what you were referring to and sympathy passed over her gaze. 

“Sabes que yo no te hice” You know that I didn’t do that to you.

“Pero aún así dejas que sus perros te laman la palma de la mano” But yet you let his dogs lick your palm. You growled to her, your gaze was harsh on her. 

“Different squads, same unit. You were the wild ones, huh “los vaqueros”.” Valeria spoke to Graves and then she peered to you, “and you were there little translator hm?” A silence passed over the group as the woman continued.

“My squad was clean cut, seńoras y señores, everyone respected each other and nobody crossed any lines-” 

“Until the raid on the son of La Araña. ¿Te acuerdas?” Do you remember? Alejandro spoke, cutting off the woman abruptly. 

“Why’re you doin’ this?” Graves spoke, cutting off the interaction. 

“You tell me... you're the contractor, no? What you don't do, your competitors will.” Valeria spoke. Ghost’s deep voice cut through the conversation as he spoke. 

“You're a narco, harboring a terrorist…” 

“Terrorism is good for business. It's insurance.” 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Alejandro spit out, anger evident in his tone. 

“¿Puedes sacar la puta cabeza del culo por un segundo? Puta madre, Alejandro.” Can you get your fucking head out of your ass for a second? For fuck's sake, Alejandro. Valeria sneered, the room heating up just before Graves moved a hand over Valeria’s shoulder, calming her.

“As long as there is a war on terror, there will be no real war on drugs. To find your so-called terrorist, and your missiles, you need me. To prevent bloodshed.” Valeria said, her tone indicating exactly what she wanted. 

“No, I'm not doing this…” Alejandro growled. Alejandro picked up his weapon and started to leave, Rudy’s hand catching his arm to stop him. 

“Doesn't change anything.” Johnny said. Alejandro whipped around to your brother, his face seething anger.

“It changes everything! Fuck! Don't make a deal with her, it never ends well. Just ask your sister.” Alejandro said, his gaze shifting to you as he stormed out. Johnny froze before approaching you in front of Valeria. 

“Looks like it's your turn to tell the truth.” You spoke, ignoring the comment. 

“I want the missiles, I want the target, and I want Hassan. And you've got ten seconds or I'm gonna show you the difference between the military and me.” Graves spoke, looking down at the woman. 

“I don't know the targets. I'm a courier. I move things. I can tell you where to find the missiles. When you return, I'll tell you where Hassan is. In exchange, you will let me go. And get the fuck out of Las Almas. Se me largan ya- “ Now leave. 

Soap looks at Ghost and Rodolfo, before nodding at Graves. Everyone left the room and as the door closed you heard Graves spoke. 

“Deal. Until then... you're stayin' right here.” 

Johnny immediately grabbed you as you walked out.

“What the hell happened, huh?” Johnny said, following you as you walked towards the van. In a moment of anger, and possibly catharsis, you told him the truth. 

“Valeria made a deal with the narcos behind our backs. I was kidnapped and tortured for a week before Rudy and Alejandro found me and saved me. I was transferred back to the US the second I recovered, that’s all.” You said. All of the men froze as you said it. Johnny’s gaze softened as he let you go.

You entered the van with a sigh. Taking a moment to breathe deeply. Your hands coming up to hold your face as you felt hot tears pool in your eyes. You knew it would be hard telling him but you wished you had told him when you were calmer, not in the heat of the moment when tensions were high.

Ghost lit a cigarette outside as he pulled his mask up to his lips, deeply inhaling the tobacco. He knew it was hard for you here, he glanced at your file but that part was conveniently left out. Your file said you left on the reason of pure reassignment. He watched Johnny slowly enter the van.

“I dinnae know.” Johnny said as he slid beside you. 

“I know Johnny.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” 

“How the hell was I supposed to? Should I have just waltzed up and said Hey Johnny sorry I’ve been gone for two years but now I’m back after being tortured and nearly raped by a cartel in Mexico but I missed you!” You shot back.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. 

“I know you are.” 

“I’m here now.” Johnny spoke, his hand reached out to take one of yours. 

“Took ya long enough.” You shot back. The man chuckling as everyone else joined you in the vehicle.

You lost track of everything going on and before you knew it, you were in a car with Ghost, Johnny, and Alejandro driving back to base. The car in front of you, containing Graves and his shadows, stopped at the entrance of the base. The rain poured hard onto the car as you got an uneasy feeling. Everyone got out of the car. You stood next to Alejandro. Ghost and Johnny behind you

“What's this?” Alejandro barked out. The rain is coming down harder now. 

“This is the immediate future. Step away from the gate.” Graves said, the look he gave you made you uneasy. 

“What?” Johnny said, confusion surrounding your face. 

“You heard me.” Graves spoke again. 

“You're crazy, this is my base.” Alejandro said, the disbelief evident. 

It's not a base. This is a sizable covert facility and I admire it- So, I'm taking it. You boys have been relieved. Thank you for your service.” Graves said, the uneasy feeling quelling over as you realized what was happening.

“No, no, no, I don't take orders from you.” Alejandro growled.

“Didn't Valeria say that? Now that makes me wonder what else I don't know about your affiliation with a drug lord?” Graves spoke again, taunting the man. Alejandro stepped forward..

“What the fuck did you just say to me, pendejo…” Alejandro said, you came out from behind him, and put your hand on the Mexican’s chest, putting yourself in the middle to make space. 

“You're out of line, Graves.” came your voice, calm and easy. 

“Don't do that. Don't... do that. No one needs to get hurt here, sweetheart.” Graves responded to you. 

“Are you threatening us?” Ghost spoke up, feeling how nasty this was about to get. 

“Soldier, I don't make threats. I make guarantees. So let's not do this.” The texan spoke, looking across the group. 

“I’m calling Shepard.” Soap said, turning around and walking back to the car. 

“General Shepard sends his regards.” Graves spoke, a chill running down your spine, “He told me y’all wouldn’t take this well, especially you, sweetheart.” 

“He knows about this?” Ghost spoke up, gripping his gun as he turned sideways to Johnny. The Scotsman now looked worriedly at how close you were to the texan. 

“He's put me in command of this operation from here on out. So, y'all need to stand down. It's time to let the pros finish this.” Graves said, stepping forward.

“Graves you don’t have to do this.” You spoke out, pleading with your eyes.

“And why the hell are we talking like this is some kind of a negotiation? It's not. I've got my orders and now you have yours.” He shot back. 

“And who the fuck do you think you are, cabrón? My men are inside!” Alejandro yelled. 

“I'm afraid not. Your men have been... detained.” Graves said, smirking. Just as Alejandro lunged forward, you pushed him out of the way. A shadow pushed you against the vehicle and you felt zip ties quickly enclosing your wrists. 

“Get your fucking hands off of me!” You shouted, thrashing against the vehicle. Alejandro was slammed beside you, a soldier detained him as well. The sound of gunfire filling the night air. The last thing you heard was Johnny shouting your hand and Graves whispering as the world went black. 

“Too bad you couldn’t save them with your screams this time, Banshee.”

Author’s Note - uh-oh…

Part SEVEN of Simon Riley and his single mother god bless <3

Part One - Part Two - Part Three - Part Four - Part Five - Part Six

A few more months went by -- broken up by a couple of deployments, but easily the best months of Simon's life. He started sleeping over, every once in a while, sleeping with you. Going to bed with you in his arms after a full day, a full life? It was almost too much. Too good.

He should have known it couldn't last.

Charlie turns five in January. The cold outside is bitter and biting, but there's no snow on the ground just yet, so when he asks to go play outside, it's not that difficult for him to convince you that it's a good idea.

"Please, Mum, it's my birthday," Charlie tells you, eyes wide and pleading. "Simon'll take me, you won't even have to go out there. Just want to go to the slides for a little bit, please."

Your eyes shifts to meet Simon's, and he gives you a small grin. You know he'd do anything for Charlie, Charlie knows it too. Even Emma, the little baby who's getting bigger every day it seems, probably knows it.

Half an hour and a short walk later, and Simon has Charlie at the park where all this began. He goes down the slides a few times like he wanted, then moves to the swings for a bit. It's freezing, but he's having a blast, and so is Simon.

These little moments are getting easier with time and practice. It feels like his heart is expanding, widening to bring in you and your children, the flesh pulled taut but still sturdy, capable of holding all of it.

Until it snaps.

It happens so fast. Charlie always has seemingly boundless energy, but it's been kicked up a notch this afternoon with the excitement of his birthday. He runs wild around the deserted park, laughing and playing, hardly stopping to think as he climbs one of the narrow sets of steps that lead up towards the slides. He makes a detour this time, wanting to try the monkey bars. Simon keeps a watchful eye on him, but the boy isn't paying enough attention, and slips as he tries to navigate the high bars.

He falls to the ground, hard, and Simon hears the unmistakable snap of bone breaking. Charlie starts wailing, piercing and immediate, and Simon does a quick assessment, trained enough to keep his head even as his heart races.

There's no blood, no visible injuries besides his left arm, bent in a way it isn't supposed to go.

"You're all right, Charlie," he says quietly, carefully picking him up, making sure to keep his arm stable. "Going to get you taken care of, hear me?"

It's a quick walk back to your house, followed by a quick drive to the hospital with you and Emma in tow. Charlie's crying sets off the baby, and you're quietly weeping too, trying to tend to Charlie, and Simon navigates the streets with a clenched jaw, certain that he's destroyed everything.

Once everyone is inside the hospital, it's another quick blur of doctors and nurses poking and prodding Charlie, followed by an x-ray that confirms the clean break in his upper arm. The boy is sedated so the bone can be set, and then, while you wait for him to wake back up and while Emma finally calms, there's a stretch of silence.

Finally, you look up from the hospital bed to Simon, studying him with a frown, before saying, "You've been very quiet."

When Charlie hit the ground, Simon felt like he'd gotten the wind knocked out of him himself, and he hasn't been able to catch his breath since. It feels like the sadness, the constant weariness he'd felt for as long as he can remember, that emptiness that you'd filled so perfectly, was clawing its way back inside him. Like it never left, and you were just a pretty distraction but not something he could ever really have.

After a moment of strained silence, he mutters, "I ... fuck, I'm so sorry, love. So sorry. I shouldn't have let him on those fucking bars, I should have --"

"Stop," you tell him, your voice low too as Emma dozes in your arms. "Are you blaming yourself for this?"

"My fault," he admits. "I was the one watching him."

"Simon, don't ..."

He wants to apologize again, but he doesn't want to make you feel like you need to comfort him, but there's no way he can put on a neutral face right now ... he tries to take a deep breath, tries to finally catch it but it eludes him again.

"It's not your fault," you tell him firmly. "Accidents happen. He's a tough kid, he's going to be all right."

"He shouldn't have gotten hurt, not on my watch," he insists.

"Do you honestly think there's something you could have done differently? That you willingly let him do something unsafe?"

He racks his brain -- the logical part of him knows that it's not right. He's always careful with the children, and if he'd thought that Charlie could have gotten hurt like this, of course he would have stepped in. But the panic still rises persistently in his chest, flashing him images from a future in which you stop being understanding, where you understand how dangerous he is, how unworthy of everything you've given him. He's seconds away from being alone again, and it would be worse now that he knows what it's like to be loved.

"Simon."

Your voice is firm, solid and strong like it was that very first day when he heard you command Charlie to stop messing around on the playground. Charlie was too young and headstrong to listen then, but Simon wants, more than anything, to listen.

"It's not your fault," you tell him again. "Stop. It's not your fault."

You wrap your free arm around him, your grip firm, and he takes a shaky breath, then another. His eyes find Charlie, still out cold, and he shakes his head, but you give him another squeeze.

"It's not your fault."

That night, Charlie goes home with a sling, drowsy but no longer in pain. He asks Simon to carry him inside, and when he does, he asks him to stay, his good arm slung around his shoulder while Simon carefully cradles the one in the sling.

"Can it still be my birthday tomorrow?"

"It can be your birthday all month long," you tell him, putting Emma down on the floor with some toys.

After you make sure both your children are good for the moment, you pull Simon to the hallway, close enough to keep an eye on the kids but far enough away to speak privately.

"Are you ok?"

"Not the one you need to be asking."'

You give him a pointed look, one he knows by now means that you want him to stop being strong or stoic or whatever else and just be honest.

"I'm ... nervous," he confesses. It feels like a weak word to describe what he's feeling, but it's in the right arena, at least.

"About what?" you ask.

"That I ... that you'll want me to leave."

Your eyes widen, and you shake your head immediately, pulling him down for a hug. Your hands stroke his back and his hair, struggling to pull him even closer, and you start whispering to him. More of what you said earlier -- it was an accident, it wasn't his fault, just an accident.

What cuts through though, like a lightning rod through whatever storm is going on inside him, is when you say, "I don't ever want you to leave."

He pulls back, troubled eyes meeting yours.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, Simon. I love you. Don't leave."

It's the first time you've ever said it. You've danced around it before -- "Charlie loves you, the kids love you, we love having you around" -- but never as plain as this. He's done the same, told you in actions every day, in promises to take care of you, but actually saying the words ...

"I love you too," he says. "More than anything."

Charlie's birthday does, for the most part, last the whole month. Simon slowly starts to feel the air come back into his lungs, breathing a little easier every time Charlie acts like himself. When the boy slips, every once in a while, and calls him Daddy, or when Emma grips his hair in her chubby little fist. When you tell him that you love him, with words or kisses or promises ...

It's another lesson. Another piece of evidence that, despite everything he's ever believed about himself, he has value even when he's not perfect.

SAY YOU WILL — shoot

cw. suggestive (18+). situationship. simon x f!reader. this ones a bit more fluffy heh...

#02 seconds | masterlist | #04

“Want some?”

Simon pulls his face back as you point the massive wheel of candyfloss towards him. It’s bigger than your face—in fact it’s bigger than his own—and he’s in a small state of disbelief that you actually spent eight quid for it. He thinks of the taste: sickeningly sweet, a bomb of rainbows and fairy tales, a touch of nostalgia.

“I’m good, thanks.” He smiles anyways, watching your tongue swirl around the sticky fluff. 

“Suit yourself.”

Your intertwined hands keep him tethered to you amidst the crowds. It’s the third date—if he could even call it that. The dynamic established after that morning is something he’s content with but hasn’t gotten his head around yet. Whatever this is between you and him is transactional. You need a good fuck, to feel needed, and he’s still testing the waters of relationships as he figures out what he’s doing with his life. 

Even though there’s no romantic involvement there, Simon can see that there is some kind of friendship blooming. One that he doesn’t resent. He didn’t realise how refreshing it is to know someone who’s blissfully unaware of his work and what he does; what it’s like talking to someone who isn’t riddled with the thought of wars and conflict.

But he’s still restless. The skin around his nails runs red when he’s alone with himself for too long. It’s difficult to work out how much is acceptable in this dynamic. Time from work is sweet but brief, and it still tags alongside him even when he’s not there. What would you say if you found out about the violent dreams? What would you do if you knew what he’s done? The blood he’s shed. The people he’s lost.

He tries not to feed into these anxieties. He rationalises that you probably won’t stick around long enough to see what lies underneath his skin, to find out the truth. Once the next mission comes, you’ll be alone and you’ll move on from him and find someone who can be there when you need it. It’ll be a mutual understanding and then he will look for someone else to start trying for something real. Yet–

Simon can’t stop staring at you.

He’s enraptured. Hypnotized. The blinking fair lights in all their blues and reds and pinks and yellows flicker over your face in a way that leaves him short of thought. Each flash, each colour, reveals another part of your face that he hadn’t noticed before, hidden from the naked lights.

The way your jaw hinges as your lips capture the stringy sugar; the crinkle of your nose when the mountain of it touches your face. Simple things that shouldn’t have him so stunned, things which shouldn’t have his chest growing tight and his jeans feeling tighter.

“Oh my god!” You squeal and it catches Simon by surprise, eyes instinctively sharpening, this breath growing shallower—sinking himself into stealth and awareness. There’s nothing in the crowd that would give away an event, a problem, but he surveys the space around him anyways.

You point the stick from your candy to the side, not too far ahead, and Simon tries to notice what it is–

“Look at that bear!”

Hung above a stall, amidst other toys and stuffies Simon sees it—flourescent like a highlighter, a pink and human-sized teddy. The relief he feels is immediately, his shoulders relaxing back down into low slopes, heart rate steadying, and then: “Seriously?”

You laugh at him, already dragging him towards the game. “It’s so big and fluffy. I need it.”

Simon rolls his eyes, scoffs. “Where are you even going to keep it?”

Face turning back towards him, your eyes narrow as though trying to look menacing or peeved at him, but your smirk still curls your lip—mischievous in ways that Simon slightly fears. 

“In my bed…obviously.”

It’s just his luck that of all the games there could be at this fair, the one with the bear that you need happens to be a shooting one. There’s shotguns set up on a wall, crosses on the floor and target papers hung at the back. He finds it amusing, how battered and bruised the wood handles are, how the game master (who looks hardly eighteen) chews his gum and makes short comments to the people playing.

You need three bullseyes to win.

“Easy enough,” you shrug, and then you move onto the X on the floor while the guy sets up the game for you. The concentration on your face while everything is explained to you is endearing, watching from just beside you a crease forms between your brows.

You tuck the gun against your shoulder and smirk. “You better watch this, Simon,” you humour. “I’m getting that bear.”

He huffs, twirls the stick of candyfloss you’d passed over to him between his fingers. “Sure, love.”

Unsurprisingly, on your first turn you miss all three times, none of them aimed even close enough to be considered. You scowl at the papers hung at the back of the stall, trying to refocus yourself as you have another go, a puff of air on your lips as you straighten your spine far too much, firing off the bullets. This time is better, you manage to actually hit the target but–

“You’re too tense,” he says while taking a step closer, his chest nearly flush with your back. 

“I’m not.”

“You are,” his hand moves between your shoulder blades and he presses there. “Relax your shoulders.”

“Like this?”

Simon guides you into the right stance, arms over yours, a finger ghosting over your own on the trigger. He can feel your breath against him, the heat of your body through his clothes. It’s intoxicating and nerving all at once, but his body doesn’t twitch like it should. Here he’s perfectly calm, his chin ghosting over the top of your head, time slowed.

“Now?”

“Now.”

Two of them shoot straight through the middle, your gasp of excitement electrifying. His praises fly off the tongue easily, a laugh rumbling in his chest. The last bullet just kisses the circle, and you’re beaming, head tipped backward so you can see him, your eyes glowing something wild and precious.

Everything goes blank then, the rest of the world drowned for a few small moments. Relief. Bliss. Content. It bleeds into one big blur until you’re nudging him, bringing him back to his senses.

The bear is more like a mammoth.

Its appearance, very (hardly) bear-like, is almost your own height and stuffed to the brim, heavier than you expected. But even in all its greatness, you lug it all the way home—not without handing it off to him halfway back.

He comes out of the bathroom, tipsy after the beers you’d shared, to find you in the bedroom, cuddling the thing while you scroll on your phone. It’s tucked between your head and shoulder, a leg curled over the middle of it, and Simon finds himself eyeing it with a malice which shouldn’t exist.

Because it’s just a stupid teddy.

“Jealous?” Your voice is rich with mirth, eyebrow quirking as you give him a once over. He’s in his boxers, and when you bite your lip Simon knows how the evening will end.

“Of a toy?” He scoffs, crawling into the bed next to you. “Don’t need t’a be.”

“Now don’t be so sure too soon,” you prop yourself up on an elbow. “There’s not enough space in this bed for you too–”

Your laughter is all Simon hears when he rolls you onto your back, yanking the bear out of your grasp and tossing it into a corner of the room he’s unconcerned about. Protests come swiftly but just as so he presses his mouth onto yours, swallowing every noise as he kisses you with an open mouth.

He doesn’t stop until you go pliant, until you stop squirming in retaliation underneath him—melting under him as he straddles you.

You’re a flushed mess when he pulls away, lips wet and breaths shallow as you cross your arms over his neck so he doesn’t go too far.

“Simon–”

“Don’t need that bear, love.” His fingers curl at your jaw, thumb ghosting over the flesh of your bottom lip. “Got one right ‘ere already.”

The Mask I Live With - pt 13

tw: slight injury

Sorry if this has errors.. I proofread it but I wanted to type it all up and get it out cause I know we're all dying for them to stop acting crazy lmao!!!!

Roommate|Reader x Simon Ghost Riley

The crutches were still a pain in the ass, but you were moving around more on your own. 

Most of the time really.

Until today.

Earlier, in your beautiful—clumsy—wisdom, you tried to grab a plate from the top shelf in the kitchen without thinking. You leaned a little too far on the crutches, lost your balance, and before you knew it... BAM! Right onto the damn floor.

It wasn't that bad, just a small cut on the side of your cheek where you scrapped the corner of the counter. And maybe your leg throbbed for a minute. But trying to tend to the wound with the crutches was a different kind of pain in the ass. 

You stood in the bathroom, squinting into the mirror as you tried to dab antiseptic on it. Every time you reached up, your balance slightly wavered, and you hissed when the alcohol stung while your fingers kept slipping.

You groaned, silently hoping that you hadn't put yourself back at square one with physical therapy all because you wanted a fucking plate. 

Suddenly the front door opened. Heavy boots kicked off before footsteps made their way toward the bathroom. You barely had time to hop to your room before Simon appeared in the doorway, stopping the second he saw you. His eyes flickered to your crutches, the cut, and the ridiculous way you were trying to patch yourself up.

His brows scrunched together. "Wha' the fuck happened?"

You sighed, setting the bottle of antiseptic down. "It's nothing."

"Not wha' I asked." His eyes narrowed.

You huffed. "I just... may have lost my balance earlier."

"Y'fell?"

"I didn't break anything."

"Tha's not the point." He growled as his jaw tightened."Why didn't y'wait for me t'get home?"

You glanced back at the cut. "It wasn't a big deal."

He scoffed, shaking his head. "Unbelievable." He followed your vision toward the cut before nodding to the counter. "Sit."

"What?"

He gestured again, firmer this time. "Up. On the counter."

You hesitated but eventually pushed yourself up with effort. The cold surface met the back of your thighs as you adjusted, the height bringing you face-to-face with him. He grabbed the antiseptic, dabbing some onto a cloth before stepping between your legs, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him.

His fingers tilted your chin up slightly, angling your face so he could reach the wound. You should've been focusing on the sting of the antiseptic. But all you could focus on was him. The way his hands were gentle despite their size. The way his breathing was steady, deep, like he wasn't even thinking about it...... The way his eyes kept peering down to yours.

You swallowed, heartbeat thudding wildly against your ribs.

You were close. Too close.

After he placed the small bandage over the cut, his fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary. His gaze softened, not leaving yours as he slowly and carefully, dipped his head. His nose faintly brushing yours, giving you time to pull away.

You didn't. Your eyes fluttered shut just as his lips met yours. Warm. Soft. Controlled. Your hands gripped the edge of the counter, steadying yourself as the warmth of his mouth consumed you. He was solid, real, and it made your stomach flip wildly.

When he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark, locked onto you like they were trying to read every thought running through your head. Your lips tingled, breath slightly uneven as you tried to process what the hell had just happened.

His thumb brushed absently over your knee. "Still think s'nothin'?"

You barely managed a breathy laugh. "I might've been wrong."

His lips twitched slightly. "Yeah..... Might've."

The silence stretched, thick and unspoken, but you didn't move.... neither did he.

Then, finally, he exhaled through his nose. "Gonna keep pretendin' y'don't feel it?" Your lips parted, but closed immediately. All you could do was stare at him, trying to process what he was saying. Pretending? He scoffed, shaking his head. "C'mon, love. Y'think I haven't noticed?"

Your breath hitched. "Noticed what?"

His hands rested on the counter beside your legs. "The way y'look at me." He murmured. "The way y'don't ask me why I've been here all this time."

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as you lowered your head to not look at him. "I thought—" You nervously licked your lips. "I thought you were just helping."

His brows twitched, and he let out a quiet chuckle like he almost couldn't believe what you were saying.

"Helpin'." He repeated.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of your shorts, your body still trapped between his arms. "I didn't think..." You forced yourself to meet his eyes. "I didn't think you'd want me like that."

For the first time, his mask of indifference cracked, just a fraction.

His thumb slowly brushed over your knee. "Y'think I'd have stayed if I didn't?" Your heart skipped. Everything inside of you clenched twice as hard .

"But... I'm leaving." You whispered, voice barely audible. "Eventually, I'll be reassigned."

His jaw slightly flexed, something flickering behind his eyes. "I know."

"So then—"

"Still doesn't change anythin'." You wanted to argue back, but he cut you off. "Think I do tha' for anyone?"

Why did it feel like you were walking into fire, but not burning?  Everything you had been trying to ignore—the warmth, the ache, the weight of whatever this was between you—was out there now.

"I didn't want to ask. Didn't want to ruin it."

"Wouldn't have ruined a damn thing, sweetheart."

You stared at him, chest rising and falling with each shallow breath. And then, before you could stop yourself—before you could overthink it—you kissed him again.

It wasn't hesitant. It was real. His hands quickly moved to your waist, pressing into your sides as he pulled you flush against him. Your own hands reached up, gripping his shoulders, feeling the tension underneath his clothes.

It was slow, deep.... like neither of you wanted to pull away.

But you did, his forehead rested against yours, his hands not leaving your waist. They slightly flexed, dragging slow, deliberate circles along the hem of your shirt. Like he couldn't decide if he wanted to ground you or devour you.

Your pulse thrummed right in your throat, heat spreading low in your belly. His breathing matched yours—uneven. The space between you was charged to the max.

"Should be restin'." He murmured.

"Maybe I don't want to rest." You whispered.

His eyes darkened at that, jaw tightening as though he was fighting an internal war. One of his hands drifted, trailing from your waist to your thigh, stopping just shy of where the crutch had been resting.

He hesitated. "Your leg—"

You shook your head. "I'm fine. I want this."

That tiny bit of hesitation melted away briefly, replaced by something far more dangerous, far more determined. He couldn't help it.... he slipped beneath the hem of your shirt, palms rough and calloused gliding over the softness of you. His touch was slow—testing every reaction, mapping every inch of you.

You shivered, breath catching when his lips found the curve of your jaw, trailing lower, nipping at the sensitive spot beneath your ear. The edge of the counter dug into the back of your thighs as he pressed closer, pinning you there, careful not to hurt your injured leg.

But his mouth was hot, claiming, like he was starving for this. You softly gasped, gripping the fabric of his shirt to pull him impossibly closer.

"Y'sure?" He murmured against your skin.

You nodded, barely able to find your voice. "Yes."

That pulled a low groan from deep in his chest, his lips crashing back to yours... hungrier, desperate, and unrestrained. Every peck of his mouth, every slide of his tongue had you melting into a puddle. If you weren't sitting on the damn counter, you were sure the floor would've consume you.

"You've no idea." He pulled back. "How long I've wanted this."

A whimper threatened to escape your mouth as you tried to find reality again. "You're not the only one."

His eyes flickered down to your lips again, as his hand gently reached to cup the side of your face, thumb brushing over your cheek.

"We're doin' this right. Y'heal first."

You pouted—almost embarrassingly so—as the heat bloomed hotter at the way his self-control felt like it was fraying at the edges, just barely holding together for your sake.

"But...." He added, mouth kissing the corner of yours. "The second you're better......"

The promise in his tone sent you on cloud nine. You leaned in, lips ghosting over his one last time, smirking. 

"I'll hold you to that."

He lowly chuckled, the noise making the walls of your core squeeze. "I fuckin' hope so."

THEY FINALLY KISSED!!!!! Not gonna lie, I was thinking of having one more filler chapter before this part, but then I was like.... noooo! So I changed it to finally put us out of the misery 🙃

Pt. 1; Pt. 2; Pt. 3; Pt. 4; Pt. 5; Pt. 6; Pt. 7; Pt. 8; Pt. 9; Pt. 10; Pt. 11 (Simon POV); Pt. 12

Masterlist

Taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @kittygonap @nappingmoon @chaos-4baby @ohdrey89 @skeletonsucker @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @roastyyytoastyyy @simonexxx1 @mrmountainman @thebumbqueen @lucienofthelakes @letiferian @jennamelinda12 @mulletmcghee @kittykatgorl @strawberrygato @ghostslollipop @emeraldeyes1805 @chaosundcoffee @whos-fran @fangirls94 @rafaelacallinybbay @quiet-loser @shondlenoodle @iceblossom1013 @sssophia0-0 @a-lil-bit-nuts

My Sweet Life

Moodboard/masterlist

Pairing: Simon Riley x Fem!Reader.

Summary: all you want is a new addition to the family, yet your fiancè isn't as keen of the idea as you. Or to put it simply- this is your every day life with your fiancè Simon Riley.

Note: a sitcom-style fanfiction. Short blurbs, light banter. Just something light hearted, to lift your mood. Mostly fluff.

I want to say credit goes to @aprilsfall , as she's the one handing me the base idea. Thank you for brainstorming with me, hitting it off with me right from the gate and thank you for choosing me to be the one who gets to hear all those amazing ideas you've hidden up your sleeve. I think this could grow to be full series, multiple seasons.

Episode 1 // Episode 2 // Episode 3 // Episode 4

Silence is better together IV

Chapter tags/warnings/ themes: AU!pirate hunter!Simon, fem!reader, mythological symbolism, angst, hurt/comfort, emotional whiplash, slight argument, bittersweet moments, Simon’s non-canon backstory, mentions of violence, mentions of 141, character death (Soap) grief, loss, trauma, flashbacks, survivor’s guilt, past abuse, soft!Simon, protective!Simon, tenderness & affection, confessions, pet names, fluff, slow burn is not slow buring anymore

Word count: 6,4k

A/N: Thank you so much for reading my story! I truly appreciate your support and for staying with me until the end of this series. And yes, I have to announce that this is the final part of Silence is better together. At first, this was supposed to be just a one-part thing, but I got carried away and ended up writing more. That’s why some scenes, especially the ending, might feel a bit rushed. I simply ran out of inspiration and didn’t want to drag this series to nowhere. Yet, I’m planning to write a few extra scenes that I didn’t get the chance to explore. Once again, thank you for being part of this journey.

Previous part

“When were you planning to tell me about this? If you were ever planning to do so. I feel like a fool,” you say, trying your hardest not to shout at him.

“I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want to expose you to what I did or what happened in my past.”

“Expose me to what you did? Are you one of them? One of those who brought destruction to my village?”

“No. Don’t associate me with them. Never!” Simon exclaims, emphasizing each word.

“I don’t know what you did or who you truly are, but I was a fool to blindly trust you. At first, I wanted to take some time to assure myself that I could trust you, but then I allowed myself to believe you were different. You showed no signs that I should fear you. Yet, I am disappointed in myself. I regret meeting-”

“Don’t even think about saying that when you know damn well that is not true. It was my fault; I should have told you sooner.”

“No, it's mine. I should have pushed you to tell me more about your past when I met you, but I was so focused on other things…”

“You were focused on taking care of my arse. You made damn sure I kept breathing,” he completes your sentence, his voice low, mind filled with the moments you spent ensuring he stayed alive.

“Yes, I did that. I promised myself I would keep you alive. I couldn't bear the thought of letting you die, especially after witnessing my people die, powerless to stop it. I did not want to see another soul disappear too soon from this world. I did not want to lose someone again,” you continue the sentence in your mind.

“Listen, I need to make things right for the trouble I’ve caused you. I have a long story to share, and now feels like the right time to do it,” Simon says, his tone filled with remorse as he tries his best to redeem himself in your eyes. It’s not just about the two of you needing to cooperate to survive the colder season; it’s also about the strong connection you built together over the past few weeks - one he would be damned if he lost.

“Simon, if that’s your real name, you don’t owe me anything. I did everything expecting nothing in return. You don’t have to prove anything to me anymore. That’s enough,” you reply, your voice heavy with defeat.

“I never lied to you. I thought sheltering you from the harsh realities of the world outside was a good idea, but it wasn't. You need to understand the other side of the story.”

“What do you mean by that? Is there more to know?” you respond, your tone laced with a strange curiosity.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

You take a deep breath, bracing yourself for what’s to come. “This time, don’t omit any important details. I need to know the truth.”

"After everything you've been through, you deserve to hear the truth. It's time to confront what’s real."

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath as memories from his past flood his mind. When he opens them, a hint of melancholy lingers, and hesitantly - with an unfamiliar emotion - he begins to share his history with you

Simon's story was devastating, full of tragedy, loss, and profound pain. He begins to paint a portrait of his childhood - a troubled one. His mind wanders back to his early years, a time marked by anxiety and fear, rather than the warmth of innocence, hope, and nurturing growth that many children his age experienced. His very being was molded by the tumultuous feelings of his past. Although he promised to share his full story, he felt the need to spare you the haunting memories of his violent father. He revealed only fragments of that turbulent time, driven by a desire to justify himself to you - to see him as he is, his true self.

Now, you understand why he struggles to express his emotions freely and articulate what he truly thinks. His complicated family situation formed him in this way; he lacked the privilege of growing up in an environment that nurtured this side of him. As a result, he often found himself isolated and quiet. Despite his mother's efforts to mend the harm caused by his heartless father's actions, the misery had already settled deep within his soul. His father's mistakes made him the man he is today. He vowed to himself never to become like his old man, and he has kept that promise to this day.

He believed that after his father left, his mother and brother's life would improve - he was wrong. When he joined the Privateer Unit, a group organized to hunt and capture the pirates that plagued the seas, he returned home for a short time, only to find his mother in debt and his brother struggling with addiction. His new mission was to help his family. After a long period of recovery, he had to come back to his work. Not long after he left, the Red Wave attacked his town, destroying it much like they had done to your village. However, at that time, they were just beginning their criminal path and were not as bloodthirsty as they would become when they destroyed your island. His family survived: his mother, brother, his brother’s wife, and his little nephew.

Yet, they were hurt, especially Tommy, his brother, who did his best to protect their family from these thieves. Their town was ravaged; they took everything they could carry. If his family had been lucky enough to escape this misery, it did not mean that the other families were also fortunate. Many people suffered at the hands of those cruel individuals. One of them was Henry, who faced a brutal death after trying to help his mother. Simon grew up with him; he was his only childhood friend. He remembered running away from home to escape his father's violence, wandering the streets for hours, even when it was cold or dark outside. Henry’s mother would often ask him to come inside to warm up. Hesitantly, he would want to decline, but the cold and his hungry stomach forced him to accept every time. They would pull out a chair at the table and welcome him with open arms, feeding him fresh food - even sweets afterward. Simon’s mother was an excellent cook, but he avoided sitting at the table with his family because his father always found a reason to raise his voice at him. He would quickly grab a piece of bread and leave, unable to bear the tension at the table. Henry’s father never raised his voice at his wife or son, and Simon felt a pang of jealousy at that. However, he pushed the feeling of envy to the back of his mind and pretended, if only for a moment, that this was his life.

He was grateful to Henry’s family for everything they had done for him. He felt an even deeper appreciation for Henry, who had been his only friend during a time when he felt all alone. Although he spent time with his brother, Tommy, he sometimes struggled to understand why their father seemed to favor him. This led him to distance himself from Tommy, even though he knew it wasn’t his brother's fault. He believed it was his own fault for being who he was. Over time, he learned to accept these feelings and focus on other aspects of his life. Deep within his soul, it still hurt, but he had grown accustomed to it by now.

He explains that he had decided to move his family to a place far from the ocean - somewhere safe and out of sight of the pirates. He wanted to prevent any future attacks. However, he knew he couldn't just wait and hope for the best; he had to take action. His mother was particularly stubborn, refusing to leave her home. It took a long time to convince her that it was for the best.

Since that moment, his life mission had been to hunt down those who wounded the most precious people he held close to his heart. He wanted to prevent their expansion into other areas as much as possible. His aim was to put an end to the suffering caused by their wicked actions, but doing all the work on his own proved to be a difficult task. Although he possessed ambition equal to ten men, he was also a man who acknowledged his limits.

He struggled to find allies he could rely on; most were only interested in fighting for money, not for the cause. This was understandable, yet the few men he had hired - initially eager for revenge - soon became clouded by their desire for more. They took the gold and goods stolen by the pirates, filling their own pockets instead of trying to give back to those who had suffered. While their desire for wealth was comprehensible, their greed was not. Now, they were no better than the pirates of the Red Wave.

Simon thought he would have to come back to the days of fighting alone, but fate had other plans. A man with an authoritative presence appeared out of nowhere, demanding that he join his team - he commanded, not asked. Simon was taken aback by such boldness, initially thinking the man was out of his mind. Yet, the man's speech was too good to ignore. In that moment, Simon found himself reevaluating his sanity as he made the decision to join the team, feeling trapped by circumstance. This is how he became part of Team 141, led by the rugged and determined Captain John Price, whose powerful moral compass guided their every move. Alongside him was Kyle Garrick, known as Gaz - a man with a sharp tongue and a fierce dedication, always ready for action. Then there was the unpredictable man that introduced himself as Soap, whose infectious humor, brilliant mind, and strong loyalty often caught Simon off guard. Within this new team, Simon discovered something he hadn’t felt in a long time: a sense of belonging.

Strangely, he felt at home in this team formed by three men who had once been nobody to him. It could be the sense of camaraderie he felt being with them, or perhaps it was the mutual reason they were fighting for. Maybe it was the feeling that he was an important piece of something greater; a piece that was undeniably needed. He felt seen and, oddly enough, understood by these men who did not know the full extent of his troubled past. They didn’t need to know his entire story to understand that somehow, they all shared the same cruel fate in life.

Soon, 141 became the first opponent of the Red Wave. No matter how hard the Red Wave tried to recruit the fiercest mercenaries, they consistently faced defeat. Battle after battle, they suffered significant losses in resources, personnel, and ships. The pirates were nearly brought to their end - until one day. On that day, 141 was struck by an unforeseen challenge: two or more pirate groups formed an alliance with the Red Wave. Historically, the Red Wave had operated alone, preferring to hire mercenaries rather than collaborate with other pirate factions. However, they had to set aside their pride and resort to drastic measures. Now, every pirate was in danger as 141's power grew with each passing year, and many began to forge alliances with them.

The upcoming battles grew increasingly brutal. Both sides fought with fervor, desperate to suppress their adversaries, and the struggle was palpable. For over six months, the conflict raged on, claiming countless lives and sending ships to the depths of the ocean. While vessels could be rebuilt, the profound loss of life weighed heavily on the hearts of those who remained. Just when Team 141 believed they were on the edge of victory, the unthinkable struck again. Fate seemed to laugh in their faces as they suffered the devastating loss of Johnny MacTavish - Soap. He was a man celebrated for his unwavering bravery, strategic mind, and bright personality. His absence left a void in the very spirit of the group as they faced an uncertain future.

The loss of his comrade, friend, and brother made Simon unpredictable. He felt a whirlwind of emotions: disbelief, shock, grief, guilt, and anger. Deep down, he knew it was a bad idea to join them. He was aware that he would grow attached to his teammates, who had become his second family. Now, he reminisces about the good times spent with Soap: laughter, silly jokes, and drunken ramblings about the past and future. Simon chuckles as he recalls moments during battles; always, one of them had to crack an idiotic joke to lighten the mood. They had a knack for telling jokes in the most unusual situations. But nowadays, he finds himself haunted by the horrible memories, particularly the moment Johnny passed away. He relives that instant every time he closes his eyes, vividly remembering the light that had once shone in Soap's eyes, now extinguished.

Simon confessed that he could no longer focus on their mission, constantly distracted by his racing thoughts. He felt like a coward for opting for the easy way out, yet he knew his poor mental state could compromise the entire team. This struggle ultimately led to his separation from 141.

“I always say the people you know can hurt you the most, either by betraying you or by losing them,” Simon explains, his gaze clouded as he looks at you.

You struggle to maintain eye contact; your mind is consumed by guilt. You feel ashamed for making assumptions about him when he had lived through similar experiences. You now understand his reactions, mannerisms, and the way he speaks - everything has a reason. He was hurt so deeply in the past that he still relies on these coping mechanisms to this day. He has gone through hell and has come back alive each time, but he carries the consequences of that suffering. He endured the separation from his family and chose to act as if he was dead to protect them from his enemies. He has had to live with the losses of so many people, including Johnny; especially him.

“I am so sorry, Simon. I shouldn't have made those accusations. I’m truly sorry -” you say, voice trembling and tears welling in your eyes.

“Don’t cry, love. It was just a silly miscommunication that led to this,” he reassures you, gently extending his hand to wipe away your tears.

"You didn’t deserve to suffer all of this. You deserve more good things to happen to you, Simon," you say as you clasp his hand, the one that cradles your face.

He knows he doesn't deserve your compassion, he doesn't consider himself a good man, even though he knows that the cause he was fought for was a good one. He committed unspeakable acts in pursuit of what he called victory. The same hands that cradled your face in comfort during the night when you were distressed were the ones that had killed man after man. The hands that were stained with your tears were the same hands that, in the past, bore the blood of his enemies. Those gentle hands that had brought you so much peace and consolation belonged to a man who was not proud of his past actions, but felt he did what was necessary. At the same time, Simon believed he had somehow protected you indirectly by ensuring that none of those men would again come close to you. Yet, he knew that from the moment he met you, he had tainted your soul with his very presence. He recognized that it might sound selfish to think this way, yet, he felt an overwhelming sense of contentment because he had met you. For the first time in his life, he believed he could offer more to someone who cared so deeply for him, even when he struggled to see himself as worthy of your affection. For once, he felt truly alive, not merely existing or surviving a cruel fate. He wanted to live a life worth living, and you showed him what that could be. The way you showed him how to appreciate the little things: the feeling of the sun on his face, the cold morning breeze embracing his body, the smell of the ocean, the songs of the birds, the pleasant taste of warm tea on a cold day, the laughter at silly things, and so much more. Unbeknownst to him, he began to pick up on traits from your behavior. Often, he found himself gazing at certain things with sparkles in his eyes and a genuine smile on his lips. However, he couldn't help but notice that his heart was filled with warmth when his gaze was upon you. He once more pledged to shield you from all harm, vowing to himself that he will not let anything or anyone to hurt you again.

As you read his mind, your expression shifted from comfort to worry in an instant. A disturbing thought consumes your mind.

“What happened, love? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Simon says with a hint of his typical humor.

“What if they come back to seek revenge?” you voice your concern.

“That is not possible, dear. There's no need to worry about them anymore,” he reassures you.

“How can you be so sure? You said there were many more of them. What will happen then?”

“There's no need to worry; everything is going to be just fine. The people who followed me were the last survivors of the Red Wave. You can set aside those concerns. Trust me, we are safe.”

“How can you be so sure that there aren’t more of them?” you ask, panic rising in your voice.

“Because I took every measure that was necessary. I handled it all, and no one was left standing,” Simon changes his tone from soothing to serious. His mind drifts for a moment to the time after he left 141 and decided to work alone once again. He made sure to follow every ship that flew the Red Wave flag and sank them to the bottom of the ocean. Even though there were times when he failed miserably, he remained unstoppable. Soon, he became known as the Ghost of the Ocean. No one knew when he would appear, and when he did, he left no traces - just like a ghost.

“They are not returning, not now or ever. I am here to ensure that no one will ever harm you, love. Do you understand?” he continues.

“Yes, I understand now. I just panicked, sorry…” you confess with embarrassment in your voice.

“It’s going to be alright, darling. And it’s the time we admit we both need to rest after all this madness.”

“I have to confess, I could really use an entire day to recover after everything…” you say, a question haunting your mind. “Would it be alright if I lay next  to you tonight?” you ask, knowing that you need a moment of quietness, but most importantly, you need his presence.

“You don’t even have to ask. Let’s go now, dear,” Simon chuckles as he guides towards the bed.

You fall asleep reflecting on the events that just unfolded. Simon's vivid recollections of his experiences, thoughts, and emotions still linger in your mind, refusing to fade away. You try to approach his stories with caution, hesitant to accept everything he shared. It puzzles you why, despite his repeated demonstrations of loyalty and truthfulness, a wall of distrust still looms within you. You grapple with your own insecurities, determined to put an end to your doubts. Yet, your paranoia, like a restless spirit, continues to claw at the confines of the cage you have built to function normally. Deep within your soul, you feel a sharp sensation, like a knife twisting into a wound. It is the pain that accompanies the realization that he is telling the truth, and you don’t want to accept it. You struggle to believe that someone could suffer so profoundly throughout their entire life, especially during their childhood, and at the hands of the Red Wave. You also find it difficult to accept that someone had to choose violence and endure such brutality to stop the horrors inflicted by others. He had to embrace violence to put an end to someone else's. You must admit that you admire his burning devotion to eradicate the wrongdoings of others. His intention was to avenge those who can no longer fight for justice and to protect others from suffering the same fate that both he and you have endured. This is simply who he is; this dedication is deeply etched into the fabric of his being.

Simon was a man with a tumultuous past, marked by blood, tears, and agony, yet he treated you with such gentleness that it was hard to believe anyone could ever show you such kindness. He always made sure to make you feel seen and understood, even when he couldn’t provide any answers. He would look at you and nod, paying close attention to everything you had to say. As you revealed your past, he held your hand tightly, knowing how difficult it was for you to speak about that part of your history. He grasped your hand in consolation and support, recognizing that it was up to him to help keep you together as pieces of you began to crumble before his eyes. In moments like this, he was the sturdy marble column that held your unstable ruins in place. His rough, scarred hands seemed to find their way to the soft skin of your cheek, gently wiping away the tears that escaped from your eyes. In your most vulnerable moments, he was there - never asking for or demanding anything in return. He anchored you in the present, never letting go. He was the support you needed to keep you grounded and sane. Simon was the presence you needed badly in order to begin the healing process after experiencing that terrible incident. Curing a wound that has been open for a long time will be difficult, but you won’t be alone anymore. He is there for you, just as you are there for him. And in the morning when you wake, you will find him still next to you, just as he is now, sleeping peacefully, his chest rising and falling with each breath he takes - he is real and alive.

As you gaze over his face one last time before drifting off to the land of dreams, a sharp sensation pierces your heart abruptly. You are struck by the shocking realization that you have developed strong feelings for Simon - feelings that go beyond friendship. It feels as if you have been profoundly hit by Cupid’s arrow. Instead of bleeding red, you bleed the golden hue of a summer sunset on a beautiful, warm day. Golden like honey being poured into a fresh cup of tea. Golden like the precious thread that ties your fates together. Golden like his eyes in the candlelight.

Despite your desire to wake up first and welcome him to a new day, Simon beat you at this game once again. He wakes from sleep with a warm feeling beside him. When he looks over to your side of the bed, he is surprised not to see your back as he usually does. Instead, you are facing him, nuzzling your face into his arm. One of your hands is entwined with his, while the other is lazily draped over his chest. As much as he would have liked to greet you this morning with a fresh cup of tea, as he often did, he lets you rest. He can’t deny that he enjoys your closeness; it is pleasurable to wake up beside a soft, warm presence on a cold morning like this. He is so accustomed to waking up in a cold, empty bed in various locations and under different circumstances that this intimate greeting feels unfamiliar to him. He forgot what it is like to live in a house and how to feel at home - somewhere where he is seen, wanted, and where he belongs.

Carefully, so as not to wake you, he turns his face to admire your sleeping form. You look so peaceful in your slumber, wrapped in an enchanting and mystical allure. He can’t comprehend how you can radiate such energy after enduring so many horrific experiences. You are not defined by your past traumas, nor is he, but those experiences can profoundly affect your present, shaping the aura you emit. Yet this isn’t you. You envelop yourself in a transcendent glow, as if you have broken free from the realm of the gods he has read about. Then, he remembers - the myth.

He recalls the legend that began to take shape after the Red Wave destroyed your village. The lighthouse, which had always shone to guide the navigation of ships at night and during foggy weather, stopped shining. Many sailors chose to avoid that area afterward to prevent accidents caused by the unlit path on the ocean. After that, people began to spread tales of how the land of your village was haunted by the spirits of those who had fallen, seeking revenge.

As time passed, people began using this tale to scare their misbehaving children. But that wasn't all - someone, a man, added fuel to the story by claiming there was a sole survivor from the village. This man was one of the few survivors of the Red Wave imprisonment. Nobody believed him; they thought he had gone crazy after spending so much time as a prisoner. Somehow, Simon overheard the man discussing the story with curious children. He recounted tales of a woman, also a prisoner, who had once lived in a beautiful village situated on the cliffs of Crescent Island. This woman, who sadly passed away, had spoken to him about a beautiful and strong girl who survived it all. Soon after, the children began to create enchanting songs about the lonely girl who lived at the very end of the world, weaving tales of her solitude and dreams into melodic verses. However, their parents forbade them from singing or even thinking about the tale any longer, as some children were determined to rescue her, while others remained saddened by the thought of her loneliness. With that, they all forgot about her - until he crossed paths with you. The story the man told turned out to be true.

Now, Simon looks at you, your face slightly obscured by your hair. He reaches out and gently tucks your hair behind your ear. You haven't woken up; you are still deep in your sleep. He slowly begins to caress your face with feather-like touches, thinking about how he would burn the world to protect you from all the harm that exists. Each touch is filled with a fierce promise; the soft movements of his hand against your skin serve as a reminder that he is always there for you. Each promise is sealed by an insistent desire to make you happy and ensure that you will never again know pain. He doesn't question this reaction towards you; he thinks it is natural, spontaneous in an unusual kind of way. He wants to protect those who need protection, but with you, it is different. He hadn't questioned himself until this moment - he finds himself smiling as he caresses your face. Is this normal? He feels a strange sensation in his chest, like his heart is hurting, but there is no pain at all. It is more of a phantom sensation than a physical one, but it is there. He feels this way when he looks at you or when you make eye contact with him - paying attention to him, listening to him, and being there for him.

He realizes he often feels this way around you, yet he never questions it. He begins to reminisce about the times when you made his heart tighten in his chest; it was as if you held his heart in a firm grasp and never let it go. You made him feel this way when you smiled at him, appreciated the little things he did, held his face before you drew his portrait, or simply looked at him with those mesmerizing eyes. His mind is in a constant battle trying to decipher his own emotions, yet it is clear - he has fallen for you.

Simon continues to absentmindedly touch your features, tracing the beautiful contours of your face with his fingertips. He is so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't notice you are awake, gazing at him with a shy smile.

“Good morning, Simon,” you say with a drowsy voice.

He yanks his hand back from your face, pinching the spot between his eyebrows as if that might somehow hide the fact that he’s been caught off guard; embarrassment is visible across his features. “Morning, love. How did you sleep?” he asks in a hoarse tone. It’s a question that has become his signature line, one he utters first thing each morning, reflecting his deep care for your well-being.

“I slept well. How about you?” you respond, wanting to stretch your arms in the air but surprised to realize that your hands are tangled around Simon’s body. Slowly, you begin to untangle your arms from him, avoiding eye contact as much as possible, too ashamed to meet his gaze.

“Surprisingly, very well,” he replies, gazing at you with amusement as you struggle to maintain your composure.

“Wonderful. May I have the honor of preparing you a cup of tea?” you ask with a silly grin, eager to distract yourself from the awkwardness of the moment. Fate seems to smile upon you as an affirmative hum escapes Simon’s throat.

You distract your mind for a short period as you prepare the tea, adding a few dried flowers and strongly scented leaves to infuse in the hot water. You start gathering ingredients for a freshly made breakfast, perfect for this cold weather. Behind you, Simon busies himself with putting firewood into the wood-burning stove. Your hands are moving, but your mind is still frozen in that morning moment - Simon’s warm body next to yours, your arms embracing him as you wake to the gentle caress of his hand on your face. If you could, you would stop time at that moment, never wanting it to end. It felt so addictive - in a good way. You never thought you would miss affection so much. It was so healing, a gentle reminder that you were not alone anymore. As you recall the feeling of his fingertips kissing the skin of your cheeks in a tender way, the newfound memory stirs in you a desire to cry - and you do. The weight of this feeling makes you silently sob, your body trembling slightly as you grip the edge of the table for support.

Simon quickly notices that something was wrong with you. “Dear, what is it? Are you hurt?”

You struggle to form a coherent response, but only shaky breaths escape your lips as you inhale deeply and exhale. Simon stands frozen beside you, unsure of what to do next, waiting for your reply. You wrestle with the decision of whether to tell him the truth, fearing his reaction. You don’t want him to see you as weak, especially since you already believe he perceives you as fragile and vulnerable. You don’t want him to feel responsible for your emotions, yet it seems he has taken that role upon himself. At the same time, you make a silent vow to be honest with him from now on, recognizing that he has already tried to be open with you. Taking another deep breath, you finally share the real reason behind your emotional state. You begin by expressing how long it has been since you felt the caring touch of another person - one that feels as if they are pouring their heart into that tender caress - warm, affectionate, and sincere.

“Oh, love…so that was the reason for your tears” he says in a sweet voice, while the worries wash away from his body.

“Yes, a silly motive, I know…” you look away, embarrassed.

“Listen, dear, it’s not a silly thing. What you’re feeling matters,” he says, placing his hands on your cheeks and wiping away the tears from your eyes with his thumbs. He gazes intensely into your red-stained eyes, his heart breaking at the sight of you like this. After that, he opens up his arms and says: “Come on, love.”

“I don’t -” you pause for a moment, but your concern fades in an instant as you throw yourself into his arms. One of his strong arms envelops your body while the other finds its way behind the back of your head, fingers softly tangling in your hair. His face nestles into your hair, breathing in your sweet, intoxicating scent. You hide your face in the crook of his neck, enjoying the mixed scents on his body: his natural one, the floral notes of your homemade soap, and a hint of tea. It’s an unusual combination, but it creates a comforting blend of essences, accompanied by the warmth radiating from him. One of your hands mimics his, tangled in his longer strands of hair at the back, while the other is tightly pressed against his back, your nails almost digging into his covered skin.

The harmonious entanglements of two souls intertwine, becoming one. The golden thread of fate weaves their destinies together - heart to heart, their beats synchronized. Two become one.

He is Simon Riley. Riley, his father’s name, weighs heavily on him, a burden of his father’s terrible wrongdoings. He is the Ghost of the Ocean - terrifying, vengeful, merciless. Once, he was a troubled, forgotten, suffering child. But for you, who is he? He is simply Simon - thoughtful, gentle, kind-hearted, wise, bright-minded, protective, amusing, loving - your Simon. If you had asked him whether he ever thought he would become like this, he would have laughed in your face. But things are different now. His stone walls have begun to crumble, piece by piece, since he met you. His ice-covered heart melted at the sight of your happy smile.

From a curious girl who picked and crafted beautiful pieces from seashells to offer as gifts to your loved ones, you evolved into the nameless mystical presence, one that survived the horrific attack of the Red Wave - a story told by survivors and sung about in children’s songs. But for him, who are you? You are selfless, soft-hearted, doting, sharp-witted, eloquent, loving - his darling. Since he came into your life, your broken soul began to fuse together, one shard at a time.

You had been praying for this moment to last forever, frozen in time, just the two of you. Yet, the realization that this can't happen to be true hit you as the boiling water shattered your unity. Quickly, Simon takes the pot from the stove, placing it on a spot so as not to get hurt by accident. He turns his body to face you, slowly closing the space between you.

“Better now, dear?” he asks with a light expression covering his features.

He is waiting for your response, which was slow to arrive. Your impulses get the best of you; you grasp his face, and soon, your lips are pressed together. A kiss that begins with you soon becomes guided by Simon, as you find yourself unsure of what to do next. What started as awkward pecks evolved into a more intense kiss, filled with passion, longing, and emotion. Hands caressing each other's faces, memorizing every contour with closed eyes, as if trying to preserve the moment in memory forever. From a gentle kiss, it transforms into a desperate one, consumed by the flames of the deep affection you held for each other. Each kiss, move, and touch was a declaration of love, marked by the promise of a happier and better future.

After a few moments, your lips finally part, both of you breathing heavily, your eyes shimmering with sparkles of hope and unspoken emotions. You cradle each other’s faces with such affection, looking into each other’s eyes and pleading for this to be true. It felt as if one wrong move could make everything vanish - your presence would become mist, evaporating into thin air. It was too good to be true, yet this was real and tangible. You could feel his facial muscles move under your touch - he was smiling, and so were you. Both of you let out a chuckle of disbelief, especially you, as you never thought you would be this bold.

“Yes… everything is better now,” you break the silence, still holding his face and running your thumbs over the smile lines etched into his skin. You crave to always see him this happy and, at the same time, want to be the reason he is.

“I can clearly see that. You are daring, love. I’ve got to say, I quite like it,” Simon responds with adoration in his voice, tucking some loose strands of hair behind your ear to get a better look at your face.

All it took was a moment of vulnerability, trust, and profound tenderness for you both to truly realize that your souls belong together, intricately intertwined forever - a bond secured by the unbreakable chain of fate. With him hugging you from behind, his arms wrapped around your waist and his face nestled in the crook of your neck as you stand on the veranda, enjoying a warm cup of tea and gazing at the beautiful view as the sun's rays break through the thick veil of clouds. You think: “Silence is better together.”

Taglist: @bunny7567

Let me know if you'd like to be added to the taglist for future updates :)

Seeing Double - Chapter 3

Pairings - Simon “Ghost” Riley x MacTavish!Reader, Platonic! John “Soap” MacTavish x MacTavish Reader, Platonic! Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader

Summary - You are sent with Ghost and Soap to Mexico on your first team mission. But was it really your first?

Warnings - consumption of alcohol, mentions of past trauma, discussions of past trauma, jealousy, suggestive content, discussions of violence, adults cursing, angst but comfort I swear.

Author's Notes- Spanish is used bc reader, as a translator, is a #billingual queen but there is an immediate translation right after spanish is used and it is marked by only italicizing, if it's italicized and has 'these' then that's a direct inner thought. To my Spanish speaking readers or bilingual readers, I apologize if I fucked up anything. Im using the Spanish I learned growing up on my dad’s side of the family in Texas and almost 2.5 years of learning Spanish in highschool and college. My Spanish is more South Texas based but I still learned northern Mexican slang from my tíos. Anyways I hope you enjoy. Bear with me because some of the gender wasn’t translating pero es todo bien.

Word Count - 8k.. yeah ik. I’m shocked too.

Masterlist / Pt.1 , Pt.2 (this is a series but ig you can treat it as a stand alone)

“In how long?” John spoke, briefly peeking at the mission file.

“A week. I’m giving you time to prepare Banshee for using her translating skills as you’ll be working with Los Vaqueros again.” Laswell nodded to them.

“What for?” You piped up. Everyone turned to look at you, not because you spoke out of turn but because you usually waited for someone to speak to you.

“We have intel that Hassan might be in the mountains nearby Las Almas. You’ll find out more when you arrive. ” Kate responded, respecting your piqued curiosity.

You nodded to yourself. You did need to scrub up on your Spanish even if you were fluent.

The week passed by quick as you hit the books and the range. You had taken the time to bond with Gaz as the man tried to pick up a few languages from you. Price keeps you far from the mats after your blood bath with Ghost. Speaking of him, the masked man was oddly never around. Only there for meal times and maybe a glimpse at him before bed.

You didn’t see him again until the night before you were to be sent out with them to Mexico. You had been so focused on working through your knife throwing that you didn’t realize the time had passed until it was midnight. Six hours until you were to be on an aircraft headed to Las Almas.

Dull thuds filled the room as you sunk your knife again and again into the target. A masked figure passing by the door before stopping.

“Can’t sleep?” Ghost spoke as you retrieved your knives. You nearly jumped out of your skin at his voice, noticing him in the shadows of the entryway.

“Never been able to on the night before a mission.” You omitted as you took your stance again. Anything was better than looking at him. Quiet fell over the both of you as he watched. You could feel him studying you as you ran your drills.

Eager to break the silence, you remembered from Johnny that Ghost was quite the fan of dad jokes so you decided to try them out, “Sir, Do you know what sprinters eat before their race?” You spoke.

He spoke nothing but you got the feeling he was waiting for the punchline.

“Nothing, they fast.” You spoke. He froze for a moment before a sigh of air left his mouth almost similar to a chuckle but not quite. Relief flooded your body at breaking some of the tension. What you were not expecting was for him to give you one of his own.

“What do you call a pig that practices karate?” Ghost’s voice came out low as if he too had been starving himself of sleep.

A beat passed as you gave him a hum of interest.

“Pork chop.”

Ghost froze as the sound of a giggle slipped from your lips. Your shoulders sluggish as you threw the final knife but it still fell in line with the others. You gathered your knives and put them away slowly. You turned to face him only to find the doorway empty.

You didn’t see the lieutenant again until you made your way to the tarmac early the next morning. You had all your gear on from head to toe including a new pair of black shades to cover your eyes. Your hair was pulled up as you adjusted your vest. It weighed heavy on you almost as if the weight of your last team mission was still suffocating you.

Ghost stood off to the side with Price as they spoke with your pilot and Gaz. The masked man nodded to Price, listening but his eyes traced you as you walked up to the aircraft confidently. Something Gaz nor Price failed to catch upon but dismissed it under the idea that the man didn’t trust you yet.

Johnny had already made his way onto the aircraft as he turned around to extend a hand to you. Almost as if he had sensed that you would need a helping hand. You clasped his hand tightly as he pulled you up with a grunt.

Both of you exchanged a smile as the engine of the aircraft roared to life. Wind suddenly pushing through the entryway, sending a chill down your spine.

“Just like old times aye?” Johnny said as he held up a fist bump.

“Aye, just like old times.” You replied as you knocked knuckles, ignoring the growing bubble of worry in your gut. Oh how you hoped it would be different this time. You settled in next to your brother and got ready for the ride.

Ghost noticed how you never fully relaxed even as your twin, your supposed mirror image, Soap fell dead asleep on the flight over to Mexico. You had avoided his eye contact again for the whole plane ride, letting it fall to the floor or rise to the ceiling above.

You constantly adjusted everything even as the three of you left the aircraft. Something was bothering you and your commanding officer itched to know why. What was making you twitch. He felt his curiosity blooming in his chest before letting it die as a gruff voice cut through the air.

“Alejandro!” Soap cheered, a loud clap sounded through the air as their hands met in a firm shake and a quick nod.

“Glad to see you made it over in one piece, Jabón” Alejandro said as his gaze peered over to Soap’s teammate, not failing to notice the third set of feet hidden behind the two men.

Alejandro scanned over Ghost quickly as he spoke, “Lieutenant. Laswell says they call you Ghost.”

Soap practically lunged at the opportunity to interject, “Colonel, he actually he prefers to be called-”

“That’ll do.” Ghost cut him off quickly.

“And who is this behind you?” Alejandro said as Soap and Ghost stepped aside to reveal you standing there.

“Aye this is my twin sister-” Soap stopped short as the Colonel pulled you in for a tight embrace. Silencing both the lieutenant and Sergeant completely because you didn’t frown or even flinch at the sudden invasion of your personal space, something completely out of the norm for you.

“Chiqui! Aye qué bueno verte de nuevo!” Little girl (affectionately)! How good to see you again! The spanish slipped free from his tongue as you both separated. His hands lingered on yours as you step back. A small blush on your cheeks.

“Y a ti también. Pero creo que te dije que ya no me llamaras chiqui, no?” And you as well. But I believe I told you not to call me little girl anymore, no? Your eyebrow cocked up at him. A deep rumble leaving his throat as Soap cleared his own to cut through the conversation.

“Alright, Alright. Let us join the others back at the base hermanos!” Alejandro spoke to the group as you all began walking to the vehicle. Out of the corner of the lieutenant’s eyes, he saw the way you and Soap geared up to fight for the front seat, only to be disappointed when Alejandro climbed into the shotgun.

“Welcome to the city of souls, hermanos! A Bienvenidos de nuevo, Chiqui” Welcome back, Chiqui. Alejandro cheered as you all piled into the jeep. Soap took the seat behind the driver, and you slid in the middle, leaving Ghost to take the seat behind Alejandro. For once, you didn’t bristle at being so close to the lieutenant. A soft gasp left the driver as brown eyes met your own through the mirror, even if your eyes were shielded by the dark sunglasses.

“No mames, güey.” No way, dude. The driver interjected as he peered around the seat to see you. Your soft gaze meeting his own shocked one. A gruff noise left Ghost’s mouth to interject the moment and cut it off. This whole thing was starting to get on his nerves.

“Hola Rudy” you smiled. “Lieutenant, this is Sergeant Major Roldofo, everyone calls him Rudy. Rudy, este es mi teniente. Estoy seguro de que no necesitas presentación a Jabón.” Rudy, this is my lieutenant. I am sure that you need no introduction to Soap. Your hand pointing to each man as you introduced them. Your brain easily slid into place as you slipped between the languages.

“Tengo miedo de los fantasmas” Rudy shuddered slightly. Ghost’s head barely turned towards you, waiting for the translation.

“He said he has a fear of Ghosts.” You smiled playfully, shoving Rudy to turn around as you waited for the jeep to go.

“¡Vamos hermanos!” Let’s go brothers! Alejandro said as Rudy’s foot roughly slammed into the gas pedal as the jeep took off. A smile slowly creeped onto your face as you suddenly felt the wind in your hair again. Your shades protect you from the harsh glare of the sun. Maybe it wasn’t so bad to be back.

Soap peered out the window as they made their way into Las Almas. Outskirts of the sandy town were covered in graffiti as the houses came into view. Soap suddenly gripped his rifle as Ghost tensed up, both of them spotting a vehicle in the distance and strange men in masks covering the town.

“One black vehicle, about three men armed along the entrance” Soap called forward to Alejandro and Rudy. For half a second Ghost almost cursed at your poor reaction time until he heard Alejandro interject

“Cálmate, hermano. Es todo bien.” Calm yourself brother. Everything is fine. He spoke up, and then followed up with an explanation. “Las Almas is dangerous and the cartel here plays dirty. But I promise you those who are here to ‘uphold the law’ never succeed for long. Not until Narcos slips money into their pockets and women into their laps.”

“What about the military?” Ghost spoke out. His confusion masked behind a voice of concern.

“Es lo mismo. We’re even more likely to be corrupted and turned into working for the narcos because of our combat skills.” It’s the same. Alejandro nodded to the men ahead as he spoke.

“So why haven’t you been corrupted yet?” Ghost responded almost immediately. Just because you and Soap trusted these men doesn’t mean he has to. He only trusts you through an association of Johnny.

Alejandro knew why he asked but it didn’t stop his tongue from clicking as he responded. Pride swelled in his chest as he spoke. The honesty of his voice silenced any doubt. “We grew up here. The locals call us Los Vaqueros, the cowboys, for a reason. Anyone who calls himself or herself such a name and fights beside me is willing to die for the sake of saving even an inch of this city.”

Soap could see the love the man had for his community as they passed by women and children on the street. He silently wondered why they looked so happy in such a dangerous town. Did they not know what was going on?

“Be weary of the civilians. Yes we are welcoming of strangers but just remember that anyone can be turned into a piece of intel for Narcos. They can be quite.. charismatic.” Rudy spoke to the men.

“Even the children and women?”

“Especialmente las mujeres y los niños.” Especially the women and children, Rudy responded almost immediately.

Ghost nodded as Rudy hummed in agreement as they pulled up closer to the base. You were oddly silent as you took in how the base has evolved. Rudy pulled up to the gate and only had to look at the officer before being let in. You noticed how the sun was beginning to turn the sky orange. You missed how beautiful it was here. The heat not even bothering you as the open windows of the jeep gave your baby hairs around your face a beautiful framing. For just a mere moment you could forget why you left.

The sound of a car door opening pulled you out of your thoughts as Ghost and Soap quickly exited the vehicle. Everyone grabbing their respective bags. Rudy quickly matched your pace and stood to the left of you as Soap walked on your right.

“Veo que sigues siendo la boca de tu escuadrón, Chiqui” I see you’re still the mouth of your squadron. Rudy smiled before slipping into spanglish, “Do either of los güeros speak spanish, or sola tú?” Either of the white boys (like fair-skinned) speak spanish or just you? You could tell why he wanted to know but kept your mouth shut as you nodded to your brother.

“Mi hermano puede placticar un poco, pero solo lo sabe las palabras malas.” My brother can conversate a little, but he only knows the bad words. You responded as you glanced at Johnny. Noticing how he looked a little down.

Johnny’s heart sunk a little in his chest. Just how much of your new life had he missed? How did he not know that you had already met them and formed these close ties. You pulled him out of his thoughts as you ruffled his hair.

“So Jabón, why didn’t you tell me that you were related to Chiqui here, hm?” Rudy spoke, “we could’ve traded stories about her”

“I didn’t keen ye knew ‘er like tha.” Johnny said, suddenly meeting the Sergeant Major’s eyes, “How do ye know ‘er?”

Memories flashed across your eyes as you remember how you met the Mexican task force. How you came here stumbling around like a lost child when you were first assigned. The sounds of music flooding your ears as images of you dancing with a certain brown eyed man flashed across your eyes. The late night steak outs and the embarrassing moments of learning how Spanish is truly spoken and used. The images stopped and memories turned sour as you then remembered why you left, or why you were dismissed.

“She was assigned as our translator and infiltration specialist,” Rudy nodded, then he smiled as he jested a little, “Colonel over there thought it might be hard for military men to lure secrets from men as we are not their usual type. So we decided we needed someone more.. convincing. But we couldn’t trust any woman in this country so Alejandro sent a request to the Americans, and your sister showed up.”

“They were my first team after I stopped requesting solo missions.” You added on. Soap sighed at the notion that you were used to be bait for the corrupt men of this town to slip their secrets into. A silence fell over the group until you three walked into the living quarters of the base.

“Why do you and the colonel call her Chiqui?” Soap then turned to ask. His accent loosely stumbled around the nickname even if he said it confidently but he didn’t care. His curiosity bugged him. Sure, you’d let superiors walk over you but giving you a nickname was entirely different. It was intimate. Something he didn’t know you could do with others outside of the family or your small circle of friends.

Rudy’s eyes met yours, asking for permission to tell. You blinked slowly, even unsure of the action yourself.

“She didn’t have a callsign by then and kept on speaking Spanish like a little kid. Mumbling over her words, speaking quickly, and using basic phrases, too scared to be more complex. It was cute and Chiqui is short for Chiquita. Chiquita means little girl, but it’s friendly.”

“The name stuck even after I improved my spanish during my stay here.” You added ruffling up Rudy’s hair.

“You’d always be the kid on the team, Chiqui.” Rudy smirked. “Let’s get you settled into your quarters and then maybe you three would like to join us at the bar?” He was inviting you two but specifically met your eyes first then glanced at Johnny.

Ghost had disappeared off somewhere with Alejandro, probably forming a plan for tomorrow.

“Jabón, you’ll be down the hall with El Fantasma” Ghost. Rudy said as he walked the man down to the room and Soap walked through the entrance, dropping his bags quickly.

“Johnny ye coming tonight?” You looked at him and waited for him to say something

“Ye ever known me to be a lad who turned down a good time?” Johnny shot back at you.

“Never.” You nodded

“Then ye have your answer. I’m going to shower.” He said and closed his door but not before smiling at Rudy.

Rudy nodded as the door closed and he turned to you, walked you to your room, a few doors down the hallway.

“Dormirás en esta habitación” You’ll be sleeping in this room. Rudy nodded. You sighed as you opened it and recognized it as your old room. You saw how it had been scrubbed clean and bare for newer members but you knew it was yours as Rudy’s room was just across from it. Your doors mirror each other. You turned around to meet his gaze and sighed.

“Rudy..” the low whine left your lips as you frowned at him, your eyes tightening to form a glare at the man.

“Chiquita, Te prometo que estaba fuera de mi control. El coronel insistió en que durmieras aquí.” Chiquita, I promise you that it was out of my control. The Colonel insisted you sleep here. His hands flailing to his defense even with that small, guilty smile plastered onto his lips. Your firm mask slipping at the weight of your full nickname.

“Pero Johnny-” but Johnny-

“Jabón estaré bien.” Soap will be fine. Rudy finished the sentence off. His eyes scanning yours. Your name, your real name, fell from his lips as he looked at you. You finally dropped your mask as he enveloped you in a hug.

Over the course of your two years with the team, Rudy had been your best friend, your safe haven. Even if you blurred the lines at some moments you could always count on him to be there for you. Whether that was a lover in a moment of need or a listening ear when the world weighed too heavy to bear alone. He was your best friend, no matter how blurred that line became towards the end.

His warm muscular arms dug into your sides as he held you. A moment between you passed as your arms found his neck.

“Pensé que te habías ido para siempre. El coronel pensó lo mismo. He estado tan preocupada por ti, Chiqui. Lamento no haber ido contigo ese día. Pensé que no querías estar cerca de nosotros después de lo que sucedió.” I thought you were gone forever. The colonel thought the same thing. I've been so worried about you, Chiqui. I'm sorry I didn't go with you that day. I thought you didn't want to be around us after what happened. His words came out softly, the pain evident in his voice.

You pulled back to look him in the eye, a deep sigh passing through you.

“Nunca podría odiarte, eres mi mejor amigo. Nada cambiará eso. Lo que pasó no fue tu culpa, Rudy.” I could never hate you, you are my best friend. Nothing will change that. What happened wasn't your fault, Rudy. He knew that deep down but hearing it from you helped ease some of the weight still burdening him even now.

“Do they know?” He whispered as he pulled back. The man watching you as your brows furrowed.

“About what”

“Lo que pasó, contigo, con nosotros, con esos malvados bastardos.” What happened, with you, with us, with those evil bastards. Your body froze a little at it all, the memories rushing back to your head.

“No. Se lo diré a los chicos y a Johnny cuando esté listo.” I will tell the boys and Johnny when I am ready. Rudy sighed and sat on your bed while you grabbed your bags, and then a thought crossed his mind.

“So you have a callsign?” Rudy said in English as he watched you unpack. His eyebrow quirked up at you.

“Me llaman Banshee, como la mujer” They call me Banshee, like the woman. The name made him tense up. The realization of the legend hit him, the symbolism, and his expression changed

“Hijole” Fuck/Jeez. He grumbled as the shock washed over his face. “Pinche cabrón” fucking asshole. The man didn’t have to do rocket science to know exactly who gave you that callsign.

His eyes flashed over in anger as he too remembered it all. His memories of your spine-curling screams suddenly whisper into his ear as his brain flashed the images of how scared you looked. How much fucking blood you were covered in-

“Rudy. I am fine, I actually like it, it’s..” your eyes searched for the word but he beat you to it first.

“Chingón,” he murmured as he stood up, "Badass.”

You nodded as he smiled at you, the man heading for the door. “¿Sálvame un baile, Chiquita?” Save me a dance? He questioned you with a knowing look, already predicting your answer.

You nodded as you shot back, “si el coronel no los roba todos primero” if the colonel doesn’t steal them all. You smiled knowing deep down that you’d give him a dance anyway.

“Si todavía puedes bailar, eso es, Chiqui” if you can still dance, that is. He shot back, trying to goad you like he used to do. Only to be met with your door closing in his face and a muffled giggle coming from behind it.

Rudy’s hair stood on the end of his neck, the chuckle dying in his throat, as he peered down the hall to see a certain blue-eyed Lieutenant watching him closely.

“Pinche Fantasmas” fucking ghost. The man muttering a curse under his breath as he turned in and walked into his own room.

As the sun laid low in the sky, the four men were waiting next to the jeep. Everyone was in civilian clothes to various degrees but all men were cautiously armed.

Ghost looked the most out of place out of all of them as he was in all black from his combat boots, to his pants and his top, his balaclava stuck to his face like a second skin. All of them had obvious hand guns in various places on their body.

Soap was in combat boots as well but more dressed for the sandy weather. He was in some jeans, a nice cool t-shirt, the chain of his dog tags peeking out at his neckline.

Alejandro and Rudy were both respectively dressed in a distinct style with square toed cowboy boots, and slightly baggy jeans that fluffed out at the bottom in a boot-cut manner. Their boots looked worn down over time. Both men were ready for a good time before the hell of a mission tomorrow.

“So why are ye dressed up like it’s a party tonight?” Soap questioned the two men curiously.

“Because everywhere there’s a bar, there’s music and where there’s music-” Alejandro was cut off suddenly but your voice.

“There’s dancing” you finished the sentence as you stepped into view of the four men. This was the first time Ghost had seen you in civilian clothes and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t letting his eyes rake over you a little slower than normal. You had obviously packed with suspicion of the boys dragging you out.

You had black square toed cowgirl boots tucked underneath a beautiful pair of boot-cut blue jeans. A black belt held it up at your waist and a tight black tee pulled at your chest. Your hair was cascading down your back in it’s usual manner, you had obviously styled after your shower. You were covered in your usual assortment of jewelry, your sunglasses long gone. Glittering up at him like a jewel just barely out of his reach.

“Jeez, Sis, did ye even have a place to hide your weapons?” Johnny teased as watched his fellow men admiring you in silence.

“A woman doesn’t strap and tell” You said with a wink, your own heart pounding a little under all the attention.

“Vamos!” Let’s go! Alejandro called out as everyone got in the car. Everyone returned to the spots they took on the ride over. Rudy roared the jeep to life as he pulled out. Purposely putting a hand on the back of Alejandro’s seat to peer around to look at you and give you a grin.

Now that Ghost was closer to you, he noticed a jagged scar over your right eye, stopping just short of reaching your eyelids. It was violent and looked like it caused permanent damage and yet that only intrigued him more. He never noticed it before as he assumed you wore contact on that eye around base to hide it since sunglasses were not allowed in every room unlike Ghost’s facial coverings.

“Chiqui, blocking my view-”

“Yo sé.” I know. You clipped as you suddenly bent over. Your belt keeps your jeans down as your shirt rides up. You made your back horizontal as your hips slightly arched to make it comfortable as you completely moved out his rear window.

Ghost swears he tried to look away but his eyes were glued to your back, noticing the way your hips wiggled a little to get comfortable. Your tight black tee riding up your back as your hair fell forward a little to reveal the delicate skin underneath the cloth. Just under the hem of your tee he spotted two identical scars.

However, Rudy finally finished backing out and turning around the jeep. So your back snapped back up into place and met the back of your seat. Your shoulders gently brushing his own and Johnny’s.

.

Speaking of proximity, when Ghost took a deep breath to remind himself of his own boundary with you, the scent of your perfume invaded his senses. He swears he could smell every step of your routine from your shampoo to your lotion to that intoxicating perfume.

“Fuck yer stinking up the damn car. How am I supposed to bring home any ladies tonight if yer stink is rubbed all over me.” Soap whined softly.

“You can’t bring back women to the base anyway, Jabón.” Rudy said with a laugh at the Scotsman's dismay.

Soap was curiously looking at you for an answer so you decided to explain, “it’s the night before our mission so you shouldn’t be sleeping around, and any woman you sleep with here could be an informant for Narcos.”

A frown fell on his face as Alejandro spoke up in an attempt to console his fellow man, “You can still dance and flirt with them all you want. Just remember Jabón, anyone can work for the cartel.”

Ghost nearly rolled his eyes as he peered out the window at the setting sun in the horizon. The last thing they needed was a tipsy sergeant.

His wishes fell on deaf ears as they arrived, you and Rudy hitting the bar to order rounds. The masked giant suddenly took in the entire bar as they entered. Loud norteño music filled the air as did the laughter and the roaring conversations. People stared at him but not before failing to meet his gaze leaving him alone. He also scanned over to see the groups of men and women dancing in pairs.

The couples were so close, especially to him, embracing in a hold on their left side as their right hands interlaced and the men led their partners in dance. Chest to chest and heads right next to each other. Pairs of women being spun around in rhythm to the faster-paced music. Their legs intertwined as the knee of one man’s leg went in-between the woman’s own two. He also didn’t miss how occasionally the women were lifted up and then grinded down onto the thigh of the partner quickly before being put back down and spinning again.

“Do you know how to dance, Fantasma?” Alejandro asked the man, trying to make conversation. The three men piling into a corner booth with a full view of the dance floor.

The man shook his head as Soap answered for him.

“L.T. here has two left feet when it comes to dancing.” Johnny grinned as he said that. Johnny himself also noticed the dancing, the proximity, the rhythm.

“And what about you, Jabón?”

“I can dance but not like that.” Johnny responded, gesturing casually to the couples. Alejandro chuckled for a moment at his honesty.

“Your sister thought the same, you know, then we taught her and by the end of her stay, she would be the one dragging us to dance instead of the other way around.”

“What caused her to leave? I understand that she was pretty close with you after two years.” Johnny said curiously. Alejandro paused, trying to find a way to avoid answering, taking notice of how her own twin brother didn’t even know the circumstances.

Luckily, he didn’t have to avoid answering as you came back to the table victoriously. You and Rudy are holding ice cold bottles of beer with limes stuck in the rim to cover the opening. He also noticed the shot glasses of tequila on a platter.

You passed Ghost and Johnny each a beer, both thanking you as you handed out shots as well. Ghost gently pushed his shot back, to which you cocked an eyebrow but didn’t bother. Gleefully taking the extra shot before your brother could snag it.

“Salud!” Cheers! You, Rudy, and Alejandro said as the beer bottles held by the boys and your tequila glasses clinked together. The lieutenant’s hand shooting up to lift his mask just above his lips, the top one still slightly swollen from your move on the mat a week ago. Ghost’s eyes held your own for a mere second as he sipped his beer before you broke his gaze to take the shot. Everyone began consuming their drinks, and taking their own shot of tequila. Except for Ghost, he was watching you take his shot.

Your wet, pink tongue flickered out to wrap around the rim of the glass and lick the salt off, before shooting the clear liquor past your lips, then your glistening lips enveloped the lime and sucked out its juices. You repeated the process for the second shot as well, failing to meet his gaze. Ghost felt his pants grow just a little tighter as he watched the entire routine.

He quickly tensed up realizing what he had done before glancing to everyone around the table. The man was eternally grateful for the mask as he felt his cheeks dust. Rudy and Soap deep in conversation about different beers around the world as he breathed a short sigh of relief. Your gaze on two men arguing over something as silly as piss water.

‘Idiot. You’re lucky nobody noticed.’ The man internally chastised himself again.

Alejandro then stood up and looked at you, “quieres bailar, Chiqui?” Want to dance? Alejandro’s hand shooting out to take your own.

“Can ye manage without a translator for a while?” You said, your gaze directly pointed at Soap.

“Aye, ye have fun, sis. But not too much.” Soap said with a wink as he pushed you and subsequently Alejandro away from the table. Sure he didn’t want to see his sister grind on a comrade’s thigh or any person’s thigh for that matter but you were a grown woman, and obviously you trusted the Colonel.

“Vamos a bailar, Ale” Let’s go dance. You said as the man joined you on the floor. His strong hand embraced your own gently as you wrapped an arm around his shoulder. His arm quickly found your lower back. He smiled at you as you both began spinning. The liquor made your skin buzz just barely as the music practically thrummed through your veins. You ignored the feeling of eyes on you as you assumed it was just the locals watching you dance with an infamous vaquero. Some of the older locals recognized your face from your time here before.

However they weren’t the only pair of eyes on you as you danced. Ghost slowly sipped his beer as the sounds of your giggles cut through the crowd. Your lips moved as did Alejandro’s as you murmured to each other while dancing. The man is unable to decipher any of it due to limited vision of your lips, lack of knowledge for the language, and the distance. He couldn’t help but wish things were different.

‘What the hell were you doing to him.’ He thought as he focused on Soap and Rudy. The two grown men laughed and caused a commotion as they shifted to battle stories.

The night continued on as more beers were ordered. You finally sauntered back over with Alejandro in tow.

“Rudy, agh. Ayudame.” Help me. Alejandro groaned as he made it to the table, playfully teasing you. You held two more shots in hand as well as fresh beer for the boys.

Soap recognized the command and looked worried for a moment until your quip came back as you pushed him into the booth just as Rudy rose to the occasion.

“Me invitaste a bailar. No es mi culpa que seas un viejo.” You invited me to dance. It’s not my fault you’re an old man. You rolled your eyes before translating. “Ale here forgets that his knees are getting rusty and he wants to blame me.”

“Ale?” Soap said with an eyebrow quirk which you answered with a look alone.

“Te respado, Ale.” I got your back, Ale. Rudy said as he bumped your hips with your own. “Chiqui, tú sabes que no es agradable pegar a un viejo.” Chiqui, you know it's not nice to bully an old man.

You shot the Sergeant Major a look as Soap, Alejandro, and Ghost took the fresh beer bottles from your hand. Your cheeks thrumming with a slight flush of warmth from the liquor coursing through your body.

“You sure you don’t want to take a break?” Soap looked up with concern.

“Oh she’s just getting started unfortunately.” Alejandro chuckled at you as you shared a shot with Rudy. The two of you walked off together, laughing as you shoved each other.

Ghost was suddenly washed over a feeling of jealousy as he watched you dance with your old teammate. Your hips grinding downward onto his thigh in perfect rhythm each time he lifted you up. A laugh leaves your lips as the man whispers things in your ear, his hand resting low on your back. In truth, Rudy was just constantly pulling down the back of your shirt to avoid your scars being revealed. A warmth blooms in your chest as you recognize the habit. But Ghost didn’t see it as that, how could he?

Why was it that you were so comfortable taking the mask off with these men when he had to force it out of you in a spar. Johnny even had to take a moment with you for you to soften up with him again and he is your own family.. What was so trustworthy about these men? Sure you spent two years with these men, bled with them, drank with them, you did it all. But you were his teammate, a member of his task force, not theirs, not anymore. All of these thoughts flooded his brain as he unknowingly gripped his beer tighter, his brows furrowing. Is Rudy the reason why you looked so stressed to come here? You just couldn’t bear the idea of your new team seeing how good you had it with your old one?

Johnny knocked his shoulders against Ghost to snap him back to reality.

“So how did you two manage to get so close to my sister? I haven’t seen her this carefree in a while.” Soap questioned. He hadn’t seen you this carefree since before you started being sent on missions abroad. That’s what he meant to say, but bit his tongue carefully.

“She learned to trust us just as she did you” Alejandro answered calmly as he sipped his beer. The cold beer easing the fiery ache in the older man’s body. Alejandro’s answer irked Ghost but he didn’t show it.

That’s the problem. You didn’t trust him. Sure you trusted Johnny but that’s your family. He’s your commanding officer, your superior, you’re in his care and yet you act like he’s going to suddenly snap whenever he’s around. You can barely hold his gaze or be close to him, meanwhile you can grind on your old teammate without any care and practically share the same breaths of air like it was the only oxygen left.

“And Rudy is the same?” Soap quirked up an eyebrow. Ghost listened closely and watched the Colonel. Alejandro let out a deep chuckle at the question as if a joke was said.

“Rudy and Chiqui are different from Rudy and I. I mean they’re different. Sure, Rudy is my right hand man but Chiqui spent a lot of time with him. They always had each other's back. I mean they used to leave base just to go dance alone at the bar after every mission. He taught her everything. I used to catch them staying up late practicing her Spanish as she taught Rudy how to throw knives. Then I would have to send them to bed and make sure they didn’t follow each other back to the same room.”

“How is that different?” Soap said, “I assume you also taught her something.”

“There’s a phrase we use to describe friends like them. Un amigo es el que intenta levantarte cuando te has caído. Si no logra levantarte, se acuesta a tu lado para escucharte” Alejandro paused. He translated first, having momentarily forgotten the Mactavish twins weren’t completely the same, and then continued his train of thought.

“A friend will try to get you on your feet when you fall. If he fails, then he will lay down on your side and listen to you. Chiqui went through a lot here, especially with this being her first team. She should’ve been sent to somewhere that could ease her into the fire. Instead she was thrown in like a rag doll. Rudy helped her adjust and they became close. I can confidently say they were best friends through and through.”

“Ye dinnae ken me Colonel. I’m asking if my twin has had any history with yer man.” Soap finally said, his look getting serious. Alejandro nodded, finally understanding what the shorter man was getting at.

“Jabón. Under the hot desert sun that plagues Las Almas, even the most clearly drawn lines in the sand can become easily brushed over. Now what your hermana tells you is her business, not mine. She may not be my soldier anymore or under my care, but I will still respect her boundaries. So if you want to know so badly, ask her.” Alejandro said, a serious look appearing on his face as well. The sergeant loosened up on his questioning. Soap could understand why everyone respects the man so much. Soap let out a deep sigh as he peeked at you and Rudy still dancing together. He turned his head back to the table and took notice of the grip Ghost had on his beer. Alejandro following the Scotsman's gaze.

“Todo bien, Fantasma?” All good, Ghost? Alejandro murmured, the two men looking up at him.

“Yeah, I just need a smoke break. Johnny could you scootch-”

“Yeah I got ye.” Johnny said as he let the older man out. Even the nosy sergeant knew not to push his lieutenant when he was this bothered. As Ghost walked out, quickly popping a cigarette and a light into his hands right as he passed through the entryway, exiting into the night.

You noticed Ghost leaving and faltered a step. Rudy noticed and gave you a look. His hand momentarily tightening on your back then relaxing.

“¿Qué pasó Chiqui?” What’s wrong? He whispered into your ear before noticing the way you faltered. The man silently prayed that you were finally done, but a realization passed over his face as he noticed the absence of the lieutenant.

“No pasa nada.” Nothing You responded quickly.

“Ah. El Fantasma.” he chuckled in your ear, a knowing tone to his voice.

“Cállate Rudy. No te metas en algo que no está ahí” Shut up, Rudy. Don’t interfere in something that isn’t there.

“Pero es la problema. No?” But that’s the problem, no? He shot back.

“Rudy.” You spoke roughly, your tone clearly drawing a line.

“Bien, como dijiste que no pasó nada” Fine, just like you said nothing happened. He said, dropping the subject just as fast as it came up. “Pero siempre puedes hablar conmigo, como en los viejos tiempos” But you can always talk to me, like old times.

“Ya no podemos ser como en los viejos tiempos. Solo somos amigos. Ambos estuvimos de acuerdo con eso antes de que sucediera.” We can't be like old times anymore. We're just friends. We both agreed to that before it happened. You whispered in his ear, a saddening note was attached to how you spoke.

Suddenly the liquor turned sour into your stomach and the ache of being on your feet for so long finally got to you. You slowly pulled back from the man with a look, both of you knowing that you were done for the night.

The man nodded, immediately understanding but a part of him ached at your allusion to the incident. He knew what incident you were referring to. That incident when they let you slip through their fingers like the sand that blows through Los Almas. The one time they couldn’t fail and they did anyway.

“Chiqui, siempre estaré aquí para ti” I’ll always be here for you. He said as you both removed yourselves from each other and walked back to the table.

“Yo sé, Rudy. Y siempre estaré aquí para ti” I know, and I will always be here for you. You nodded back.

“Finally done?” Soap smiled at you, knowing that tired look you had on your face. “I hope it was worth it.” He teased you.

“Oh it was worth it.” You nodded, “¿Estamos listos para salir?” Are we ready to leave? You questioned the men with a sigh.

“Finally. I was praying you’d let up soon.” Alejandro said as you all made your way out the door. Even as the moon was high in the sky, everyone could feel the fatigue ache into their bones.

Your eyes immediately scanned for Simon. The man illuminated in the moonlight as he stood next to the jeep. His cigarette long squished out into the ground below.

The ride back to base was silent. Ghost peered down at you as you held his gaze. Neither of you spoke as you took a moment to stare into his glaring blue eyes. You couldn’t understand what ruffled the man’s feathers but you wouldn’t press him.

A soft whine escaped your lips as you walked back to your room. Johnny followed in suit as he went into the room. Ghost stood outside the door, allowing his sergeant time to change and decompress. Ghost knew that Johnny was worried about you and his conversation with Alejandro eased some of his worries while heightening others. Just as he was about to turn in, he noticed a light was on in the room across from yours. He slowly stalked over to the door, standing right beside it and focusing in on the two voices.

“Estoy preocupado por ella, Ale. Ella se niega a abrirse a su teniente. Incluso su hermano no conoce la historia completa..” I'm worried about her, Ale. She refuses to open up to her lieutenant. Even her brother doesn't know the full events.

“Lo sé, Rudy. Pero lo que ellos saben es asunto suya. Quiero decir, si estuvieras en su posición, ¿serías diferente? Le tomó semanas abrirle a ti y luego, justo cuando mejoró, le fallamos. Ella estuvo atrapada aquí durante una semana con esos malvados bastardos. ¿Sabes las cosas que le hicieron? ¿lo que la hicieron hacer?” I know, Rudy. But what they know is their business. I mean if you were in her position, would you be any different? It took her weeks to open up to you and then just when it got better, we failed her. She was stuck here for a week with those evil bastards. You know the things they did to her? What they made her do?

“Sé exactamente lo hicieron. Yo estuve allí! ¿O has olvidado quién entró primero en esa habitación? Quién escuchó su gritos durante horas hasta que nos dieron permiso para entrar? ¿Quién llevó su cuerpo ensangrentado de vuelta a la enfermería? ¿Quién se quedaba junto a su cama todas las malditas noches porque se despertaba gritando como si nunca saliera de esa habitación? ¡Lo hice! ¡Lo hice todo! Yo estaba allí para ella cuando nadie más estaba. ¡Ni siquiera podías mirarla o estar en la misma habitación que ella! Tú eres el que dejó que ese General la robara de vuelta. ¡Sabías exactamente ese General que haría con Chiqui y sin embargo dejaste que sucediera.”

I know exactly what they did to her. I was there! Or have you forgotten who entered that room first? Who listened to her screams for hours until we were given permission to enter. Who carried her bloody body back to the infirmary? Who stayed by her bed every damn night because she would wake up screaming as if she never left that room? I did it. I did it all! I was there for her when no one else was. You couldn't even look at her or be in the same room as her! You're the one who let that General steal her back. You knew exactly what that General would do with Chiqui and yet you let it happen.

“Baja el tono, sargento mayor. No me viste detenerlo. Lo intenté. Pero él fue por encima de mí, a nuestros superiores.” Lower your tone, Sergeant Major. You didn't see me stop him. I tried. But he went above me, to our superiors.

“¿y qué hubiera pasado si hubiera sido Valeria en lugar de Chiqui? ¿te habrías esforzado más?” And what if it had been Valeria instead of Chiqui? Would you have tried harder?

He recognized the voices as Rudy and Alejandro but he couldn’t decipher it. All he knew was that they were talking about you. There was a long pause, something was said lower but Ghost couldn’t pick it up.

“Su hermano me interrogó sobre ti, mientras ustedes dos bailaban.” Her brother interrogated me about you, while you two danced.

“¿Jabón? ¿Qué quería saber?” Soap? What did he want to know?

“Tú relación con su hermana.” Your relationship to his sister.

“¿qué le dijiste?” What did you tell him?

“La verdad.” The truth.

“¿Todo?” All of it?

“No todo, pero algunas cosas están muy claras.” Not all of it, but some things are very clear.

“¿Como lo que?” Like what?

“Le dije que algunas líneas se difuminaron, pero sobre todo que eras su mejor amigo. También le dije que lo preguntara a ella porque el necesitaba escucharlo de ella, no de mí.” I told him that some lines were blurred, but mostly that you were her best friend. I also told him to ask her because he needed to hear it from her, not from me.

A deep sigh was heard as Ghost got closer to the door.

“¿Es por eso que Fantasma se fue?” Is that why Ghost left? The masked lieutenant tensed up at the mention of his name in spanish.

“Sí.” Yes.

“¿Quién está siendo metiche en mi puerta?” Who is being nosy at my door? Suddenly a pair approached the door. And it swung open, but Ghost was already gone.

“Rudy?” Alejandro spoke as he walked past the shorter man, standing in front of the entryway as Rudy stepped back into his own room.

“¿Mande?” yes/come again?

“Creo que ahora tienes una razón para temer a los fantasmas” I think you have a reason to fear ghosts now.

Author’s note - The girls are fiiiighting. I know I know. Lots of questions, and all will be answered in the upcoming chapters. I’m sorry I couldn’t resist reader being close with Los Vaqueros AND me getting an excuse to practice my Spanish. As always - I hope you enjoyed it! Reblogs, comments, and likes are all welcome!

My requests are open! Feel free to drop by and ask questions!

Masterlist / Pt. 1 , Pt. 2.

The Mask I Live With - pt 12

After a long week with work... I'm finally able to post the next chapter 😫 how was everyone's week?????????

Roommate|Reader x Simon Ghost Riley

The door creaked open again, causing you to look up and your chest tighten. Simon walked inside, his gear no longer on him, replaced by a simple black hoodie and cargo pants. Though his skull mask remained.

The two sergeants glanced at each other before Soap patted the side of your bed. "We'll go check on Danny. Let ya two talk." Gaz smirked but didn't say anything as they both left, shutting the door behind them.

Silence.

It was so quiet, except for the beeping of the monitor, you almost wanted to pass out again.

He stood there, hands shoved deep into his pockets like he wasn't sure what to do with them as he watched you. He was stiff like he was either restraining himself or forcing composure. You shifted, letting out a soft wince, and his eyes immediately dropped to your leg before looking back at your face.

You swallowed. "Did we get them?"

"Y'need to focus on gettin' better."

You blinked. "That wasn't an answer."

"Tha's the only answer you're gettin'."

You frowned but didn't push it. If he wasn't telling, then you probably didn't want to know. Instead, your gaze drifted down his form, taking in the tension that flowed over his body like he hadn't let himself rest.

"Are you okay?" You asked.

"Christ." He scoffed and shook his head. "You're the one in a hospital bed, and you're worried about me?"

You shrugged. "You look like hell." He shook his head again, but didn't deny it. There was something almost amusing in the way his eyes narrowed at you. You hesitated for a second before speaking again. "Thank you. For coming back for us."

"Didn't have a choice." He responded immediately.

Your brows furrowed. "What?"

"Wouldn't have left y'behind."

The way he said it—quiet but faithful—made your stomach twist. Like it wasn't even a question. Like there was never a world where he would've done anything else. It harder to breathe, your throat tightening for a response you couldn't form.

He shifted his weight, glancing toward the door like he was already halfway gone..... like this moment was already too much. "Should get some rest."

You wanted to say something else—wanted to stop him, ask what the hell this thing was between you; what it meant—but all you could do was nod.

******************************************************

When you were finally released from the hospital, you and Danny were placed on medical leave until you both recovered. No flying. No missions. No long hours in the hangar prepping aircrafts.

Just rest.

It should've been easy, but no......

You were told about his condition before you even saw him. The bullet wound in his neck had traveled and done serious damage - nerve and muscle trauma meant he wouldn't get in a helo for a long time. Months, maybe longer.

Still, his face split into a lopsided grin the second he saw you. "Damn, Riggs." He eyed your crutches. "We really know how to make an exit, huh?"

You playfully scoffed, lowering yourself carefully into the chair beside him. "Yeah, next time let's not get shot and crash a helo."

"Where's the fun in that?" He joked. Even with his usual sarcasm, you saw he was struggling. 

You knew it could've been worse. You both could have died. But the idea of Danny—your co-pilot, your best friend—being sidelined like this... it hit painfully deep.

Your own recovery was a hell too. The doctors were optimistic about your leg, but physical therapy was going to be brutal. You couldn't even walk without assistance—using the crutches they required you to have. It sucked..... 

You never realized how much you took something as simple as walking for granted until it became a whole goddamn process. Moving around the flat was annoying enough... but the first time you had to deal with the stairs? Absolutely infuriating.

You stood at the bottom, glaring up at them like they'd personally offended you.

"This is bullshit."

Simon, standing next to you, tilted his head slightly. "Y'gonna complain the whole way up?"

You huffed, adjusting your grip on the crutches. "I might."

He made a low, amused sound. "Need help?"

"No." You glared.

You should have accepted, but your pride was hanging on by a thread, and you refused to let a dumb ass staircase defeat you. So you gritted your teeth and started your slow, agonizing climb. It took way too long, your arms ached, and your leg throbbed....... by the time you reached the top, you were fucking out of breath.

He just stood there, unimpressed. "Took y'long enough."

"Screw you, Ghost." You shot him another glare, but it quickly vanished as you saw his eyes crinkle under his surgical mask. That's when you noticed something in that serious, yet comforting gaze he gave you...... it was full of...... care.

He also was just.... there.

More than usual.

A lot more actually.

At first, you thought it was a coincidence. He had always been in and out, missions taking him away for days or weeks at a time, but suddenly, he was home. Helping. Bringing you things before you even asked. Carrying stuff when he didn't have to. Making sure you were eating, and that you wereresting. You caught him glancing at you more, watching to make sure you weren't pushing yourself too hard.

And at some point, you found out that he hadn't gone on the next mission. That threw you off more than anything else cause he never sat out missions. But now?.... he was at the flat with you, being this constant, steady presence you hadn't expected.

Every time you wanted to ask him, the words stuck in your throat.

Why was he doing this? Why was he staying? What did it mean?

But you were too afraid of the answer.

Instead, you distracted yourself.. mostly by texting the group chat that had been blowing up ever since you and Danny got injured.

Danny : Morning cripples.

Soap : Aye Danny. How's the muscles?

Gaz : And how's our otherinvaliddoing?

You smirked at your phone before typing out a response.

You: I'm fine. Ghost helped me move some shit around earlier though.

It only took threeseconds before the chat exploded.

Soap: GHOST?? Helping you??? 😳

Danny: Again?

Gaz: Just ask him out already.

You: EXCUSE ME???

Soap: Come on lass we all see it. Man's been practically glued to your side since the crash.

Gaz: Yeah and he skipped a mission for you. When has he ever skipped a mission?

Danny: I told you. She's got some kinda spell on him.

You groaned, rubbing a hand over your face.

You: It's not like that. He's just making sure I don't die or something.

Soap: Oh yeah sure. Because he definitely watches over the rest of us like that.

Gaz: He's so into you.

Danny: He's a stubborn bastard, but so are you. Just ask him out.

Your stomach flipped wildly, and you hated that it did. 

Because the truth was... you had thought about it. More than twenty times. But you knew he wasn't the kind of man to—

Your phone buzzed again.

Soap: Bet she won't do it.

Gaz: Yeah no shit. She's too scared.

Danny: Pfft. You won't.

You scowled at your screen.

You: I can ask him out. I just don't want to.

Soap: Mmhm. Sure.

Gaz: Sounds like fear.

Danny: Sounds like excuses.

You groaned, throwing your phone onto the couch beside you. Because they weren't completely wrong. You were afraid......afraid of messing things up. Afraid of making things weird. Afraid that maybe he didn't feel the same way.

I swear we're getting closer and closer to them finally stopping the awkwardness and confessing their love lmao!!!

Pt. 1; Pt. 2; Pt. 3; Pt. 4; Pt. 5; Pt. 6; Pt. 7; Pt. 8; Pt. 9; Pt. 10; Pt. 11 (Simon POV)

Before The Ghost

taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @kittygonap @nappingmoon @chaos-4baby @ohdrey89 @skeletonsucker @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @roastyyytoastyyy @simonexxx1 @mrmountainman @thebumbqueen @lucienofthelakes @letiferian @jennamelinda12 @mulletmcghee @kittykatgorl @strawberrygato @ghostslollipop @emeraldeyes1805 @chaosundcoffee @whos-fran @fangirls94 @rafaelacallinybbay @quiet-loser @shondlenoodle @iceblossom1013 @sssophia0-0 @a-lil-bit-nuts

The Mask I Live With - Simon POV Of Crash

tw: injury; gunfire

Had a few people want to know what was Simon thinking during this time of the wreckage, and I loved the requests for it. This is that chapter, so I hope you all enjoy :)

Every sound felt amplified around them—every footstep, every time someone shifted in their gear, every breath through a comms mic.

They moved fast and low along the ridge, cutting a narrow path between boulders and dry brush. Each of them moved with routined precision... but Simon's mind was anywhere but here. The tension in his shoulders hadn't let up since they got off the helo. He felt like it was the countdown to something wrong. He couldn't figure out what, but his instincts were screaming that it was coming. 

Then of course.... it came.

"Danny?!" Your voice tore through the comms, loud and panicked.

He froze, breath catching in his throat.

"Shit—HOLD ON!"

His head snapped up, heart pounding in his chest before he saw it..... the dark silhouette of the helo in the barely lit sky jerking violently, trailing smoke as it spiraled in the distance. From where they were, it looked like it had been yanked straight out of the air. A streak of fire ignited the tail, followed by a sharp burst of orange as something exploded mid-flight.

"Tango-1 we're hit! We're going down! We—"

Static.

Silence.

"No." Simon whispered under his breath, legs already moving before he registered it. He broke formation, sprinting toward the edge of the slope to get a better view.

"Ghost!" Price's voice barked over the channel. 

But he didn't stop. He couldn't... not when he just heard you scream; not when the helo was falling out of the sky like that. There were rules. Protocol. Orders. But none of that meant anything right now.

He'd felt fear before..... anger....... but this? This was different.

This was you.

You...... who started to mean more than you should've to him. And now you were somewhere in that wreckage. Possibly—

He didn't even want to even think of the word as he felt the bile creep up in his stomach.

Soap caught up first, breathing hard. "We gotta move as a unit, mate. Price is calling for evac—"

"Then you fall back." Simon growled, not breaking his stride.

"Ghost—"

"I said go." His voice was firm, but damn near on the edge of breaking. He was already halfway down the slope, rifle tight in his grip.

"Hold up." Price's voice cut in again, louder now. "Simon—."

"I heard 'em go down." He snapped back, the words like rocks in his throat. "Not leavin' 'em out there."

It was silence in his headset for a moment before Price answered. "...Copy that... You, Soap, and Gaz take a couple Marines. Go to the crash. I'll finish with the rest and link up after."

No questions. No arguments. Just trust.

He didn't waste time replying as he pushed harder, boots digging into the mud as he continued down the hill. The fumes in the sky was getting thicker, rising fast. His lungs and eyes burned, but he didn't care.

He had to get to you.

But they didn't get far before shit hit the fan and plunged into chaos. Gunfire ripped through the trees ahead—short, controlled bursts. Shadows emerged from the rocks, moving in a hurry.

"Contact front!" Gaz called, already ducking for cover.

A bullet pinged off a nearby boulder, sending shards of stone into Simon's path. He dove behind a large rock, pulled his rifle up, and fired back.

"Ambush!" Soap shouted.

"Shit! We gotta get out of here!" One of the Marines shouted as they returned fire.

They had to get through this. They had to. There were at least seven of them, maybe more as Simon counted quickly between shooting again. Well-armed. Positioned high. Prepared for anyone chasing the crash site.

"Hold the line!" Soap yelled, but he barely heard him. His blood roared in his ears, muscles tense in his jaw, as he picked targets and dropped them fast. 

The last target went down with a clean shot from Gaz, his rifle cracking through the silence as the final body crumpled ahead of them. Smog from the gunfight still lingered in the air, mixing with the black plume rising steadily on the horizon.

"Clear!" One of the Marines called out, panting as he reloaded.

"Clear." Soap echoed, stepping out from behind the rocks. His face slick with sweat, jaw tight.

Simon didn't wait for anything else... he was already pushing forward again. Muscles coiled and burning as he pushed down the slope like a man possessed.

"We need to move—now!" He snapped over his shoulder.

They continued their way toward the crash, watching the smoke get thicker and thicker. A column rose faster, lit beneath by the dying flickers of fire still clinging to the downed helo. It was wrecked beyond recognition, from what they could see. Flames burned at the edges of the split blades, looking like something out of a movie. The tail rotor was gone. Debris scattered in a jagged line along the rocks and dirt.

"Go, go!" Soap shouted, waving the Marines forward.

Simon bolted toward the front of the helo, heart slamming in his chest. Every step brought him closer—too close—to the image that haunted him ever ever since he heard you yelled. He reached the shattered cockpit window first and peered inside, throat tightening instantly.

You were still there. Slumped in your seat, fumes curling around you, face almost relaxed under streaks of ash and blood, harness was still locked; unmoving. Danny was next to you, body limp, as blood smeared along his temple and neck, but his chest barely moved.

Simon shouted, already grabbing the edge of the door. "Got 'em!" Gaz and Soap rushed to the other side, a couple Marines just behind them. "Help me get it open!" He grunted to soldiers before bracing his foot and yanking.

The cockpit door groaned against warped metal, but it immediately gave way after a few heavy pulls. The second the panel swung wide, he climbed into the wreckage, smoke and heat washing over him.

His eyes locked on you.

"C'mon...." he thought. "Open y'eyes. Show me you're still in there."

You were barely breathing. Face slack, head tilted at a painful angle, blood dried at your temple and jaw... but you did. Your eyes fluttered opened slowly as you looked at him in a slight daze.

"You came for me?" You asked, voice weak but still giving him a smile.

He almost replied back with a smart comment.... he really wanted to. But he couldn't think straight. Not with you in the condition you were. 

"Course I did." Was all that came from him. 

He reached for your harness, fingers fumbling only slightly as he unclipped each strap as you let chuckled, but winced, making him still briefly. He could hear Danny lightly groaning as he was being pulled from the helo, but his focus was strictly on getting you out as fast as he could. 

He reached for you, his hand bracing against your shoulder and the other beneath your legs. But as soon as he went to pick you up, you screamed loudly in his ear. 

"Leg's fucked." He stopped, his stomach churning but his grip tightening even more around you.

Part of the dash had collapsed onto you, pinning your left leg in place. Blood soaked through your uniform, and he could tell it was either broken or crushed. 

"Just—" You gritted through your teeth. "Just do it. We need to get out of here." 

His jaw flexed. He didn't want to put you in more pain... but he knew you all needed to get out before more enemies came. He took a deep breath, bracing himself again and lifted you into arms. He could hear the slight whimper in your throat as you tried to stay quiet, and it tore something inside of him—hearing you in pain.

"You're alrigh'. I got ya." He muttered, not even realizing he was saying it before he carried you away from the wreckage. 

Behind him, Soap shouted that extraction was arriving, and wash of relief came over him. He got you out like he said he would.

When everyone climbed into the helo, he felt your head droop back as you slipped out of consciousness and his heart clenched. He laid you down on the bench, eyes never leaving yours until one of the medics told him to back up. He sat down on the opposite side next to Soap, knee bouncing as he felt his pulse quicken so fast he thought he'd have a fucking panic attack. 

"Stay with me." He called out to you. 

Your eyes opened slightly, glancing at him before shutting them again and going limp.

"Stay with me, sweetheart" He repeated in his mind.

Hope you all really liked this cause I loved writing this POV of him.

Like, comment, repost, give feedback :)

Pt. 1; Pt. 2; Pt. 3; Pt. 4; Pt. 5; Pt. 6; Pt. 7; Pt. 8; Pt. 9; Pt. 10

Masterlist

Taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @kittygonap @nappingmoon @chaos-4baby @ohdrey89 @skeletonsucker @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @roastyyytoastyyy @simonexxx1 @mrmountainman @thebumbqueen @lucienofthelakes @letiferian @jennamelinda12 @mulletmcghee @kittykatgorl @strawberrygato @ghostslollipop @emeraldeyes1805 @chaosundcoffee @whos-fran @fangirls94 @rafaelacallinybbay @quiet-loser @shondlenoodle @iceblossom1013

Seeing Double - Chapter 2

Pairings: Simon “Ghost” Riley x MacTavish! Reader, Platonic!John “Soap” MacTavish x MacTavish! Reader, Platonic! John Price x Reader, Platonic! Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader

Summary - Soap had hidden you long enough. Now Ghost has been assigned to catch you up in training

Warnings - military inaccuracies. Blood. Violence. Sparring. Slight animalistic behavior and references. Mention of trauma.

Notes - Part twooooo. Hope y’all enjoy! sorry for any typos. I’m just spoiling y’all today

Word Count - 3.3k

Total Masterlist / Pt. 1

The first few days were rough. But Johnny helped you adjust. He had slumber parties in your room because deep down you both knew why you couldn’t go to sleep alone. Johnny never left your side even for a moment.

Secretly, you both knew that Johnny was trying to avoid you having to do any training. He wouldn’t say it but he was still worried about you. You were plagued by something and he didn’t know what. Price said there was nothing on your file for reason of concern. So he believed his captain. Why wouldn’t he? But he saw how you slept. Whimpering in your sleep and clawing at your neck. Each morning he would help you apply an ointment and wouldn’t ask a single question. He would bring you meals to your room as you spent more and more time catching up.

On the third day, Price decided you finally had to do some kind of training, and not with Johnny. At breakfast, you slowly ate your food as everyone watched you. There was something they weren’t telling you.

“Is there something on my face?” you asked softly after catching them all looking at you.

“No. We’re just surprised that Johnny finally is sharing you” Gaz remarked. A loud scoff left the man’s mouth.

“Yer full of shit. Any of yous could have come and seen ‘er. But ye didn’t.” Johnny spoke gruffly.

“You never answered the door when we knocked.” Gaz shot back.

“It’s not like you knocked at the most convenient times.” Johnny shot back. “Excuse me for wanting to catch up with ma family.”

Price noted how they were hitting a nerve and cleared his throat to gain everyone’s attention,

“Banshee, today you’ll spend the day with Ghost. Shooting range, sparring, and then catching up on your studies. We need you at full force incase of sudden plans.”

Even though his captain was speaking, Ghost couldn’t bear to take his eyes off of you. There was something that made you tick and he wanted to know what it was. He needed to know. He studied your face as you took the news. There was no panic, no shock, just a simple nod and a small “yes sir.”

There was something itching at him about you. You were so quiet. He couldn’t understand it. He had watched you for a tick, a tell, anything. But instead, you concealed everything behind a mask of skin, and bones. It unnerved him. You were supposed to be just like Johnny. Just as annoying, just as fierce, just as defiant, just as loud. Instead, you were obedient, meek, timid, and reserved to an extent. Sure, you laughed and smiled just like everyone else. But there was something under there. Why were you given such a boisterous, almost animalistic call sign if you were anything but.

“Sir?” You spoke again to him. Shit. He zoned out.

“Hm?” He responded.

“I asked what time you would like me to report to the shooting range, Sir.” You repeated, almost as if you had made the mistake. He glanced up at the clock and noted the time. 0800, on the dot.

“Meet me at the shooting range at 0820” he nodded. You nodded back, no complaints.

You were anxious as you stepped back into your room. Ghost had glared at you during the entirety of breakfast. Was something wrong with you? Were you not supposed to shake his hand on the tarmac, or god forbid did Johnny tell him something?

“Don’t let L.T. get to you. Yer doin’ great.” Soap murmured as he sat on your bed. You didn’t even have to say what was wrong and he read you like a book.

“I won’t.”

“I’ll be a hoot and a holler away, ye ken?” Soap said softly as he hugged you.

“I ken.” You held him for a moment and stood in silence as you packed your weapons and training gear. Soap knew today would be rough, especially knowing the Lieutenant.

He gave you a bright smile as you parted at the entrance of the shooting range. He trusted you and the Lieutenant, but he doesn’t know if he trusts you both together, alone. It makes his stomach turn but he ignores it anyway. It’s just L.T. if Johnny could handle him then so could you.

“Switch weapons.” Ghost spoke abruptly, after you took multiple rounds ‘warming up’ with your pistols. He could tell you were staying in your comfort zone. “Knives, Sergeant.” he finished, his voice barely muffled from the mask.

You nodded slowly as you unwrapped your bag. Revealing a set of throwing knives. The sharp metal glinted back at you, smirking almost. You slowly took the straight steel weapons into your hands. Flipping them over and over again, memorizing, as if you didn’t already know every notch and groove of the design. Your eyes slowly glazed over as you stared at them in your palms.

“What are you waiting for, Sergeant.”

“Nothing, Sir.”

“Then throw.”

“Aye Sir.”

Your fingers curved around the crude steel as your arms moved backwards. A deep breath passed through you as your arm moved back. Suddenly, like a whip your arm cracked forward. Except the snap through the air wasn’t your arm. But rather the knife sinking into the board in front of you. A sigh fell from your lips as you saw it hit the target in the shoulder, not in the center, where you had planned.

‘How embarrassing.’ you thought to yourself, trying to shake off your nerves a little. However, the masked lieutenant breathing down your neck and watching you like a hawk surely did not help.

Another knife cut through the air, once again missing your intended spot.

“Breathe. You’re tense. If you don’t let your body relax then your body can’t find its rhythm.” Ghost said from behind you.

“Thanks for the advice Sherlock.” You spoke, suddenly freezing. ‘Shit’.

If Ghost heard you, he didn’t let on, the stoic remaining motionless behind you. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath.

‘This was your element. These were your knives. Get a fucking grip.’ you thought to yourself. You allowed your body to finally relax as your fingers found solace in the steel divots. Suddenly your arm whipped forward in the blink of an eye, your wrist flicking as a solid ‘thud’ cut through the air. You knew that sound. The sound of your blade finding its way snugly into the target.

You didn’t have to look to know you made your target but seeing it brought you all the same comfort. Suddenly filled with a renewed vigor, you let your dominant hand wrap around another blade and repeated the process three more times until you were out of knives.

“Not too bad.” The lieutenant nodded as he moved to remove the knives from the target. The man biting back a ‘I told you so’ as he saw the last four found their home in the center of the target. “Again.”

This time Ghost made sure to watch your every move. From the way he saw your eyes focus, to the way your arm flicked the blades out with ease, he noted it all. Your every fiber trusting your blade as you knew it would find the spot that you desired it to.

The process repeated over and over and over until you swear you could do this again with your eyes closed. The dull sound of thuds filling the room as Ghost had you do it again, and again, and again.

He knew that this is what you needed. Not to be holed up with Johnny in your room, but to find your footing again. You needed to remember why you were here, this wasn’t a family vacation after all, no matter how much Johnny treated it as such.

He swore he was just beginning to see it all come together but you suddenly stopped. The knife stuck in your hand as you stared at the target. Seeing something he couldn’t. He took a breath, ready to tell you to go again but you beat him to it as you fired off the knives.

For a moment he froze, wondering exactly what you saw. But he didn’t have to take a wild guess to assume it wasn’t rainbows and sunshines. He purposely let his boots hit the ground louder than he would have liked as he passed by you. You shook your head softly as he retrieved the knives, ready to go again.

“Pack it up, we’re moving to the mats. Time to test your close combat skills.” He spoke gruffly. He didn’t miss the look of shock that flashed over your face. Almost like you were saddened that you had to say goodbye so when you had just gotten comfortable.

“Yes sir.”

Ghost waited by the door as you packed it up and carried your gear to your locker before safely storing it. Then grabbing a change of clothes. He left the locker room to allow you some privacy to change.

You slipped by him and walked in front as you both made your way to the mats. Ghost had taken small notice of your sudden change of clothes. You were in a tight tank top, dark shaded combat pants, and some beat up combat boots. He didn’t miss how you fixed your braid mindlessly as you both approached the mat.

“So who am I sparring with?” you spoke, almost as if the answer wasn’t standing on the other side.

“Me.” Ghost nodded. “Is that alright?”

Your shoulders bristled at the question. He asked for your permission. Your consent. He wanted to know if this was okay. For the first time it wasn’t a direct order.

“I can go fetch Gaz if he is more your base level.” He offered.

“No sir. No need to accommodate me.” Your voice came out soft.

‘Accommodate you? What a strange idea. What an unusual choice of words.’ He thought to himself. The silence was deafening the room as you both waited for the other to move first. To try something.

Ghost made the first move as a silent timer dinged off in his head for the spar to start.

‘What a gentleman’ you scoffed at yourself. Moving to dodge his punch. You both now circled each other again. Slowly getting closer and closer, you prepared to block as he suddenly swiped your feet out from under you. Your back hitting the mat hard but not without tugging him down with you. Both of you fighting for the upper hand, with Ghost winning easily. His hands found your wrists as he pinned you.

Ghost stared at you as you realized your arms were immobile. He had you. Suddenly a look crossed over your face. Something was different this time, you didn’t look at him the same. But before the poor lieutenant could figure out what it was, your knee found his stomach. He let out a groan as his fingers loosened around your wrist.

‘Shit. What a careless mistake’ the thought crossed his mind just as fast as you shrunk away. He didn’t even get to reprimand himself as his chest suddenly made hard contact with the mat. Your hand twisting his right arm back, you had his dominant hand in a tight hold behind his back as his mind began to race.

The lieutenant would have been shocked if he hadn’t welcomed the change so much. Your hips resting on his back as you had him pinned. Or so you thought. His left arm suddenly reached around to grab your leg, the man ignoring how it ached at such an angle but not caring as he wrapped it around your knee and suddenly yanked you forward before you could capture his left wrist in another hold.

Your hand barely loosened around his wrist as he sent you reeling forward over his head. Just what he needed to get free. He quickly rotated his hips to flip you onto the mat. His weight held you down as he captured your ankles and then shifted to be on his knees as he once again captured both wrists to have you pinned like an animal.

He didn’t miss how your teeth barely flashed for a moment before you realized your position and tapped his wrist twice to be released. But he held you there for a moment. You swear he was admiring you from behind his balaclava before he then suddenly released you and let you roll away. He dusted off his knees, taking a moment for himself. Completely missing how you came around his back and suddenly two strong arms wrapped around his neck. He could feel your muscles flexing as you tried to hold him in a choke.

His elbow came quickly to jab you to be released but you didn’t falter. Your fingers digging under his mask.

‘So this is how it was going to be’ he thought to himself. Feeling pity for you as he was quickly able to pull one of your arms loose as you never fully locked your legs around his shoulders to contain his arms. The man used his strength to fling you over him, fully expecting you to land flat on the mat right next to him but instead you tucked into a roll and safely moved to the other side of the mat.

He then finally saw what had changed as he watched you stalk him. He noticed how your body seemed tight, rigid almost. This was what you hid behind those shy smiles and curt nods. The lone woman that fought tooth and nail for each breath. He could almost feel his lips pull into a smirk under the mask.

To a bystander, it would look like you were a trapped animal in the corner with nowhere to run. But Ghost knew better than to underestimate you. Cornered animals will do anything to survive. Ghost knew that feeling all too well.

It’s why he was able to perceive your lunge long before it came. He let you take him down, his back hitting the mat once again. You smiled viciously as you pinned him down. Victory seeping into your gums.

A sudden shock laid against your system as your back instead hit the mat. His hands are painfully now pinning your wrists. His hips laying his full weight on your front as he held you there. Your eyes met as you held his eye contact fiercely. Your pupils were dilated as your eyes glinted in the light

“Stand down Sergeant.” he almost growled out. His control slipped just barely enough as he looked down at you. God what an image you were. Smiling deliriously even as he had you pinned. He had the upper hand, not you. So why were you grinning like a madman? The same crazed smile he swore he’d seen on your brother once in the heat of combat.

Suddenly your head made contact with his nose and he felt a metallic taste enter his mouth. ‘Fuck. Another mistake’ he chastised himself but if anything it made him hold you tighter.

You frowned for half a second realizing his hold didn’t break. The man is just staring at you blankly. Before a word could fall from your lips, you were flipped over. His arms around your neck in a tight chokehold. His full body weight now pressing you harshly into the mat. His hips snug against your rear as his thighs crossed over yours to completely subdue you. A whimper left your mouth as a sharp voice cut through the air.

“That’s enough.” Price said as he entered the room. Gaz and Soap followed sharply behind. He didn’t miss the look that the male sergeants shared with each other and the way worry flashed across Soap’s eyes at your compromised position. He quickly released you as you crawled quickly out from under him.

He watched you now look completely different from the opponent he had in the ring mere seconds ago. Your figure turned in on itself as you kept your head down while checking yourself for wounds. A shy gaze that couldn’t even meet his own as if you didn’t just bust up his face up to hell and back for a single chance at escaping.

“Time for lunch. Or do ye need time to freshen yerself up?” Soap quipped as he walked over to the mat. Ghost realized the Scotsman was talking to him as drips of crimson seeped through the mask and onto the floor.

“‘m perfectly fine.” he grunted even as he saw you wipe his blood from your forehead from where you had crushed it roughly into his nose.

“Oh you’re about as right as rain.” Gaz smirked as he stood by the captain.

“Lunch in the mess then team meeting in the conference room.” Price barked out. “Ghost clean your bloody face.”

“Yes sir.” he said as he swiftly passed by you. He didn’t miss how you tensed up as he passed.

The blonde let out a deep sigh as he cleaned out his nose in the privacy of his bathroom. His balaclava left out on the toilet, soiled with his own blood. Even as he stared in his mirror at his nose. Images of you flashed over his eyes.

Wild eyes. A vicious smile. The tension in your body was like a coiled spring. The way your hips fit against his own even when he had you in a firm pin. The way your chest heaved every time he had you pinned on your back.

“Get yourself together Riley” he murmured to himself. “She’s your sergeant’s twin and your subordinate.” A growl escaped his throat as he splashed the cold water against his face as he stepped away to then dry his face. He could already feel his nose puffing up and his busted lip bruising. But for once, he didn’t mind. In his mind he had won, literally and figuratively. He had a glimpse of you, the real you. Your mask had slipped in the privacy of the four concrete walls and the old mats. Even as he turned his back on the mirror and out the door, slipping on his mask, he swears that he could still see those wild eyes staring back at him.

“So how did I do, Sir?” you said as everyone slid into the table for lunch. The trays quietly clinked as he stared at his food.

“Good,” he responded. Just pulling his mask up enough to show his lips. A slight puff to them as they bruised from injury.

“She did better than good, she got a hit on our lieutenant didn’t you, wildcat?” Gaz said as he ruffled your hair. A small blush crowded your cheeks at the nickname as a meek smile pulled at your lips.

A quick pop sounded through the air as Soap’s hand made contact with Gaz’s hand on top of your head.

“Only her family can call her that.” came the Scotsman’s response. “You’ll call her by her callsign or her title.”

“I don’t remember you having authority over me, Soap.” Gaz shot back. “Banshee is her own woman, she can tell us what to call her.”

The two sergeants began to bicker behind you as you shuffled food into your mouth. It might have been the blood loss but Ghost swore he saw you wink at him when he winced at his lip after he took his first bite.

The tension in the room could have been cut with a knife as everyone piled into the conference room. Ghost and Gaz took the left side of the table as you and Soap took the right. Price took the head of the table.

Laswell’s face suddenly appeared on the screen as John greeted her. “Well Kate, what have you come to gift us with now?”

“A one way trip to Mexico.” came her clipped response. Your shoulders suddenly bristled at hearing your destination. A frown tugged at the lieutenant’s lips even under the mask. You should be happy to be back in the field, shouldn’t you?

Author’s Note - Hope y’all enjoyed it!

My requests are open!

Masterlist

she won't go away— a sukuna fic

art creds to to_0fu (twitter/x)

pairing — college sukuna! x reader

synopsis — of all the people in your chemistry course, you get stuck with ryomen sukuna—the most insufferable, arrogant asshole on campus. he barely does any work, runs his mouth like it’s a sport, and somehow manages to make your life even more exhausting than it already is. if this project doesn’t kill you, he just might.

wc — 26k (ONLY 1K ABOVE THE EXPECTED WC YAAAY)

warnings — explicit sexual content (unprotected sex), sukuna is quite mean in the beginning, possibly incorrect depiction of frat culture (spare me i am not american), lots of sexual jokes, brief tiny smidge of angst, reader is a bad bitch, mentions of feeling insecure, choso and toji are gym himbos.

“Please, anyone but him, professor—” You try begging, hands gripping the edge of the desk like your life depends on it. You know it’s useless, but desperation makes a fool out of you.

Professor Shimizu sighs, sympathy flashing across her face, but it’s gone in an instant. She adjusts her glasses, pushing them up her nose, and gives you a rueful smile. “I understand your concerns,” she says, “and if it were up to me, I’d happily rearrange the groups, but the pairings were assigned by the department. Something about fostering academic cooperation.” She shakes her head like she, too, thinks it’s bullshit. “My hands are tied.”

Your stomach sinks. Fostering academic cooperation? With him? You’d have better luck reasoning with a brick wall—one that could talk back and insult you for fun. You turn back toward the class, eyes darting between the clusters of students already deep in discussion. Some of them look at you with poorly concealed amusement, others with pity. And then there’s him, sitting by the window, looking positively bored like this whole situation is an inconvenience. 

Ryomen Sukuna.

The campus heartthrob. The golden boy of the mechanical engineering department. A nightmare wrapped in a six-foot-something frame of smugness and muscle. A nightmare that you unfortunately have to share your CHEM10002 course with (why he’d picked a premed course as an elective was beyond you) You hate him. And not in the petty ugh, he’s annoying kind of way. It’s deeper than that. He’s insufferable. Arrogant. Egotistical. The type of guy who always has a girl in his bed but never the same one twice. He walks around campus like he owns the place, flashing that sharp grin, that lazy confidence that makes people—girls, especially—fawn over him despite his reputation. Cocky, rude, impossible to work with.

And now you’re stuck with him. Oh, hell no. Your body stiffens. No way. No fucking way. Like hell you’re going to spend the next few weeks working with him. You whip your head back to Professor Shimizu, grasping at anything—anything—to get out of this. “What if I did extra credit? A research paper? A presentation? Anything,” you plead, voice tight. “I’ll take a lower grade. Dock my participation. I don’t care—just not him.”

She sighs, but it’s not exasperated, just… tired. “I appreciate your enthusiasm,” she says, like you’re asking for more work because you love learning instead of trying to escape an actual nightmare. “But, again, I can’t change the pairings. And as much as I’d love to give you an alternative assignment, the department is very strict on this. It’s meant to ‘challenge students to collaborate beyond personal preference.’” She air-quotes it, which means she definitely thinks it’s bullshit. You slump, stomach twisting with something bitter. Collaboration? With Sukuna? The only thing he collaborates on is making everyone’s life harder.

You grit your teeth, hard. He’s lounging now, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other lazily spinning a pen between his fingers while he lazily eyes you from where he’s manspreading in his seat. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying, and that’s what pisses you off the most—he never tries. Not in class, not with people, not with anything. Everything just seems to work out for him anyway.

You hate that you know that. You really hate that you know that. But you’ve known him long enough. Long enough to remember—

Freshman Year

It was something small. Stupid, even. But you still remember the heat of humiliation crawling up your neck, the way people laughed under their breath, how he barely even looked at you afterward, like it hadn’t mattered.  You had been in a required first-year seminar, and the professor called on you to answer a question. It wasn’t hard, but the nerves got the best of you—you stumbled over your words, your voice wavered.

And then you heard it. A tsk, followed by a lazy, mocking lilt:

“Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.”

Heat flushed through you, the classroom suddenly too bright, too small. A few people chuckled—some outright laughed. You had swallowed thickly, willing yourself to focus, to get through the answer. When class ended, you stormed out, ignoring the lingering stares, the murmured that was brutal from some guy behind you. But Sukuna? He didn’t even glance your way. Because to him, it wasn’t anything. It wasn’t worth a second thought. And now, here you are, stuck working with the one person who had made you feel like an idiot before you even had the chance to prove yourself. 

You hadn’t even thought about it that much at the time—not really. But later, when you were alone, it festered. You were just a freshman. Barely out of high school, still figuring things out, still nervous about speaking up in a room full of people smarter, older, better than you. It wasn’t even like you got the answer wrong—you had just hesitated. That was all it took. And it was stupid, so stupid, but after that day, you started thinking twice before speaking in class. Before raising your hand. Before answering anything unless you were absolutely sure you wouldn’t trip over your words. And god, you hate that it got to you. It’s not like it was some big, scarring moment. It was one second of his life. A second he probably doesn’t even remember.

But it was yours. It wasn’t just that one time. There was another. Worse, somehow, because this time, he hadn’t even been speaking to you—just about you. It was late freshman year, after you’d spent the whole semester training yourself not to stutter, not to hesitate, not to embarrass yourself again. You were doing better. At least, you thought you were. Until one afternoon, outside the student center, when you walked past Sukuna and his group of friends—Toji, Choso, Mahito, and a couple of others, all leaned back on the benches like they owned the place.

You weren’t eavesdropping. You didn’t mean to hear it. But then—

“—was struggling so bad, I thought she was gonna pass out.”

A few chuckles. A low whistle from Toji. 

“Like, just say it, dumbass,” Sukuna scoffed, sharp, mocking. “Or at least commit. That shit was painful to listen to.”

Your stomach dropped. You don’t know who they were talking about. Maybe some other poor freshman who had choked on their words mid-discussion. Maybe a random classmate. Maybe—

Your face burned. You forced yourself to keep walking, head down, pretending like it wasn’t about you, like you weren’t suddenly back in that seminar with his voice in your ears and everyone’s quiet snickers pressing into your skin. He didn’t even look at you as you passed. Of course, he didn’t. He probably didn’t even remember it was the same person. And now, three years later, you have to sit across from Ryomen Sukuna, the campus asshole, the man who probably hasn’t stuttered a day in his goddamn life, and pretend you don’t want to walk out of this classroom and never come back.  You exhale sharply, pressing your fingers into your temples.

This is fine. You’ve dealt with annoying people before. You’ve had to work with partners who contributed nothing, who slacked off, who treated group projects like free rides. Sukuna is just another roadblock—one with a stupid face and a worse attitude.

And, honestly? It’s not even about the stuttering thing anymore. That was years ago, and you’d be damned if you let some insignificant moment from freshman year shake you now. Just because he made you insecure about one thing doesn’t mean you’re meek. You’ve worked too hard to let this get to you. So, with all the grace you can muster, you pull out the chair across from him, stiffly sit down, and say, “Hi, I’m—”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge you. Doesn’t even pretend to try. Instead, he leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head, and immediately starts talking to Toji, who’s standing nearby.

“So, dinner at that steak place tonight?”

“Yeah,” Toji mutters, tapping at his phone. “Gonna see if they’ve got space.”

Sukuna scoffs. “They always have space.”

“No, dumbass, last time we went, they were booked.”

“They let us in last time,” Sukuna corrects, smirking, and that smugness makes your eye twitch. Are you being fucking ignored? You glance between them, incredulous, and then say, “I’m literally talking to you.”

That finally gets his attention. Slowly, like you’re the inconvenience here, Sukuna turns his head toward you. His gaze flicks over you, slow, unimpressed, like he’s barely registering you exist. You square your shoulders. “This project is quite hefty. We need to split up the research so we’re not scrambling at the last minute.”

He stares at you for a moment, blank, and then—

He rolls his eyes.

“Jesus,” he mutters, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “You’re one of those, huh?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

“The tryhard type. Gets assigned a little homework and suddenly thinks they’re running a Fortune 500 company.” He tilts his head, smirking. “Relax, woman. It’s just a project.”

Woman. Your jaw clenches so hard it hurts. 

“That ‘little homework’ is forty five percent of our grade,” you bite out.

“Don’t give a fuck,” he grunts, sounding bored.

You inhale deeply. “So, I was thinking—”

But he groans, dragging a tattooed hand down his face. “Are we seriously doing this now?”

“Yes, we’re seriously doing this now,” you snap. He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring. “God, you’re fucking annoying.”

You’re not sure whether you should be offended or hurt. On one hand, obviously as a normal human being, being spoken to like this from a person you’re quite literally talking to for the first time is bound to hurt your feelings. On the other hand, this guy’s dickhead personality is kind of well known through your university. Your grip on your pen tightens, but you keep your voice even.

 “I’m annoying because I want to pass?”

”You’re annoying because you talk way too fuckin’ much.”

 That stings more than you’d like to admit. You grit your teeth, ignoring the way your stomach tightens, and push forward anyway. “If we divide the research today, we won’t have to meet up as often,” you say, firmly. “I assume you’ll want to do as little work as possible, so let’s just—”

“Holy shit.” Sukuna pushes his chair back with a loud scrape, fixing you with an exasperated look. “Do you ever shut up?” You blink, stunned. Toji snickers.

“Oh, come on,” Sukuna scoffs, throwing up a hand. “You’re gonna sit there all wide-eyed like I just kicked your fuckin’ puppy? You started it.” Your fingers twitch against the table. “Started what?” you ask, voice dangerously calm. “This whole thing—acting like I’m some bum ass delinquent who needs a babysitter.” His eyes narrow. “If you wanna play boss, go find some other loser to be a bitch to.”

Your patience snaps. “Or you could just not be a lazy asshole. Do you lack brain cells? You’ve seriously told me to shut up like 5 times in the span of about ten minutes. Do you have a problem where you can’t focus?” The air between you shifts.

Sukuna’s jaw tics. His expression darkens, something sharp flashing through his eyes, but then his lips pull into something crueler than a smirk—something with edges, something dangerous.

“You think I’m lazy? Got somethin’ wrong with me because I can’t take your nerdy bitching?” he asks, voice low. You hesitate, but only for a second. “Glad you have the ability to comprehend what I said.” That makes him grin. “And you think I’m an asshole?”

“Yes.”

He hums, tilting his head. Then he leans forward, just slightly, elbows resting on the table. His voice drops into something smug, mocking—

“Then why the fuck are you still talking to me?”

Your blood boils.

What the fuck is his problem?

You lean forward too, matching him, refusing to shrink under his gaze. “Because I have to, dumbass,” you snap. “I tried to change my group. I begged. I offered to do extra credit. I would have written a whole goddamn thesis if it meant not sitting across from you—but guess what?” You gesture sharply between you. “I’m stuck with you.”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Tragic.”

You let out a frustrated breath, gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles turn white. “So, as much as I’d love to pretend you don’t exist—”

“Then do it,” he interrupts, tone dry.

You blink. “What?”

“If you wanna pretend I don’t exist, go ahead,” he drawls, leaning back lazily. “Do the whole project yourself. You’ll probably enjoy it, since you’re clearly getting off on playing group leader.”

“Oh, my god.” You clench your fists, barely restraining yourself. “Why are you such a dickhead? Parents not teach you basic respect?”

“Because you don’t shut the fuck up,” he snaps, finally looking genuinely irritated.

Your lips part, incredulous. “I’m literally just trying to do the fucking project? Like any normal human being?”

“No, you’re trying to control shit,” Sukuna says flatly. “Like this is some big deal—like I haven’t passed a million of these useless classes already.”

You stare at him. “You think this is useless?”

He smirks. “Yeah.”

Oh, you hate him.

“Some of us actually give a shit about our grades, Sukuna.”

“You know my name? Cute.” You inhale sharply through your nose, trying to stay calm, trying not to launch your textbook at his stupid, perfect face. “I don’t care how many classes you’ve passed,” you say, voice taut. “You’re doing this one with me. I care about this project. And if I have to suffer through working with you, you can at least pretend to give a shit.” He tilts his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Mm. No.”

You exhale slowly, trying—failing—to stop your hands from curling into fists.

“I swear to god—”

“What, huh?” he cuts in, voice dripping with condescension. “You gonna whine to the professor again?” He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”

Your jaw tightens. He grins, like he’s won something. Like he’s getting exactly what he wants—like this is a game to him, something to toy with, something to waste his time on. And you refuse to let him win. So, you straighten your spine, lift your chin, and meet his gaze without flinching. “Fine,” you say, voice steely. “If you want to half-ass this, be my guest. Just don’t expect me to pick up your slack.”

Sukuna watches you, amused, as if he’s waiting for you to crack. When you don’t, he smirks.

“We’ll see.”

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to keep your voice level.

“Well, unfortunately for you,” you say stiffly, “you actually have to do your share.”

Sukuna snorts. “Says who?”

“The professor.” You cross your arms. “Since apparently, students have been slacking on group projects, we have to submit proof of collaboration—meeting logs, progress updates, actual proof that we’re working together.” His expression darkens. You fight the urge to smirk. Suffer.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters.

“Nope.” You press your lips together, trying to hold back your pure satisfaction. “So, congratulations, Sukuna. You have to meet up with me at least once a week.” He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring at you like you’re personally ruining his life. “You’re telling me I have to sit through this shit every week?”

“Yep.”

“You specifically?”

“Yep.”

Sukuna groans, dragging a hand through the unruly pink strands of his hair. Then, just as you’re about to remind him that this is literally his problem for being a shit student, he lifts his head—eyes raking over you in a slow, lazy once-over. And then, he smirks. You freeze.

“What?” you snap, immediately on edge.

His smirk widens.

“Nah, I was just thinking,” he drawls, tipping his head back against his chair. “If you were hotter, this would be way less painful.”

Your stomach drops. The words hit you like a slap, and for a second, all you can do is sit there, stunned, completely caught off guard by how casual—how easy—it is for him to say something like that. Like it’s just true. Like it’s a fact. Your fingers dig into your sleeve. And the worst part? It’s not even the insult itself that stings—it’s the sheer, blatant dismissal. The fact that he looks at you and immediately decides you’re not worth even pretending to be interested in. As if you were hoping for his attention. As if you were seeking his approval. 

“Yeah?” you say, voice flat, emotionless. “Well, if you were smarter, I wouldn’t have to carry your useless ass through this class.” His grin falters, just barely, but you see it—and for once, it’s your turn to smirk. You lean forward, matching his posture, tilting your head mockingly.

“Guess we’re both disappointed, huh?” 

For a moment, Sukuna just stares at you. And you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens, how his fingers twitch against the table like he’s fighting the urge to rip you apart. Good. Then—he exhales sharply through his nose, tipping his chair back slightly, acting unfazed even though you saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Damn,” he muses, voice slow, dragging. “Didn’t know you had a mouth on you.”

“Yeah?” You tilt your head. “Didn’t know you gave a shit.”

Sukuna scoffs. “I don’t.”

“Then shut the fuck up and do your assigned work.”

He lets out a low, mean laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.”

“Generous?” You nearly choke. “You’ve been nothing but a dick since the moment I sat down.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Could be worse.”

You want to strangle him. Instead, you inhale sharply through your nose, pressing your palms flat against the table before forcing yourself to stay on track. “Whatever,” you say, shaking your head. “Here’s the deal: we have to meet at least once a week. I don’t care where. I don’t care when. But we need to get the work done, and I need proof that you were actually present—because if we don’t, we both fail.”

Sukuna glares at you, as if the very concept of responsibility offends him.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face again. “You’re really gonna be a hardass about this, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t care about failing?”

“Not really.”

Your eyes narrow. “Then why are you even in this class?”

At this, he finally drops his chair back down onto all four legs, leaning in slightly. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, voice lower, more serious. “I don’t need this shit. I’m here because my old man thinks I should at least pretend to give a fuck about college.” He smirks, sharp and taunting. “But don’t get it twisted—I don’t actually give a fuck.” You pause, studying him, trying to piece together the weight behind his words. Of course, you know he comes from money. Everyone does. The Ryomen family name carries weight, old money, power, prestige—so it makes sense that college, for him, is just some bullshit obligation rather than a means to a future. Still, something about the way he says it—how bitter it sounds—sticks with you. Not that you care.

You roll your eyes. “Right. Got it. Poor little rich boy.”

His smirk drops.

For a second, there’s silence.

Then—

“You know what?” Sukuna says, voice eerily calm. “Fine. I’ll meet up with you.”

You blink, a little thrown off by how easily he gives in.

“…Okay?”

“But.” His gaze darkens, and the corner of his mouth twitches, almost like he’s daring you to argue. “You work around my schedule.”

Your stomach twists with irritation. “That’s not—”

“Not my problem,” he cuts in smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t do morning meetups. I don’t do last-minute bullshit. And if you start bitching about how I ‘don’t take this seriously,’” he mocks, voice lilting high, “I will walk out and leave you with an automatic fail. Or whatever the fuck happens to your grade if the other person doesn’t do their part. Got it?” Your blood boils. But what can you do? You already tried to get reassigned. So, through gritted teeth, you say, “Fine.”

Sukuna smirks.

“Good girl.”

–

You should have known it was going to be hell the second he suggested meeting at the East Wing library. It’s the furthest damn library on campus—twenty minutes from the dorms, uphill, and completely out of the way. Not a single other student in your class would have chosen that location. And yet, when you tried suggesting the much closer, more convenient library, Sukuna had just shrugged, barely sparing you a glance as he packed up his bag.

“Aw, did you forget that I’m in charge of where we meet up?,” he drawled, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “That sounds like a you problem.”

And just like that, the decision was final. So now, here you are, twenty minutes later, climbing the last flight of stairs to the East Wing library, already in a foul mood before the study session has even started. And when you finally get there? You find Sukuna kicked back in his chair at one of the study tables, feet up, scrolling through his phone like he’s waiting on room service instead of his own damn groupmate.

No laptop. No notes No book. Just his phone. Un-fucking-believable. You drop your bag onto the chair across from him, loudly, but he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge your presence at all.

“Seriously?” you deadpan, arms crossing. Sukuna exhales through his nose, still not looking at you. “Took you long enough.” You almost black out from rage.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice flat. “My dorm is on the opposite side of campus.” He hums, barely acknowledging your words, his focus glued to his phone. You take a deep breath, count to three, and pull out your laptop. “Okay. So, the project—”

Before you can even finish, his phone rings. And instead of silencing it, like a normal human being, Sukuna just smirks and answers it, right there in front of you. “Yo,” he says lazily, stretching his arms behind his head. Your eye twitches. The person on the other end—you recognise the voice as Choso—says something that makes Sukuna huff a laugh, shaking his head.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m at the library,” he mutters. “With that chick from class.” Your hand tightens around your pen. So he didn’t even know your name. Great. And you two were supposedly paired for the rest of this semester? You wanted to fucking die. Not even two minutes in, and he’s already testing your patience. Sukuna leans back, grinning as Choso says something else. “Nah, it’s just her,” Sukuna says, completely offhand. “No eye candy here, bro.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. Did this dumbass seriously just say that out loud? In a library? In the middle of your study session? You drop your pen onto the table with a sharp thud, but the sting in your chest lingers. It’s not like you expected anything different from him. It’s not like you cared.

…Except you do. Just a little. Not because you want him to think you’re pretty—fuck no—but because there’s something uniquely humiliating about being dismissed like that. Like your presence is some minor inconvenience he has to tolerate. Your jaw locks, and you square your shoulders, forcing the feeling down. Screw him. You’re not here to impress him. You’re here to get your damn work done. Sukuna finally glances up, raising a brow like he just now realized you’re sitting there. You stare at him, completely done. He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. You look like someone stuck a stick up your ass.”

“Genuinely do you have a mental illness or some shit?,” you shoot back, your irritation reaching an all-time high. “We have a chemistry project that’s 45% of our grade, and you’re sitting here talking about—”

“Bro, hold on,” Sukuna suddenly says into the receiver, cutting you off mid-rant. He holds his hand up like he’s physically silencing you, turning his head away. “Choso, you hear this? Shorty’s about to pop a blood vessel over some homework. All ‘cause I said she isn’t some eye candy. Women, right?”

Your mouth falls open.

Did he just—

“I— You—”

Your brain short-circuits for a second, tripping over the sheer audacity of him. Sukuna leans back in his chair, grinning up at you like a complete bastard. “You need to get laid or something?” A beat of silence. Your entire body stills. And then, without hesitation, you lean forwards and rip his phone out of his hand and slam it face-down in front of you.

“The fuck?” Sukuna scoffs, finally looking genuinely surprised for the first time all day. Then, his smirk returns, and he props his chin on his hand, clearly amused. “You got some nerve,” he muses. 

“And you have the IQ of a fucking vegetable, but we’re still here.”

Sukuna huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“My panties in a twist?” you scoff, staring at him in pure disbelief. “You refuse to work, you talk shit about the way I look while I’m sitting right here, and you—”

“You are sitting right there, and you’re not really hot enough for me to notice.” he interrupts smoothly. “What, you want me to lie?” 

Your eye twitches. “You could at least pretend to have an ounce of human decency—”

“Pfft,” Sukuna snorts. “For you?” Your nostrils flare. Sukuna just grins. “Oh, come on,” he drawls, waving a hand. “You’re taking this way too personally.”

“How—” You press your fingers to your temples, inhaling sharply. “How else am I supposed to take it when you—”

“And you,” Sukuna counters casually, “are a fucking headache.” You slam your hand against the table, startling the people sitting nearby. “At least I’m a headache with a work ethic. You’re a pain in the ass and can’t focus for like what? 2 seconds? Without spacing out.”

“Congrats,” he deadpans. “You want a gold star?”

You want him to get hit by a bus. 

Sukuna shakes his head, leaning back again, still looking far too entertained. “Look, we both know you’re gonna do most of the work anyway,” he says lazily. “So why not just save yourself the stress and accept it?”

“Because this is a group project—”

“Yeah, and I’m in the group. So technically, that counts.” You inhale sharply, barely keeping yourself from lunging across the table.

“Swear to god, bro,” Sukuna snorts, having picked up his phone from where you’d slammed it down, resuming his call with Choso, “I got this chick sending me, like, three nudes back-to-back last night. Shit was insane.”

“You are,” you say, voice flat, “fucking disgusting.” Sukuna smirks, clearly thriving off your irritation. “Oh? Why, ‘cause I get pussy?”

“No,” you snap, willing for your cheeks not to redden with the way he speaks so crudely. “Because we’re supposed to be working.”

He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. I got time.” You scoff. “Oh, so you do know how deadlines work?”

“Damn,” Sukuna mutters, shaking his head, lips curling into an annoyed frown. “You’re really pressed over this, huh?”

“This is not happening,” you mutter under your breath. “I am not about to let some oversized thug skate his way through a semester while I—”

“Thug?” Sukuna repeats, laughing. “You mean scholar? You hear that, Choso?” He puts his phone on speaker. “She just called me a thug.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Choso’s voice comes through the speaker, lazy and unbothered. “She’s right.” Sukuna snaps his head down at his phone. “The fuck?” 

You bark out a sharp laugh, your first real one of the evening. Sukuna rolls his eyes and hangs up, tossing his phone onto the table with an annoyed click of his tongue. “Choso’s a bitch,” he mutters.

“And you’re a waste of oxygen.” Sukuna grins at you. “You’re a piece of shit.” You snatch your textbook off the table and throw it at him, eye twitching when he easily manages to catch it.

“Oh my god, please kill yourself and do us all a favour” Sukuna laughs at that, tilting his head like he’s genuinely entertained by how close you are to losing your shit. “C’mon,” he drawls, placing his phone face-down on the table—finally giving you some attention. “Let’s hear it, then. What’s our big, bad, super important assignment?”

You exhale sharply, flipping open your notes. “It’s a research-based chemistry project. We’re supposed to choose a topic related to reaction mechanisms and provide a full breakdown of the process. That includes—”

Sukuna leans back. “Boring.” You snap your notebook shut again. “Oh my god.” He grins. “This is really your shit, huh?”

“What?”

“The nerdy little projects,” he teases, resting his chin on his hand. “Bet you’re thriving right now.” You glare. “I am thriving off the idea of you getting hit by a bus.” Sukuna just chuckles, shaking his head. “Violent,” he muses. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” You press your fingers against your temples. “I hate you.”

“Yeah?” He smirks. “That’s cute.” You inhale sharply. Exhale. Inhale again. This is fine. This is totally fine. He is just a guy. This is just a project. And you are not going to let him get under your skin. You open your notebook again, forcing yourself to focus. “Our topic is—”

Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Ooooor,” he interrupts, leaning forward with a lazy smirk, “you can just shut up and do it yourself.”

You pause. You blink at him, barely processing what he just said. He shrugs. “You’re good at this shit. I’m not. Seems fair.” Your jaw clenches. “Haven’t you gotten it through your thick skull? Even if I wanted to, we have to constantly update all the meeting logs, and–.”

Sukuna just smirks wider, cutting you off in true Sukuna fashion. “But it’d be so much easier if you did all of it, wouldn’t it? And those fucking collaboration logs can be faked.” You stare at him. You are going to lose your mind. You are actually going to lose your fucking mind. You inhale one last time, roll your shoulders back, and meet his gaze with renewed determination. “Let’s get one thing straight,” you say, voice sharp. “If you refuse to contribute, I will tell our professor. And you know that they take the reported behaviour for consideration the next time they mark a group assignment from literally any other class, yeah? ”

Sukuna snorts. “Snitch.” You glare harder. “I don’t care.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head like you’re just so exhausting to deal with.

“Such a pain in the ass,” he mutters, stretching his arms above his head. “But whatever. We’ll see.” 

You stare him down. You know what that means. It means he has no intention of doing shit. You exhale slowly, clenching your jaw. This is going to be the longest semester of your life.

–

You try to keep your composure. You really, really do. But after a week of dealing with Ryomen fucking Sukuna, you’re already at your breaking point. It’s bad enough that he refuses to contribute anything to the project. Bad enough that every time you try to get him to focus, he leans back in his chair like some smug, insufferable prince, making a point to not listen.

“Oh, come on,” he drawls one day in class, stretching lazily in his seat while you sit next to him, barely keeping yourself from strangling him. His shirt rides up just a bit, flashing a sliver of tattooed skin– and a happy trail– and you look away on instinct. He deserves no admiration. “You love this shit. It’s kind of sweet, honestly. Doing all the work for me like this?”

Your grip tightens on your pen, knuckles going white. “I wouldn’t have to if you actually did your part, dumbass.”

Unfortunately, the guy was worse than you had anticipated, so begrudgingly, only once or twice you had taken up his slack, deeming that he wouldn’t get into too much trouble even if you complained to the professor. It wasn’t too bad considering it was just the introductory part of the project, but you would probably complain if he pulled this shit in the middle of the semester when things got serious. Sukuna just smirks. That smirk. The kind that makes you want to throw something at his face. “Do I, though?”

Your eye twitches. “Yes.”

“Because, from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve already taken care of most of it.” He gestures lazily to your open notes—your notes, where half the research under his name is written in your own handwriting because you were sick of waiting for him to do it. “Appreciate the help, baby.” Your jaw clenches. “You—”

You exhale sharply, fingers flexing against your notebook. You swear, if murder wasn’t illegal—

Across the table, Choso (They had been lounging here with him even before you had arrived, and you were sleep deprived and tired from the venture to the East wing from your dorm, so you kept your mouth shut about their presence) chuckles. “Damn, Sukuna,” he muses, lips quirking as he glances between the two of you. “She’s really out here doing your degree for you.” Toji snorts. “Shit, at this point, just put her name on your diploma.”

You snap your head toward them, scowling. “I’m not—”

“Oh, but you kinda are,” Sukuna interjects smoothly, smirking. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure to give you a nice lil’ thank you when I graduate.” You glare. “I don’t want your fucking thanks. I want you to do your damn work.” Sukuna just clicks his tongue and leans back, propping his feet up on the chair next to him like he has not a single care in the world. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, so fucking dismissive. “We’ll see.”

—

It gets worse. Because apparently, refusing to do work and making you look like an idiot in front of his friends isn’t enough. No, of course not. Sukuna has to make sure you suffer. So, during one of your scheduled study sessions (during the most odd times of the day), while you’re actively trying to go over the research, Sukuna—in all his dickhead glory—leans back in his chair, tilts his head toward the nearest girl, and flashes that cocky, stupid toothy smile of his.

“Hey,” he purrs, voice dropping into that low, slow tone that has half the campus wrapped around his fucking finger. “You got a pencil?” The girl blinks—clearly flustered—before fumbling through her bag. “Uh—yeah! Yeah, here.” Sukuna smirks, taking it from her fingers way too slowly, thumb brushing against hers. The poor girl sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening like she’s just touched a live wire. He leans in just slightly, voice dropping to something just for her. “Thanks, cutie. Real lifesaver.”

The girl giggles, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. “You’re welcome, Sukuna.” You knew he was an asshole. You knew that his stupid, irritating grin made girls fall over themselves. But this? This was just blatant disrespect. You were right there. He was doing this on purpose. And sure enough, when you glance up, Sukuna’s already watching you—mouth twitching, eyes glinting with amusement. You slam your book shut. “Are you done?” Sukuna raises an eyebrow, playing dumb. “What?” You gesture vaguely toward the poor girl, who’s still blushing and dazed from his attention. “With your little… whatever this is?”

His smirk stretches wider. “Jealous?” 

Your nostrils flare. “I’m annoyed.” He hums, twirling the pencil between his fingers. “Could’ve fooled me.” You clench your fists under the table, swallowing the very real urge to dump your coffee on his head. You refuse—refuse—to let him get under your skin. So, instead, you take a breath, roll your shoulders back, and force your voice to stay level. “Are you actually going to contribute today, or should I just log that you didn’t show up?”

Sukuna laughs—loud and unbothered. “Damn,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows. “You’re kinda a hardass, huh?” You stare him down, unwavering. “And you’re a waste of fucking time.” His grin widens, something sharper, meaner curling at the edges of it.

“Now, that’s just mean,” he muses, tapping the pencil against the table. “What happened, sweetheart? You just pissed off, or do you just need to get fucked? Seriously with the way you act so fuckin’ bitchy all the time, I swear you act like you haven’t had dick in ages.”

You still for half a second. Then your jaw locks. Your entire body runs hot, blood boiling, because what the fuck? You’re already on edge, and now he’s going there? You let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking your head. “You speak so disgustingly, you know that? So weird and perverted...” Sukuna leans back again, sprawled out, totally relaxed. “What? I’m just saying.” He gestures vaguely in your direction. “Maybe that’s why you’re so uptight all the time.” Across the room, the girl from earlier glances over, eyes flicking between you and Sukuna like she’s witnessing something amusing. You refuse to give her—or him—the satisfaction. You inhale sharply, steadying yourself. And then, voice cold and clipped, you meet his gaze dead-on.

“Do your fucking work, Sukuna.” He grins. And then, of course, he doesn’t.

–

The lecture hall is freezing, the air-conditioning cranked too high like the university is trying to keep students awake through sheer environmental hostility. It doesn’t work. You’re exhausted. After back-to-back shifts at work, an avalanche of coursework, and the black hole of stress that is your chem project with Sukuna, you’re running on fumes. The moment you step into the lecture hall, your eyes instinctively scan for the back row. If—when—you inevitably start nodding off, you don’t want the professor clocking it. You sink into a chair near the corner, stretching your legs out with a sigh. Heavy-lidded eyes drift toward the front, barely focusing on the professor setting up slides. You could close your eyes just for a second—

The seat next to you creaks. A familiar presence drops beside you, and you know who it is before you even turn your head. Sukuna. Of course. You don’t acknowledge him. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll take the hint and—

His knee knocks against yours, jostling you just as your head dips forward. Your body tenses, and you snap a glare in his direction. He’s manspreading like he owns the place, legs sprawled wide, one arm slung over the back of your chair like this is his personal space and not a public lecture hall. He’s wearing one of those long-sleeve compression shirts that clings to his frame, every inked line of muscle pressing against the fabric. Not that you care. But the sheer arrogance of it is annoying. You scowl, shifting as far away from him as possible. “Why are you here?”

“Dunno,” he drawls, voice low and amused. “Felt like it.”  You roll your eyes and turn back toward the front, trying to focus on the professor’s voice. Your brain is barely keeping up with the lecture, exhaustion pressing against your skull like a weight. Sukuna doesn’t let up. He leans in just enough to make his presence known. “Damn,” he muses, eyes dragging over your face with something unreadable. “You look rough. Didn’t get the chance to put on concealer or whatever you women use to cover up that?” The words land heavier than they should. It’s the way he says it. Careless. Blunt. No humor to soften the edge.  And you know you’re not ugly– the opposite in fact, but–

Your face drops before you can stop it. You don’t have the energy to fight back today. You just swallow whatever sharp retort you could say, fix your gaze on the front of the lecture hall, and pretend like he doesn’t exist.  Sukuna notices. For the first time in ever, he doesn’t get the reaction he expects. No snark, no glare, no half-assed insult thrown back at him. Just… silence. You don’t even look at him. Something weird stirs in his chest, something unfamiliar and fucking irritating. It sits in the back of his throat, in the pit of his stomach, but he ignores it—brushes it off like it’s nothing. He doesn’t say another word for the rest of class.

–

By the time the second week of working with Sukuna rolls around, you’re wrecked. Sleep-deprived, overworked, running purely on caffeine and sheer spite. Between your job, your other classes, and this hellish project, there isn’t a single moment to breathe. You’ve been taking shifts at work to make rent, pulling late nights cramming for exams, and somehow, despite your best efforts, Sukuna is still making your life miserable. The last thing you need is another study session with him. You drag yourself into the East Wing Library, exhausted and bitter about it. The East Wing is so far from your usual haunts, practically on the other side of campus, and the walk here in the late afternoon heat is hellish. You mumble complaints under your breath the entire way—something about how your feet hurt, how this library is ugly anyway, how he should’ve come to your spot instead—but you know Sukuna won’t care. He probably won’t even listen.

Sure enough, he’s already lounging at one of the study tables when you arrive, acting like he’s been here for hours when in reality, he probably sat down two minutes ago. He’s slouched in his chair, all sprawled out and insufferable, wearing that same damn compression shirt that makes him look more like a gym rat than a student. His legs are spread so wide he’s practically taking up half the table. In fact, the table looks small compared to how long his legs are. You resist the urge to drop your bag onto his lap just to make him move. Instead, you sink into the chair across from him and immediately rest your forehead against your palm. “Kill me,” you mutter.

Sukuna barely acknowledges you. “You look like you’re already halfway there.”

You sigh heavily. You don’t even have the energy to glare at him. “Gee, thanks.” He’s watching you. You can feel it. That lazy, assessing stare, like he’s about to say something that’ll make you want to slap him. Something that’ll make that weird, uncomfortable feeling go down your spine.

And then—

Nothing. You brace yourself for the insult, for the inevitable Damn, you look fucked up but it never comes. He just clicks his tongue, looking back at his laptop screen, eyebrows furrowed. You squint at him. Weird. But whatever. You don’t have the time or patience to dissect the mysteries of Ryomen Sukuna’s behavior. You flip open your notes, rubbing at your eyes. “Okay, let’s just get this over with,” you mumble. “I still have an essay to write after this.”

Sukuna stretches, the fabric of his compression shirt shifting as he raises his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of inked skin carved just above his hip. You don’t mean to notice, but you do—because of course, he’s the type of asshole who shows off his tattoos like they’re a personality trait. You snap your eyes away before he catches you looking. “Relax, woman,” he drawls, voice dripping with lazy amusement. “No need to be so fucking tense.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. Woman? Again? You level him with an exasperated glare. “Tense? I’ve been doing our project by myself while you sit on your ass, and I’m the one who’s tense?” You scoff. “And stop calling me woman, you sound like you get life advice from Andrew Tate.” That earns you a sharp, wolfish grin. “Are you not a woman?” he counters smoothly, tilting his head. Before you can answer, his eyes deliberately drop—slow, pointed—trailing down to your chest. He doesn’t even try to be subtle about it, and the sheer audacity of this man has you gaping at him, heat rushing to your face in a mixture of anger and secondhand embarrassment. Your jaw clenches, your hands curling into fists beneath the table. “Are you fucking serious?” you grit out, voice low and sharp.

Sukuna just smirks, lazy and unbothered, flicking his eyes back up to yours with a knowing look. “What? Just checking.”

You resist the urge to lunge across the table and strangle him on the spot. Just breathe. Don’t get expelled for homicide. 

“Also, Andrew Tate? Seriously, woman? What, you think I’d listen to a broke, bald bitch like him?” Sukuna leans forward, arms resting on the table, shoulders broad and imposing. “You’ve got some real shitty assumptions about me.”

“I’ve got accurate assumptions about you,” you correct.

He just smirks. “You say that like I’ve done nothing.”

You glare harder. “You have done nothing.”

“Have I?” he challenges, cocking a brow. He tilts his laptop screen toward you, and there, staring back at you, is a shockingly filled-out document. Your eyes flicker across the paragraphs—coherent, formatted, and even cited.

You blink. Pause. Stare at him like he’s just grown another head. Because for the past week, this man has contributed exactly two sentences to the project. “…And?” you say, deadpan. “What do you want? A gold star? A participation trophy?” Sukuna leans back, manspreading like the chair was custom-built just for him. “Don’t need validation from you, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you shoot back. “Because you’re not getting any.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh, rubbing a hand down his face like you’re the exhausting one here. “Look, I don’t see what the big deal is. The project’s coming along fine.” You inhale sharply. Count to five. Resist the urge to fling your notebook at his fat head. “It’s coming along fine because I’ve been doing all the work.”

Sukuna shrugs, unconcerned. “Teamwork makes the dream work.” You stare at him. A long, silent, murderous stare. 

“You make me wanna end my life,” you finally say, voice utterly devoid of emotion. He grins, teeth sharp and infuriating. “I know.” You exhale slowly through your nose, willing yourself not to commit homicide. Instead, you rub your temples and look back at your notes. “Let’s just finish this. I don’t want to be here all night.” Sukuna hums, tapping at his laptop. “You sound so eager to spend time with me. Desperate?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “It’s the highlight of my week.”

“I knew it.” He smirks. “You wanna spend the night with me, hmm? Naughty.”

You actually throw a pen at him this time. He dodges effortlessly, laughing under his breath. “Fucking finally,” you mutter. “Maybe now you’ll shut—”

“Shhh!”

You both freeze. The librarian—an older woman with a stern face and sharp eyes—is glaring at you from the front desk. You and Sukuna exchange glances. “You’re the one being loud,” you whisper harshly. Sukuna raises an eyebrow. “I’m the one being loud?”

“Yes, you—”

“Out.” The librarian’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. You and Sukuna both go silent.  And then—

“…Shit,” Sukuna mutters, closing his laptop. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You are such a waste of time.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stands, stretching. “Let’s go, dumbass. You can yell at me somewhere else.” You glare at him as you gather your things. “I will be yelling at you somewhere else.” Sukuna smirks, shoving his hands into his pockets as he saunters toward the exit. “Can’t wait.” You storm out of the library with Sukuna trailing behind you, still looking disgustingly relaxed for someone who just got thrown out of a public study space. You wish she had thrown him out alone. “Dick,” you mutter under your breath, shoving your laptop into your bag as you walk. Your head throbs with exhaustion, and the last thing you need is him making this night even worse.

Behind you, Sukuna hums, amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Your steps falter for half a second before you pick up the pace again. He, of course, notices. "You're so fucking touchy today," he drawls, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he strolls beside you, the very picture of unbothered arrogance. "On your period?" Your eye twitches. You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, gripping the strap of your bag so hard it might snap. "Okay, we're going to the study lounge near my dorm," you say, tone clipped.

Sukuna groans. Loudly. Like you're torturing him. 

"The hell? Why?"

"Because you got us kicked out," you snap. "And we haven’t even done half of what we were supposed to get through today." Sukuna clicks his tongue in irritation but doesn’t argue further, shoving his hands into his pockets as he follows behind you. His pace is slower than yours, like this entire walk is beneath him, like he’s graciously putting up with it. You can practically feel his annoyance radiating off of him, thick and palpable in the evening air.

The east wing is far. Too far. You’re used to it by now—your classes are scattered across campus, your dorm inconveniently placed, and your schedule an absolute disaster. Between balancing coursework, shifts at your part-time job, and somehow squeezing in study sessions, your days bleed into each other in a never-ending cycle of exhaustion. And because Sukuna’s the most infuriating person alive, he’s been forcing you to make this trek every damn day, dragging you out to the main library just so he can half-ass his way through this project in a space that he prefers. You’ve followed along because you refuse to let this assignment tank, but every second spent with him is another test of patience you’re not sure you’ll pass. So when, predictably, about ten minutes into the walk, he lets out an exaggerated, loud huff of irritation, you already know something stupid is about to leave his mouth.

"Are we still walking?" he grumbles, scowling at the path ahead. "This is taking so fucking long." Your eye twitches. You keep walking, fists clenched at your sides, trying—trying—to ignore him. But he doesn’t stop. Because of course he doesn’t.

"This is stupid," he mutters. "Should've just stayed at the fucking library. Or better yet, we could’ve just worked at my place—"

And that’s it. That’s the last straw. You snap.

"I do this every day because of you!"

The words come out harsher, sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. You whirl around to glare at him, eyes blazing, voice rising louder than it should, this late at night. "You think this is taking too fucking long? You made me do this every night. You insisted on working at the damn library. You refuse to meet anywhere else because apparently, my dorm study lounge isn’t good enough for you!" You huff out a breath, heart pounding in your chest. "So yeah, Sukuna, it is a long walk. And guess what? I do this every single day while you sit on your ass and complain!" Sukuna stops mid-step. His mouth is half-open, clearly ready to throw some cocky remark back at you—except nothing comes out. For once, he’s quiet. That, more than anything, unnerves you. But you don’t stick around to decipher the look on his face. You turn back around and keep walking, jaw clenched, shoulders tense, because if you don’t, you might actually lose your mind. And this project isn’t worth a murder charge.

Sukuna watches as you keep walking, your back rigid with frustration, your fingers curled so tightly around the strap of your bag it looks like the only thing anchoring you upright. It’s only now, in the dim glow of the overhead lights of the university hallways, that he actually sees you. The exhaustion carved deep into the lines of your face, etched into the tight pull of your brows and the faint downturn of your lips. The way your steps drag just slightly, like your body is moments away from giving in but you refuse to let it. The dark circles beneath your eyes, barely concealed by whatever concealer you must’ve swiped on this morning. 

(Yes, you ended up feeling the tiniest bit hurt and put some on the next time you saw him)

You look tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a late night or an early morning. No, this is the exhaustion that settles deep in your bones, that lingers even after you’ve slept, the kind that never really leaves. And then there’s something else—something off. It’s not like you to get this quiet after snapping at him. Normally, you’d keep going, pushing, throwing words at him like knives, sharp and ruthless, waiting for him to hurl them right back. That’s how it’s always been between you two. You say something snarky, he says something worse. You get pissed off, he laughs. It’s a cycle. A game.

But right now? Right now, you don’t fight. You don’t even look at him. Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, irritation flickering beneath his skin—but it’s not directed at you. Not this time. He shoves his hands in his pockets, jaw clenching, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen. And for the rest of the walk, he doesn’t say a word. No complaints. No grumbling. No sarcastic remarks. Just silence.

–

The place is smaller than the library, tucked into the corner of your dorm building, but at least it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, and only a few other students are scattered around, focused on their own work. You drop into a chair unceremoniously, opening your laptop with a sigh. Sukuna takes the seat across from you, stretching his legs out obnoxiously under the table until they almost bump into yours. You kick him. He smirks. “Feisty.”

"Shut up."

For the next half hour, you work in silence. Sukuna pretends to read something on his screen, but you can feel his eyes flicking to you every so often, assessing. You try not to think about it. It’s quiet for a moment, and then—

"You formatted this wrong," he says.  Your head snaps up. "What?" Sukuna tilts his screen toward you, pointing lazily at a section of your document. "The citation. APA, not MLA, genius."  You stare at him, brows knitting together. "Why the hell do you know that?" Sukuna shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "What, you think you're the only one with a functioning brain?"

"Functioning is a strong word," you mutter, fixing the citation. He snorts, but then, because he’s him, he adds, “I mean, makes sense you’d fuck that up. You look half-dead.” Your eye twitches. "And you look like a walking midlife crisis, but you don't hear me pointing it out every two seconds." Sukuna grins, sharp and unrepentant. “Liar. You know I look good.”

“Ugly.”

“Sexy.”

"Say that again and I'll stab you with my pen." 

It’s late by the time you finally close your laptop, rubbing at your temples. The day has dragged on forever, and the last thing you want is to keep dealing with him. You shove your things into your bag, ready to leave, when Sukuna—still leaned back in his chair, still looking infuriatingly relaxed—says, "Tch. Whatever. We’ll just meet here next time." You pause. Blink at him. "Huh?" He doesn’t look at you when he says it, like this entire conversation is so beneath him. "The hell, are you deaf? I said we’ll just meet here next time. Less walking." You stare, uncertain of what to make of that. Of him saying anything at all.

Then—

"Uh. Okay," you mumble. Sukuna snorts, pushing himself up from his chair, rolling his shoulders like this entire night has been a mild inconvenience to him and nothing more. “Try not to die of exhaustion before then.”

You flip him off.

He grins.

–

The dorm study lounge in your building isn’t anything special—just a couple of couches, a cluster of wobbly desks, and chairs that groan when anyone shifts. But it’s quiet, it’s close, and more importantly, it’s not the goddamn East Wing library. You’re already seated with your laptop open when Sukuna strolls in like he owns the place, hoodie thrown over his shoulder, compression shirt clinging to him in that casually smug way that makes you want to set your notebook on fire.

“Damn. You live like this?” he says instead of greeting, glancing around at the peeling posters and flickering overhead light.

“You’ve been here three times now,” you mutter, not looking up. “Get over it.” To your surprise, he actually sits down and opens his laptop. No dramatic sighs, no drawn-out complaints. Just pulls up the shared doc and starts typing. You side-eye him suspiciously. “Wait. You’re actually doing work?”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. “Told you I’m not completely useless.”

“You literally did none of the intro. Or the background research. Or the—”

He turns slightly, eyes narrowed. “Jesus. You want me to write your acknowledgements too?”

You roll your eyes and keep typing, but you can’t help the way your gaze flicks back to his screen every so often. He’s doing it. Slowly, a little messily, but he’s actually doing the work. You hate how that’s kind of impressive. The door creaks open an hour in and Toji saunters in with a protein bar in one hand and Choso trailing behind him, hoodie half-on like he got distracted putting it on. “Yo,” Toji says, tossing himself onto the arm of your chair like there’s no concept of personal space. “This where the grind’s happening?” 

Choso raises a brow at Sukuna. “Didn’t think you actually meant it when you said you were working on your project.” Sukuna scoffs, not even looking up from the screen. “Don’t start.” They pull up chairs, half-invited, half-ignored. Somehow, you end up the only person who seems to be actually working while the other three devolve into semi-productive chaos. Eventually, the conversation drifts—like it always does when boys are left alone with too much time and not enough supervision.

“Yo, did you see that blonde on the cheer squad last game?” Toji starts, popping open a protein bar like it’s part of the ritual. “The one with the ribbon thing in her hair. Face card was solid.” Choso smirks, still half-focused on his phone. “I think she followed me on Insta. Or her friend did. Can’t tell—cheer girls got that same face filter thing going on.”

You hum under your breath, noncommittal. You’ve learned how to tune this out. Let the background noise of testosterone and ego bounce off while you focus on your screen. But then—

Choso glances up, flicking his gaze between you and Sukuna like he’s just had a thought worth sharing. “Actually… Sukuna’s got the best deal out of all of us.” You pause your typing. Slightly. Toji quirks a brow. “How you figure?”

“He gets to sit across from her every day,” Choso says casually, jerking his chin in your direction. “Dude’s been staring at that face for what, like a week straight?” Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

Choso lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. When you’re not chewing him out, you’re actually kinda—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just gives a slow, meaningfully raised brow like the conclusion is obvious. Toji lets out a low whistle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No, wait—he’s right. You’ve got that whole mean girl, academic weapon, doesn’t-look-up-in-lectures thing going on.” You just blink at them, caught somewhere between wanting to melt into your chair or hurl your laptop at both their heads. Sukuna, up until now half-listening while scrolling on his screen, exhales like this whole conversation is beneath him. “Shut the fuck up.” His voice is flat. Lazy. Like he's bored with their entire existence. But his eyes flick up—and linger on you just a beat too long. There’s no smirk. No wink. Just that unreadable look again. Heavy-lidded. Slightly narrowed.

Toji raises a brow. “Struck a nerve?” Choso glances between you and Sukuna, curious now. “Damn. Didn’t know you were the territorial type.” Sukuna doesn’t even rise to it. Just drags a hand through his hair and mutters, “You idiots hear yourselves talk?” That seems to be enough. Toji snorts and mutters a half-apology under his breath. “Alright, alright. Chill.”

Choso shrugs. “She’s still bad though. No take-backs.” You clear your throat and mutter, “Thanks… I guess?”

No one hears it except Sukuna, whose gaze shifts back to his laptop—but his ears are slightly pink now. Not that he’d admit it. And just like that, the boys forget they ever had a filter. They’re back to talking about the football coach and some frat party coming up next weekend. You, meanwhile, keep your eyes glued to your screen—but your skin feels hotter, like that look Sukuna gave you never quite left. You try to refocus on your screen, but your heart’s still thudding in your chest in a way you hate. You don’t want to be flustered. Especially not over Sukuna, who has the emotional depth of a spoon. Still, when the session winds down and Toji and Choso finally get bored and wander off, Sukuna leans back and says, with the same bored tone he uses when talking about the weather, “I’ll see you here again next week. I’ll finish up some of the work at my place before I come, so we don’t hafta sit here on our asses long enough for these idiots to show up again.”

You blink. “Uh… okay.” He doesn’t wait for a response. Just slings his bag over his shoulder, walks off like he hasn’t just stunned you into silence with the barest sliver of consideration, and mutters under his breath on the way out:

“Better chairs anyway.” You stare after him. Annoyed. Confused. Unsettled. Slightly amused. And a little less sure about how much of a dick he really is.

–

It’s been three weeks since you started meeting in the dorm building’s study lounge. The sessions are no less exhausting, but they’ve become… bearable. You still argue. He’s still insufferable. But Sukuna actually does the work now. Not without the occasional passive-aggressive comment or that maddening little smirk when he catches you getting flustered. But he contributes. Sometimes he even takes initiative—like today, when you arrived and found he’d already opened the shared doc and annotated the latest journal article. Miracles, apparently, do happen.

You're both seated on opposite sides of the same table, a precarious peace holding between the clack of your keys and the scratch of his pen against paper. Sukuna's in a black hoodie—which really emphasises how broad his shoulders are–paired with some low-slung sweatpants. He’s got one leg up on the chair, knee almost brushing the table’s underside, completely manspreaded in a way that takes up far more space than necessary. Typical. You’ve tuned it all out. Almost. The only sound in the lounge is the soft hum of the vending machine and the low rustle of paper. That is, until your phone buzzes.

You glance down.

[8:37 PM] Yuna:

pls tell me ur free next friday night frat party at Theta house i need a plus one u owe meee

You pause. Theta house. The name sparks something in your brain—a half-formed association, faint and unimportant until now. You’ve heard it muttered in passing, caught glimpses of its parties plastered all over people’s Instagram stories. Flashy. Loud. Too many red solo cups and too little self-respect. But more importantly: it rings a specific bell. Something familiar. Your eyes flicker back to the message on your screen, rereading Yuna’s plea. Your brows furrow. You bite the inside of your cheek, lips tugging downward as you try to decide if this is worth the impending social fatigue, or if you can just ghost her and fake a fever. Maybe a paper cut. Across the table, the scratch of pen on paper falters. You don’t even notice until Sukuna’s voice cuts in, sharp and dry. 

“What’re you making that face for?” he asks without looking up. Flat, disinterested, like your expression is an inconvenience. You blink, mildly startled. “...What face?”

“That weird one.” He finally lifts his head, narrowing his eyes at you with vague irritation. “Like you just found out you forgot to pay your car registration or somethin’.” Your mouth opens, closes. “It’s just a text,” you say eventually, letting out a quiet sigh as you flip your phone facedown. “My friend’s dragging me to a frat party next week. She needs a plus-one.” At that, Sukuna stills. Not dramatically. Just... a subtle pause. His elbow stops bouncing. His pen hovers above the page.

“What frat?” he asks. The question is casual, but his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. You hesitate. “…Theta house. I think.”

He snorts. Loud and unmistakable. “That’s mine.” 

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He leans back lazily, one arm thrown over the back of the chair, looking maddeningly relaxed. “Theta. That’s my frat. Toji, mine and Cho’s. Didn’t ya know? They were talkin’ about it before.” You blink, momentarily at a loss. The realization hits with a muted thud—of course. It all makes sense now. The flashy parties, the obnoxiously loud music every other weekend, the guys who walk around campus with too much cologne and too few responsibilities. Of course he lives there.

“Oh,” you say finally. It hangs there—awkward, brittle, like a glass ornament someone forgot to put away after Christmas. You both look back down at your notes, pretending the moment never happened. You reread the same sentence in your textbook three times and still can’t register what it says. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t comfortable either. Just... weird. Like there’s something in the air that neither of you wants to acknowledge. Then, after a minute, Sukuna exhales slowly and leans further back in his seat.

“You should swing by,” he says offhandedly. So casual it sounds like a throwaway line.

You glance up. “Huh?”

“The party,” he says, eyes flicking briefly toward you, then back to the ceiling. “Your friend’s already going. Might as well.” You study him. His expression is unreadable—calm, indifferent. No trace of smugness, no expectation behind the offer. It’s almost too nonchalant. Like he wouldn’t care either way. You narrow your eyes a little. “Are you… inviting me?”

He shrugs. “You’re not special. I’m inviting everyone.” Your lips twitch at that, but you don’t call him out. “Right. Of course.”

Still, you hear your voice soften slightly. 

“I’ll think about it.”

Sukuna hums in response, eyes drifting downward—right to your hoodie, baggy enough to cover you from neck to knee, sleeves tugged over your hands. You can practically see the judgment forming. “Just don’t show up dressed like this,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching. You snort before you can stop yourself. A short, surprised laugh bursts out of you. “Seriously?”

He gives you a deadpan look. “It’s a party, not a cult meeting.” You raise your brows, amused. “Clearly, you don’t know me at all if you think I dress like this everywhere.” Sukuna tilts his head, studying you like you just issued a challenge. “So you do have real clothes.”

“I’m a woman of mystery,” you say smugly, folding your arms. “You don’t get to know.” A rare smirk twitches onto his face—brief, dry, almost like he’s trying not to be amused. “That sounds like a yes.” You roll your eyes, grabbing your highlighter again. “Focus on organic chemistry, casanova.”

He chuckles under his breath but doesn’t argue, returning to his notes. The mood shifts again—easy now, fluid in a way you didn’t expect. The banter lingers, like a residue in the air, and for once, you don’t feel like you’re dodging landmines when you speak. You work in silence for a while longer, but it’s not the same brittle quiet from before. It’s something softer. Settled. And maybe—for just a second—it doesn’t feel like you’re enemies anymore. Not friends, either. But not enemies. When you finally pack up for the night, Sukuna doesn’t say anything. He just slings his bag over his shoulder, glances at you once, then jerks his chin toward the door like let’s go. You fall into step beside him, not speaking, the click of the lounge door swinging shut behind you.  You don’t even know how it happened. How somehow he waited for you by the staircase that led up to your dorms before departing back to where he lived. The hallway is quiet. The air, cool and crisp, smells faintly of late-night ramen and floor cleaner. You say nothing. But somehow, that moment stretches longer than it should. And it stays with you. All the way back to your dorm.

–

“Yu— I don’t know,” you say, pulling at one of the spaghetti straps of your top and glancing at your reflection in her full-length mirror, “I like wearing shit like this but… don’t you think it’s too much for a frat party?” Your voice comes out unsure, tinged with that all-too-familiar pre-party doubt that creeps in five minutes before you’re supposed to leave. You’re still adjusting the fabric over your chest—this stupid, tiny top that clings a little too perfectly to your figure, exposing just enough skin to make you question if you’ll even make it through the front door without second-guessing everything. The bra underneath? Completely unintentional. You didn’t even mean to match it—had just grabbed something clean and vaguely push-up-ish from the drawer, but of course, it had to be your most expensive set. Lacy, pink, and not remotely subtle. Victoria’s Secret, you realize with mild betrayal, had made your boobs look criminally good. Like, pause-a-man’s-conversation good.

The top itself wasn’t the issue—it was cropped, sure, but cute. Flimsy fabric and soft color, something you could probably dress down if you were pairing it with anything other than this damn skirt. The skirt was what had you feeling like you were in over your head. And it wasn’t even yours. It was Yuna’s. A distressed, light-wash denim mini that was practically a belt. It hugged every curve, curved a little more than you were used to, and sat low enough on your hips to make you feel a tiny bit scandalous with every breath. If you shifted too fast, it felt like it’d ride up and expose everything. And with the panties that came with your VS set—thin, lacy, and technically classified as lingerie—you felt dangerously close to flashing someone if the wind so much as thought about picking up.

“I look like I’m trying to seduce someone’s dad,” you mutter.

“Oh my god,” Yuna gasps from behind you, eyes wide as she stops in her tracks. “You look so fucking hot. I’m not hearing any complaints about this.” She spins you around, hands on your shoulders as she takes in the full outfit like she’s styling you for a Vogue shoot. Her perfectly manicured fingers trail to the hem of your skirt, and with a gleam in her eye, she gives your butt a dramatic, playful slap.

You glare at her. “Can you not grope me right now?”

“Sorry,” she says, completely unapologetic. “You just look so good. Like, painfully good. Like—‘oops, I just made that guy trip over a keg because I walked by’ good.” You attempt to give her your best unimpressed stare, but it’s hard to hold when she looks that excited—and especially when she’s standing there in a sparkly, strapless top that’s practically glued to her skin and a skirt shorter than yours. Not to mention the rhinestone eyeliner and lip gloss she reapplied twice already. You sigh, defeated, because if she looked hot, and you looked hot, maybe it wasn’t the worst idea to just embrace it.

“Ugh, okay, fine,” you mutter. “You look sexy too.”

“So do you,” she grins, squeezing your wrist before spinning toward the mirror to grab her purse. “We’re gonna be the baddest bitches there.”

You snort. “That’s not exactly a high bar. I saw someone show up to one of these in a Pikachu onesie.”

“Exactly,” she says, throwing a jacket over her shoulder. “We’ll be legends by comparison.” Despite yourself, you laugh—and when you turn back to the mirror, something about the reflection feels less terrifying than it did five minutes ago. The outfit was bold, sure. But with Yuna beside you, her energy electric and effortless, you could feel yourself slipping into that mindset, too. The one where you were allowed to be hot without apologizing for it. You slip on your shoes, grab your phone, and follow Yuna out of the dorm. The hallway’s quiet, dimly lit with that weird yellow lighting all college buildings have after 10 PM. You both walk down to the street where your Uber is already waiting, music faintly thumping from the frat row just a few blocks away. And for once, you’re not dreading it. You’re a little nervous, maybe. But with your favorite person beside you, in outfits that could start wars, heading into a night with no plans other than chaos—you’re ready.

The Uber ride is a blur of Yuna’s makeup touch-ups, last-minute accessory debates, and Spotify blaring a throwback remix that has both of you scream-singing the chorus. The nerves in your stomach ease up a little more with each passing minute. Maybe it’s the way Yuna keeps hyping you up or how good the outfit actually looks under the glow of the passing streetlights—but by the time the car pulls up in front of Theta house, you’re no longer on the verge of changing outfits or ghosting the night entirely. The frat house looms ahead like every other frat house you’ve ever seen—loud music already spilling out from the open door, string lights tangled across the porch, people clustered out front with red cups in hand like it’s a high school movie come to life. You can hear someone whoop as a beer pong shot lands across the front lawn, and someone else yells “Take it off!” from an upstairs window. 

Yuna’s eyes sparkle. “Home sweet home,” she says, linking her arm through yours. Inside, it’s chaotic—but weirdly cozy. Warm. The air smells like cheap beer, cologne, and weed, the floors already sticky under your heels. There’s a crowd around the living room-turned-dance-floor, another bottlenecking at the kitchen where a keg is set up beside a counter full of jungle juice and liquor. You spot a couple of people you vaguely know from class or mutuals through Yuna—most of them already tipsy, greeting her with hugs and loud compliments. Someone hands you a drink you don’t ask for, and you take it anyway, sipping something vaguely fruity and deceptively strong. The thrum of music settles in your chest, rattling the floorboards beneath your feet, and for the first time in weeks—maybe even months—you feel something close to relaxed. You’re halfway to the kitchen to grab a chaser when it happens.

You turn a corner and bump into someone—shoulder to chest. Solid. Firm. Tall enough that you instinctively glance up before you even register who it is.

Sukuna. He looks down at you, expression unreadable for a moment—until his eyes very obviously drop from your face to the low neckline of your top. And linger. There’s the barest flicker of something—surprise? amusement?—in his eyes, but it’s gone too fast to confirm. You step back, blinking. “Oh my god. You are so weird.”

He lifts a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You’re literally checking me out like I’m a Victoria’s Secret window display,” you deadpan, tugging your top slightly higher—not that it helps much.

“You wore that and expected no one to look?” he says, voice dry and annoyingly smooth. His eyes flick lazily down again. “Also, hate to break it to you, but your bra’s doing a lot of heavy lifting right now.”

You scoff. “You’re actually such a freak.” He shrugs, tilting the water bottle in his hand toward you. “Not denying it.” You’re about to roll your eyes and walk away, but then he says it—so nonchalantly it barely registers at first.

“You look nice, though.”

You freeze mid-step.

“…What?”

His mouth quirks up slightly, like he didn’t just toss a grenade into the conversation. “You heard me.” 

You stare at him, trying to gauge if he’s mocking you. But there’s no smug grin, no teasing lilt. Just that lazy drawl, that unreadable expression that always keeps you guessing. You fold your arms, shifting your weight to one hip. “Well,” you say slowly, “clearly you don’t know what to do when I’m not wearing my usual two layers of oversized fabric.”

Sukuna snorts. “Thought you were gonna roll up in your campus hoodie again. Kind of a shame, actually. I miss how it swallowed your whole body. You looked like a walking laundry pile.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I try.”

You take a slow sip from your drink, hiding the small grin tugging at your lips. “So this is what you’re like when you’re not being the biggest dick on the planet.”

“I’m not the biggest dick, although I’d say I have the biggest dick” he retorts with a snicker. “You’re just distracting now.”

You blink. “Distracting?”

He shrugs again, way too casual about the whole thing. “You look good. I’m not blind.” You glance around to make sure no one’s listening, then mutter, “You’re way more tolerable when there’s alcohol involved.”

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re way more tolerable when you’re not scowling at me for breathing too loud.” You glare. “That happened once.”

“It happened twice.”

“Once,” you insist.

He just smirks and takes a sip from the water bottle in his hands. His gaze flicks past you, toward the hallway, and he jerks his chin slightly. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to some people who won’t talk about your bra.” You narrow your eyes. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

He smirks again, already walking off. “Take it or leave it.” You roll your eyes and follow—only because your drink’s almost empty and the kitchen’s in that direction anyway. Obviously. And maybe—just maybe—because being around him like this, when he’s not being a complete jackass, isn’t the worst thing in the world. At least not tonight. Sukuna leads you through the crowd like he’s done this a million times before—which he probably has. You catch a couple of people eyeing him as he walks by, and you wonder if it’s because he’s hot or because he radiates that unapproachable energy like it’s cologne.

“This is…?” someone asks when you both approach a small group gathered around a tall keg table. He jerks a thumb toward you lazily. “My chem partner.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the title. “Hi,” you say instead, a little wave as you flash a quick grin.

“Yo, you’re in Shimizu’s class too? That woman’s a menace.”

“Tell me about it,” you groan. “I swear she adds extra steps to procedures just for fun.” Someone laughs. “You actually talk to her? I just fake nod through half of her lectures.” You slip into conversation easily after that, bouncing off the group's energy. You’ve always been extroverted when you’re comfortable, and it’s oddly easy here, surrounded by strangers who are just buzzed enough to be nice. It’s even easier when you catch Sukuna watching the group banter from a short distance, sipping from his water bottle again, his expression unreadable.  You break away to get another drink, winding toward the makeshift bar on the patio. The music's loud, the air sticky with alcohol and cologne, and just as you reach for a clean cup, a shoulder brushes into yours.

“Shit—”

You turn, and there he is again. Ryomen Sukuna. Up close this time. “Jesus, what is your problem?” you mutter, looking up at him. “Do you teleport?” He looks unfazed. “You walked into me.”

You snort. “You walked into me.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans slightly back and lets his eyes flick down, over your outfit, and—yep. Not subtle. Not even trying to be. Your eyes narrow. 

“You’re such a creep. I don’t care if I’m slightly drunk, I can definitely tell you’re staring at my boobs.” He scoffs, openly amused. “Well, sorry. I’m a man. And those are practically fighting for their lives in that top.” You gasp, smacking his arm. “You’re disgusting.”

He shrugs. “And you’re the one who wore it. Don’t act surprised people are looking.” You roll your eyes but the corner of your mouth twitches. “Whatever. At least I can pull it off.”

“Who said you couldn’t?”

You pause for half a second too long. Then you glare. “You’re pissing me off.”

“And you’re drunk,” he retorts, smirking.

“I’m not drunk yet. You’d know if I was drunk.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow. “What, do you start crying or something?”

“No,” you scoff. “I just get… more honest.”

“Terrifying.” You give him a sweet smile that’s anything but. “What, afraid I’ll hurt your little ego?” He looks down at you—really looks. Like he's taking in the pink flush in your cheeks, the glint in your eye, the way you don't back down even when he’s standing so damn close.

“Nah,” he says. “My ego’s huge.”

You blink. “...That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

He laughs, low and dry, then tilts his bottle at you in mock cheers before walking off again. You stand there for a moment, a little dazed, before grabbing another drink. Eventually, a while later, you find your way back to Yuna, who’s already three sips away from shouting compliments at strangers. She gasps when she sees you. “Babe. Baby girl. My precious. Did I just see you with Sukuna?”

You blink. “Yeah, why?”

“You know him?”

“We’re in the same chem class,” you mutter, sipping your drink. “Group project.” Yuna grabs your arm. “And you didn’t say anything?” You eye her suspiciously. “Say what?”

“That he’s literally the hottest man on this campus?!” You make a face. “He’s not that hot.” Yuna gives you a look like she’s been personally offended. “You’re lying to yourself. Also, you two have like, that weird tension. It’s kind of hot.”

You groan. “Yuna—”

“Just fuck him.”

“What is wrong with you?”

She only cackles in response before she gets whisked away by a guy who’s clearly her on-again-off-again situationship. She doesn’t even look guilty as she leans in to whisper something to him. A few minutes later, you get the text.

sorry i love u but i’m gonna go with him ok i’ll send u money for an uber ily don’t die xx

You stare at the message, swaying slightly on your stool. The room blurs a little when you blink. You swipe over to the Uber app. Try to log in. Error. Try again. Error. The third time your phone crashes entirely and you groan, bracing your elbow on the edge of the bar counter and burying your face in your hand. Your heels are starting to hurt and you can already feel tomorrow’s hangover tap dancing in your brain.

“You good?”

You lift your head slowly. And of course. Of course. It’s Sukuna again. Leaning one arm against the edge of the bar like he’s been summoned by your suffering. “You’re like a cockroach,” you mutter. “You just keep showing up.”

He grins lazily. “Still here?”

“Yeah, unfortunately. My friend ditched me and my Uber app’s being a little bitch.” He hums, gaze flicking over your glazed expression, your flushed cheeks. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I might,” you admit. “If I don’t cry first.” 

There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I’ll drop you off.” You blink. “What? No. You’ve been drinking.”

“I haven’t. Can’t have everyone in the frat house drunk. Someone’s gotta babysit these idiots.” You blink again, the lag in your brain buffering like bad Wi-Fi. “...You?”

“Yeah, me. Shocking.”

“You know where I live?”

“You told me. Last week. After lab.”

You squint at him. “I don’t remember that.”

“Yeah, well, I remember everything.”

“Ew.”

He just stares at you, expectant, one brow cocked like he’s got all the time in the world.

You exhale dramatically. “Fine. But if you kill me I’m haunting your frat house.”

“I welcome it. It’s been boring lately.”

“Freak.” 

He smirks and plucks your phone straight from your hands to toss it into your purse, ignoring the half-hearted slap you aim at his wrist.

“Come on.” You groan, dragging yourself off the barstool, your legs not cooperating in the slightest. Your heels were cute in theory—silver with a tiny bow on the back and barely any support. Very much not made for trudging across dark college lawns and cracked sidewalks. You follow him out, still kind of mad at the universe for letting your Uber app crash. He opens the door like it's nothing, like he’s a gentleman or something—gross—and the cold night air wraps around your skin instantly. As it does, you swear you hear him mutter something. You turn, squinting through the haze. “What?”

“Nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing. It was something. And you're drunk, but not that drunk. It sounded suspiciously like you look pretty tonight. But you don’t say anything, just frown and follow him out into the night. Until you realize he’s not heading toward the street. He’s heading toward the back lot. Behind the frat house. 

You pause. “Wait—where the hell is your car?”

“Other side,” he says, without slowing.

“What do you mean other side?”

“I live here, dumbass. The resident lot is across the quad.”

“Are you kidding me?” You groan. “My feet are going to fall off.”

“Shouldn’t’ve worn stripper heels.”

“Shouldn’t’ve been born with a stick up your ass.” He snorts, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he walks ahead of you, like he's not dealing with a barely coherent girl in a miniskirt and heels struggling to walk in a straight line. You try to keep up, but the lawn dips, uneven and soft, and your ankle rolls slightly to the side. Your foot catches. Your knee gives out. And suddenly you’re stumbling, arms flailing, balance gone—You land hard on your ass with a sharp oof.

“FUCK,” you hiss, grabbing your ankle, already feeling the sting. You stay there a second, stewing, overwhelmed and overstimulated—the lights from the party still flickering behind your eyelids, your chest heaving from the sudden jolt, your mouth dry and head spinning. “You good?” Sukuna’s voice comes from somewhere above you, way too calm for someone whose lab partner just ate shit in front of him. “No, I’m not fucking good,” you snap, scowling up at him. “My feet are bleeding, my brain is melting, and your car is apparently in Narnia.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re such a dick!”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, suddenly stepping closer. “Just—fuck it.” You barely register him moving before there’s a sudden shift in gravity and your world tips sideways.

He scoops you up like it’s nothing.

Bridal style.

Your arms instinctively hook around his neck as you squeak, instinctively clinging to his hoodie as your legs leave the ground. “What the fuck are you doing?!” you yell, even though your voice comes out way too breathless to be convincing.

“Carrying you. Because you’re useless.”

“Put me down!”

“No.”

Your mouth opens to protest again, but your brain short-circuits because—

His hand. One of them—large, warm, calloused—is curled under your thighs, gripping firmly but not rough, fingers splayed slightly against the bare skin between your skirt and where your panties ride up your ass. But it’s the other hand that breaks your brain. It’s pressed right beneath your chest, right where the thin fabric of your top clings to your ribs. His knuckles graze the underside of your boob with each step. Not on purpose. Probably. Hopefully. But your body registers every tiny movement, every bounce and shift. Your breath stutters, nipples tightening under the lace, and—

God, you need to shut your brain off. He smells like expensive cologne and weed and something darker—musk and leather and sweat. The hoodie under your palm is worn soft, like he's had it for years, and his chest is so warm against your arm it’s making you feel dizzy. You go quiet. Not because you want to, but because your mouth won’t work right. He notices. “What, no snarky comment? Are you dying?”

“Just… conserving energy,” you mumble, trying to ignore the way your head is now resting against his shoulder, half from exhaustion, half because it feels nice there. 

“Shame. I was enjoying the sound of you bitching.” He makes it to his car—a black ‘09 Civic parked in the furthest back row—and sets you down gently, like you're glass. Which somehow feels even more ridiculous than being carried. You try to get your balance again, but before you can even reach down, he crouches and grabs your ankle.

“Hey—what are you—”

He’s already unbuckling your heel. “Your feet are bleeding,” he mutters, slipping it off carefully. Then the other. “Why are girls like this?”

“Because we suffer for fashion,” you reply, watching as he sets them neatly in the footwell of the passenger side. “Idiots,” he mutters, straightening and helping you into the seat. The door is still open as he leans in and buckles you up, the seatbelt snapping into place just under your chest.

“Don’t look at my tits,” you mumble, half-asleep, half-defensive.

“I’m not looking.”

“You are. You’ve been staring all night, you absolute perv. I might be drunk but I’m not blind.” He sighs, shuts the door, walks around to the driver’s side, and slides in beside you. The car’s interior is cool and clean and smells like the same cologne that’s still clinging to him. Once the engine’s on and the headlights glow, he glances over at you.

“Sorry I’m a man. My bad.”

“You are bad. And that’s not an excuse.”

“And yet here you are,” he drawls, pulling out of the lot, his hand casual on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. His thighs spread slightly as he adjusts, and you don’t mean to look but—

Yeah. No. You’re drunk. Because there’s no way you’re checking out his hands or his stupid muscular legs or the way his jaw clenches every time he shifts gears. Absolutely no way. You fold your arms and press your forehead against the window, trying to cool your cheeks down, but it doesn’t work. The drive is short. He doesn’t play music. Just lets the silence sit, and somehow it’s not awkward. Just… quiet. Kinda warm. When he pulls up in front of your dorm, he doesn’t speak right away. Just sits there for a second. You turn to him slowly. “Thanks… for not letting me pass out in a bush or get murdered.”

He shrugs. “Would’ve ruined my grade if you died.” 

You scoff. “So romantic.”

A pause. His eyes flick to yours, and his voice drops just a bit.

“You’re welcome.” 

And you don’t know why, but that makes your stomach flip a little. You nod, mumble something incoherent, and go to open the door. But he stops you, reaching across you suddenly to grab your purse from the floor. His arm brushes your chest again and you freeze. He pretends not to notice. But the corner of his mouth twitches. He hands you your bag without a word, and you climb out, the night air immediately biting your skin. As you shut the door and start toward your building, you hear his voice behind you—low, amused, maybe even a little genuine.

“Get home safe, dumbass.”

You turn over your shoulder.

“Night, perv.” Then you're gone. And his car stays parked for a few more seconds than it needs to.

–

It starts slow. Just like always, you two keep meeting up for study sessions, mostly in the same tucked-away campus library room. And technically you’re still working on your project. There's still the usual back-and-forth, the occasional threat of flinging a pen at his head, and your ever-reliable "God, you're so annoying" whenever he pushes too far. But something's changed. Some invisible shift. Like the night of the frat party cracked something open. You still bicker, still throw jabs like it's oxygen, but now—

There’s laughter. Actual laughter. From you. And snickering from him, like he’s low-key delighted when you call him a dickhead with that little smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. Now he leans closer than necessary when you’re reading. His arm brushes yours and he doesn’t move. His eyes linger on your mouth when you talk and when you call him on it, he just shrugs and says, “Sorry, your lip gloss is distracting.” You throw your pen at his forehead. He catches it without looking. You start referring to the group project as our child, and he calls himself the hot absentee father. You start keeping a tally of how many times he sighs dramatically when he doesn't get the answer before you. He keeps a separate one of how many times you chew your pen cap when you’re stressed and says it’s “borderline erotic.”

“I will murder you,” you say sweetly.

"That's what makes it erotic," he replies. But it’s not just that. There’s more. Quieter things. One time, he walks in late with two iced coffees and just drops one in front of you without a word, like it’s normal now. (It becomes normal. He starts bringing snacks too. Sometimes even the weird granola bars you said once in passing that you liked.) When you’re tired, he starts reading sections aloud to you in a voice that's somehow both mocking and comforting. When you're scribbling notes and your pen runs out, he's already tossing you a spare. And eventually—

You exchange numbers.

It’s just for “convenience,” you both claim. So you can update each other on meeting times. So he can send you stupid memes related to your topic. So you can text him "you forgot the rubric again, dumbass" when he shows up with nothing but a Monster and the same black hoodie he’s worn four sessions in a row. You never call each other, of course. Not yet. But the texts get more frequent. More casual. Sometimes you’re not even talking about the project. Sometimes it’s just:

You: tell toji to stop calling me your lil nerd wife Sukuna: don’t flatter urself. he called u my leashYou: even worse?? Sukuna: not to me 😏

And one day, you're the first to arrive. You’re early, even. Kinda excited to see him, which you don't interrogate too hard because you're a busy girl with academic priorities and definitely not thinking about his stupid shoulders lately. So you sit. And wait. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Finally, you send a text.

You: where u at bruh wtf im already here

There’s a delay. Then your phone buzzes. It’s a photo. A mirror selfie. Gym bathroom. Fluorescent lighting. He’s shirtless—no, wait, technically his shirt is in his mouth, bitten between his teeth. His abs are cut like they were designed in a lab. There’s a sheen of sweat on his chest, and the pinkest hint of a happy trail disappearing into black shorts. And god– the tattoos that intricately line his hips, and you’re ashamed that you’re zooming in to see them a bit more clearly. Toji’s in the background throwing up a peace sign and smirking like a menace. And the caption?

Sukuna: gym

You stare at your screen like it personally offended you. Because okay. Fine. You tolerate him now. You maybe even like him a little. Like, as a person. As in, you don’t fantasize about choking him out every time he opens his mouth. That’s progress. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the way your stomach plummets at that photo.

It’s shameful, really. You’re sitting alone in the study room, already annoyed that he’s late, your phone clenched in one hand and your cold coffee sweating on the table. You only texted him out of impatience, fully expecting some lame excuse. And instead, you get that. His abs are right there. Cut. Sharp. Obscene. His happy trail is a faint pink stripe leading down, dusted just enough to make your thighs clench, and you hate yourself for it. Your face heats so fast you think you might spontaneously combust. You look around the room like someone else might have seen it, like that would somehow make this a shared crime and not just your own private downfall. You blink at the photo. Then again. Then you lock your phone. Then unlock it.

You type.

Delete.

Type again.

Backspace halfway. Then finally give in and hit send.

You: keep those freaky selfies to urself bro Sukuna: u sure? u stared at that one a little too long You: YOU CANT SEE ME Sukuna: can feel it tho You: ew Sukuna: ur welcome

You throw your phone face down on the table like it just slapped you. He shows up twenty minutes later. Hair still damp, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie half on, clinging to the edge of his frame like it was trying to slide off. There’s still that smug grin curling on his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing. You don’t even say hi. You just cross your arms and raise your brows as he strolls in like he owns the place.

“I said keep the thirst traps to yourself, gym rat.”

He collapses into the chair next to you, legs spread way too wide, stretching his arms back behind his head with a low groan like he’s been working so hard—and the motion tugs his hoodie just enough for you to catch a flash of skin. A line of muscle. That stupid V again. “Thirst trap?” he echoes, voice low and lazy. “Nah. That was community service.”

You make a show of rolling your eyes, flipping a page in your notes. “You’re disgusting.” He leans over, chin propped in his hand, eyes glittering with something sharp and amused. “C’mon,” he says, his voice dropping, thick and playful, “you’re telling me you didn’t like it?” You don’t answer. He grins like that’s an answer. Then, slow and deliberate, he leans back again—slouches down in the chair like he owns it, hands behind his head, and lets his hoodie inch up. Not a lot. Just enough. Enough to show the ridges of his abs. The line of his hipbones. The tattoos. The happy trail, pink and soft and infuriating, peeking above the waistband of his shorts like he planned this entire thing. Like this is a setup and you walked into it willingly. “Sure about that?” he murmurs, eyes heavy-lidded and watching you now. You make a strangled sound in your throat and smack a folder in front of your face.

“You are so weird,” you mutter from behind it. He laughs. Real, deep, warm. And you hate the way it makes something loosen in your chest. And it keeps happening—these strange, flirty little moments you don’t know how to explain. He starts texting you just to annoy you. You start sending him selfies of your weird coffee orders with captions like for our child (the project). He calls you baby mama when you least expect it and winks every time you make eye contact. And maybe the worst part?

You start dressing better. Not for him, obviously. That’d be dumb. It’s just… you’re a girl. Sometimes you want to look cute. Sometimes you want to wear something other than an oversized hoodie and leggings. So you start showing up in cropped tops. In fitted shirts. In actual shorts when it's warm out. Sometimes you even—God forbid—do your hair. Not for him, of course. Except... he notices. You’re bent over your laptop one afternoon when you catch him staring again. Not like he’s trying to be subtle. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking lazily.

“What?” you say, defensive.

“You look good,” he says, so bluntly it makes you blink. Then, almost offhand: “But I liked when you wore those weird baggy clothes, too.” You snort.  And suddenly the words tumble from your mouth, words you didn’t expect to say at all.

“Yeah? Didn’t you say the project would be easier if I was hot?”

His smirk falters for the first time. He pauses. Then—quietly, sincerely, and in that very Sukuna way—he says, “Yeah, well. I lied about that to piss you off. Obviously.” 

A beat.

“You’re touched in the head if you don’t think you’re hot.” You go quiet. The air goes weird again—thick and strange and soft around the edges. You blink down at your notes, unsure what to say. Then, like it’s nothing, he shrugs. “Also… sorry. About that. And all the other comments. Shouldn’t’ve said that shit.”

You glance at him. He’s not looking at you. Just fiddling with the ring on his finger like he’s not even sure if he meant to say it out loud. You swallow. Your stomach flips. Something tender and unfamiliar blooms in your chest. Then, because you can’t handle the softness, you bump his foot under the table and mumble, “You’re still annoying.” He grins like he’s won something. You work in silence after that—your legs stretched out, your ankles resting comfortably on his lap. He doesn’t move them. Just shifts to make space. At one point he starts absently tracing circles on your sock with one finger. And you don’t move either. You just let it happen. Because whatever this is—it’s not nothing anymore. It’s weird and slow and unfolding. It’s not sharp like it used to be. It’s soft. It’s warm.

And you don’t know what this thing is. Not yet. But it’s something. It’s teasing and warm and slow and building. It’s softer around the edges now. His glances linger longer. His jokes don’t always have a bite. He starts giving you the better chair. He moves his laptop so you can stretch your legs out and rest your ankles on his lap like it’s no big deal. He taps your water bottle when you forget to drink. He waits for you after class sometimes now. He starts noticing things. When you’re tired. When you’ve skipped lunch. When your leg’s bouncing under the table and you’re clearly spiraling about a deadline. He just reaches over and taps your water bottle. “Drink something. You look like you’re about to combust.”

And one day you realize—

You’re not dressing better because you feel like it. You’re dressing better because something inside you wants him to look at you. Want him to notice. Wants him to sit across from you with his dumb jawline and his pretty mouth and his stupid gaze and look. Like he sees you. And he does. It’s horrifying. And kind of thrilling. You don’t say anything. You just keep showing up. You let your shirts fit a little tighter. Your hair falls a little smoother. You wear that one necklace that always rests right at the tops of your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s nothing.

–

The last few weeks of the semester come fast and loud. Finals hang heavy in the air, coffee-fueled library sessions and group study chaos around every corner, but somehow, Sukuna still finds a way to plant himself next to you in every single lecture. Literally. He doesn’t even ask anymore—just drops into the seat beside you like it’s his birthright. Kicks his legs out wide under the desk, slumps dramatically back in the seat, leans over with that lazy, smug-ass voice to ask if you did the pre-lecture reading (you did, obviously; he did not, obviously). Sometimes he brings snacks. One time, it was gummy worms. Another time, chips he smuggled in the sleeve of his hoodie like a middle schooler. He offered you one and you made a face but still took it. He grinned. 

Your chem project is basically wrapped up. You’re in editing and final-presentation mode now, which somehow translates to even more time together. Study sessions have blurred into hangouts, your text convos half-project, half weird jokes and chaotic memes. He still calls you names—airhead, goblin, menace—but sometimes his voice gets soft when he does. He still teases you, but the silences in between stretch warm and easy. So when you’re walking out of a bookstore downtown one Saturday afternoon and spot him across the street, it’s almost normal. He’s with Toji and Choso, the three of them leaning against a car like they’re posing for some kind of delinquent calendar. Sukuna clocks you first. His eyes catch on you, and he lifts his hand in a lazy, beckoning wave.

You cross the street.

He smirks. "Didn’t know you had business on this side of town. What, you stalking me now?" You roll your eyes. "Relax. I was running errands. There’s a stationery shop over there that sells the pens I like."

"Nerd," Choso says, but he sounds kind of fond. Toji just nods like, fair. Sukuna tilts his head. "You taking the bus back?"

"Yeah, why?"

"It’s getting dark," he says like it’s a passing observation. Then, in that dry, effortless way: "You look like a perfect kidnapping target. All spaced out and clueless. C’mere, little lamb."

You gape. "Okay well you’re the type of person to be the one doing the kidnapping."

"Uh-huh. Get in. I’ll drive you."

You’re protesting before he even finishes the sentence. But Toji just shrugs, opens the passenger door for you like this is something he’s used to, and Choso’s already climbing into the back. You sigh and slide in, heart pounding for reasons you refuse to name.  The drive starts off easy. After a while, he drops off both Choso and Toji to the gym– where they were apparently headed for an evening grind session. Spending time with these three makes you think that the gym might be their second home besides the frat house where they live. You lean your head against the window, watching the city pass by in a blur of dusk and brake lights. But traffic hits near campus—an accident or something up ahead—and the car slows to a crawl.

You sigh, long and dramatic, throwing your head back against the seat. “Well. Looks like we’re stuck.” Sukuna shoots you a flat look, one hand tapping the wheel while the other lazily rests across his lap. “Incredible deduction, Sherlock. What gave it away? The line of cars stretching into the abyss?”

You flip him off without looking. “I’m putting on music.”

He sits up a little straighter. “Don’t you dare play weird indie-girl shit.” You’re already unlocking your phone, smug. “Too late.” And then it begins—those soft, dreamy guitar chords of She Won’t Go Away, spilling out through the car speakers like a bubble bath in audio form. Sukuna visibly flinches.

“What the fuck is this?” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This sounds like it belongs in a movie montage of someone getting dumped in the rain.” You grin, curling your legs up into the seat and pressing your temple against the cool glass of the window. “It’s art. It’s emotion. It’s currently the only thing keeping me alive during finals.” 

You’re already humming under your breath, voice quiet but matching the lilt of the lyrics like you’ve done this a hundred times alone in your room. You don’t even notice you’re doing it at first—just this soft, distracted singing, like muscle memory. Like breathing. Sukuna groans again, leaning back against his seat like he’s physically in pain. “Put on Playboi Carti like a normal human being.”

“No,” you reply sweetly, already queuing the song again. “I’m hyper fixated. That means I’m playing it at least three more times.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, but doesn’t reach for the aux. Instead, he leans his head back against the headrest and shuts his eyes, as if surrendering to the inevitable. His tattooed arm is draped lazily along the console between you. The setting sun outside paints soft orange lines across the curve of his throat, the ridges of his knuckles, the cut of his jaw. You glance over. Just for a second. His damp pink hair is curling a little where it rests against his forehead, the collar of his shirt a little stretched from where he tugged it off earlier. His hands are relaxed, but you’ve seen them clenched around a pen, a steering wheel, a can—so often that it’s weird to see them soft like this. 

When the chorus hits again, you can’t help it—you clutch your water bottle like it’s a microphone and sing along, full volume, completely tone-deaf. Your voice cracks on a high note. You don’t care. The car is stuck, the sun is bleeding out across the horizon, and for once your brain is quiet enough to let you just be. Sukuna cracks an eye open to stare at you. There’s an expression hovering on his face—part judgment, part amusement, all exasperated affection. “You’re fucking insane,” he murmurs, but doesn’t tell you to stop. You play the song two more times. The last time, he even taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat. By the time the traffic thins and he pulls up in front of your dorm, it’s fully dark out. The streets are quiet. A light breeze rustles the trees overhead, and your building glows warm from the windows.

The car idles for a moment. Neither of you moves. You fiddle with your bag strap. “Thanks. For the ride.”  Sukuna shrugs like it’s no big deal, hand still resting casually on the steering wheel. “Didn’t want you to get kidnapped. I’ll be pissed if I have to deal with a new project partner this late in the semester.”

You snort. “So heartwarming. Hallmark should hire you.” But still, your smile softens. You open the door, start to slide out—

“Hey,” his voice cuts in, low. You turn back. He’s watching you, one elbow propped against the window, his mouth tugged into something just barely resembling seriousness.

“You’ve got a nice voice,” he says, slow. “When you sing.”

You blink. Then: “I mean—it’s not good,” he adds quickly, defensive. “Just—nice. Like. You know. Tolerable. Shut the fuck up.” You’re already laughing, your whole face warm, stomach fluttering for a reason that makes you want to scream into your pillow later. You shake your head, half-dizzy, and wave him off.

“Freak.”

He grins. “Obviously.” And then he’s pulling away, the soft glow of his taillights disappearing around the corner as you stand there on the curb, heart doing something you really wish it wouldn’t.

–

The dorm lounge is dark. A sad, crooked little sign is taped to the door, flapping slightly from the draft in the hallway: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. You stare at it in disbelief.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mutter. Sukuna makes a noise behind you—something between a groan and a sigh that says of course this would happen now.

“We walked all the way here,” you grumble, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “And East Wing Library’s still under construction as well.” You sigh, then shove your phone back in your pocket. “Whatever. Guess we’re not studying tonight.” Sukuna scratches at his jaw, eyeing you sideways. “We could go to my place.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“My frat house,” he clarifies, as if that helps. You squint at him. 

“Yeah, no offense, but the last thing I wanna do is walk into a testosterone-infested lair filled with Axe body spray and half-naked dudes playing Call of Duty.”

Sukuna smirks. “What do you think a frat house is, Animal House?” You raise a brow. “Is it not?”

“It’s…marginally cleaner.”

“Uh-huh.” 

He grins, lazy and wolfish. “What, you scared you’ll get corrupted?”

“Oh please. I’m scared I’ll catch a fungal infection from your couch.”

“Wow.” He mock clutches his chest. “That’s the same couch Toji had sex on junior year.” You wrinkle your nose. “You’re not helping your case.”

–

But you’re already walking beside him as he pulls his keys out of his pocket, smug as ever. The house is surprisingly... not awful. It’s big, for one. Tall windows, wide wraparound porch. Someone’s put effort into decorating the front room—there are actual plants. A couple are plastic, sure, but still. Progress.

“Don’t touch anything,” Sukuna says as he unlocks the door. “You might set off a trap.” You snort and follow him inside. Almost instantly, voices erupt from the kitchen.

“Yo!” someone calls. “Sukuna brought a girl? What the fuck?” You round the corner and find a man with gauges, hair tied back into a bun, leaning back in a chair with his feet propped on the table. Choso’s there too, hair also tied up in a low bun, sipping some horrifying green drink out of a mason jar.

“Holy shit,” Suguru grins, “she real?”

“She’s not my date,” Sukuna says, already annoyed. “She’s my lab partner.”

“Uh-huh, he’s actually not making up bullshit this time, Sugu,” Choso says, nodding solemnly between Sukuna and you. “Suguru, you shoulda seen the way he talks about h–.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“She’s cute though,” Suguru adds, eyeing you with an arched brow. “You sure this isn’t, like, your redemption arc?”

You just raise a brow. “This what you call hospitality?” Suguru snorts. “She talks back. I like her.”

“Bye,” Sukuna says sharply, grabbing your wrist. “Upstairs. Now.”

You’re still laughing as he drags you past the second floor landing. “Damn. Didn’t know you hadn’t brought anyone home in months.”

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“What’s wrong, celibate king? Losing your edge?” He stops in front of a door, turns to face you with that cocky smirk curling up again. “You wishing I haven’t gotten laid recently?”

You blink at him innocently. “Just surprised you haven’t. With how obsessed you are with yourself.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, pushing the door open, “standards.” You snort.  But his room is… not what you expected. It’s neat. Cleaner than yours, probably. Dark wooden desk against the wall, books stacked haphazardly but intentionally. An unmade bed with black sheets and a dark grey hoodie tossed over the pillow. There’s a little lamp glowing low in the corner and a record player next to a speaker. You hate how nice it smells in here. You set your bag down on the floor. “Why does it smell like... sage and expensive soap?”

“Because I’m not disgusting?”

“Debatable.” You both settle on the floor, laptops out, papers scattered. He brings over a half-full bag of spicy chips and a water bottle, which he throws at you without looking. It hits you square in the chest.

“Dickhead.”

“You’re welcome.”

The first twenty minutes are actually productive—notes reviewed, graphs tweaked, last-minute slides double-checked. But inevitably, the banter creeps in. His foot nudges yours under the desk. You nudge back. He leans over to steal a gummy from your bag and you slap his hand away.

“Stop stealing my candy.”

“You ate my gummy worms last week.”

“I didn’t steal them. I accepted them.”

“Wow. You’re so full of shit.”

“Eat dirt.” He laughs—low, under his breath—and it shouldn’t affect you the way it does, but it sinks into your skin like heat, lingers in your bloodstream. It’s not the usual cocky bark of a laugh he throws at you when he’s being a menace. This one is quieter. Throatier. Less sharp edges, more velvet. Like he’s amused with you, not at you. It wrecks your focus. He’s leaned back against the edge of his bed now, legs splayed carelessly, one knee bent, the other stretching toward you like it owns the space. His shirt rides up a little at the waist, just enough to flash the hard lines of his stomach, the deep cut of his hipbones disappearing under black sweats. One of his arms hangs lazy over his knee, veins taut beneath inked skin, fingers playing absently with a red pen. And his hair—fuck. It's a mess, falling over his forehead in soft waves, a few strands catching on his lashes when he looks down. You want to brush it back. You want to tug on it.

You shift slightly, trying to re-cross your legs, trying to re-engage your brain with the paper in front of you. But your sweater dips with the movement—a soft, oversized thing you threw on without much thought. It hangs loose over your collarbones, dips just enough to expose a hint of skin and the swell of your chest where the neckline falls low. You feel his gaze before you see it. A flicker—subtle, but deliberate. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s staring.

“You're staring.”

Sukuna doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t pretend to be caught, doesn’t have the decency to look embarrassed. He just meets your eyes, unashamed, and shrugs one shoulder in a way that’s all smooth arrogance. “Can you blame me?” You snort, but it comes out quieter than intended. Your throat’s a little dry. “You’re gross.”

“Yeah?” He shifts a bit, elbow sliding behind him so he’s leaning fully back now, neck tipped against the wall, gaze still locked on you. “Don’t act like you didn’t wear that on purpose.”

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

He lifts a brow, lazy. “The sweater. The whole off-duty art girl thing. You knew what you were doing.”

“I didn’t,” you protest, but your voice slips a bit, too defensive. “I just… liked the color.” Sukuna hums like he doesn’t believe you. His eyes stay exactly where they were—lingering, slow, blatantly appreciating. You glare at him. “You're an asshole.”

He grins. “True.” But then, softer. Less teasing. “You look cute.”

It lands differently. The words settle between you like something solid, something heavy. Not a joke. Not just banter. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything—how warm it is in the room, how quiet. The hum of the old radiator. The scent of whatever he uses in his laundry detergent—something clean and citrusy and a little intoxicating. You don’t respond. Your heart is thudding against your ribs, a little too loud, a little too fast. He watches you. Waits. Then, finally, you manage: “Stop being weird.” But your voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s soft. Uncertain. He smirks, but his eyes stay serious. “You love it.”

You roll your eyes, trying to drag your gaze back to your notes, to anything other than the way his gaze is dragging over your skin like a physical touch. You pretend to read, pretend to write, but you feel it—the tension, thick as syrup in the air. He’s close. Closer than before. You can feel the heat of him next to you, the way his thigh shifts slightly, brushing yours. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s already watching you. His expression is unreadable—equal parts amusement and hunger. He’s studying you like he’s memorizing. Like he’s waiting for the exact right moment to pounce.

And then he moves. No warning. No smart remark. Just a slow lean forward, one hand braced near your thigh as he closes the distance—eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again, like he’s giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t.

And before you know it, his lips are melding against yours. The kiss is slow. Careful. Not tentative, but measured, like he’s savoring the first taste. His lips are soft, warm, coaxing yours open. His hand comes up, rough fingers brushing your jaw before settling lightly at the base of your neck, thumb against your pulse. You inhale sharply when his mouth deepens against yours, tongue sliding over your bottom lip, teasing, asking—and when you give in, he groans, low and satisfied in the back of his throat. The sound goes straight to your stomach. He tastes like cinnamon gum and spice, something dark and smoky underneath. His teeth scrape lightly against your lip and you gasp into him, fingers fisting in the hem of his shirt without even realizing. When he finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His breath brushes against your mouth. His eyes are lidded, lashes low, lips parted and slightly swollen. He looks fucking wrecked. And somehow still manages to smirk. “Still think I’m gross?”

You blink at him, dazed. “Yes.” He laughs, that soft velvet-laced one again. You don’t even hesitate this time. You kiss him again—harder, needier, something unspoken unraveling fast between you. Your fingers curl tighter into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he doesn't resist—in fact, he deepens it like he's been waiting for this, like every smartass comment and every prolonged look was just him biding time. His hand drifts, slow, from your jaw to your throat—not pressing, just resting, thumb stroking just under your jawline, grounding you. The contrast of his rough fingers against your softer skin sends heat spiraling straight down your spine. Not just that– The hand on your throat sends a wave of heat right between your legs. Like he’s showing you who’s in control.

He pulls away just slightly, breath ragged, forehead grazing yours. "You kiss like you’ve been thinking about this.” You giggle against his mouth. “What if I have?”

That makes him groan—low, deep in his chest—and then he’s kissing you again, more urgent this time, less slow-burn and more fuck, finally. His hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he tilts your mouth open wider, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy kind of rhythm. You shift instinctively into his space, knees brushing his thighs, your body angling toward his like gravity made the call for you. His hands trail from the length of your back to your ass, squeezing it in his large, calloused palms. It gets hazy, fast. The taste of him, the weight of his palm as it trails from your throat to the dip of your collarbone, fingers catching on the edge of your sweater. He breaks the kiss just long enough to look down—his hand still on you—and you see the shift in his expression the second he remembers your neckline. He hooks a finger into the v-line of the neckline, exposing the swells of your pretty tits to his hungry gaze.

“See,” he murmurs, voice rough now, barely-there smile curling the corners of his mouth. “You did wear this shit on purpose. Look at the way it just falls down so easily– ‘S like you wanted me to stare at your tits.” You breathe out a laugh—shaky. “You’re so full of yourself.” He ducks his head, mouth grazing your collarbone now, slow and deliberate, hands palming your breasts. “You’re not denying it, though.”

Your response gets swallowed by the way his lips brush the base of your neck, warm and soft, and then he bites—not hard, just enough to make your breath catch. 

“Fuck—Sukuna—”

“Say that again,” he mutters, voice vibrating against your skin. “Say it like that.” You yank at his shirt in response, pulling him closer until he's practically between your legs, notebooks shoved aside and forgotten. He lets you, smiling against your neck, one hand situated on your breast, the other settling on your thigh now, fingers pressing just enough through the fabric of your leggings that it sends your heart into a tailspin.

“You’re—I don’t even like you like that,” you breathe, even as your hips shift slightly forward, even as your body clearly wants him, your heat pressed directly on the very evident bulge in his sweatpants. He drags his mouth back up to yours. “So stop kissing me.” You kiss him harder.

His hand slides up your thigh, slow but sure, fingers skating over your hip, his palm pressing warm through the fabric. You gasp into his mouth when his thumb brushes just below your waistband, teasing, testing. Still not rushing. Sukuna’s the kind of guy who knows exactly how to draw something out until it burns. His kiss slows again—like he’s dialing it back, testing your limits. “Tell me to stop,” he says, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “If you want me to.” You shake your head before the words even leave his mouth. 

“Don’t.” He exhales, almost like relief. “Good.”

Because now his fingers are slipping under your sweater, not even pretending to be shy, tracing the warm skin of your stomach, the skin above your waistband. When he feels the way your breath stutters, he pauses—lifts his head to look at you.

“You good?” His voice is soft. Different. You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. I’m good.” His lips twitch like he’s amused with how breathless you sound, but he doesn’t say anything cocky this time. He just kisses you again, slower now, more methodical, hands exploring like he’s cataloguing every inch of you. You’re vaguely aware that you're still in his room, that the door’s closed but the walls are thin, that you’re half-on, half-off his bed surrounded by a mess of notes and highlighters and open laptops. And none of that matters. Because the way he’s looking at you now—eyes dark, mouth kiss-swollen, hair a mess from your fingers—it’s not just heat. It’s hunger. Craving. Like he’s been waiting for this since the day he sat next to you in chem lab with that annoying smirk.

And now that he has you? He’s going to take his time. You're not sure when studying officially got left behind. Somewhere between the first kiss and the way his hands slid under your sweater, books became background noise. The project became irrelevant. Now, he’s laying you back on his bed—slowly, carefully, like he’s trying not to make you overthink it. The room is dim, golden light spilling in from the desk lamp. Your legs are tangled with his, your sweater halfway off your shoulder, and he’s hovering over you, kissing you like it’s something he needs to do, like he’s been trying not to all semester and finally gave up. You feel his hand slide under your sweater again, this time pushing it up your ribs, warm palm skating over your skin like he’s memorizing it. He doesn’t even rush—he just looks down at you like you’re something to unravel, slowly.

“You sure?” he says again, quieter this time. His thumb brushes just under your bra, like he’s offering you a way out, even now. You nod, heart stuttering. “Yeah.” That’s all it takes. Because after that, Sukuna moves like a switch flips. His hands are suddenly everywhere—sliding your sweater off completely, tossing it somewhere behind him, and then he’s kissing you again, this time lower, trailing his mouth down your neck, down the line of your collarbone, licking into the dip between your breasts like he’s been thinking about doing it forever. 

His hand tugs off your bra roughly, making you squeak– you’re not sure if it’s from the surprise from having the material ripped off of you so roughly, or the fact his long fingers are pinching at your nipples. He takes one in his mouth, sucking and rolling the sensitive bud around, before doing the same to the other one. With each action, you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, to the point you’re half wishing he’d just take your leggings and panties off, and just get on with it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, half against your skin. “You’re—god, you’re driving me fucking crazy.” He pulls off your nipple with a resounding pop, eyes darkened by the sight of the sheen of his saliva on your breasts. You laugh, breathless. “You’re literally the one climbing on top of me right now.”

He looks up at you, hair falling in his face, mouth wet and swollen. “Yeah, because you look like this. Wearing that stupid little sweater. Coming to my room. Being all—” He cuts himself off with a groan. “You knew what you were doing. You expected me not to do all this?” He punctuates this with a light pinch to your nipple, making you squeal.

“I came here to study!”

“Yeah, and now you’re in my bed. About to get your little pussy wrecked until you can’t walk. Real tragic how that worked out.” You feel yourself heat up– like your entire body aflame at his vulgar words, mouth opening to retort something back at him. He kisses you again before you can reply, this time rougher—his hands slipping under the waistband of your leggings, tugging slow and deliberate. You lift your hips to help him, cheeks flushed as he pulls them down and off in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your underwear. His eyes darken.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re unreal. And wet. Fuck, I can practically see your pussy because of how wet you are.” 

You reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. “Take this off. It's unfair I’m the only one half-naked.” 

He grins—sharp, pleased—and yanks it over his head in one smooth move. Suddenly you’re staring at the body that you’ve been unconsciously (consciously) staring at everytime he wears something even slightly form fitted. Defined, lean muscle, broad chest, ink curling along his side. Do you even need to mention the pink smattering of hair below his navel? It makes your thighs clench uncomfortably, making your eyes darken. He catches your look and smirks. “Like what you see, huh?”

“Shut up and get back here.” And he does. He presses his body flush against yours, warm and solid, one hand braced beside your head, the other cupping your waist. You can feel how hard he is through his sweatpants now, the heat of it making your breath catch. His hand trails down, teasing the edge of your underwear. “Still good?” You nod, hips shifting toward him. “Sukuna, please.” He growls, soft and low in his throat, and hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down. He kisses your neck as he does it, slow and hot, and you shudder. He gets them off and then leans back, just for a second, to look at you spread out in his bed, wet and inviting. His eyes are practically black now, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters. “You’re actually gonna kill me.” You tug at the waistband of his sweats. “Then die faster.” He laughs, breathless, and strips them off, boxers too. Holy fuck. It’s impressive. Thick and girthy, leaking from the pink tip. You try not to stare—try being the operative word—and he notices.

“Cute,” he says, climbing back over you. “You’ve been a nuisance to me all semester and now you’re blushing over my dick?”

“You’re literally about to be inside me. Give me a break.” That shuts him up real quick. He leans in, kisses you slow, hand sliding between your thighs. He teases you with his fingers first, dipping the long digits in and out of your wetness, making sure you’re ready, whispering things against your neck—“You’re so wet already,” and “Fuck, this tight for me?”—until you’re shaking, seeing stars just from two, thick fingers of his, clinging to his muscled arms. Once he’s deemed that you’re pleasantly even more wet than you were pre-orgasm, he strokes his shaft, the tip pink and angry as he stares with a half lidded gaze at the glistening area between your legs.

And then he’s there, lined up, pushing in slow. You gasp at the stretch, the pressure, your hands grabbing onto his biceps as he sinks into you inch by inch. “God,” he grits out, forehead pressed against yours. “You feel—fuck—you feel insane. Oh my– Shit, I’m never letting this pussy outta my sight.” You can’t speak. You just hold onto him, breathing through it, until he’s all the way in and stills. Gives you a second. Kisses you again. When you finally nod, his hips start to move—slow, deep strokes that make your whole body arch into him. It’s hot and messy and intense, but there’s something else in it too—something careful. He watches you like he wants to memorize every expression you make, every sound you let out.

It builds fast—frustration and release and months of tension finally cracking open. His name falls from your lips more than once, and he groans each time like it’s doing something to him.

“S-Sukuna—fuck—I’m—”

“I got you,” he mutters, kissing your shoulder. “I got you. Come on, baby. Make a mess on my dick. Yeah, mhm. Fuck.” And when you come, it hits like a wave—sharp and overwhelming, your whole body curling into him, his name leaving your mouth in breathy moans. He follows not long after, hips stuttering as he barely manages to pull out, his warm seed splattering on your stomach, head buried in your neck, cursing softly against your skin. He kisses you briefly, heading quickly to his bathroom to grab a warm washcloth to wipe your stomach clean, tossing the balled up cloth into the hamper in some corner of the room.

Afterward, there’s just heavy breathing and tangled limbs. His hand finds yours under the sheets, fingers interlacing. You’re the first to speak, voice still shaky.  “That was–That was not studying.”

Sukuna laughs—hoarse, wrecked. “Yeah, no shit.” You glance at him. “So… do we pick the project back up tomorrow?” He rolls over, smirking at the ceiling. “Maybe if you let me come inside next time.” You throw a pillow at his face. He catches it without flinching. “Worth it.”

And you laugh, falling back into the sheets beside him, skin still buzzing, body still flushed. For once, everything’s quiet.

–

You stretch, groaning into the pillow, body aching in a way that’s half delicious and half criminal. Your thighs hurt. Your back hurts. Your soul might hurt a little. From across the room, you hear the sound of Sukuna's shower turning on. “No,” you croak, face still buried in the pillow. “I am not moving. I live here now. This is my bed.”

“You’re literally lying on my hoodie.”

“Then it’s mine now too.” 

He snorts. “Get your ass up. We should shower before everyone in the frat wakes up and thinks I killed someone in here.” You peek out with one eye. “You can go first.”

“I wasn’t offering,” he says, walking out of the bathroom with just a towel slung low around his hips. Drops of water are still clinging to his chest, and the tattoos on his ribs look somehow worse in the daylight. In the best way. “Come on.” You blink at him. “You want to shower… together?”

He raises a brow. “Yeah?”

“No.” He squints. “Why not?”

“That’s intimate.”

He stares. “My dick was inside you last night.” You wave a hand. “That’s physical. This is emotional.” He laughs—actually laughs—and crosses the room in two strides. “You're such a weirdo.”

“I’m serious! Showering together is, like, emotionally naked. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s so vulnerable. That’s like… domestic. That’s, like, soft.”

He rolls his eyes, completely unfazed. “You’re such a freak.” Then, before you can protest further, he grabs you—still very naked, still very sore—and throws you over his shoulder like a caveman. His hand slaps across your ass lightly, snickering to himself.

“SUKUNA—”

“I’m not listening to you spiral about emotional nudity,” he says, totally calm, carrying you into the bathroom like you weigh nothing. “You moaned my name like a porn star last night. You can handle a shower.”

“I can’t walk!”

“Which is why I’m being a gentleman and carrying you.”

“You are the opposite of a gentleman.” He kicks the bathroom door shut behind him and sets you down on the edge of the counter. Steam curls around both of you, hot and fragrant—his shampoo smells stupidly good, which is somehow infuriating.

You stare at the water, then at him. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

Sukuna grins, dimples flashing. “Obviously.” You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips a little anyway. The second you step under the spray, your muscles sigh. Hot water hits your back, and you slump forward with a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a prayer. Sukuna slides in behind you, and his hands immediately land on your hips, holding you steady like he knew you were about to collapse.

“I told you I couldn’t stand,” you mumble, leaning back against his chest.

“I didn’t realize you meant it literally,” he says, smirking into the curve of your neck. “You should work on your stamina.”

“You should get bent.”

“Hm, I think I bent you. Very successfully, actually.”

You try to elbow him, but he catches your wrist easily, still grinning. “Want me to wash your hair?” You eye him warily. “What are you gonna do? Douse me in Axe body wash?”

“Hey. That’s slander.” He grabs a bottle from the ledge and starts working it into your scalp before you can protest. His hands are warm, gentle, and surprisingly careful. He’s quiet for a second, and so are you. Then he murmurs, “You smell good.”

“It’s your shampoo. That’s like self cest. You’re saying I only smell good because I smell like you?”

“Yeah, but now it’s on you. It’s different. Not self cest. You just… Shut up and lemme wash your hair.” You glance up, heart doing something stupid in your chest. “You’re being weird again.”

“Yeah?” He ducks down slightly, voice lower now, breath ghosting against your ear. “And what if I said I like being weird with you?” You freeze. Then you shove a palm into his chest. “Shut up. That’s so corny.” He laughs, but his grip on your waist doesn’t falter. You stay under the water a little longer, letting the heat and his hands and the way his chest feels against your back melt the rest of the tension out of you. When he reaches for the soap again, you catch his wrist. “Do not start anything. I physically can’t take another round.” Sukuna leans in, kisses the side of your jaw with a smirk. “Don’t worry, baby doll. I’ll be good.” He’s not. Safe to say you ended up begging for it too.

–

The hallway’s cold. Way colder than your dignity can handle when you’re limping barefoot behind a shirtless Sukuna in his frat house, wearing his hoodie and a pair of his shorts that might as well be pants. Your hair’s damp, your thighs are wrecked, and your pride? That’s somewhere on the floor of his room with your underwear.

“You didn’t have to break me in half,” you mutter under your breath, wincing with each step. Sukuna snorts, completely unbothered. “You seemed fine last night. And in the shower.”

“I was faking it.”

He glances over his shoulder, smug. “You were screaming.”

“Faking it loudly, then,” you snap. He just chuckles, steps into the kitchen like he’s not Satan incarnate. Toji’s already there—standing shirtless in front of the stove, flipping protein pancakes in a pan that looks like it’s seen war. He glances up the moment you hobble in behind Sukuna, eyes trailing from your flushed face to the unmistakable fact that you are wearing Sukuna’s hoodie and walking like you’ve been in a car crash.

Toji freezes. Then grins. Slow. Evil.

“Oh shit.”

You want to die. You want the linoleum floor to open up and swallow you whole. You press the sleeves of Sukuna’s hoodie over your face. “I knew I heard something last night,” Toji says, flipping a pancake like this is the best morning of his life. “Told Choso it wasn’t the pipes. That’s gotta be why he slept on the couch.”

“I hate this house,” you mumble. Sukuna yawns. “Shut the fuck up, Toji.” Toji just cackles. “She’s limping, bro. You broke her.” Your head snaps up. “Shut up! Don’t say it like that—”

“Toji,” Sukuna says again, voice dropping low now. “If you say one more thing, I’m banning you from ever speaking in the kitchen again.” Toji raises both hands, innocent. “Damn. Y’all are sensitive this morning.” Sukuna grabs a water bottle off the counter and throws it—nails Toji square in the chest. Water explodes. Toji wheezes laughing.

“I’m putting a ban on the entire house,” Sukuna mutters, turning toward the hallway. “Nobody comes out of their fucking rooms for the next twelve hours.”  Toji wipes water off his chest with a paper towel. “That’s not how a frat works.”

“It is now.” 

You, meanwhile, are dying silently in the corner of the kitchen, gripping the counter for dear life like Bambi on ice. Your legs genuinely might give out. You pull the hoodie lower and try to disappear into it. Toji eyes you, smirking. “You want a protein pancake, champ? You’ve earned it.”

“I swear to God—”

Sukuna slams a mug down on the counter. “TOJI.”

“Okay, okay! Damn. Sensitive and possessive.”

Sukuna grabs two mugs, fills them with coffee, then turns to you like nothing happened. “C’mere.” You shuffle over, still avoiding eye contact with the man who just witnessed your walk of shame, and accept the mug gratefully. Your fingers brush Sukuna’s as you take it, and he glances at you. That look again. The one that’s always a little cocky, a little smug. But softer now. Like he hasn’t quite recovered either. You sip the coffee to avoid saying something dumb.

Toji, of course, ruins the moment by smacking the spatula on the counter. “So when’s the wedding?” Sukuna chucks a pancake at him. And despite the embarrassment, despite the ache in your thighs and the fact that your ego might never recover… when Sukuna leans against the counter next to you, shoulder brushing yours, and murmurs, “Still think showering’s more intimate than sex?”—you don’t argue. You just bump his hip with yours and whisper, “Next time, you’re the one limping.” He barks out a laugh at that, looking down at you.

“You sound like you’re gonna peg me.”

“Keep embarrassing me like this and I might just peg you.”

–

It keeps happening. Somehow, even after you swore you weren’t gonna end up tangled with a smug frat boy who wears rings like armor and calls you “menace” every time you breathe wrong—here you are. The project is basically done, but that doesn’t change much. You still see each other constantly, like it’s built into your week now. Study sessions, late-night editing, grabbing food on the way back from the library. He still comes over unannounced and flops onto your bed like it’s his, still kicks his shoes off and demands snacks and calls you bossy for forcing him to fix his citations.

And okay, yeah. You keep hooking up. It’s not even subtle anymore. Sometimes he’ll press you into your mattress before your laptop’s even warmed up, muttering something like “five minutes” that always turns into an hour. You fall asleep tangled in his limbs more often than you’d like to admit, his hand wrapped around your waist like it belongs there. And it’s not just sex—it’s everything. The way he orders your coffee without asking. The way he instinctively tilts his head down when you talk so he hears every word. The way he looks at you, like he’s memorizing you. Toji and Choso have basically stopped pretending it’s casual. Every time you come over to the frat house, someone whistles or yells, “Yo, Sukuna’s girl’s here!” 

You always roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway. Sukuna usually throws a middle finger over his shoulder and drags you inside like he doesn’t care—but you’ve caught the smirk on his face more than once. But then. One Wednesday, you walk into class a couple minutes late. You’re digging for a pen in your bag, not paying attention, until you hear it—his laugh. You glance up. He’s already in your usual seat. But he’s not alone. There’s a girl next to him—cute, brunette, sparkly earrings. Laughing with her hand on his arm like they’re in the middle of a joke. And Sukuna? He’s laughing too. That low, easy laugh he uses when he’s genuinely amused. His whole body turned toward her. His eyes crinkled at the corners. Familiar.

Too familiar. It shouldn’t matter. He’s not your boyfriend. You never asked him to be. But something curdles in your stomach, this horrible bitter twist of heat and nausea. Because he’s never laughed like that with anyone else—not that you’ve seen. That was yours. You sit on the other side of the lecture hall. You don’t text him back that night. Or the next. You’re not cold. Just… distant. Muted. Detached. You don’t flirt. You don’t roll your eyes when he calls you names. You don’t even rise to the bait when he eats the last of your chips and says, “You snooze, you lose.” You just nod, distracted. Quiet. The first time he tries to pull you into his lap during a break, you shrug him off.

The third time it happens, he snaps. “The fuck is going on with you?” You glance up from your notebook, eyebrows raised. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he says, jaw tense. “You’ve been acting weird all week.” You look at him flatly. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what? Avoiding me?” The words hang heavy in the air. He stares at you across the room, breathing hard, the project open on your laptop but completely forgotten. Your throat is tight.

“Forget it,” you mutter, pushing back your chair. He grabs your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make you stop.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” You inhale, shaky. “I saw you. In class. With that girl.”

His expression shifts, confusion tightening into something sharper. “What girl?”

“The one you were laughing with,” you say, voice brittle. “It’s not a big deal. I just—forgot who you are, I guess. You can talk to whoever you want.” He stares at you. Like he doesn’t know whether to scream or laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

You rip your arm from his grip. “Yeah, actually.”

“That was my cousin, you idiot.” You freeze. “What?”

“My cousin. From Osaka. She was visiting campus and sat in for class,” he says, exasperated. “Jesus, you thought I was flirting?”

“You were laughing with her!”

“I laugh with you more than anyone! Does that mean I’m flirting with you too?”

“Yes!” you blurt, and then immediately regret it. His eyes narrow. “So you do see it.” You open your mouth. Close it. Your face burns. He steps forward, close enough to make your pulse jump. “You’re jealous.” You look away. “No, I’m—”

He cuts you off. “You are. And you know what? Good. ’Cause I’ve been going fucking insane pretending we’re just study buddies who coincidentally spend every second together and coincidentally fuck and coincidentally sleep in the same bed, but can’t call each other anything real.” You stare at him, breathless.

“I like you,” he says, low and hoarse. “I like you so much it’s driving me nuts. And if you don’t feel the same—fine. But don’t act like I haven’t been making it obvious.” You swallow hard. “You have a fucked-up way of showing it.”

He snorts. “You’re one to talk. Giving me the silent treatment because I laughed once?”

“You laughed like you do with me,” you whisper. “That’s what hurt.”

Something flickers in his expression—something soft and real. He cups your jaw.

“I only laugh like that with you,” he says, voice thick. “I only want to laugh like that with you.” Your heart stumbles. “Now shut up,” he mutters, “so I can kiss you.” You do. And he does—hard, hungry, like he’s been waiting for years. Hands are in your hair, yours are on his shoulders, and everything finally clicks into place. When you pull back, flushed and breathless, he grins. “Well. You’re my girlfriend now.” You blink. “That’s not romantic at all.” He kisses your cheek. “Didn’t say it was. But it’s the truth.” You shove his chest. “You suck.” He just grins harder, tugging you back in. “Not what you were saying last week. In fact, you were sucking it.” You groan. But you don’t argue. Because yeah—you’re his now. And he's yours. Officially.

–

Sukuna’s room is warmer than usual. The window’s cracked, the scent of pine air freshener battling the distinct smell of boy—clean laundry, leftover cologne, something vaguely woodsy. You’re cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by notebooks and crumpled printouts, while he’s sitting in his desk chair with one foot up on the edge, tapping away at the final slides of your presentation. Toji passed by the door earlier and shouted, “Yo, project couple!” before Sukuna flipped him off and slammed the door shut with his heel. You’re both halfway through your second coffees, the last dregs sloshing around your cups. The project’s done for real now—just tweaks now. Alignment stuff. Graph polish. The usual shit that seems small until it’s 2 a.m. and your brain starts melting.

“You typed ‘photochemistray,’” you murmur, leaning forward to peer at his screen. He doesn’t even look up. “No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“I don’t make typos.” You snort. “You make so many typos.”

“I make sexy typos.”

“‘Photochemistray’ sounds like a bootleg brand of nerd lingerie.” He finally glances over, one brow raised. “You say that like it’s not a market I could corner.”

You throw a pillow at him. He laughs, full and low and so familiar it warms your stomach. That sound’s become muscle memory at this point. Embedded into your damn soul. The moment settles. Quiet for a beat. His keyboard clacks, and you start flipping through your notes, eyes skimming blankly. Then, out of nowhere, your voice slips into the silence. “Y’know… we’ve technically talked before this semester.” 

He glances up. “What?”

“Like, you and me. Before we got partnered.” He blinks. “When?” You hesitate. “That freshman welcome thing. In the orientation lecture hall. They made people from different majors introduce themselves. I stood up and said something about being interested in environmental science.” He frowns, clearly digging through his brain.

“And I stuttered,” you add, dryly. “And you—very loudly—mocked me from the back row.” There’s a beat. His face changes. Just slightly. Jaw tightening.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. You said something like, ‘Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.’”

He winces. “Shit.” You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I mean, whatever. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yeah, it was,” he says immediately, looking at you now with that intense, unreadable stare. “I was an asshole. I didn’t even remember that was you.” You shrug again, but it feels a little thinner this time. “You weren’t wrong. I was stuttering.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” he says. “I was a piece of shit. I’m sorry.” The quiet that follows isn’t awkward—it’s just… charged. The way he says it, that gravel in his voice. The way he’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, rings glinting under the dim desk lamp. It does something to you.

“Didn’t think the Ryomen Sukuna apologized,” you say lightly. He lifts a brow. “Only when I mean it.” You nod slowly. Then: “Guess I’m honored.” His eyes narrow—playfully, but there’s heat there now. “You should be.” Your heart skips. You stretch your legs out, feigning boredom. But the hem of your shorts rides up, and his gaze flickers down—lingers. You see the change in his posture. The way his foot drops from the desk, his chair creaking as he shifts.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he says, voice lower now. “But you’ve been sitting there looking like that for the past hour and it’s getting hard to think.” You blink. “Like what?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching. “All pretty and smug. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to me.” You raise a brow. “I’m literally in a hoodie and gym shorts.”

“And yet,” he says, slowly standing. “Here I am. In physical pain.”

You scoff. “Maybe focus on the final slide instead of your dick.”

“Maybe stop sitting there looking like a fucking sin,” he mutters, now crossing the space between you. You don’t move. You can’t. Your breath is caught somewhere in your chest as he stops right in front of the bed, towering over you, eyes hooded. “Can I?” he asks, voice quieter. Rougher. You nod. The shift is immediate. His hands slide up your thighs, slow and deliberate, as he kneels onto the bed, caging you in. His mouth brushes the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Didn’t like that I hurt your feelings.” 

You swallow. “You didn’t. Not really.”

“I did,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your neck. “And now I’m gonna make it up to you.” Your breath stutters. He pulls back just enough to look at you—his thumb grazing your jaw, eyes dark and locked on yours. “You good?” he asks, tone shifting just slightly—checking in. You nod. “Yeah.”

“Say it.”

“I’m good.”

That’s all it takes. His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and teeth and months of tension bleeding out between your lips. His hand finds your waist, gripping you like he’s been starving. You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. The laptop slides off the bed with a thunk, forgotten. You pull him down with you, and he goes easily, one knee slipping between your thighs, his weight bracing over you. He kisses like he studies—focused, intense, overwhelming. His tongue licks into your mouth and your brain just short-circuits. He looks at you for a long second. Then, suddenly, grabs your waist and pulls you into his lap.

“Also,” he murmurs, breath hot against your neck, “for the record, if I’d known the hot chem girl from freshman year would end up riding me like five times a week, I would’ve introduced myself sooner. And not have been such an asshole to you.” You slap his chest. “That’s your way of apologizing?”

“Yeah, but you like it.” You kiss him to shut him up, and somehow, that turns into another hour of not reviewing the presentation.

–

it’s the final day, and your name’s being called. You head to the front of the class with your laptop while Sukuna follows, looking every bit the cocky, casually dressed bastard he’s always been—except now he’s your cocky, casually dressed bastard. He nods at the front row like he’s about to win a Grammy, and you nudge his ribs. A significant portion of the project requires an overview accompanied with an oral presentation, so here you are.

“Behave.”

“I’m always well-behaved,” he mutters, grabbing the clicker. You start the intro. He takes over halfway through. You can’t help but grin a little—because he’s good. Actually good. Clear, confident, no stuttering, and he even makes Professor Shimizu laugh with a sarcastic quip about the data trend in one of the chemical reactions. And then, without thinking, he leans down and kisses your cheek. Like it’s second nature. The room doesn’t even react that much—probably because no one’s shocked anymore—but when the class ends and people start packing up, Professor Shimizu catches your arm. She grins. “Isn’t that the same boy you were begging me not to pair you with at the start of the semester?”

Your face burns. “We had…a rocky beginning.”

“Mmm,” she says, amused. “Well, you turned it around. Solid work. And the chemistry was palpable.” You groan. “Please don’t say chemistry.” But she’s already walking away, still smiling to herself. After class, Sukuna drives you back to your dorm like always. One hand on the wheel, one resting over your thigh like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. Halfway through the drive, he queues something on his phone. And the soft strum of Faye Webster's She Won’t Go Away fills the car. You whip your head toward him. “No fucking way.” 

He doesn’t look at you. “Don’t start.”

“You said this was depression music for people who get dumped in the rain.” He clicks his tongue. 

“Yeah, well. Maybe I like that kinda concept now.” You cover your mouth with a gasp. “You’re evolving.”

“I’m gonna shove you out of this moving car.” 

You’re already singing by the chorus, and even though he groans, you catch him mouthing the words beside you. He tries to act like he’s just being ironic, but his fingers tap the rhythm on your leg, and he keeps the song on repeat the whole ride. By the time he pulls up to your dorm, the sun’s setting. You lean in, eyes soft, smile lazy. “That was kinda romantic,” you murmur. 

He scoffs. “Don’t get used to it.” You kiss him anyway. And when you pull back, he’s watching you with that grin. The one that’s half smug, half stupidly, hopelessly fond. “You know,” he says, “if you weren’t so annoying, I might’ve asked you to be my girlfriend sooner.” You blink. “That was the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Like, worse when we had that little argument and you just told me that I was your girlfriend now.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “You didn’t fall for me because I’m romantic.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Why did I fall for you, actually?”

He leans in close. “Probably the dick.” You shove him away, laughing. “God, you’re disgusting.”

“And yet,” he says, as you open the car door, “you’re still letting me hit. Also, this song, I actually really like it–”

You squint. “Are you saying this to get laid?”

“No,” he mutters. “But if it works, I won’t complain.” You slam the door in his face, but you’re grinning. And he’s still smiling when you look back through the window.

a/n: i had way too much fun writing this lollll now i need sukuna!!!

also, honourable tag for @writesvani bc of whom i actually had the motivation of writing this because she sent the most beautiful words of support 2 me after whisper of the heart. thank u so much and ily immensely <3

tags: @tracysdemise @perqbeth @fushiguroooozzz @bowlware @yuunice @xxstormyprincessxx @bnbaochauuu @beabamboo @erintaro @altgojo @sugurulefttesticle @minascasket @rinofcike @captainquake42 @pinkpookiebear @hellowoolf @clp-84 @yit-tk @nessca153 @domainofmarie @crunchyholo @emochosoluvr @sukubusss @being-blue-is-better @nikilig @syubseokie

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-five —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.8k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. menstruation. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Jagged rock burns into your palms. Slapping a hand up, you feel for the grassy ledge, barely visible in the darkness. You heft the backpack over it before managing to pull yourself up, landing on your stomach with a grunt through your teeth. The sneakers you scavenged from the closet are tight around your toes—better than Salome's thin shoes, but still far from pleasing as you stand and press on towards the road.

Moonlight guides you north. 

Not long until sunrise, judging by the sky.

Small white clouds puff around your mouth as the chilled air brushes the damp spot on your too-big jeans, the cuffs rolled and the waist cinched to keep them from slipping. You couldn't leave in the middle of the night, so you held a mug of water as a makeshift alarm. The moment sleep tried to steal you, the splash on your thigh ended it abruptly. 

You'd woken Blue up to tell her. At first, grey eyes scolded you in the dark. She looked away, ready to argue, before quietly reciting instead: the house they kept her in, the layout, any hiding places she may have seen.

"What about her?" you had asked. "Anything important to her. She probably saw antibiotics as a gift from God or something."

"Yeah. She would've," Blue muttered. "She liked to knit. And, um, talked about birds. Her husband owned the whole place, but he died. I don't know if any of that helps."

"It does. It's better than nothing." You gave her hand a squeeze. "Make sure he eats again. And check his back. You might need to drain it. You know how now, right? Nereida could—"

"I've got it." She slipped her hand away. "Just—don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"Of course not."

Sneaking out had been easy—only because Nereida was on watch. You slipped out the back and wove through the tall grass, barely stirring the stalks. Price would've caught you for sure. But you made it across the creek with nothing more than the slow unrolling of your jeans to slow you down, the cuffs dragging in the water and soaking through. You rolled them back up, but a kilometer up the road, they've slouched back down, heavy and clinging to your legs.

Time is an enemy you've already lost a day to. With a sigh, you drop onto the hood of a rusted car, pull the knife from your waist, and hack at the fabric’s ends. A serrated blade would make this easier. The hems are jagged, but at least they won’t get in the way.

Ghost’s fever is bad, but the real threat is sepsis—the blood poisoning, organ failure, the things you haven’t told Blue. At best, he has a week. At worst, another day. The thought has you scrubbing a hand over your tired eyes before pushing off the car. You toss the cut scraps into the grass just as a disturbance prickles the back of your neck.

You whirl around, dropping the knife in favor of the pistol. 

"Just me."

"Jesus. Kyle. I was ready to shoot."

"Honorable of you to give me a quick one."

You huff, bend for the knife, and slip it back at your waist.

He closes the gap, rifle and backpack slung over his shoulders. 

"Why wouldn't you tell anyone?" His brows lower. "I went to feed him, and Blue said you’d gone back. Hell of a surprise."

You give him your back. "I've already wasted time. I knew what you'd say."

"And what exactly did you think I'd say?" A hand on your shoulders pries you back around.

Your eyes drift up to his, narrow, then veer to the side. "That it's a long shot."

"Yeah, it is." His hand drops. He brushes past you with a sigh, long and ragged, adjusting the rifle on his back. "Come on, then. You're not the only one who gives a shit about him."

There isn't anything to be said as you trudge beside him, no argument able to form. You know his company is invaluable. Gratitude is still hard to find, even when he prevents you from going the wrong way. "We turned here last time." Apparently you hadn't paid much mind. The road fills the gaps of silence, dawn breathing life into the buzz of cicadas. Long drags of air fill your lungs: sweet flowers only, until, something else. A waft of charred meat.

"You should eat."

Kyle extends a piece of squirrel. Despite the twinge in your stomach, you brush him off. "While they were starving you, we were getting stuffed. Fatten the mares, get a strong foal—all that."

His jaw ticks. "Ah."

"Damn good food, too."

"Lucky you."

"Lucky us."

Conversation shrinks to a brief exchange of what Blue said. He doesn't look convinced it'll help much. The stench doesn’t sour the air until the first sign for Fleurbaix rises at your right—like a breath in your face. Humidity clings to it, thick and unmoving, until there’s nothing else to breathe. In the sunlight, familiar stone walls and red-shingled rooftops repulse you, almost more than the sight of aimless Greys—some weaving between clotheslines, most trapped within the fenced pasture. The cows, however, have already fled through a broken gap, eager to escape uphill.

"They should've lost interest by now. The blood isn't fresh," you mutter.

"Humidity. Less evaporation, more smell." He nods the tip of his rifle. "Over there. That one has a wraparound porch like Blue said."

The view vanishes behind overgrown trees as you crest a hill, descending toward the commune. Kyle motions you forward, weaving through structures, keeping clear of the Greys. As long as they can’t scent you, they will stay distracted. You step over a few stray bodies, faces picked apart by crows that scatter at your approach. Clinging to a stone wall as you follow, a bony hand bursts forth from a window—Kyle knifes its skull before it can grab you.

Other than that, there aren't any close calls.

You reach the house that fits Blue's description.

The door is wide open.

Kyle sweeps in with the poised rifle.

You are greeted by an already ransacked interior. Tipped chairs, half-yanked cabinets, tossed couch cushions. A sick understanding settles at your fingertips, curling them around the gun. 

"They were here. The women. They knew she would've hidden them."

More signs that this is just a dead end; a waste of precious time.  

Kyle lowers the guns and presses forward into the hall. "That doesn't mean they found what they were looking for. Check the rooms."

Maman's house is as expected, even in disarray. Quiet and balmy. You kick open the first door. Polished wood, gold-embellished hinges, a closet stuffed with white gowns. A knitting bag catches your eye. You sift through it, tossing out balls of red yarn. Nothing.

More nothing under the bed. 

You tear the painting from the wall, only solid stone behind it.

A family photo thrashes to the floor beneath a swipe of your fist. You find Kyle in the other room, where a smaller bed is tucked beneath a window—the sight makes it hard to breathe for a moment. The blood stain on the sheets. Somehow you know whose it is. Your stomach rips at itself. You force yourself to look away before you lose it. 

"The floorboards. They didn't look under them. Help me."

He raps the butt of the rifle against the wood. A hollow echo near the doorway offers promise. A knife jammed between the planks pries them apart. When you sink to your knees, all that fills your hands are stashes of faded euros. No pills, no vials. 

You rip up the notes and let the shreds feather through the air, leaning back on your palms as a quiet hiss leaves your teeth. "Where did you put them you vile, ugly, goddamn hag."

"Maybe her son kept them," Kyle murmurs, threading a hand through his hair. "He had the guns."

"No." Your voice is firm. You stand and pace. "She would've wanted them close to her. Antibiotics—she was saving that for the women. The births."

You reach for your knife and stab the mattress, slicing it open. Springs and foam. Books maybe. You run back to the shelf in the hall and rip them one at a time, flipping them open to see if any were hollowed out. Even the Bible is just a book. 

What else?

What else?

"How much time are we willing to spend looking for them, Twix?" he asks lowly behind you. "Maybe we check somewhere else. A town."

"They'd have picked them clean years ago." You toss the Bible to the floor with a thud. "This was our best bet. We had them. We fucking had them."

"And now we don’t. We can’t keep tearing this place apart. We focus on keeping him stable—keep the wounds clean, use what we’ve got. He’s made it this far without them. We just need to buy him more time. There might be another stash in one of the other houses."

You lean against the wall, eyes fluttering shut briefly. A deep inhale. "There's just—something I'm missing."

"Twix—" He sighs, running a hand down his face. "Alright. Let's do another sweep. I'll check the floors in the living room."

Thoughts race. A frothy tide refusing to settle. You press your thumb to the scabbed cut on your wrist, the sting sharpening your mind. Back in the cell. Morning sun slanting through the window. Obsessively studying what’s around you. Replaying everything you learned about that woman. A dead woman. If you could’ve told the Greys to hold off, let her speak before they tore through her neck, you would have.

In the midst, a dove’s call breaks through—three notes, too close in your ear. You must be imagining it, but Alexandre’s voice stirs in your head: La tourterelle chante pour toi.

He said that when he heard the dove.

Why?

Birds.

She talked about birds.

You push off the wall and follow the sound to the room where they kept Blue. The coo draws you to the windowsill by the bed, where the glass is cracked just enough for the curtains to stir, the stench outside seeping in. Twin beady eyes snap to yours, a mechanical tilt of its neck. A collared dove, you think. Paul used to rise early to listen to them.

"Where are they?" you press lowly, accusing. "You know, don't you?"

The bird doesn’t answer, only flutters down from the sill.

Your fingers grip the edge of the window as you kneel on the ruined mattress. Below, the bird perches in the flower box—no flowers, just dried weeds and a nest of twigs.

"Tell me." It watches the whisper curl from your lips. "Tell me, or I’ll rip apart your home."

It flutters off. Your arm lunges after it, clawing at the nest in blind retaliation. Twigs snap. Dirt kicks up into your eyes. You blink hard to clear it. A strangled sound catches in your throat—half a curse, half a cry. Then, something strange beneath. Sharp rust that makes you freeze.

You sweep debris off the top of a—a lock box—loosely buried within the soil. A breath lodges in your throat as you claw at the dirt, dragging the rusted metal loose, launching backward on the bed with it clutched in both hands. It can't be real. You give the box a sharp shake. Something rattles inside, and your chest tightens.

"Kyle!"

Thunderous slaps of his boots echo down the hall. He rushes in, scanning you with a sweep of his gaze.

"No, I'm—this is locked." You tug at the bolted metal. "Can you open it?" 

He doesn't question it. Relief flickers across his face, quickly replaced by grim determination. He raises the rifle and slams the butt against the lock. A sharp clang echoes, metal chipping but holding. Exhaling through his nose, he adjusts his grip. You meet his eyes and nod—keep going.

He hammers at the lock, pausing only to yank at it, testing for weakness. You wipe dirt from your jeans, watching. Whatever she buried here—it mattered. It had to. A dove lands on the windowsill, but movement beyond it sends your pulse spiking above the sharp cut of metal.

Greys.

When did they—

"Shit, shit, shit." You lurch from the bed. 

He stops, yanking up the rifle to jut it toward the window, shooting a snarling one that clambers up on the porch. It flails back, revealing more alike behind it—many more—shambling out from wherever they'd been lingering. "Fuck—how!" He tucks the lock box under his armpit and grabs your wrist. "Come on."

The living room windows reveal just how many have begun to close in around the house. Faster ones are already at the front door, clawing at the wood. Kyle swears, yanking you toward the bathroom—higher ground, a window above the porcelain tub. He slams it open with the rifle, then hands instantly find your waist to lift you. You shed the backpack, pulling it through behind your feet to squeeze through blindly.

"Anything to climb?" he barks.

You look up. "A gutter!"

You grab it and tighten your core, hoisting yourself up as your sneakers scrape against the siding, the moans below growing louder as they round the corner of the porch. Your palms press into exposed rafters, the gutter serving as a shaky foothold, but the last push onto the roof eludes you.

A firm shove at your thighs sends you over. You scramble up, steadying yourself before glancing back.

Kyle is halfway up, rappelling fast—until a bony hand clamps around his ankle, yanking him downward. Disoriented from the rush, you slap for the gun at your waist, firing wildly—two bullets wasted before one lands, shattering the Grey's skull with a squeal.

He throws the lockbox. You catch it just as he hauls himself onto the shingles.

Your head reels as you watch Kyle drop to one knee and start picking them off. Four, maybe five drop with ease, but the rest move erratically—jolting, frantic. He slows, trying to track their unpredictable movements, each shot requiring more precision. If you had your bow, you could help. But the pistol? You don't trust yourself.

He grunts in frustration, adjusts his stance, then reloads as he circles the perimeter of the roof. That’s when you feel it—not a hunger pang, but a deep, familiar ache, piercing low in your gut. Then something wet. Warm. A slow gush down your leg. Your breath stutters as you glance down at the stain blooming red across your thigh.

"It's me," you say.

"What?"

"Fuck, it's me they smell. My period."

His gaze drops to your body, widening when he sees the evidence. You should feel exposed, but you don’t. The thought slams into your brain at the same time your hands move—unbuttoning, yanking at the fly. The moans below swell.

"We can use it. Look away."

His eyes snap back to yours, then dart away with a sharp exhale. "Christ."

You’re already shoving them down, tugging at the loose, borrowed underwear clinging to your hips. Gathering the fabric, you swipe at the blood slick on your thigh, pressing it deeper into the fabric. "It can buy us time—but not much."

You yank the jeans back up. You roll the underwear into a ball. Kyle looks over.

"There—throw it toward that house. The door’s open. If enough go inside, it might trap some. Then we run back to the hill."

Just as quickly as the plan is formed, you hurl back your arm and launch the decoy as hard as you can. It lands in front of the next house, far enough to release the breath caged in your lungs as heads snap toward it, bodies lurching away. Kyle slings the rifle over his shoulder, grips your waist, and helps you down—but the moment he lets go to steady himself, your foot slips on the gutter.

You land roughly on your side and lose hold of the lockbox. All of the breath leaves your body as you scramble to grab it. A strong hand beneath your armpit tugs you back up, and then you're sprinting. A quick glance back shows most are drawn away, but a few still trail you. Kyle snatches the handgun from your waist mid-stride and fires, dropping two before they get too close.

You duck beneath clotheslines, weave through wash bins still brimming with water. Trample roses. The pulse pounding in your neck drowns out everything but the next shot Kyle fires—enough to throw off your step. You don’t see the one lunging until it slams into you from the side.

You feel the jolt of the fall before you fully register the thing wrestling on top of you. Hair whips into your mouth, rancid breath spilling hot across your cheek. The strength is wrong—too fresh, too human. The hands grabbing at you are still strangely soft. A distinct bulge presses you down. Then a glob of dark-tinged saliva splats onto your eye, blinding you before you can make sense of it.

It's only a second of fight before a shot to the skull sends pulpy blood and brain onto your face. 

The weight is torn away as you scrub at your eyes. Part of you already knows before you look at the limp corpse. Time congeals. Blonde hair fans over the grass, framing a pale face with white eyes. The slip dress—the same one you pulled over her head.

Her swollen belly.

You go rigid. Kyle has to yank hard to get you upright.

"Come on!"

"They left her."

The words spill numbly from your lips.

When he shoots another Grey, your wooden, puppet legs move. You leave the body of her behind, adrenaline numbing you. After what is realistically only minutes but feels like hours, the thick trees envelop you once again, and when you finally steal a glance, you can't see them anymore. They've lost your scent for now. Enough for you to pause against a tree, swallowing air to catch your breath. 

You walk deeper into the vegetation until Kyle feels satisfied enough to stop and retrieve a canister of water from his backpack. He offers it to you. It takes a moment to steady it at your lips, then your throat allows some down. But your stomach spasms almost instantly, and you are wrenching it back up at the base of a tree, crumpling to your knees.

"Shit."

Hands collect your hair.

A few more dry heaves consume you, until you're breathing harshly through a hanging mouth.

"No… They didn’t—" A hard swallow. "They let her out. She was in the cell."

"What?" His voice brushes your neck, touch halting at your shoulders. Realization softens his tone. "You knew her—the pregnant one."

You wipe your mouth and stand. His hands stay at your arms a beat too long, grip firm, like he’s waiting for something—an explanation you don’t give. You don’t meet his eyes. "We need to move."

Your stomach still aches, but you don't vomit again. You walk quickly out of the trees and to the road. 

The walk back is spent scanning more closely to see if you've drawn more with your smell. By the time you reach the cliff, midday swelters. Lightheadedness teeters your first attempt down. Kyle tosses the box and rifle to the bottom, then carries you on his back, your fingers interlocking to keep you secure like the backpack that hugs his chest. 

A stop at the creek allows a shaky handful of water to splash your face. Taking off your jeans to wash your blood-stained thighs feels too much of a task. Instead, you watch Kyle finally finish striking the lock, the metal giving way under his relentless grunts. 

"Do you want me to open it?" He glances at you.

A slow shake of your head. Your knees sink before it. Fingers hesitate at the latch. If this isn’t it—if it’s empty—you don’t know what comes next. What fills the space where the smallest sliver of hope has wedged itself in.

The scrape of rusted metal.

At first, all you see is cloth. A yellowed shade of white. A beat of nothing. Then, your hands move on their own accord, unwrapping the contents, brushing hard plastic. The faint rattle of capsules makes you inhale before you even read the first label: amoxicillin. You go still. Dig through for more. Four, five vials. Even more than what you had on you.

The run back to the house is a battle against your own legs.

The smell of blood hits first—thick, metallic. Not human. A quick glance confirms it, Price carving up a hefty cattle he must've found.

He's saying something, to Kyle maybe. You don’t pause.

The front door swings open.

Blue—

She slams into you, arms locking tight, breath knocked from your lungs.

"I saw you from the window."

"You shouldn’t be on your feet," you manage.

She looks down. At your hand. At the pills.

Her voice trembles. "You… you found it?"

You nod.

Up the stairs. Blue tugging at your sleeve. Kyle's steps audible behind you. The bedroom waits. Stale air. Ghost—he's lying on his stomach the way you left him, but a smother of something sticky glistens on his back. 

"Honey," Blue mumbles, wincing as she lowers on the bed. "Ari... he found a hive. I was just about to put clean bandages, too. It helps, right?"

"Not as much as this should help."

Kyle begins lifting him.

"He was up for a bit, but he was... talking weird," Blue whispers as you kneel at Ghost's side, fight the shake in your hand to unscrew the cap. "He asked if you were sleeping outside—like, out loud, to himself. Then he kept saying ‘sparks’ and ‘Washington.’ Do you know what that means?"

The words barely register anything but confusion and the fact that he is even worse. It's Kyle who answers under his breath. "No clue." His gets Ghost upright without disturbing his wounds, steadying a hand at the back of his skull. 

When your thumb presses at his bottom lip, the dry, cracked skin resists. As you try to pry it apart, his eyes flicker open—unfocused. Dilated pupils shift to yours.

"I need you to open," you whisper around the tightness in your throat. "It's amoxicillin. We've got it."

Overgrown hair clings to his forehead, thick and unruly. Sharp stubble scrapes your hand as you try again to open his mouth. Labored breaths hit your knuckles, unnervingly hot, along with a release of words he murmurs through his teeth. "There you are... again. 

Your teeth graze your cheek. "Here I am. Now open, please."

He does—barely. The chalky pill makes it to his tongue. The rest blurs.

Waking up on edge is nothing new.

At first, you keep your eyes shut—squeezing them until the backs turn red. Then, true consciousness jolts through your limbs, setting a heavy heartbeat between your ears. Light floods your vision. Soft cheeks. Pink lips, pursed. Brows knitted tight.

"You make the strangest faces in your sleep sometimes."

"I..."

"Water?"

"Please," you croak.

Pins and needles prickle your fingers as you lift your head. A mug presses to your blistered lips, gentle fingers stroking the greasy hair at your temple. The gulp of water almost makes you moan. You're ready to down the entire things until it's pulled away.

"You're gonna throw up again if you keep going."

You lick your lips. "What?"

"You've been passed out for two days," Blue explains. "Except for when we tried to get you to eat and drink, but that was a fucking struggle. Nereida says you overworked yourself. Not enough sleep and water can kill you, you know." Her brow arches. "I told you not to do anything stupid, but I guess you've been doing that."

Two days.

You inhale through lungs that feel primitive. 

"He—"

"Before you ask, yes. We've been giving him the meds. Morning and evening. His fever finally went down last night. He's been out since."

Your eyes finally drift to the other side of the bed. A steady rise and fall presses warmth into the sheets. You scramble up, reaching over—his cheek meets your palm, warm, but not alarmingly so. Normal, almost. A faint flush dusts his skin, the color creeping back in. His back is freshly bandaged, but his eyelids still bear the violet tinge of exhaustion.

"It's helping." The words press into your teeth. 

The rest of the day passes in gentle fragments. 

A bowl of fire-braised beef pressed into your hands. You eat without tasting, slow chewing through lush fat, while Price and Kyle pore over a more detailed almanac they found in the house. The food settles heavy, to the point of discomfort, but stays down. 

Later, you wade into the creek with Nereida. She was the one who changed you while you were out—scrubbing the dirt from your legs, tucking fresh towels and a new pair of underwear beneath you. You only realize she added rosemary when a sprig falls out as you undress.

You listen to her talk. You don’t tell her about Salome. No. You keep it to yourself. The water is warm. At first, you don’t feel it. But as it swallows your shins and carries away ribbons of dried blood, the gentle current soothes, taking the edge off the sun, which turns the rocks along the bank scorching hot. Birds call from the trees—you don’t know what kind. Worm-like minnows tickle your sore toes.

Back at the house, you sit on the porch to wring out your hair. You catch Ari carrying Blue through the garden, her head tucked against his shoulder, bandaged feet dangling over the arm that hooks under her knees. They whisper about something. His steps are slow, pausing by a beautiful patch of flowers that, apparently, smell rancid by the way she leans in and recoils, making a face. When you look away, Kyle is staring at you across the grass as he hangs strips of beef over a tree branch to dry. 

You should thank him. For not letting you do the stupid thing alone. But instead, you shift your gaze to the sun and watch its slow descent on your own, studying the way it casts an orange glow across the wild growth. It's the sudden assault of dark clouds that send everyone inside. A summer rain that bursts down without warning, without mercy. 

It hasn't relented by the time you fix a bowl of meat for Ghost. He has yet to ingest anything but bone broth and some plum juice according to Blue and Nereida. You chew off little pieces of the least fattiest parts into a bowl and give it to Blue. You go with her to feed him but stop short, keeping your distance. You simply watch from across the room as he manages to sit up on his own despite swaying, brushing away Price's helping arm, and chewing slowly with great effort. His eyes, focused and clear, flit upward to yours. You hold them for a moment, until the pull in your chest turns intolerable, and you look down at his bandaged shoulder instead. 

"Tastes good?" Blue murmurs, brushing the hair from his forehead.

He hums. 

"How do you feel?"

He swallows, then lifts a hand to her hair, thumbing at it. "Young again."

She places her hand over his, biting a smile. "You're so annoying."

She wipes at her eyes. 

Instead of easing, the rain intensifies as the night deepens. Distant thunder rolls closer, flashing into overhead lightning that only sharpens your edge. Blue spends the night with Ari in the living room, where Kyle helped them set up a small fort of blankets and pillows—a small distraction, but one she could use. It takes a nudge from you to push past her hesitation, to convince her it’s okay to leave Ghost’s side, just for a little while.

"It's good to have some space, if you need it."

That leaves you alone in the bedroom with him. He knocked out again after eating. You redo his bandages, relieved to find the wounds free of pus. New scabs have begun to form, fragile but promising.

But you can't lay down. You try—perch at the edge of the bed, press your palms into the mattress—then you're back on your feet.

The walls feel too close. The air too thick. His steady breathing should ground you, should ease something inside you, but it doesn’t. The storm is unyielding, pressing against the house, rattling the windows. It drives your nails into your palms, into the raw skin around them. A string ties itself around your ankles, pulling one foot in front of the other until you're in the hallway, hand blindly skimming the wall to guide you to the spiral staircase.

Upward.

The library. You don’t even realize you’ve come here until you freeze at the top of the stairs, staring at the wreckage left behind by your hands. Books lie scattered across the floor, pages severed and crumpled. A curtain rod rests askew, displaced in the quiet ruin.

When you finally move, it’s a mindless ordeal. The motions of putting the room back together—guided only by the stray flash of lightning—steal any thoughts before they can form. You kneel, gently stacking books against your chest, slotting them one by one back onto the oak shelves. Embellished spines offer familiar titles, even in French. A lot of Jane Austen.

"No Hemingway, huh?" you whisper, swiping a finger through the blanket of dust before bending for more books. You reach the last shelf, lips twitching. "I'm fixing you. Happy now?"

Of course, no answer. Only the faint slide of leather against the wood. 

He’s in the room before you notice.

The presence registers as a skim along the back of your neck.

But you don’t turn, hand freezing after you release Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, then dropping limp at your side. You know it’s him. You feel it in the shift of the air, the weight of it settling differently around you. More so in the slow, deliberate footfalls, each one measured, as if testing the ground. And if none of that gives him away, the warmth of his breath—heavy, uneven—spilling over your scalp does. It sinks into your skin when he reaches you, winds through your veins, curls your toes against the floor until they hurt.

You try to inhale, but the breath snags, fracturing in your throat. "You shouldn’t be up."

"I shouldn't."

His hand lifts, knuckles skimming the flannel draped over your frame before grazing your neck with a slow, unhurried sweep of his thumb. It trails down your arm, pausing at the last book in your grasp. He takes it from you—or maybe it slips from your weak grip. You can't tell.

With a deep breath, he reaches the shelf above you. The book doesn't fit at first, his hand unsteady, struggling to align it. A final rough shove of his knuckles forces it into place. He’s close. You knew he was, but now his scent wraps around you—mossy, salty, earth that you fall face-first into. His chest skims your spine. An elbow grazes your ear as he finishes.

And then he turns you.

His fingers curl around your shoulder, guiding you until you're facing him. Your feet slide to follow, reluctant and all too willing. Storm-filtered light catches on the sharp cut of his jaw, casting it in shadow. You brace yourself. An unformed breath fills your chest. You're unable to meet his eyes—though you feel them, tracing every inch of your face.

Wordless, he takes hold of your wrist. You don’t understand why until he cradles it in his rough palm, between your chests. His chapped lips lower to the tail-end of the healing cut, light enough not to stir pain.

His lips move.

But you don't.

It's as if every function of your brain is funneled into the nerves beneath each kiss he trails up your forearm. Soft, unwavering, yet each one lingering for a beat longer than the last. The next one lands at the crease in your elbow. A breath finally rushes out of your nose when he reaches the top of your shoulder, close enough to the pounding artery in your neck to invite heat over your cheeks. A strange heat. The same temperature of the moisture that begins to cloud your vision. 

You tremble. "Ghost, I—" 

You make a last-ditch effort to clutch the hem of his jeans before your knees can waver, his mouth finding your throat. He kisses the part of it that bobs. Then pulls away just enough to cup your face between his hands, forcing your gaze to his. What you are met with is twin, black eyes. They unnerve you. Like the ground beneath your feet, it feels like they might swallow you whole and spit you out. 

You can't breathe. The shaking is uncontrollable. Rapid blinks dispel the moisture in your eyes before you're gasping, pressing into him. "Please... please. Ghost, I—" you choke, "Please, I just—"

You sound scared, even to your own ears. Like you might get hurt if you he doesn't give you what you're asking for. But you don't know what you're asking for—don't understand why the soft kisses he places on your forehead and cheeks feel like too much and not enough at the same time. You clasp his wrist to pull his hands off your face, nails piercing into the skin there. He allows it—you hurting him—even when almost his entire upper half is swathed in bandages. 

"You're shaking," he murmurs.

"I'm fine." You exhale, but it’s uneven, shaky in its own right. "I just need—"

His thumb presses under your chin in attempt to still you.

A swallow forces down the lump in your throat. The ghost of an inhale. Then you lunge, kissing him. Not gentle or hesitant. But with a desperate growl, bursting forth from your mouth into his, your hand threading into his hair and holding tight onto his skull.

Veil of Blood & Immortality

Summary: Laswell assigns you to Taskforce 141 cause you have a 'special' ability. Surrounded by vampires and cursed with the way your life is, the last thing you expected was to be attached to Simon Riley.

Masterlist

Deathless|Reader x Vampire|Simon

The hum of the plane's engines barely died down when your boots hit the tarmac. Night pressed heavy against the horizon, the air sharp with the bite of something charged. Something predatory. You adjusted the strap of the duffel slung over your shoulder, Laswell's last words still circling in your head:

"You're not there to make friends. You're there because you don't stay dead."

Taskforce 141. A name that echoed like a warning. Vampires, all of them. Some of the best - and worst - kind. 

And there you were, not one of them. 

Something... else.

They were already waiting when you approached the hangar. Four silhouettes standing against the dying light, the energy between them intense with something you couldn't quite name. Price was the first to step forward, expression unreadable beneath the brim of his hat.

"Laswell said you'd be coming." His eyes darting over you - assessing; calculating. You nodded in acknowledgment, offering no more than necessary.

The one next to him grinned faintly. "Soap." He introduced himself, Scottish accent thick. He gave you a once-over, not unfriendly, but curious. "Didn't think Laswell would be sendin' anyone... alive."

The last one had his arms crossed, eyes narrowed, but mumbled a 'Gaz', and that was it.

And then there was him.

You felt it before you saw him; felt the way the air seemed to stretch thin and tight. He wore a skull face balaclava, dark hood drawn low, shadows clinging to him like it was natural. When his eyes met yours, they burned reddish-gold behind the mask. Not subtle. Not polite.

Ghost.

He didn't move; didn't speak. Just stood there, gaze locked on you like he could strip the skin from your bones with nothing more than a glance. It took effort not to shift under it. Your pulse kicked hard in your throat, a warning from the instincts you spent lifetimes learning to ignore. And yet...... you held his stare anyway. Something deep inside your chest tightened.

The silence dragged on what felt like forever.

"Ghost." Price said, voice slicing through whatever invisible thread was between you. He turned away without a word, his steps quiet, purposeful, and vanished into the darkness of the base like he had never been there at all.

Soap gave a low whistle, breaking the tension. "He's not usually that quiet."

You took an even breath, eyes lingering where he disappeared before turning back to the others. Quiet wasn't the word you'd use for him.

No.

It was something dangerous. Something that felt a little too familiar even if you've never experienced it at all. 

******************************************************

You didn't see Ghost again that night.

Not when Price walked you through the base layout, not when Soap cracked a few jokes in the hallway, and not when Gaz pointed out the secured armory like he expected you to ask for weapons you couldn't possibly handle. Ghost vanished into whatever shadowy corner he liked to haunt, and you told yourself you didn't care.

The rest of the base wasn't much better though. The moment word spread that a non-vampire had been stationed here, whispers started curling through the halls like smoke. You felt them trailing behind you wherever you went. The side glances, narrowed stares, and quiet scoffs . It was worse among the women. Vampires, sharp-featured and beautiful in that ageless, untouchable way, eyed you with piercing cold in their gazes. Curiosity edged with something more hostile. You weren't prey, but you weren't predator either. A thing outside the familiar food chain. 

A thing that didn't belong.

One woman brushed past you in the hallway.... deliberately close. Her voice was low enough no one would have caught it. "Careful, little thing. Strays don't last long here."

You didn't flinch; didn't bother looking back. It was a dance you did before.... in other lifetimes... in other wars. Being the anomaly in the middle of monsters. The trick was knowing when to keep your attitude hidden.

For now.

The barracks were..... interesting. Vampires huddled in their own cliques, soldiers lounging with the kind of lazy, dangerous ease that came from knowing they could kill you faster than you could blink. You kept moving - silent, observant, ignoring the sharp eyes and fake smiles.

Laswell hadn't brought you here to make friends.

She'd brought you here to bleed.

Later, in the dim light of your quarters, you sat on the edge of the bed, unzipping the duffel at your feet. The noise of activity outside the door faded, though you could still hear the occasional echo of laughter, the low murmur of voices too fast for human ears. Your fingers brushed over the worn fabric inside the bag before closing around the hilt of a small, silver-bladed knife. You turned it over once... twice.

No one really knew what you really were. They could stare, whisper, bare their fangs all they wanted. Let them. You'd been surviving monsters long before any of them.

And for the first time in your life...

You weren't planning on running.

******************************************************

The briefing room smelled faintly of gun oil and blood - common scents mingling under the fluorescent lights. You leaned back in your chair, the edge of the table cool under your fingertips, watching as Price paced at the front, laying out the mission details.

Eyes flickered toward you every few sentences. Some subtle, some not. 

"...Makarov's latest movement puts him just outside Verdansk." He continued, flipping through satellite images. "Recon intel shows he's pulling in rogue clans. Mercenary types. No allegiance except blood and coin."

Soap leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "And let me guess... he wants to expand. Again."

"Exactly." Price glanced toward you then. "Which is why Laswell's sent us a specialist." 

You felt every gaze settle on you. No one spoke, but the weight of expectation pressed deep. He didn't elaborate further..... he didn't need to. Your presence was the question mark hanging over everyone's heads.

But Soap was the first to break the silence, tossing a smirk. "So... specialist, huh? Mind tellin' us what exactly you're made of?"

The others shifted a bit, feigned disinterest that didn't fool you for a second. You tapped your fingers against the table a couple of times. "Something harder to kill than most." 

His grin widened, but Gaz just studied you, chiming in. "That's not hard when most of us don't stay dead."

Across the table, Ghost hadn't moved. He hadn't looked at you since the moment you walked in, his hood pulled low, mask covered as usual. But you could feel the heat of his stare even when he wasn't. Like a pressure at the back of your neck or the point of a blade pressed against your skin.

Price cleared his throat. "Details on that aren't important right now. What is important is that she's part of the team. Get used to it." He gave you one last look - a warning and a reassurance - before the briefing wrapped up. Conversation rose and fell as everyone filed out, but you stayed seated. 

And so did Ghost.

He lingered at the far end of the room, arms crossed, posture stiff. When you finally stood, his eyes tracked your movement, keen and unblinking. It was the first time you'd been this close since your arrival.

"Something on your mind?" You asked. His gaze didn't waver. He didn't even goddamn flinch. But his voice - his fucking voice - was captivating even with how jagged it sounded.

"Vampires hunt in packs." He simply stated. "Doesn't mean we trust the new wolf."

The implication wasn't subtle, and you fought the urge to furrow your brows. Instead, you held your eyes as you tried to keep your pulse steady.

"Good thing I've never needed a pack."

The aura shifted into that same feeling as before -  ancient, involuntary, itching at your awareness. He turned, leaving the room and walking down the hall. He didn't know what the fuck it was about you that had him on edge.

Couldn't put a name to it........ didn't want to.

It wasn't just the way you didn't flinch when others stared, or how your eyes remained calm.... even around him. It wasn't even the fact that Laswell vouched for you without offering answers.

It was something deeper...

The second you'd stepped onto the tarmac, it hit him like a punch to the gut. That scent. That pull. It clawed at his skin. Unfamiliar, but terrifyingly... familiar. He didn't believe in mates. Never let himself entertain the idea, never let himself feel that vulnerable. He knew vampires could bond. Knew what happened to the ones who did. Ferals, the lot of them. Possessive. Reckless. Weak.

And yet....

When you'd met his gaze across the table, steady and unafraid, it took everything in him not to bare his teeth. He needed space.... distance... control. Anything to stop whatever this thing inside him was from snapping loose.

******************************************************

Later, when the sun was long swallowed by night, you leaned against the railing overlooking the training grounds. Footsteps approached, before Soap sidled up next to you, arms resting casually on the rail.

"Ya know.. Laswell says you've got a specific skill set." He glanced over, curiosity flashing across his eyes. "Still can't wrap my head around it. Ya don't smell like prey, but you're not one of us."

You gave him a half-smile. "That's the point."

He chuckled. "Doesn't scare me, if that's what you're wonderin'."

"It should." You arched a brow. 

He barked out a laugh at the comment, shaking his head. But behind the easy grin, you could still feel the question hanging in the air.

What exactly were you?

Okay.... first chapter... intrigued?????

Like, comment, repost, give me feedback please :)

Again, only first chapter going up until I finish the other story!

Taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @nappingmoon @kittygonap @ohdrey89 @chaos-4baby @skeletonsucker

Family Tree (Chapter 33)

Simon x Y/n

Simon was never the romantic type of lad. Well..... before he met you. There were no such things like rose pedals and cheesy surprises. The surprise to ask you to marry him was more than enough. 

Still, he had bashfully - and maybe somewhat reluctantly - asked his teammates for their opinions on what you would like for a romantic proposal. Price and Kyle giving him warm smiles and state what they thought would be nice, while Johnny's eyes were so bright with happiness, it made the lieutenant grunt. 

"Bout fuckin time L.T.!" he exclaimed. 

"Shut it, Johnny."

The thing was... you hadn't really experienced what romance should look like. Sure, Simon's romance and love were shown in other ways - paying bills, fixing things in the house, taking care of you, and more. So you really weren't expecting him to do what he did one random evening after work. 

Picking you up as usual, he informed you that he wanted to take you out to dinner; a nice upscale restaurant that neither of you had been to before. While it wasn't something he did often - not for lack of trying, he just enjoyed being cooped up in the house with you - it didn't particularly come as a shock with his request. A flashing smile spread across your face, and it stayed there all the way until you made it home and sprinted up the stairs to get ready. His plan falling into place with a smirk on his lips. 

After you were ready, you skipped downstairs to a waiting boyfriend who grinned at you. You'd always be beautiful to him, as he voiced that quiet often, but he was in pure awe when you reached the bottom step. His hand pulled out of his pocket, where a soft ribbon was curled in the palm. Your eyebrows shot up in curiosity. 

"What's that?"

He walked to stand behind you, "Got a surprise for you," he lowly said, hands coming to your front before he placed the ribbon over your eyes and tied it at the back of your head. 

Your own hands raised to the spot where it covered them, "A surprise?" he hummed, "You hate surprises," you wittily pointed out, earning a deep chuckle from his throat. 

"Just make sure ya can't see yeah?" he teased. 

"I can't," you whispered, heart beating slightly faster in your chest. 

He guided you out of the house and into the truck before hopping in himself and turning it on. The semi-short ride was quiet and comfortable, but your heart hadn't stopped beating so fast, you thought he would hear it. When the truck rolled to a stop, you tried feeling for any sense if you knew where he brought you, but there were still so many places in town you hadn't been to before, so it was hard to tell. 

He got out, quickly walking over to your door and opened it, "Watch y'step," he instructed as he carefully helped you out of the truck. There were a few stairs you had to take before a door opened, making your breath hitch, "Almost there," he said, walking you inside.

You huffed, "Sure we are."

He chuckled, "Now," he brought you to a standstill, "Keep the blindfold on until you're told to take it off alright?" You nodded. 

Giving a sweet kiss on the cheek, Simon's hand slipped away from yours as his footsteps ventured further off to god knows where. It was.... quiet. Wherever you were. The hairs on your neck stood up slightly at how silent it was. 

"You better not be trying to surprise me with a fucking proposal Simon," you grunted, nervously fiddling with your fingers. 

"Can take the blindfold off," a voice made you jump. 

Price. 

Quickly doing as he said, you removed the ribbon from your eyes, glancing at him with wide eyes, "Price?" he nodded, "What-"

His hand gestured to the double doors in front of you that were closed. Your eyes flickered between him and it, pausing with an eyebrow raised before your hand carefully pushed open them. On the other side was Simon....... standing at the altar.

But he wasn't the only one in the small sanctuary... Johnny, Ella, and Kyle were standing near him (Ella was on one side while the boys were on the other). She had on a short evening dress, a bouquet of flowers in her hand. Kyle and Johnny had on bowties - a bit silly with their jeans and button-up tops.

Even your neighbor was there!

An official stood in the middle, a warm smile on his face and bible in hand, as they all glanced at you. 

This was his surprise? Holy sh-

Maybe it was a bad idea to curse in a church. 

But boy, were you shocked. Simon and you had never really talked about having a wedding. Sure, if it was something you absolutely wanted, then he would've made certain to grant your wishes for it. But you hadn't thought about it - not that you didn't want to marry him, but because the two of you would've been okay with going down to the courthouse. He had already stated his vows (sort of) one night after he was finally allowed to drink again. And he didn't hold back.... the words that spilled out of his mouth only made you fall deeper in love with him. 

But this? 

This was perfect. 

"Shall we?" Price asked as he held his arm out for you to take. Tears formed in your eyes as you nodded at the man. He would be walking you down the aisle, and it was more than you ever dreamed of. That captain had seen how much you had changed Simon for the better, watched you almost die, and now he was about to "give you away" to his best soldier.

He even felt like a proud father in that moment. 

When you made it to Simon, you could have sworn you saw his eyes light up as if you were walking down with a beautiful wedding dress on. And god were the tears falling from your eyes as if he was standing there in a tuxedo. Ella - the bestest best friend that she was - handed you a tissue right before the official began the ceremony. 

Now, Simon never really cried before. The tears that usually slipped from the corners of his eyes were due to pain out in the field or right after his family had died. But crying? It was almost a negative. 

So it was a bit surprising to see his eyes watering as you stated your unwritten vows to him. 

"Simon," you sniffed - embarrassed at how much your makeup was probably already ruined, "When I first met you, I was scared to get close to you. I-I didn't know if you would even like someone like me........... But then you started taking me to work every day... never missing unless I told you...... I still can't believe you asked me to marry you... You love me with my scars, my overwhelming nature at times.. all of me. I don't think I'll ever stop thanking you for all that you've done and coming into my life. But I'll continue to love you just as much as you love me.. to be there for you in every way... to never give up if times get rough. I'm yours."

It was subtle, but you could see the lone tear fall from the corner of his eye before disappearing behind the surgical mask. 

And then it was his turn. 

He let out a breath he didn't even realize he was holding, "Y/n... sweetheart. Y'mean everything to me. The day I first met you and y'bumped into me, I felt drawn to y'somehow. It terrified me... And then, when Ella introduced us, it just made m'feel a lot of different things-" Your best friend whispering how amazing her matchmaking skills were, making everyone laugh "-I was scared to open up m'heart. I've always been guarded in some way, unsure if love was meant for me. But then y'came... and flipped m'world upside down. I promise to be your safe place, your friend, and your protector. Always. You've shown m'what true love looks like, and I'll forever be yours... mind, body, and soul."

Damn him. 

Ella had rubbed your back as you all but croaked out a sob at how fucking beautiful that man was. And he was your man.

When the official stated that your - now - husband could kiss his bride, Simon gently yanked you into his arms, pulling down his mask to properly kiss you as his wife. Not a dry tear was in that room, even from the stoic men of 141. 

Afterward, everyone ventured back to your place for champagne - the last piece of your husband's plan. You were so wrapped up in how magical the evening was that Ella had to remind you that you were now married when you said boyfriend as she pointed out the beautiful and simple ring on your left hand. It was gorgeous yet not overbearing, and it matched the silver ring on Simon's finger perfectly. A huge smile formed on your face as your eyes met the man that you would forever be tied to before he walked up to you, cupping your cheeks. 

"Mrs. Riley-" god he was going to be the death of you. And that name? It made your heart flutter so big.

"Mr. Riley," you giggled before he planted a sweet kiss on your lips, "I love you."

"Love you too sweetheart."

Johnny's loud and somewhat drunk voice echoed in the living room, "Ghost. Come tell Alice bout the time in Mexico!"

The two of you laughed before he kissed your forehead and went to entertain Johnny. You glanced around the room, looking at the joyous faces of 141, your husband, Ella, and Alice. It was something that made you feel completely at peace, happy, and everything in between.

For years, you never knew what it would be like to build a bond with individuals that would become so important in your life. The chaos you tried to run from so many times was finally behind you. Mary and Rick. But strangely, that didn't count with Charles. You would never know what he was like while he was alive. You'd never know if he would be proud of the choices you made in life... or if moving into his home was the right decision, but for some reason... in that moment... you felt his presence. Like he had been watching over you the entire time. 

And he would continue to watch over you and his son-in-law............

Even when you glanced down at the stick on the counter that read "Positive." Even when Simon came home to a "Congrats Daddy!" balloon in the kitchen. Even when he stood next to you, holding your hand as you delivered your first child.

Your father would always be there watching over you. 

Some say that blood is thicker than water; that your blood family is more important. 

But for you..... you had made your own Family Tree - with Simon, Ella, Kyle, Johnny, Price, Alice..... and your own son, Charlie Thomas Riley. 

The End.

Well.... that's the end of my Family Tree story. What do yall think?????

I'm planning to expand this universe a bit more with the other characters (Price, Johnny, and Gaz), but it won't come fast so please don't expect anything to be posted like tomorrow lol!!!

I'm going to be going on vacation in the next week so I may not be active as much this week and next week, but we'll see... sometimes my brain just goes into overdrive and I have to type up something lol!

I do have some other works I want to get back into like my "Too Deep" story. It's on my AO3, but I'm going to post it over here as well. I think that will be the posts I put out this week if I choose to do so.

I wanna give a shoutout to @jessicab1991 & @kalypsoox with Family Tree!!

I also want to thank everyone who has enjoyed reading this story and giving me all the love and feedback on it! You all make being here amazing and fill my heart with such joy when I see all the notifications!

If you want to be on my taglist no matter what I post, let me know... if not, just let me know when I post the next story :)

-Daydreamerwoah

Taglist:

@simp-4-masked-men @dayrin085 @romanceloverrrr @jessicab1991 @kylies-love-letter @kalypsoox @brownlee-22 @firefoxkairan @whatyouseeyoumightnotget @lelsforlino @canthavetoomuchchaos @eatingtheworldsoffanfiction @sumlovesjude @camila2201 @that-nerd-tessa @imjustheretofightforlove @strawberrygato

The Mask I Live - pt. 10

tw: bad injuries

The cliff hanger is over :( lol!

Roommate|Reader x Simon Ghost Riley

Darkness. More than the night sky.

That's all it was for a while. You didn't know how long. . . .

A searing pain in your head dragged you from unconsciousness. You gasped, sucking in air like you'd been drowning. Your whole body ached, a deep soreness that made every breath feel like a struggle. Smoke filled the cockpit, and the scent of burning metal stung your nose. The helo was tilted at an unnatural angle, the shattered windshield offering a skewed view of the trees beyond.

You groaned, forcing yourself to move, only to gasp as a stabbing pain shot through your left leg.

Shit.

Your fingers scrambled down, trying to assess the damage there, but something was pinning it down - part of the control panel maybe. You couldn't tell if it was broken or just terribly bruised, but either way, you weren't getting out of the seat easily.

Danny.

Your head whipped to the side. He was slumped against his seat, blood seeping from his neck and temple. His chest rose and fell..... slow, but weak.

Alive.

Relief flooded your chest, but it was short-lived. You needed to call for help. 

You reached for your comms, pressing down on the transmitter. "Tango to all stations." You croaked, voice hoarse from the smoke. "We're down. One seriously injured. Send evac."

Nothing. 

No static. No response.

Your heart pounded as you adjusted the headset and checked the frequency again.

"Tango to all stations, how copy?"

Silence.

Fuck!

You ripped the headset off, pressing your fingers against your temple. There was a ringing in your ears, faint but persistent. Maybe that was why you couldn't hear anything... maybe the comms were working. 

You pressed the button again. "This is Tango. Repeat, we're down. Requesting evac."

Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.

Still, you kept trying. You didn't know how long you did it - calling out again and again, fingers gripping the radio so tightly your knuckles ached. But the longer the silence stretched, the heavier your body felt. The pain in your leg throbbed, pulsing with each heartbeat.

Your vision swam, the edges darkening. You blinked a couple of times, not realizing the moment your body slumped back against the seat before darkness consumed you again.

A muffled sound broke through the haze eventually.

Footsteps. Voices.

Your head lolled to the side, consciousness clawing its way back as you registered movement outside the helo. Black shadows passed in and out of your vision through the broken windshield, figures moving with urgency. Then you heard a familiar voice.

"Got 'em."

Your heavy eyelids slowly fluttered open, and the first thing you saw was him. The black skull mask smeared with dirt and streaked with blood - whether his or someone else's, you couldn't tell. His gear was scuffed, his sleeves torn in places, but he was as real as ever.

But his eyes..... they burned as they met yours, relief flashing across them.

You let out a weak, breathy sigh, lips barely tilting into a smile. "You came for me?"

He huffed, gaze darting over your face. "Course I did."

Despite everything, you chuckled, but the motion sent a bolt up your leg. You winced, and his expression changed to concern.... and maybe frustration. Beside you, Soap and Gaz were pulling Danny from the wreckage, a few Marine soldiers moving in to assist. You could hear Danny groaning a little, and just hoped he wasn't in too bad of shape.

Simon reached for you, one hand bracing against your shoulder while the other went to slide beneath your legs. The moment he moved you, the pain exploded down your leg again, and a scream erupted from your throat.

He stopped immediately, grip tightening just slightly. "Leg's fucked."

You sharply sighed, forcing your head to clear; forcing the pain to be secondary. 

"Just-..." You gritted your teeth, swallowing hard. "Just do it. We need to get out of here." His jaw flexed, hesitation clear in his mind but he knew you were right. He nodded, moving again.

God, the pain was blinding. You bit down on your lip so hard you swore you drew blood, but refused to make another sound as he lifted you. He secured his arms, holding you against his chest. His gear pressed against your body, the rough fabric of his tac vest grounding you even as agony roared through your system.

"You're alrigh'. I got ya." He muttered like he wasn't even aware he was saying it.

Your forehead brushed against his shoulder, breath coming in short gasps. You tried focusing on the blood on his mask, and how it was dried in some places, fresh in others. It should have unsettled you, but somehow, it didn't.

Definitely the pain.

Behind you, Soap's voice shouted in the comms, confirming extraction had arrived. The rumble of a chopper filled the air. You were safe... but not out of the woods yet.

But you were alive.

The flight back was foggy.

You slipped in and out of consciousness as the adrenaline started to wear off and the pain fully set in. Your body felt heavy, your head back and forth to the side as exhaustion pulled at you. But every time your eyes fluttered open, you saw him.

Simon sat across in the chopper, arms resting on his knees as the wind from the open bay door whipped through the cabin. The voices around you faded into muffled noise, but through all of it, you heard him.

"Stay with me."

You wanted to reply, wanted to tell him you were trying, but your lips couldn't move. Another wave of darkness coming over your eyes as everything faded once more.

When you finally came to, the first thing you heard was the steady beeping sound of the heart monitor. Your eyelids felt like concrete, your body sluggish, but your senses slowly returning. You blinked up at the ceiling, almost confused about were you were until the previous events hit you all at once.

The mission. The flight. Danny getting shot. The RPG.

Your heart rate spiked as flashes of fire, smoke, and Simon's blood-streaked mask ran through your mind. The desperate, fading sound of his voice....

"Stay with me."

You inhaled shakily. . . . .

You were alive.

You were safe.

But you were alone.

You turned your head slightly, taking in the quiet room. The only movement was from the thin curtain by the window, rustling in the air conditioned breeze. For a second, you debated getting out of bed, but before you could even shift, the door creaked open.

Your head turned toward it to see Gaz and Soap walk in. Their gaze immediately landing on you, and relief easing across their faces.

"Look who finally decided to wake up." Soap said, walking up to the bed with a smirk on his lips, though his usual playfulness was dampened by the fatigue in his eyes.

Gaz let out a breath, shaking his head. "Scared the hell out of us, you know that?"

You blinked, still trying to process everything. "How long?" Your voice came out hoarse.

"About six hours." Gaz answered. "They had to patch you up, get fluids in you. You were a mess when we pulled you out."

You swallowed, your brain trying to catch up. Your body tensed, and you immediately tried to sit up, but couldn't due to your leg throbbing, making you wince.

Soap moved closer, hands raised slightly. "Whoa, take it easy, yeah?"

You clenched your jaw, trying to breathe through the pain. "Danny. W-where's Danny?"

Gaz's expression softened. "Still in surgery."

Your stomach plummeted.

"He's alive." Soap added quickly, sensing the panic rising in your chest. "Took a bad hit, but the docs say he's got a good shot."

You let out a breath you didn't realize you were holding, body slumping back against the pillow. The relief was overwhelming, causing your eyes sting just a bit... you couldn't cry; not now.

Gaz leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "You gave us all a scare."

"Yeah, well... wasn't exactly my best landing." You faintly laughed.

Soap snorted. "No shit."

For a moment, everything felt.... fine. The warmth between the three of you calmed your nerves. But even as their words settled into the comfort of the room, there was one person missing.

"Where's Ghost?" Immediately, they exchanged a look. A smirk pulled at the corner of Soap's mouth, and Gaz chuckled, making you eyes narrow. "What?"

Gaz shook his head. "He's with Price. Debriefing."

Soap leaned against the side of your bed. "Y'know, you two are real funny."

"Funny how?" 

He lifted a brow. "Both act all tough, like ya don't care, but ya should've seen him when we found ya."

Gaz nodded. "If we didn't know better, we'd say he was panicking."

Your stomach twisted... not in a bad way, but in a what the fuck you mean? way. "He was... worried?"

Soap scoffed. "That's puttin' it lightly."

"He wouldn't leave your side. Not even for a second. Didn't let anyone else carry you, didn't even let the medics load you onto the gurnee when we touched down without him being there." Gaz added.

Your breath hitched slightly as Soap leaned in a little. "Honestly? If Price hadn't dragged him off to debrief, he'd probably still be here."

Your fingers curled faintly into the blanket as you didn't know what to say.

Gaz smirked. "You know, he's gonna give you shit for this the second he walks in here."

"Yeah. He's got a way of worrying that just sounds like being pissedoff." Soap chuckled.

While they both were amused at the situation, you couldn't help but want bolt out of the bed and run away from what was waiting for you when he came.

I couldn't let our boy Danny go out like that! I would have cried if I did that to us all! lol! (And some of you would have hated me 🥺🤣)

Like, comment, repost, give feedback please :)

Pt. 1; Pt. 2; Pt. 3; Pt. 4; Pt. 5; Pt. 6; Pt. 7; Pt. 8; Pt. 9

Masterlist

Taglist: @jessicab1991 @maskedbyghost @kittygonap @nappingmoon @chaos-4baby @ohdrey89 @skeletonsucker @s-a-v-a-n-a-34 @roastyyytoastyyy @simonexxx1 @mrmountainman @thebumbqueen @lucienofthelakes @letiferian @jennamelinda12 @mulletmcghee @kittykatgorl @strawberrygato @ghostslollipop @emeraldeyes1805 @chaosundcoffee @whos-fran @fangirls94 @rafaelacallinybbay @quiet-loser @shondlenoodle @iceblossom1013

brother's best friend!simon riley is a man you shouldn't like

he's older, albeit a few years, but older nonetheless. you grew up around him, him being your brother's best friend. they never left each other's side, it felt like. attached at the hip.

you always had an eye for simon, the boy was alluring, quiet and reserved, but regardless, you wanted him. you couldn't have him though, with him being buddy-buddy with your older brother, he was off-limits.

especially since your brother is outright aggressive in his protections for you, he even got simon on the bandwagon. you deluded yourself into thinking simon didn't want any other guys around you, but came to the reality that he was just helping your brother out, as friends do.

but as you got older, the quick glances turned to lingering stares and prolonged eye contact across the room, with brief touches and grazes against arms or legs whenever you sat near.

every single time, you reminded yourself that your brother would have simon's head for even conjuring the thought. in simple fear for his life, you didn't do anything further.

now it's been years. your brother and simon went off to the military and got deployed. coming back home as hardened soldiers, your brother became closed off, silent. like a hermit, he holed up in his room, leaving the once joy-filled rooms empty with only despair.

it was like a void had been made in your heart, left only with the bulky man simon grew to be. sure, he had also seen some stuff, but he had had rough home life so he knew how to deal with it, to some extent, and it was the reason he spent so much time at your house in the first place.

slowly, simon filled the voids your brother had left, shushing you with hushed words that he's just doing what your brother would want. making you happy.

and it's exactly what he does, pounding into your tight warmth that drools over his cock. a creamy ring of arousal forming at the base of his length as he fully sheathes inside your pussy. his hand is rough against your mouth, cooing about how you wouldn't want your dear brother to find out how simon's filling you in a way he should've years ago.

yet his pace is brutal, the sound of skin slapping together, enough to turn it red, bounces off the walls, and you'd be surprised if your brother didn't hear it through the thin plaster.

regardless, he didn't relent, making up for lost years by making you orgasm more than what you could count before you quickly became stupid, drooling over his fingers and crying out his name, muffled only by the tight grip of his hand over your lips.

your brother will come around eventually, right? simon tells you that he'll accept it once he sees how happy he makes you, and you have no choice but to believe him.

houndtooth [18]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - cw: see masterlist - 7.4k words thank you to the divine and talented @theorist-fox for helping me figure out this chapter <3

You steep in the bathwater like tea. 

Loose leaves, dispersing and unfurling in the heat, essences osmosing out through your skin and evaporating in tongues of silver steam. You trace lines into the surface of the aquamarine water, watching the ripples dance away from your touch and ricochet off the walls of the tub. 

There’s an ache somewhere in the back of your head, dull, thumping. A dread that lingers, black and sticky like a tumour, feeding on the liquid fear that courses through every blood vessel in your skull. One that continues to grow, even as its presence has eluded you, if only for the time being. 

You’re warm. Skin lacquered in ephemeral honey, blanketing and sweet — it placates you, for now. Mollified by a false peace, the comfort of quiet and the gloaming of soft touch. 

You should regret what you did. 

Begging for him like a degenerate — the memory should be sour to reflect on. Should taste like bile in your mouth as you reminisce on kissing him, on biting him, on coming on his tongue. 

It doesn’t. 

It was what you needed. 

Needed, not wanted, you needed it with the same exigency as a starving animal in need of food, of a wilting flower in need of water. That’s the only way you could begin to explain it. Overwhelmed by such a dearth of comfort that you acted on the impulse to sate it because it was needed to survive. 

You hear the flick of a lighter, where Simon sits against the wall beside the tub. Knee propped up, he hangs an arm over it as he pinches a cigarette with the other, sucks down a deep drag. 

He looks at you with lidded eyes as the smoke flows from his nostrils in curls, before he reaches over to hand you the roll. 

You lean against the side of the tub, forearms propped up on the edge, chin resting on the back of your hands. You free one to take it from him, sip a short puff, and give it back.

In the dim light of the bathroom, he looks like a different man. 

His cheeks are pinker, eyes a little brighter. Softer lips. Gentler stare. Perhaps you’re making it up, to make yourself feel better for using him so brazenly.  

His familiar mask is still downstairs, tossed somewhere to oblivion. Jersey in a pile on the kitchen floor. His bare chest is bruised, scratched, bitten — blood-red weals where you had abused him with your teeth and your claws, spotted bruises on his neck and shoulders where you suckled on him like a leech. 

Your eyes scour the marks that weren’t left by you; white cords of poorly healed gashes, craters left by bullets, knurled and pink where he had been burned. He is covered in them. 

“I hope I didn’t hurt you,” you say, as mild as a whisper, a pang of embarrassment at the tip of your tongue. 

“Hurt me?” He asks, a low rumble, through a bemused smirk. 

You extend a hand over the edge of the tub, trace the tip of your finger against a throbbing red imprint of your teeth in his pectoral, a bite mark so deep it lingers even an hour after its infliction. 

He looks down his nose at where you touch him, releasing a pent breath in a huff of laughter. 

“Mh,” he grunts, as though only now noticing how you had maimed him. “You’re a little animal.”

“Sorry,” you puff, tucking your hand back under the other. 

“Didn’t hurt,” he says simply, poking his cigarette in his lips to punctuate it. “Felt good.” 

You smile wryly at that, before you sheepishly glance at the floor. 

“More worried that I hurt you,” he says, after a languid pause. Cigarette smoke in a mist around his head, he hands it to you again.

You keep it for a bit, sucking in two consecutive puffs to slow your heart down before giving it back. 

“You didn’t,” you reply. 

He rocks his head back, leaning it against the dark tiles of the wall. His eyes turn sombre, and he rubs his brow with a tense thumb. 

“What,” you ask edgily. 

He exhales out a cloud of smoke. “Nothing.” he mutters, under breath, as though to himself. 

You shift uneasily in the water and the waves splash quietly against the ceramic walls of the tub. “Do you regret it?” 

His stare is heavy. Pointed. Rust-brown eyes laden with quiet guilt and an anger you can’t place — at you, or at somebody else, you cannot be certain. 

“Fucking you?” 

Your brows twitch into a frown, but soften quickly. You aren’t sure why you’re taken aback by his bluntness — fucking you — given he hasn’t shown much in the way of subtlety in the short time you have known him. 

What you don’t like, though, is that he believes himself to have done something to you. He fucked you. A one-way act. 

You’re used to being fucked in such a way. A man fucks you, a sire fucks a bitch. In either case, you’re the receptacle. The sleeve for a cock. A passive recipient of fucking, your contribution irrelevant, or worse, unnecessary. 

This was different. 

“Yeah,” is all you say, resting your chin on the back of your hands. 

He lets out a ragged sigh. “No,” he says brusquely, “I’m glad I did.” 

Strawberry red stains your cheeks, sugary heat suffusing under your skin. Your tongue is heavy and uncooperative and you have nothing to say. 

“I’m glad I made you feel good,” he adds, a murmur. “I’m glad I took you from that fuckin’ mansion. I’m glad I shot your husband. And I’m glad I hit Makarov. I only wish I’d shot him as well.” 

He ends his tirade with a final puff of his short cigarette, sucking it down to the filter, before squishing the butt into the marble and adding it to the pile of the last three he already finished. 

Your chest is tight, ribs enclosing, lungs sipping shallow. Heart tumescent at the base of your throat and thumping between your collarbones. 

“I’m glad too,” you breathe, not quite able to let the words slip out confidently, because you can’t believe you’re saying them. You’re not even sure uttering them aloud makes the sentiment true, but it feels that way.

The silence that follows is as tepid as your bathwater. He shuts his eyes, head leaning against the black tile behind him. 

“Will you get in with me?” You surprise yourself when you ask it, and he cracks open an eye to look at you. 

“I’ll dirty up your water,” he says frankly. 

“I don’t care,” you whisper. 

His lips curl as he decides whether or not to entertain you. It was an admittedly uncouth request, and you begin to mourn asking — until he reaches forward and pulls loose the laces of his boots, kicking them off with his socks, they bounce and thud on the tile. 

With a grunt he pushes himself up to stand. His pants are already unbuckled, left that way after your tryst in the kitchen, so he simply shucks them down and unabashedly tugs his boxers with them. 

You sit upright in the water, and you feel like a little lecher for watching so raptly. You didn’t get to see much when he had you on the kitchen counter — only his torso, which you weren’t upset about. But you did not expect that he’d bare himself so willingly, a man whose face you had barely become accustomed to, previously hidden by a permanent mask.  

His legs are long, they look as tall as you — just as wide, too, thighs like hocks of pork and hirsute with straw curls. Tattoos bedizen a single leg, his left; a large gun on his shin, a nautical star on the side of his thigh, other engravings you can’t make out in the dim light of the orange sconce by the mirror. 

Your prurient eyes latch to something else, though, as it swings heavy between his legs on his way towards the tub. Even soft, you cannot fathom that you had fit it inside you. Uncircumcised, unlike Victor’s. A hearty mauve at the thick head, sheathed in ruddy foreskin. Pale at the base, corded with veins, and pendulous under its own weight. 

It makes you swallow as he lifts a colossal leg over the edge of the tub, settling immediately into the water and forcing waves to splash up the sides and dribble onto the floor. With his added mass the water’s surface brushes your nipples, they stiffen when it tickles. 

He sinks into the water with a strained sigh, head hanging back over the rounded edge of the tub. The water laps just below his sternum, and his legs overlap with yours — great big knees jutting out of the glossy surface on either side of you, you tuck your knees together, but wedge a foot at either side of his waist. Takes up the entire fucking tub, titanic as he is. 

“Nice, isn’t it?” You say quietly, amused. 

“Mh,” he hums. 

“Bet you haven’t had a bath in a while.”

“You saying’ I smell?”

You snort. “No, I just mean, you know, like, specifically—”

He cracks a wide smile, eyes shut. “I know,” he says. “It has been a while.”

In the quiet you hang your arms over your knees, silently observing every scar on his freckled body, each more grisly than the last. Your eyes fix to a burl of keloid under his ribs, thick and purple, scarred skin shiny where it healed wrong.

“You have a lot of scars,” you quietly muse. 

He only grunts. 

“Are they all from — fighting, and stuff?”

His eyes open and cut across the tub, as if to check why you’d ask such a thing. You feel a bit guilty having asked it, but you know so little about him; the man himself is a mystery, enigmatic as he is reclusive, and you’ve let him inside you. Some part of you feels owed a glimpse of who he is. 

“Some of them,” he says. 

“Not all of them?”

“No.”

“What else are they from?”

His stare is forlorn. He seems to take a moment to decide whether or not to answer you. 

“Couple from when I was a kid,” he says mutedly, swiping the pink slit in his top lip. You don’t want to know how he got that as a little boy. “The rest are from Mexico.” 

“What happened in Mexico,” you ask, near a whisper, curiosity getting the better of you. 

He sucks deep a breath, drumming on the edge of the tub with the pads of his fingers. You haven’t yet seen him so uneasy, so patently upset. His eyes are black with it, pools of tar that swirl and bubble, plainly haunted by something you don’t need to see to understand. 

“Sorry,” you say abruptly. “Don’t tell me. You don’t need to tell me.” 

He drops a hand from where it rests on the lip of the tub, and plants it on your calf. Grazes your skin with his thumb. He gives you a faint nod, and he doesn’t elaborate. You wonder if he would have felt obligated to tell you if you hadn’t relented. 

“What happens next?” You ask, if only to fill the silence. 

He licks his teeth. “That depends on what we got tonight.” 

“Oh, shit!—” you suddenly blurt, jolting up, and he looks taken aback. “I heard some things when they were in the dining room.” 

He straightens himself, sitting upright and watching you keenly. “What.”

“Um — they said something about a vault. At the house in Russia, I think, after I lied and said I heard the assassins talking about a USB drive. Sergei said, um, Victor’s digital assets hadn’t been compromised, and that you hadn’t touched the vault. So maybe there’s something important in there.” 

“Did they say where the vault was?” 

“No — only that you didn’t find it, so I guess… somewhere you didn’t look,” you explain. “They’re getting someone else to sweep the mansion again. Vladimir said — he said Konni, I think, are inept, so must have missed something. Then Sergei said he’d talk to someone called Arkady.”

He chews on that for a moment, glaring into the surface of the water. 

“You know him?” You ask. 

“I do,” he says. “Anything else?”

You take a second to think, to comb through the weeds of everything else that had happened in the last few hours. 

“Well, when… when you interrogated me, you asked about a factory, so I told them I overheard the people who killed Victor talking about a factory.” You say, suddenly feeling like the only information you had gleaned was vague and useless, and you pick at your fingernails. “But I was vague about it, I didn’t want them to think — you know, that I knew too much. So I told them I thought it meant warehouse. Then one of them said, ‘they know about Mialstor’.”

He cocks his head at that. “What?” 

“Mialstor, is what he said,” you repeat. “I guess that’s the name of the factory.”

He suddenly grins, eyes wide with a vigour you had not yet seen at all in him. He reaches forward with both hands, and your instinct is to recoil — but he grabs you by the cheeks and tugs you towards him. 

“Fuckin’ brilliant,” he hails, pressing his forehead to yours and almost shaking you in exuberance. “You’re brilliant, Mia.”

A rush of blood rises up from your chest, turning you pink, and you’re not yet sure what you did right. “Do you know it?”

“Yeah, I know it,” he says, reeling back from you slightly. “Just can’t fuckin’ believe we hadn’t thought of it already.”

“So — so, that’s good?” You ask anxiously, “I got something?” 

He chuckles dryly, grin wide; tilts your head downward to plant his lips on your forehead, and your blood turns to syrup. 

“Yeah, you fuckin’ did,” he croons. 

His praise sends a tickling warmth down your spine, gooseflesh pricking up on the surface of your flushed skin. Turns you to pudding. Not just the assurance that you had done something right, that you were inching closer to your freedom — but an expression of genuine pride, of unburdened affection, truly alien to you. Surreal. Much like most of the last several days, tonight especially. 

You rest a wet hand on his knee, unsure where else to put it, his skin is cold in your palm. 

You have always had little control over what your body chooses to do, proven further as you tilt your head upward, until your mouth meets his chin, his stubble prickly on your lips. 

And as though hearing the thoughts even you could not, he takes the burden from you — his lips find yours, and his mouth opens to take you. You draw in a shuddering breath, his tongue glides against yours, and he breathes your air from its source. 

There is no reluctance left in him, seems you have bled him dry of any remaining reservations. No longer wastes his energy questioning the morality of how he touches you. His hands jump from your cheeks to your hips, and he hoists you up and between his knees — plants you astride his pelvis, his thighs a backrest, a seat made for you. 

His lips take no pause, lavishing from your neck to your collarbone, taking your soft breast in his mouth as you straighten your spine. His tongue feathers over your nipple and a whine escapes your throat, hands firm in the hollows of your waist, holding you in place as he indulges himself. 

He bucks his hips to tip you forward as he leans back against the reclined wall of the tub, wide hand fixes to the back of your neck, under your hair. 

You kiss him without haste but no less eager, tobacco on your tongue, hunger in your teeth. He smooths a free hand down your spine and it makes your hairs stand on end, grazing until it reaches your ass, and he burrows his fingers unabashedly into the pillow of your flesh. 

The silence of the room is peppered with quiet splashes of water and breathing turning heavier, then the whimper that escapes you as you feel his cock growing harder underneath you. Wedged in the petals of your pussy, suddenly taking up more space as it steels in the cleft of you. 

You arch your spine to glide your cunt down his shaft, gripping in the soapy wetness of the bathwater — curl forward as you grind upward, releasing a puff of wanton air as your clit rubs against the bulb of his head, where it lies flat against his stomach. 

He hisses as you knead against him with your full weight, gluttonous hands boring into your hips to compel you even further downwards; but you persist unfettered, rocking your pelvis back and forth along his shaft until you can feel your slick between his skin and yours, not yet dissolved in the bathwater. 

You can feel him growing frustrated. He tries his hardest not to burrow his fingernails into your skin, masseters jutting out as he grits his jaw, temples divoting in the strain. 

You straighten your back, looking down your nose at him; cheeks calescent red and lids heavy, luxuriating in his desperation, panting through your open mouth. 

“What do you want,” you ask, voice low, resting a hand flat on his rigid pectoral to balance yourself. 

He glowers at you, panting, hopelessly grinding his hips up into you to chase the friction. 

“You know what I want,” he grits, enormous hands briefly loosening to slide to your waist, before they dig in there instead. 

“Say it,” you hum, stilling with the blunt head of his cock nestled between your folds. 

He cracks a grin, jaw slack, he laughs at you incredulously. At a loss for words, for a beat, as he futilely rolls his hips. 

But his eyes are dark, and they do not leave you. Through a smirk, he says; “I want you.” 

You liquefy when he says it. Insides turn as gummy and bittersweet as jam. 

You know he means your body, your cunt; you, the parts of you that matter. You can’t help but burden his hungry words with a weight they were not intended to carry. 

Still, you raise yourself just enough to reach beneath you, taking his cock in your kittenish fingers — your tongue wettens when you touch it, hard as titanium and hot as molten iron. Girth dizzying now that it is tangible in your hand, when you wrap your fingers around it and hold it upright. 

His eyes go glassy when you slot the head of his cock between your labia, nudging it at your entrance — you gasp through wet lips as you sink back down, lancing yourself on the length of him until you sit flush with his hips, impaled to the helve. 

It’s harder to breathe around the size of him in this position. It ached delightfully the first time, when his head mashed into your cervix, when he buried deep — now he takes up all the space inside you, bullying your womb out of the way to fit, and he hadn’t even moved yet. 

He keeps his hips still, in fact. Busies himself with his hands, they graze over your thighs, up your waist, around your breasts, along your collarbones.

“Say it again,” you breathe, voice broken.

He smooths a flat hand down your sternum, between your breasts, over your belly as if just to feel the warmth of your skin. 

“I want you,” he murmurs, no longer smiling. 

A heat blooms in the hollows of your eyes, tumid with unspent tears, and you keel forward to taste him again; with an open mouth you seal your lips to his, and exhale all of yourself into him. A wide hand weaves into the hair at the back of your head, the other sweeps from your waist and around your ribs, settling in the divot of your spine.

Still, he does not move. Doesn’t rut himself deeper, doesn’t reel back his hips to indulge himself with the slightest friction. Instead, he moves his lips to your cheek, curling his hand to the top of your head, before nestling your face into the crook of his neck. 

You wonder what thoughts of yours he can hear, can feel through your skin, can taste in your mouth, that you yourself are not privy to. Because with a free hand he scoops underneath you, lifting you like you’re weightless in the water, and unsheathing his cock from inside you. Sits you back down on your side against him, with your knees tucked in. 

You’ve resolved not to cry, but quiet tears drip from your eyes regardless of your attempt to subdue them. Their origin eludes you, they roll anyway. 

“I’m sorry,” you croak, into the balmy skin of his neck.

He draws in a slow breath, your head rises with his chest, lets it out just as languidly. His hand knots a little firmer against your scalp, his lips press into your hair. 

“Don’t be.” 

He can’t explain it. 

Whatever it is, palpitating behind his sternum, aching like cardiac failure. 

He’d have called it guilt, perhaps, in the days leading up to now, while he has you purring on his chest like a cat. He pets you like one, a listless hand stroking your damp hair from your forehead to the back of your neck. Keeps still like you’re as skittish as one, liable to jump off his lap and scurry away into the shadow if he moves too quickly. 

He’s not sure what he’d call it, now.  

It was hatred, first, bubbling and acerbic in his chest at the sight of you. That hadn’t lasted long, though. Then, it was pity, when he watched you cower away from himself and others who hurt or threatened you, or when he had to listen to your husband unjustly berate you. Then, it was shame, for salivating over you like an animal despite how he exploited you. Next was guilt, for exploiting you at all. 

Whatever it is now, he doesn’t have a name for it. 

He would have indulged you, if you wanted him to. He’d have fucked you to sleep in the bathwater, or simply coaxed another orgasm out of you with his fingers, or his tongue, if you asked. He could never be unwilling to surfeit you if that were what you needed from him. 

He could tell, though, read it on your lips, see it in your eyes, that it wasn’t what you needed. That you were acting out of routine, out of habit, a machine on autopilot. He’s sure that you know well how potently magnetising you are. That any man would lust over you, would fuck you in a heartbeat, and would tell you so. You don’t need him to attest to that. 

He’s certain you’d be expectant of it. Certain that sex is the only affection you are accustomed to receiving, and that anything else has been a means to an end. 

He has always had a similar attitude. 

He doesn’t dole out affection freely, nor does he willingly receive it. A fuck was once all he needed, and he decided himself uninterested in, or unworthy of, anything more than that. He has always prided himself on it, in fact, that he never needs anything else. Doesn’t need reassurance, or care, or sympathy. Doesn’t need touch beyond the kind that gets his cock hard. 

Can’t explain why he doesn’t want to be that for you. 

He doesn’t want to be another dog, so you called them; an animal that mauls, that bites, that scratches and grabs, hits and breaks. He doesn’t want to be a creature of hunger and hatred, destined only to consume, to masticate then swallow. 

He doesn’t want to prove you right. He has already been that creature, that dog, for all of his life. Sharp-toothed and brutal, permanently apoplectic with a rage that never dissipates, turbid in his blood like silt. Antipathy aimed indiscriminately, at everybody, himself no exception. 

That sediment that terminally thunders through him has settled, temporarily. A momentary taste of amity, while you lie curled up on his stomach, gently breathing against the skin of his neck. 

Pride beats through him, too. He’s bright with it. He’s fucking proud of you — not a sentiment he would ever have expected to hold. 

Clever girl, using what little knowledge you had gleaned from him to fish out intel he would never have found himself. Clever girl, feigning uncertainty about the very language you’re fluent in to milk them of even more. Staggered by your courage, brave girl, maintaining strength within arm’s reach of those wolves who so deeply terrify you. Brave girl, standing up to the warmongering sadist even as he had his hands around your throat.

He wants to tell you so, but it’s not in his nature, would go against his grain — regardless, it seems you have fallen asleep, judging by the shift in your breathing. Slow, deep, in a torpor that leaves you limp against him.  

The water isn’t hot anymore. Not quite lukewarm, either; the exact temperature of the surface of his skin, so it feels as though he isn’t submerged at all. 

He’d leave you sleeping, if he could, but he can’t have you spend the night in cold water. If he had another set of arms, he could gracefully get out of the tub and carry you to bed without needing to wake you. Alas.

He adjusts himself, skin squeaking against the ceramic walls of the tub, and that seems to be enough to disturb your slumber. 

You quickly push yourself upright with your hands on his chest, and he releases you. Your stare jumps around as though you had forgotten where you were, until his hand falls to the small of your back, and you catch his eye in the dim yellow light. 

A pent breath escapes you, and you rub an eye with the heel of your palm. “Sorry,” you croak. 

“For what,” he says torpidly. 

“For — for falling asleep on you.” 

He lets out a puff of laughter. “Seems like you needed it.” 

You smile sheepishly, and his stomach tightens up. “Guess so.” 

You stare at him, for a beat, and he swears you tilt your head in thought — lids heavy, eyes shadowed by exhaustion but laden with a quiet comfort. Not once would he ever have thought he’d see such an expression in them, so used to them being wide and frightened, or wet and ruddy with tears. 

“What do we do now?” You ask quietly, and he wonders how metaphorical you’re being. “Have we — is there more to do, still?” 

Not metaphorical at all, evidently. “There’s more to do,” he replies, remorseful. 

Your expression sinks, and he feels guilty again. “Right,” you breathe. “Do I have to see him again?” 

Him, he needn’t ask. The way you say it, thick with hate, speaks his name for you. 

He reaches for you, brushes your jaw with his thumb, sweeps a damp curl of hair behind your ear. “No.” 

You all but deflate with relief once he says it. 

“I need to check in with my team,” he adds, with a huff. “C.O. will figure out what happens next.” 

“The Captain?” You ask, a grumble. 

He nods. 

You chew on something to say, a divot between your brows. “I don’t like him.” 

He smirks at that. Hopes he gets to tell him that, one day. Bird says she doesn’t like you. “He’s not everyone’s cup o’ tea.” 

“No, I mean, I don’t trust him.” 

“No?” 

He doesn’t blame you, he’d never vouch for the man. He just wants to know if the Captain had done something to you to make you feel that way, while he wasn’t around to see it. 

“If he had his way I’d be dead already,” you say sombrely. 

He grimaces. You’re probably right. 

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” he grunts, hand smoothing over the curve of your shoulder, brushing down your arm. He can’t stop touching you. 

You adjust your position on his lap, not quite getting comfortable, but turning to face him better. “How can you guarantee that if he’s your commander?” You ask, tone interrogative. “What if he orders you to kill me?” 

“I wouldn’t,” he says, more forcefully, anger bubbling in the back of his throat at the thought. 

He hasn’t considered it, going against direct command, breaking the chain of authority that he has been beholden to since birth. His eyes go dark as he thinks about it. Such an order an immovable object, his newborn compulsion to safeguard you an unstoppable force. 

He doesn’t know what would happen. Only that you’d be alive at the end of it. 

Concern bleeds into your features, but it seems you elect to believe him, answering only with a faint nod. “Okay.” 

“You should get some sleep,” he says. 

“Do we have time to?” You ask dubiously, dread in your throat. 

He huffs. “You do.” 

A look of pity cracks through your features, but you relent with a nod. “Okay.”

With some maneuvering, you push yourself up and step a leg out of the tub, standing on the tufted bathmat. Your skin prickles up in the cold, tiny bumps of gooseflesh feather your skin, faint hairs standing on end. 

There’s no caution in your nakedness, no lingering reluctance in having his eyes soak you in. You stand unblushing, and he watches as you float to the towel rail; the way your calves tighten, lush thighs bounce with each small step. The way the faint light catches in the valley of your spine, shimmers on your soft skin embellished with drops of water, carves out the nectarine contours of your ass.

He’s not ignorant of his lechery. Acknowledges that simply having sex with you should not embolden him to abandon all shame as he relishes in the sight of you, he can’t quite justify it — but there’s more to it than that. 

Not anything he can articulate nor make sense of. But you let him admire you, so he admires you. 

You’ve already collected a towel for him by the time he gets out to follow you, handing it to him as you drape your own around your own shoulders. He’s not shy about spectating you as you dry yourself off, running the plush towel down your torso, arms, legs, before wrapping it around your hair and wringing out your locks. 

You dump your towel on the floor by the vanity once you deem yourself dry enough, leaving your hair damp down your back. He puts his boxers back on, slightly less comfortable with his nudity than you. He’s not sure why, perhaps just habit. He’s used to staying hidden. 

Seems you get stuck in the mirror. 

He watches, quietly, as you glower into it like you can see somebody on the other side. Eyes penetrating like you hate her. White-knuckled hands clutch the edge of the vanity, as you let out a frayed sigh. 

He shuffles over until he stands behind you. More than a head above you in the reflection, the shadow you cast. 

Even with your brows curled in worry, lips in a caustic line, you’re pretty. So pretty. He wants to tell you so. His mouth won’t let him utter the words. 

“Do you ever look in a mirror, and—” you hesitate, “and think, ‘who the fuck is that’?” 

He bites down on nothing, but nods in response. “Most of the time.”

You blink at yourself, a slender finger lifting to graze the yellowing bruise under your eye. 

“I used to look so normal,” you say quietly, musing to yourself. 

He exhales as if to laugh — can’t imagine that you ever looked normal. You’re abnormal, by nature. He’s sure it would come across as an insult if he were to say so, but he doesn’t mean it as one. Even as he imagines you in a hoodie and jeans, crossing the street, buying cigarettes from the corner shop — you’d glow.

He lacks the eloquence to say such a thing, so he says nothing. Instead cranes his head and presses his lips into the swell of your shoulder. Fleeting, a simple kiss, he doesn’t linger. 

“Go to bed,” he tells you. 

“What will you do?” You ask quietly, pretty eyes fluttering shut as his lips graze your skin, before he steps back. 

“Got some calls to make,” he answers. 

“You’ll stay in the house, right?” 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

Yet would have been accurate to disclaim, but he doesn’t want to frighten you. He knows you’d hardly sleep. 

You nod, finally acquiescing, and he follows a few paces behind you as you wander out of the bathroom towards your bedroom. Leans against the jamb of the doorframe and watches as you pull a comically oversized t-shirt over your head, brush out your hair in front of your mirror, tug open the drawer of your nightstand. 

Grits his teeth as you toss two oxycodone tablets into your open mouth, and swallow them with a placated sigh. Comforts himself with the promise that you’ll break your habit when you’re free from the hell you’re imprisoned in. 

When you’re free, he thinks — ruminates on the prospect. He was ambivalent about your liberation when he first took you on, considered you deserving of whatever fate befell you. Let the Captain believe that you were unlikely to make it out of the arrangement alive, so no additional measures needed to be taken to ensure your emancipation. 

He’ll make it right. 

Observes silently as you settle yourself into bed on your side, tugging your thick covers up until they brush your cheeks, shimmying yourself deeper into the mattress. Thanks to him, it has been several nights since you have slept in a bed, and the relief is visible in the softening of your eyes and the pleased curl in your lips. 

Sweet thing. He’ll get you out, or die trying. 

“Night,” he grumbles, and your eyes blink open before landing on him. 

“You’ll wake me up, won’t you?” You ask, “when it’s time to go?” 

“Course.” 

You nod. “Okay. G’night.”

He flicks off the light switch on the wall with the back of his finger. Remains in the door for far longer than necessary. Attentive as your breathing settles, as your eyes grow heavier, as your lips part slightly in your slumber. The shadow of his silhouette drapes over your body under the covers, haunting you, he’s sure. Only once you roll over to your other side, does he step away from the frame, and carefully shut the door behind him.

He pulls out his satellite phone as he meanders down the hallway away from your bedroom, dialing up the Captain and holding it to his ear. 

He picks up on the first beep. 

“Jesus, I’ve been waiting for you to check in for fuckin’ hours. Thought you’d gone AWOL.” 

“Not quite,” he murmurs. 

“Why’re you so quiet? S’the weather dirty?” 

“It’s clear,” he says, as he makes his way down the staircase, out of earshot. Dithers for a moment about whether he’ll disclose why. “Didn’t want to wake the bird.” 

“She’s still kicking?”

“Affirmative.” 

Price chortles on the end of the line. “You’re a bloody good guard dog, I’ll give you that. How’d she do?” 

“She did good.”

“Go on then, we don’t have time to piss around here.” 

He makes his way to the kitchen. Eyes catch on the counter. On the glitter of the broken glass that sprinkles over its surface. 

“We need to get ‘er out, sir,” he says rigidly. 

“What?” 

“Mia,” he grits. “I’m not leaving her in this fuckin’ shithole.” 

An uneasy pause cuts through the line, as Price considers his response. 

“What’s changed? Has she ended the damn war?” 

“She’s not a war criminal. They’ve kept her prisoner for years, captain, they fuckin’ torture her.” 

“She’s gotten in your head, then, has she?” 

“If you’d spoken to her, John, you’d see the same.” 

“See what, exactly.” 

“An innocent girl.” 

Price lets out a beleaguered sigh. “Christ,” he grumbles. “What’ve you gotten yourself into?” 

A mess. 

“Just get her the damn passport,” he demands, patience wearing thin. “She’s earned it.”

“Has she? You haven’t even told me if she found anything of any value.” 

“Guarantee it.” 

“Guarantee what?” 

Ghost rolls his eyes. “That she’ll be sent home, for fuck’s sake.” 

“When she’s done her job, I’ll see what I can do.” 

“She has.” 

“Not while we’ve got no missiles, she hasn’t.” 

“Mialstor Munitions Factory,” he grunts, finally revealing the intel he called to share. “That’s where they’re making the missiles.” 

“She found that out?”

“Affirmative.” 

“That’s only a few clicks north of you.” 

“Just under one-fifty.” 

“D’she get anything else?”

“Sounds like we missed a few spots at the first estate,” he answers reluctantly. “Digital assets in a vault we weren’t aware of.” 

“Right,” Price says urgently, a familiar rigidity that portends a plan. “I’ll call you back in a minute.” 

The call ends with a click, and Ghost busies himself by collecting the gear that is scattered around the mansion. Finds his jersey and t-shirt on the floor of the kitchen, and his mask hanging from a cupboard handle, where it had fortuitously landed when you tossed it away. Gets himself dressed again, returning the balaclava to its rightful place. Grabs his tac vest from floor by in the foyer, handgun still tucked into the holster on its side. Returns to the bathroom and puts his trousers back on, boots to follow. 

He knows what Price will inevitably ask of him. He just hopes he can get you out before he is ferried off to fulfil his next mission. Knows how dangerously distracted he’ll be if you’re stuck here without him. 

His sat phone rings as he does up his belt. He picks it up immediately. 

“Yep,” he answers quickly. 

“Zero-seven, we’re sending a bird to you at 0400 hours. Bravo and Delta teams will meet you two clicks south of the factory.” 

He checks his watch. Just before two. 

“We’re storming it?” 

“Affirmative, lieutenant. No time to waste.” 

“Seems a little rash for you, captain.” 

“You trust your bird, don’t you?”

His jaw tightens. “I do.”

“Then there’s no use sitting on our hands, is there?” Price barks. “MacTavish will be joining you at Mialstor. Garrick and I will be heading back to the estate to find what you missed.” 

“They’ll be sweeping the mansion again,” he says. “It’ll be swarming.” 

“Counting on it.” 

Not unlike the Captain to dive right into the hornet's nest. 

“You sorted exfil for the bird, then, I take it?” 

“Jesus, lieutenant, get your bloody priorities straight. There are lives on the line.” 

“So is hers,” he spits. “If they get to her they’ll fuckin’ kill her. Worse than that.” 

“She should’ve thought about that before she married one o’ them.” 

Ghost swallows his simmering insubordination before allowing himself to speak. 

“Do you hear yourself?” 

The silence that follows is ugly. He can hear the Captain gritting his teeth through the phone, can see the line that forms in his ever-severe lips. The man has always been callous, dangerously pragmatic — but this level of cold apathy is out of character. Pure desperation. 

They’ve been hunting the same organisation for the better part of a decade. Makarov has never been so within reach, so close to being ensnared in their maws — seems the Captain has lost sight of his own humanity in the pursuit of his heroism. 

Far be it from Ghost to be the one to discern it. Until now, their roles have been reversed. Ghost the cur, Price the muzzle. 

A perturbed grunt crackles through the phone speaker. “Look, If her intel was good, if we find those missiles — I’ll get her out.”

“I don’t give a shit what we find there,” he growls. “I don’t care if we get there and it’s a fucking empty field. We’re getting that girl home.” 

“What’s she done to you, Simon?” Price asks, earnestly, and Ghost’s knuckles turn white. “Alright. We can’t get another bird out before the operation. But afterwards, I’ll try.”

“You’ll try?” He grits. “Or you will?” 

“I’ll do my best,” the Captain replies. “Just — don’t let her distract you, eh? Remember what’s at stake.” 

“Haven’t forgotten, sir.” 

“Good. I’ll check in with you when you’re on the helo. Get a few zees in while you can, yeah? Need you sharp.” 

“Copy that.” 

Price closes the call with over and out and Ghost fights the urge to throw the chunk of plastic into the vanity mirror. 

The thought makes him sick. Leaving you here. Alone, unguarded, in a mansion with no defenses, no bulwark to shield you from the men who wrestle to maim you. 

Abandoning you, just as he said he wouldn’t. 

He doesn’t have a choice. 

Guilt swelters within him as he makes his way down the same corridor, hovering outside your bedroom door, hand yet unwilling to touch the handle. The thought of telling you makes his tongue swell up. Having to utter the words aloud, having to see your face when you learn he has no choice but to leave you here. 

How could you believe him when he says he’ll be back? What stock remains in his promises? 

He loathes confessing to it, but he reminds himself that the Ultranationalist scum have no reason to return to your summer house, yourself notwithstanding. Makarov’s sadism is unearthly, but he would not jeopardise a decades-long scheme just to have his fun with you. He’ll come back for you eventually, no doubting that. The creature oozes such repulsive lust for you that it lingers in the air even after he was forced to leave the estate. 

Simon will return to you before he even gets the chance. He’ll come back to guarantee it. To ensure your safety. 

He twists the door knob, and it opens quietly, hinges fresh and well-maintained. A crack of light slices into the room through the opening door, cloaking where you lie on your back, a single forearm jutting out of the duvet and resting softly on the pillow. Deep in slumber. 

You don’t stir as he makes his way into your room, feet heavy on the carpeted floor. Gentle face doesn’t twitch as he sweeps a tuft of your hair with a thick finger, from where it had draped over your nose, scooping it behind your ear, off of your neck. Eyes fix to the beating of your carotid artery beneath the velvet skin of your throat. The divots that carve beneath your collarbones as you breathe deeply. 

Makes his chest sink to imagine that you’d sleep so tranquilly in his presence. That you could ever let your guard down in his proximity. He wonders how long it will take for the other shoe to drop.

Still, he leaves his tac vest leaning against the foot of the bed. Dumps his boots off beside it, upright and neat, as he was trained to leave them.

He looks at his watch again; 02:01. Gives him just under two hours to get some sleep. He could sleep anywhere — decades in the military have inured him to sleeping on raw dirt, hung over the back of a truck, upright in a plane. 

Doesn’t want to, though. 

He drops into the bed beside you, atop the covers, flat on his back. Heavy head sinks into the thick down pillow beneath his head. Luxury, all of it — not only the dizzyingly opulent bedding, but the body lying next to him. 

You shuffle slightly before rolling onto your side. Eyes still shut, you nestle your forehead into the swell of his bicep, sleepy hand scooping under his arm to hold it close to you. 

You let out a satisfied sigh, and sleep immediately swallows him whole. 

We Were Ghosts Before We Died

A dark Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x fem!Reader fanfiction Click here for the AO3 version TW: suicidal idealisation, gruesome physical deformities, depression, pills, potential stalking

ONE—TWO—THREE

“Morning! Hey, I just realised I never got your name,” you chirped happily as you approached Simon’s small table, beaming. He was in similar dark clothes as yesterday, and a large surgical mask covered the bottom half of his face so much that the scars you had previously identified were barely visible, but — you realised with no little amount of satisfaction — that he had clearly changed, which was a more than you expected after seeing the state he was in yesterday. Small wins.

Simon hesitated as he glanced up at you, who was looking down at him with big eyes and a pen and pad in your hand. You had been sweet to him the evening before, and for some reason he came back to the diner today at your request, but he didn’t trust you that much. “…Just call me Ghost.”

Jesus Christ. Ghost. He may not have deserved the name Simon, but he knew he didn’t deserve this one either. This made it sound like he was still in service, still fighting, still useful. None of those could describe him anymore. Especially with that goddamn leg of his. He wasn’t sure if you were watchful enough to have noticed that yet, though. It wasn’t like he tried to make it obvious.

And, still, it wasn’t like he had any other name to give you. Wasn’t like he could just tell you that he honestly deserved no name, to live as a shadow of a man — all he really was after the stuff he had done and could no longer do. The fact that he lamented that loss only solidified his evil.

You raised an inquisitive eyebrow, oblivious to the tempest brewing in his mind. That was always brewing in his mind, wreaking havoc on his logic and rational thinking. “A callsign?”

He nodded tersely, gaze shifting back towards the ground. He did that a lot, you noticed — let his eyes wonder about in an almost nervous, ticking manner, except the rest of his face showed little other emotion and his thick eyebrows were constantly furrowed, so he just looked appeared to get pissed off at everything his eyes landed on.

You hummed in approval before quickly changing topic. It wasn’t hard to tell that he went quiet and resorted to nodding when he didn’t want to talk about something. You gave him your own name lightly, before adding, “So, what kind of pancakes do you want, then? Since you got here so early to get them,” you added with a playful wink.

Simon began, completely emotionless, “No—”

“Maple syrup, yeah, I got that from yesterday,” you interrupted, with a grin at the starkly bewildered look on his face — him blinking. “But any other preferences? Fruits? Whipped cream? One pancake? Five?”

Simon blinked at you. The question was so… mundane. Casual. It felt wrong, considering all he was used to, but also right. Boring, and plain, but comforting. “You got strawberries?”

“Absolutely. Want some blueberries too, to even it out?” God, you were so happy he was bothering to play along. You had half expected him to remain silent again.

“…Fuckin’ hell, sure,” he replied gruffly after a pause, not thinking anything of the sentiment and expecting you to continue prattling on about flavours.

But you coughed pointedly.

Again, Simon blinked at you. What was it now? Did his leg fall off his bloody torso, or something? But then he watched your eyes slide over to the mother with her young son on a table nearby, who was giving him the death glare, and it clicked.

“Establishment is publicly family friendly,” you explained under your breath, giving him a crooked smile. “Could have you kicked out for language like that.

“Oh.” Was the only thing he could manage in response, not having embarrassment flush his ears a light pink, but… something similar. He comforted himself with the fact that it was a pretty stupid rule. This was Manchester, for God’s sake, what were people excepting? For him to have a composure alike to that of the Her Majesty?

But maybe that was the point. For this place to be a semi-decent respite to the coarseness that would barrage into any young child on the streets of Manchester like shrapnel.

“It’s okay, you’re not the first person and you won't be the last. I’ll have your pancakes out soon,” you smiled, winking playfully before disappearing behind the counter.

Just like the day before, he watched you as you left. Some of your co-workers offered tired but relieved smiles at you as you went, to which you returned just as joyfully, and even some of the customers bid you a good morning by name. It seemed you were quite popular here. He didn’t find it surprising — you had been very friendly to him. Exuded the kind of warm persona that many people found appealing. It made sense.

Less than five minutes later, and you were back. It was honestly impressive — you must have made them in preparation of his arrival, because there was no way you had made and cooked all the batter so fast. Right?

The dish honestly looked delicious as you brought it over, beaming as widely as always — more appetising than anything he had eaten in just about the last decade. The pancakes were light and fluffy, a golden-brown that promised just the right amount of delicate crust, and were adorned with fresh fruits that glimmered with moisture and a crown of whipped cream. It looked… straight out of a commercial.

“It’s so… big,” was all Simon said, his gaze fixed on them. And whilst the mask prevented you from seeing the bottom of his face, you could read the surprise — and desire — in his eyes.

Didn’t figure he’d actually want them. You assumed he would take one bite and decide he was full, too overwhelmed by the sugar. But that look in his eyes said otherwise.

“Enjoy!” You told him, smiling shyly and pushing the plate — and the black coffee that you had been holding in your other hand — towards him.

Simon blinked. “I didn’t order the coffee.”

“I know you didn’t. On me. Pure black, like you ordered yesterday.”

“…Oh. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome! Please enjoy!” You waved as you went to assist another customer, as the place was slowly filling up as the morning went on. Quick, but still friendly enough to hopefully linger on his mind. Besides, even if you wanted to stay and chat to him more like yesterday, you’d have people causing so much chaos due to your negligence that you’d have no choice but to cut the conversation short. Unfortunately, today was one of the days where no-one else’s shift started until a few hours later.

As you hummed to yourself as you approached a sweet elderly couple who were signalling for you, Simon’s gaze slid from the to the food in front of him, before taking his cutlery and cutting into the pancakes tentatively. Fine, they looked delectable, but… maybe they’re dry. Maybe they have no taste. Maybe—

Fucking hell. Maybe you were a master chef.

He wasn’t sure if there was some magical wizard in the back kitchen who was helping you out, but by the looks of things it was just you, which meant you were to thank for the heavenly goodness that melted on his tongue.

Simon Riley had eaten a variety of things in his life — rats and year-old crackers included. Usually, the things he had had to sustain himself on during missions were flat-out disgusting, which meant whenever he finally got to try nice cuisine, he short-circuited for a few moments out of pleasure and surprise. That was exactly what happened to him the moment he swallowed his first bite, because it was just… so good. He could find no conceivable words for the emotions he was experiencing.

The entire plate was wolfed down within minutes. Impressive, and frankly a little concerning, even for a big guy like himself. He didn’t care. It wasn’t like anyone else particularly cared about his eating habits, either.

Well, except for you. But out of the corner of your eye, the sight of him scarfing down the pancakes you had made just made you feel proud.

“How was it?” You asked eagerly, clearing up his plates and watching him expectantly despite already knowing the answer, if his plate with only the specks of crumbs wasn’t enough.

Simon folded his arms over his chest. “Really good.”

You weren’t sure how long you’d been smiling for, but it widened even further, if the feat was even possible. “Good to know! I haven’t made pancakes for a while, so I wasn’t sure.”

“You made them?” He echoed, glancing up at you from under his cap. The same one as yesterday. Maybe you did have that magical wizard after all.

You gave him an odd look. “Of course. It’s just me working right now. Stressful, but it pays okay.” A lie. It paid better than a standard shift, but was still piss-poor. Not enough to keep you comfortable. Not even barely.

Simon grunted in acknowledgment, going through his own thought process. So, no wizard. Just you. “Okay. Just wondering.”

“No worries! All done, then, or is there anything else I can get for you?” You watched his reaction carefully. He seemed… at ease. Relaxed, considering the circumstance and how you had seen him last night. His muscles flexed under his shirt, but they weren’t stiff and tense. His eyebrows cut hard lines down his face, but they didn’t particularly arch inwards. They just… were.

Simon considered your question. Yesterday he had taken you up on the offer of more coffee. Whether unconsciously or not, he had prolonged staying out. Prolonged the end. Today, whilst he didn’t feel particularly inclined to stay for much longer, he didn’t feel the burning need to retrieve that pile, either. And so, he shook his head gruffly and pushed his empty plates over to you with the back of one of his gloved hands. “M’okay.” His other hand went to his pocket, and, pulling out two 10-pound notes, slid them over to you too.

Your eyes widened as they skimmed over the money, your hands reaching to collect the dishes. “This… is too much.” It may have been an American diner, but it still operated in a British (or, rather, the rougher Mancunian) style. Tips were highly unusual. Not that you were going to complain too much, but you still had some sense of dignity.

“All I have with me,” he said after a moment.  He blinked, surprisingly long, pale lashes framing his gleaming hazel eyes. “It’s fine, just take it.”

“…Sure?”

He didn’t respond, just blinked at you again.

Fair enough. He had already given you his answer. You didn’t repeat the question as you took one note in your free hand, and and slid the other into your uniform pocket. “Thanks, Ghost.” The ends of your lips quirked up as the name left your mouth. He clearly wasn’t expecting it, either, because it took a moment for him to respond with yet another nod.

“Excuse me! Waitress!”

Your gaze shot to the customers calling you, before glancing back at Simon and smiling at him sheepishly. “Come again tomorrow, yeah? I’ll make something different.”

“Waitress!” The voice grew louder and shriller.

“Well— bye! Have a good day!” You chirped as you waved at him for the second time today and immediately darted off to assist whoever was calling for you, as he began the effort of heaving himself out of the booth, shooting a quick glare at his leg that he wasn’t sure if you’d noticed yet. You were always so joyful. He was never sure how to appropriately respond, given he didn’t really think about his own mannerisms all that often. It was a foreign feeling, and he thrived in the comfort of the expected.

That didn’t stop him from returning the next day, though. Or the next.

Or the next.

For some reason, over the next few days, him coming to the diner to get breakfast (which ranged from french toast to bacon and eggs) became a sort of routine, following your daily ‘Good morning!’ messages, to which he replied with a thumbs-up every time. It grounded him — gave him something to wake up, get dressed, and have a purpose for — and right now he just about found that preferable to his other option that remained in a pile in the corner of his flat.

The rest of the day never consisted of much more than a walk around the neighbourhood or lying on the couch, but it didn’t seem quite so dull anymore. Not when he had something to occupy his thoughts with, to think about, however mundane it seemed. Besides, it was an 80’s-style-American diner in a shit area of Manchester — there always had to something interesting happening there, because there never was anywhere else. And you always made an effort to chat with him, even when he didn’t offer more than a grunt in response.

That was something he had noticed about you. You knew when he was still interested in your conversation, more or less — impressive, considering how imposing of a figure he supposed he cut, acting so cold in the way he did. You’d talk happily, not deterred in the slightest, but then still realised when his gaze began to shift to other things that you had lost his attention and tactfully went away again. Even if he didn’t know how he felt in the moment, sometimes it was like you always did, and always acted accordingly. Always acted in a way tailored to him, accordingly, at that.

And so, he appeared at the diner’s doors at the same time every morning, and you always appeared to greet him at the same time every morning, never to be seen without a smile on your face, something to be counted upon. Someone to be there and start his day off fresh.

Until you weren’t.

It had been about a week and a bit into this newfound routine, and for some reason when he arrived, you weren’t there to let him in and make some bad joke about pancakes or whatever silly thing was on your mind that morning. It was the young man who had gotten on his nerves on the evening he had first met you, instead, and the change thoroughly confused him.

“Where is she?” He grunted with no other context, glaring down at the man. Because he knew that you worked the morning shift every day from your rambles, so it wasn’t like you just weren’t working today.

The man, ever unruffled, just shrugged. At least this time he kept his attention on Simon instead of switching it between him and something behind the counter.  “Sick, I think. What, you were planning on asking her out? Didn’t have the patience to show up here for a month straight and wanted to do it after a week instead?” The last few comments were snide, and as a jealous man himself, Simon knew the various expressions of jealously when he heard them. To be fair, though, it was pretty obvious anyway.

And so, he just remained silent as he so often liked to do. Except, this time it wasn’t out of avoidance. He simply refused to offer the man an answer, much to his obvious frustration when he just scoffed, muttering something like ‘bloody man, thinking he’s better than everyone’ as he turned away.

So, naturally, Simon just walked in and sat in his usual seat. Empty, as always, because it was in such a tight corner that you wouldn’t know it existed unless you specifically looked for it.

He sat down. Ordered a coffee from a pointedly different waiter (oh, so you didn’t deserve someone else to assist you on your shift, but he did?) and drunk it all over the course of an hour until only the dregs were left.

Though once it was empty, he didn’t leave.

What else was there for him to do but wait? It wasn’t like there was a time limit on sitting, anyway. Besides, the venomous glares that the waiter shot him whenever he walked nearby almost made the corners of his lips quirk upwards. Almost.

And so, he sat. And sat. And sat. Watched the comic-themed clock on the wall spin by at a surprising pace, the hours slipping by, and otherwise amused himself by people-watching, pointedly ignoring the frustrated glares William sent him whenever he passed the table. There was a single father taking his twin daughters out for their birthday lunch. An old lady and her grandson spending time together. Multiple groups of giddy teens and pre-teens eager to flaunt their newfound freedom by being generally noisy and boisterous.

A few days ago, it might have annoyed him. But now the general atmosphere of the diner was something he spent a lot of time around, he was able to mercifully tune it out and only give them a mildly condescending look.

They still shut up instantly, though. Acknowledging the large, lone man in the corner that no-one even knew was an available seat with an unblinking stare did that to some people.

Then, his mind shifted onto other things. More specifically, you. He wasn’t an idiot. You obviously had some financial problems — finding anyone who lived around here who didn’t would make him a surprised man — so to miss a shift would mean you’d have to be pretty sick. He didn’t want to picture it — you wrapped up in bed, shivering miserably, a bin beside you and a cold towel on your head. Maybe you couldn’t even bring yourself to set yourself up as well as that, and were just lying against your bathroom wall and trying to soothe your burning forehead with the coolness of the tiles.

The thought instantly made him uncomfortable, and suddenly he didn’t even want to stay in the diner just to spite the stupid waiter anymore. It was strange for him to try and imagine you, so joyful and energetic, so weak and vulnerable. Honestly, it was strange for him to bother imagining anyone else but himself after being in self-isolation for so long, so he wasn’t too bothered with the feeling.

He stood suddenly, scowling at his leg again when it thumped uselessly against the ground, and dragged himself out of the diner with a sudden frustration. What was the point of even being in this place if you weren’t there? Weren’t there to do what, he wasn’t sure — talk his ear off? Make him food? — but nevertheless, he was achieving nothing by being here. Suddenly, everything pissed him off — the loud customers, the plasticky sheen of the floor, the fluorescent lights — and he suddenly stormed out of the place with an expression that couldn’t frozen tigers in their tracks. Silence followed his dramatic departure, though it was quickly replaced by excitable chatter, because it wasn’t the weirdest thing anyone had seen that day despite the sun only having been up a couple hours.

The cold air bit the exposed half of his face like tiny icicles. March was supposed to be springtime, composed of the occasional frost but mainly focused on life and rebirth with the warmth it brung — but in Manchester there were only three seasons: grey, wet, and cold. Most days it was a mix of all three. He figured he had seen the pure sun about three times during the entire time he’d lived here.

He leant on the outside of the diner, observing his surroundings in a way he had never thought necessary before. The street that the diner sat on was a grim one — though what wasn’t, here? Every other shop was either boarded up or graffitied to the point of no return, whilst the remaining few were just empty and lifeless. The diner was the only thing that signalled civilisation down the entire road, and the bright colours and noise stood out like a sore thumb from the dystopian-esque rest of the area.

Simon almost sighed. Once, maybe, in his childhood, this place would’ve had more joy. But a declining economy and the far more favourable option of travel left areas like this with only scraps, leaving the people who chose to remain with no choice but to fend for themselves in any way they could.

Those horrid thumps rang out again as he slowly began to walk back to his flat. That noise could have been used as a mental torture method by Makarov’s men if he was still on the force, if they ever learnt the pain it caused him to hear it.     

But it could never happen. Because he was now off the force because of the exact thing that made that stupid noise, and Makarov only continued to torture the men he spent over half his life fighting with — and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

He grunted in frustration as he continued his walk, a thick fog beginning to descend onto the streets. His eyesight was sharp, but it was still frustrating to have to strain it whenever the air got like this.

As he limped down the road, the fog growing denser and greyer with every minute, his eyes latched onto something in the distance. It wasn’t a lamppost — far too short, and it was laughable for him to even assume that there was even a single working lamppost on the street — but it was far smaller, and moving. It was also holding bags.

A person. A figure in the distance, making their way to wherever they were going at about the same slow pace that he was — surprising, given it rivalled that of a snail’s.

Simon squinted in the fog of the streets, trying to make out whom the person could be. He didn’t know why, but for some reason they seemed strangely familiar, despite the oddity of even being there considering the time and… general area. Simon didn’t think he’d ever seen a person doing something so mundane as walking down his street before, despite having owned the place for over 10 years. Sneaking or running away from something, yes, but never just casual walking.

Safe to say, it sparked his curiosity. And the figure was going in the direction of his flat anyway, so it wasn’t like he was being particularly creepy by following them.

It they’d never been followed before in this part of town, though, he was really just doing them a favour by giving them the experience before someone else with more malicious intentions could.

The figure continued to walk down the street, past the few other apartment blocks, before after a few minutes stopping directly at — his stack of flats.

So, they were either insane, a squatter, or thief. Interesting. Now to see how they figured they’d get in.

A hand emerged from the figure’s form as they pulled what looked like a set of keys out and unlocked the door to the hallway.

Okay, so they’re insane. Honestly, he would’ve preferred a thief. It would have been easier to fight one, both physically and morally.

We get dirty, and the world stays clean.

His gaze narrowed as the person let themselves in. He refused to believe that he actually had a neighbour, after all this time. The idea was ludicrous. He may have only lived there for a couple months, and only started leaving the place that week, but still, neighbours were supposed to make noise. Show signs of existence apart from being seen. Not… live in the silence that he had grown so accustomed to and complied with himself.

So, he followed them. As he neared, every heaved step bringing him a little closer as the person fiddled with their keys, he got a better view of them. Pretty small — which could apply to everyone from his view — and dressed in all black. Black hoodie, black leggings. Black shoes. They were also carrying groceries, which meant they would’ve had to have just taken the perilous route to the nearest Waitrose, which was three hours by bus each way.

The door creaked open, and they inched inside, Simon at their heels.

Now, Simon was a man of silence. He uttered few words, and excepted few in return. The quiet was where he thrived, where he was trained to thrive, where he felt comfortable in. What happened to his leg may have thrown him morbidly off-balance, but even that didn’t hinder his ability to remain soundless in most situations.

Which was why it was such a surprise to not just the person in front of him, but also himself, when his leg caught on a loose floorboard, with a scratchy, resounding, and loud noise.

Creak.

It all happened so fast. The figure whirled around at the sound sharply, their hood slipping off of their head — Simon reared back simultaneously — and then suddenly he was face-to-face with the blatantly terrified expression of—

You.

Taglist: @moonfriesbruv @snburntandsad @asweetheart @vampsauce91 @kylies-love-letter @banananananachips @terrifiedanimegirl

This is gonna get dark fast, I promise.

Please ask for the taglist, and feel free to share any thoughts below! Every comment makes me inexplicably happy :)

Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Three

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, dubcon showering, dubcon nudity, power imbalance, sexual tension, brief description of canon-typical violence

Word Count: 4.4k

You and Ghost shower together. He answers your questions. The reality of your situations comes to light.

Chapter Two // Chapter Four

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

Carapace nest. Gator teeth. Swamp water.

Survival. Survival. Survival.

“You should shower. Enjoy the hot water.” Ghost grasps the bottom of your chin, tilting your face upward. You’re unable to look away. “Promise I won’t look.”

Empty words. Nothing more than a tree hollowed-out by rot.

You slap Ghost’s hand away, uncaring if the action will draw his anger. The brute doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

“Don’t touch me,” you growl, forcing yourself to hold eye contact with him.

With a soft snort of amusement, Ghost’s head tilts slightly, gaze assessing. You won’t be the first to blink—the first to look away. Glancing down is a show of submission, and you refuse to bow out and make yourself appear weak. It hurts though. A deep pain like a drill to your skull.

Rolling his shoulders, Ghost retreats a step.

It’s a small thing, and you should feel victorious. Yet it’s more like permission, as if he’s allowing this behavior by the grace of his sincerity. The urge to break eye contact flares hotter—bites deeper—and Ghost’s refusal to drop his gaze only makes it that much harder.

Backward step after backward step. A languid sway until he reaches the chair. He slowly eases down into it, sighing loudly, stretching his legs until he’s spread out and comfortable. Relaxed and unhurried, Ghost begins to remove his gloves, absently tossing them onto the floor, revealing tattooed knuckles. Flexing his fingers, Ghost forms a fist, and then relaxes the tendons, repeating the process a few times.

Leaning forward, Ghost starts to unlace his boots. There is no hurry to it. The fact that he’s completely comfortable grates at your patience. He slips off one boot and moves to the other. He reaches for his weapons next, removing his pistol and knives.

“Enjoying the show, love?” he asks dryly.

You roll your eyes and remain mute.

This power dynamic is frustrating, and you’re sick of him pushing your buttons, forcing you into corners. Only moments ago, Ghost was telling you to strip down and shower, to give him something to watch.

No. You’re not playing this game.

If he’s so goddamn adamant about you dipping under the hot water, then so fucking be it. If he wants you to shower—you’ll fucking shower. He wants to see you naked and dripping wet? Fucking fine.

You’ll put on a goddamn show.

Bending forward, you reach for your boots, unlacing then kicking them to the side. Ghost notices, his gaze drifting upward yet he remains silent, his movements staying steady and unhurried. It’s when you wrench your jacket off and start lifting your shirt that Ghost begins to slow. The dirty, blood-drenched shirt crackles as you pull it up and over your head. You drop it onto the floor without giving it a second glance.

Ghost has his hands on his belt, but it’s almost like he’s not moving at all. His gaze lingers on you, and though you pretend not to notice, his chest heaves slightly. Reaching behind your back, you pop the clips on your bra. The flimsy material slides away. Behind the skull mask, Ghost’s eyes grow wide.

You don’t allow yourself space to linger on what you’re doing or if this is a radically poor decision. As the bra hits the ground, you’re already undoing the front of your pants, shoving them down along with your underwear, revealing everything.

You unfurl slowly. Full frontal and bold.

Ghost is motionless. All you can see are his eyes as they dart around, taking in your nakedness. You retain that eye contact, daring him to say anything, to give himself a good look since he wanted it so badly.

Those brown eyes of his roam up, connecting with your gaze. He stills. Coughs. Clears his throat. Glances away.

Fucking men.

You extend your arms out slightly like you’re presenting yourself for his inspection. “Are you?” you counter before placing your hands on your hips.

Ghost keeps his gaze averted, unspeaking.

With victory singing beneath your skin, you turn right, striding toward the shower. The promise of hot water is tantalizing. Not that you don’t have hot water where you’re from, but it’s not automatic. It’s not available with a simple turn of a handle. That’s a luxury from before, and it shouldn’t exist. Yet it apparently exists here.

The promise of a hot shower nearly overtakes whatever adrenaline-fueled nonsense that drove you to strip down in front of Ghost. Now, you’re naked and vulnerable and trapped in a room with him. There is no place for you to flee to. No chance for escape. No privacy.

With your back to the room, you place your hand on the knob below the showerhead. It gives easily under your palm. There’s a rattle—a clanking coming from behind the wall—then water shoots out.

You gasp, stepping back.

It’s ice fucking cold.

The bastard lied. He lied.

Your nipples harden, and your skin pebbles. Instinct kicks in, and you cross your arms over your chest, covering your breasts in a protective gesture.

But just as you’re about to turn away from the icy spray—to curse the skull-faced fucker out—the chill dulls into a lukewarm ache.

You pause. Wait.

The water is warming. It’s actually warming.

“Oh my God,” you sigh as the water heats further. “Oh God.”

Cupping your hands under the spray, the water pools in your palms. You bring it up to your face, eyelids closing as you splash it over your skin. A little giggle escapes you, your smile so wide it hurts your cheeks. Standing directly under the water, you allow it to run all over you, warming you everywhere until you’re almost bouncing on your toes.

Opening your eyes, your gaze scans the wall, and the small nook nestled there. You lean in, and read the labels. There’s shampoo, a bar of soap, and—you blink, shaking your head as if your eyes deceive you. Reaching out, you snag the second bottle and turn it.

It’s conditioner. Fucking conditioner.

Absurd. Ridiculous. How do they even have this?

Back home, shampoo and soap are handmade. Flowers are dried and added to give scent, but that’s only ever for part of the year. They’re usually unscented. Conditioner is unheard of, and if someone needs to give their tresses a lift, they might use a few drops of oil warmed in the palm and applied to wet hair.

Placing the bottle back, you reach for the soap.

A large, muscled arm covered in tattoos appears to the left of you. It extends forward, palm resting firm and flat against the wall. You stare at it, surprised, but it’s fleeting. A solid body bumps into you from behind, forcing you forward. The hot water no longer rains down on you but on the man directly behind you. The very naked, very large man.

His other arm appears to your right, that hand also pressing flat against the wall. You’re caged in. Trapped.

Ghost groans with contentment as the water rushes over him. “Told you there was hot water,” he sighs. He shifts, and you feel all of him, including a hardening appendage that pokes you in the hip.

Seriously? This asshole couldn’t wait?

Glancing over your shoulder, you give Ghost a scowl, only for your stomach to flip upon seeing him. Beneath the skull mask, you weren’t sure what you’d find. Not like you thought about it in any decent capacity. Curious, sure, but also cautious.

What you weren’t expecting was someone attractive. Handsome. Not in the traditional sense, but in the ruggedness of his features. Strong but also scarred.

Goddamn it. Fucking shit.

You should feel nothing for him. He’s taken you hostage, intending to take you somewhere for…processing. Whatever the fuck that means.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you ask with as much venom as you can muster.

“Showering,” he replies with a sigh. Ghost runs his hand over his face and then his head, slicking back his blondish-brown hair. The eye black is smudged now, running away in little rivers down his face.

“That’s obvious,” you retort. “But you couldn’t wait until I was done?”

Ghost shrugs. “Hot water is limited.”

“Oh.” You snort. “How fucking convenient.”

With a slow roll of his neck, Ghost lifts his head and stares directly at you. “I’ve been out in the bloody wilderness for over a month. Same unit. Same blokes. Breathing the same air. Spending all goddamn day together. Forgive me for wanting to enjoy a simple comfort.”

“Right,” you say slowly. “Is that why your dick keeps stabbing me in the side?”

Ghost chuckles and runs his hand over his mouth. “Just told you I’ve seen the same ugly mugs for over a month.”

“And?” you counter. “That’s an excuse?”

He leans in, lowering his voice. “It’s a natural fucking reaction when I haven’t seen a naked woman in over a month.” You try to move away from him, and only end up bumping into the shower wall. “What would you like me to do about it?”

“Great question.” You shrug. “You could stick it elsewhere.” Ghost’s eyebrows rise with a hint of a devilish smirk. “I mean—”

“I can think of a few places,” murmurs Ghost.

“Fucking—shut up. Just don’t let it…poke me.”

“Fucking hell,” he chuckles. “Hand me the soap.”

“No.”

Ghost reaches for it. You slap his hand away.

“Oh, love,” he chides. “If you want my friend to stop poking you, being adorably stubborn isn’t going to help things.”

“You’re a disgusting pig.”

“Then hand me the soap. I clearly need it.”

You do not give Ghost the soap. “If you’re going to force this,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “Then at least answer some questions.”

Ghost nods like that’s a reasonable request. “And what do I get for answering your questions?” he asks, straightening slightly.

“Soap,” you deadpan.

“No,” he laughs. “I want a scrub down.”

“You want—” You pause, startled, and then quickly cover. “You want what?”

“Suds me up. Scrub me down. I’ll answer your questions.”

You shake your head. “No. Absolutely not. Ask for anything else.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Ghost grins, and you know you’ve messed up. “All right, love. Fine.” He pushes off from the wall, the water falling between your bodies. “Now that the mask is off, you want to try that kiss again?”

You scoff. “I’d rather not touch you at all.”

“Kiss,” says Ghost. “Or a scrub down. You pick.”

“Neither.”

“Those are the two options.”

“And I hate them both.”

“Then I don’t answer your questions.”

You lick your lips, looking away from Ghost’s piercing gaze. Stalling. You’re stalling. You don’t want to choose either option, but he’s offering to answer all your questions. Regardless of what’s transpired, Ghost hasn’t lied to you or been dishonest. Flirty and forward? Yes. Pushing your boundaries just to rile you up? Absolutely.

The kiss would be quick. One and done.

“Fine,” you reply after a few moments of deliberation. “I choose kiss.”

Ghost smirks. “You want to kiss me?”

“Didn’t say want,” you correct.

The smirk lingers, and you suddenly doubt your choice.

“Too late,” he says with a brief shake of his head.

“Too—too late?” you exclaim. “What do you mean too late?”

Ghost shrugs. “I want both now.”

“Oh,” you laugh, blowing raspberries. “Go fuck yourself.”

“My hands no fun,” he muses. “But I’ve made it work the last month or so.”

“Fuck this,” you mutter, turning around.

Ghost’s hand if on the front of your throat in an instant, forcing you back around to face him. “What’s you decision?”

Your heart thunders in your chest. Ghost’s hold is firm but not breath-stealing. This is a show of dominance—a clear signal that he’s the one in charge.

“Is there one?” you ask, even though you fear you already know the answer.

Ghost remains quiet, but his hand on your throat loosens, lingering for a few seconds before dropping away.

The last thing you want to do is give this man any room. And if you agree, what else might he ask for? There’s still the whole night ahead of you, and a singular bed that you’ll be forced to share with him. What can you do in a situation like this?

“I’ll scrub you down,” you murmur. “But I won’t kiss you.”

Ghost nods. He reaches past you, retrieving the bar of soap. He offers it. “Ask me your questions.”

You take it from him, and Ghost straightens to his full height, looking down at you with a neutral expression.

Between your palms, you rub the bar of soap until it lathers. Reaching out with one hand, you pause just before you make contact with his chest.

“Ask me a question,” murmurs Ghost.

He speaks so gently to you that a hint of flustered nervousness arises. You lick your lips, exhaling deeply to absolve the tension. There’s so much you want to ask. Question after question pops into your head, but you’re unsure of which to grab on to.

Clearing your throat, you close the distance, your soapy hand splaying wide over his right pectoral.

The beginning. Perhaps you should start there.

“Why were you after those men?” you ask, moving your hand in a circle.

“They’re terrorists,” he replies blandly.

You rinse your hand. Start lathering again. “That’s all I get?”

Ghost cocks an eyebrow. “You want specifics?”

“Yes.”

Ghost’s gaze briefly flickers away from you. There’s a moment of hesitation, like he’s unsure of what to say next.

“Those men were part of a larger group. A group that likes to paint themselves as revolutionaries. Resistance fighters.”

You move up to his shoulder, scrubbing there before descending down his tattooed arm. “It’s common to paint an opposing group as the enemy.”

“This is different.”

“How so?”

“They want to live differently, and that’s perfectly fucking peachy. But they go out of their way to try and free others through violence.”

You shrug, scrubbing at his forearm. “Doesn’t sound much different from how you treated me.”

Ghost grasps your wrist, stilling your hand. You glance up at him, finding that his demeanor has completely changed. There’s a look of sheer desperation and anger on his face, but it doesn’t feel geared at you.

“If those men had taken you hostage, they’d have taken their turns. And if you were somehow alive after that, they’d take you to wherever they call home, and keep going until you died or became pregnant.” You go to yank your arm away but Ghost holds firm. “They’re evil, disgusting monsters.”

A little wave of fear rises, swirling to seize your stomach, turning it into a tumultuous storm. “And what you’re doing to me now is kinder?”

Ghost doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch under that question. “We were hunting this group down because they kidnapped a few of our littles. Do you know how they returned them to us?”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“They strapped bombs under their clothes before reuniting them with their mothers.”

“Stop.”

“You asked for specifics,” he replies. “I’m sure you can figure out what happened next.”

The corners of your eyes sting, tears threatening to spill over. All you can think about are Ben’s two little girls and the children you read to during story time. Imagining any of them disappearing like that, only to be reunited in such a gruesome way brings misery to the forefront.

Ghost’s grip on you eases. You withdraw your hand, vigorously rubbing the soap until the bubbles overflow and drip toward the floor.

“They deserved worse than an executioner’s bullet,” murmurs Ghost, his voice firm yet full of grief.

Placing the soap back on the ledge, you gently lift his hand, scrubbing the suds between and over his fingers. His words linger, hanging in the air until you have to ask.

“Were any of them yours?” you ask, voice a near whisper.

Ghost gives a quick shake of his head.

“I’m sorry,” you reply, turning his hand over to reveal his palm. “That’s terrible.” You make slow circles with your thumb. “What will happen to the three you brought back?”

“They’re probably wishing we killed them,” he replies. You nod, swallowing, reaching for the soap again. “Anything else you want to ask me?”

“The emblem on your uniform.”

“What of it?”

You start on his other arm. “What does it mean?”

“The flag of England?” he asks, perplexed.

“No,” you smile, shaking your head. “The other one. With the olive branches. It’s familiar but I can’t place it.”

“It’s the emblem of the United Nations.”

You glance up, hands stilling against Ghost’s muscled arm. “The United Nations,” you exhale, a disbelieving laugh falling on the end of it. “But they don’t exist anymore.” You sound desperate. A bit insane. “Nothing exists anymore.”

Ghost’s gaze narrows. “What do you remember?”

“I remember when we withdrew from NATO. How eastern Europe started to collapse first.” You take a moment, lathering up the soap again. “I remember how country after country declared war. The rationing. The constant threat of a nuclear attack.” You shake your head, scrubbing at Ghost’s skin to distract yourself. “Endless fucking war. And for what?”

“I fought in that war,” says Ghost.

“Good for you,” you mutter, scrubbing harder.

“You’re upset.”

“How observant.”

You keep going, and Ghost takes your wrist again. This time, he’s gentle, stepping closer to you, the water rinsing away some of the residual soap from his skin.

“Ask me something else,” he softly urges.

“How does the United Nations still exist?” you continue. “What’s happened since the collapse?”

Ghost’s expression is grim, and you want to scream.

Did Zac know? Did they know and not say anything? You believed the world to be nothing more than desolation, poisoned from nuclear fallout and disease. Is it all a lie? Or is the destruction not as widespread and extensive as you were led to believe?

“I think you should ask me something else,” Ghost urges again.

The water is starting to cool, and you haven’t even washed your hair.

“I think I’m done,” you mutter, returning the soap to the nook in the wall. You reach for the shampoo, but Ghost grabs it first.

“Allow me,” he says, squirting some into his hands.

You reluctantly turn around, giving him your back. You stay still, and then his fingers slide over your scalp, gently scrubbing. It’s refreshing—relaxing. You sigh, shoulders lowering as the tension leaves your body. Ghost massages the shampoo in, lathering it up.

The two of you fall into silence.

Ghost rinses the shampoo from your hair, and then does his own as you run conditioner through your strands. It’s a quiet back and forth, the two of you moving in and out the water to rinse and repeat.

He reaches for the knob, but you block his forward momentum.

“The water is growing cold,” he says.

“I know,” you murmur. “But you still have black around your eyes.” You gesture at your own face, indicating where there are still smudges on his.

Ghost starts to rub at his face. You step up to him, reaching out to grasp his hands and pull them away from his face.

“Allow me,” you insist, adding a bit of soap to your hand.

With one finger, you swirl it around the suds in your palm. Bringing it up to Ghost’s face, you lightly rub at the faded smudges.

“Have any more questions for me?” asks Ghost. You nibble on your bottom lip. Nod. “Go on then. Ask away.”

Using the tip of your nail, you lightly scratch at a few flecks of black. “What’s the mandate?” Ghost grimaces, and you inwardly flinch. “Is it something bad?” you ask tentatively.

“No. Just—” Ghost sighs. “When someone is found outside the designated safe zones, it’s mandated that we bring them back for processing.”

“That’s what your captain said. That you’re to take me for processing. But I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s reintegration.”

A deep dread forms in your stomach, turning it to lead.

“To what?”

“Society.”

You drop your hand from Ghost’s face. “But I have a home. People that love me. That are waiting for me. I don’t need to reintegrate into anything.”

Even as you say it, you know there is no negotiating. There is pity on Ghost’s face, and you hate it because he knows he’s ripping you from your life, upending everything for some arbitrary rule.

“I won’t go,” and this time your voice is firm. Steadfast.

Ghost turns the knob, shutting off the water. The air rushes in, cooling your skin where the water touches.

“I can’t take you back.”

“You can,” you insist. “You absolutely can.”

“I can’t,” emphasizes Ghost. “In the morning, we’re going home. To the nearest safe zone.”

“No,” you gasp. “I won’t go. I refuse.”

Ghost takes a step forward. Instinct has you stepping back, but it only pushes you up against the wall. “You said you’d behave. That you wouldn’t cause problems.”

“Refusing to take me home isn’t winning you any favors.”

“You’re already on base,” growls Ghost. “There is no going back.”

You smack his chest. “You bastard. You selfish fucking bastard.”

“Don’t,” he warns.

You smack him again. Harder. “Do you get some kind of bonus for bringing me back? An award?” When Ghost doesn’t reply, you form a fist, beating it against his chest. “Or is it something worse?”

Ghost takes a step back but you move forward, raising both fists. You’re ready to swing. Ready to fight.

“Don’t,” he repeats, but you’re seething.

Anger is like a lustful tide, swallowing you down into its depths. “Tell me, Lieutenant Riley. What do you get for bringing me back?” You shove at him, but he hardly moves. “Is it me?” you laugh. “Am I your war prize?”

“Final warning,” he growls, but you ignore him.

“Will they make me your whore?”

The question is a taunt. Airless. Empty. It’s a push. A verbal shove. And it sends Ghost over the edge.

Ghost surges forward, a wall of brute strength and muscle. You stumble backward, only to be shoved up against the wall. His arms rest on either side of your head, his own head bent down, making the space feel small.

“Listen to me,” he says, trying to keep his tone calm and even.

A small voice inside your head tells you to comply, to hear him out. But there is another voice—this one louder and more insistent. It tells you to cause trouble, to put up a fuss.

“Fuck off,” you reply sharply.

Water drips off the tip of Ghost’s nose. It falls onto your breast, rolling toward your nipple. His gaze follows it, and you promptly strike him across the face. The crack is loud. It echoes against the tile wall.

Ghost mouth drops open, skin reddening where you hit him.

Shit. Oh, shit.

With a growl, Ghost pushes off from the wall, lifting you into his arms without effort. You scramble for purchase, surprised by the sudden movement. He takes three steps and then tosses you onto the bed. You bounce as you hit, one arm shooting out to steady yourself, fingers pressing against the wall as you wobble.

You’re fuming now. Raging.

“Going to have your way with me now?” you mock. “Is that part of the mandate?”

Ghost ignores you. Turning away, he heads back to the shower. He grabs two towels off the rack.

“Let me make it easy for you,” you continue, not backing down. You lean back onto your elbows, chest pushed out, legs extended and bent at the knee in front of you. As Ghost steps around the dividing wall, you spread your thighs, revealing your pussy to him. “You can slide right in. I won’t make a fuss.”

Ghost stills, staring down at your naked body. Your chest heaves, nipples hard and erect. It roams over you, and then he’s staring you down, clearly unamused by this outburst.

“You think I’d take advantage like that?” he asks.

“You joined me in the shower,” you counter. “Doesn’t give me much faith.”

Instead of replying, Ghost throws a towel at you. “Cover yourself,” he mutters, turning away, using the other towel to start drying off.

You hold the towel against your chest. Drawing your legs up, you close them, using the towel to cover the little it can. Ghost is still naked, and he appears in no rush to cover himself. You watch him, observing every movement, expecting him to circle back.

But he doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even look in your direction. Even when he discards the towel, standing bare in the middle of the room, Ghost continues to ignore your existence.

He strides over, and your cheeks flame as his cock bounces with every step. You look away, staring at the wall as he takes a knee beside the bed. Grunting, Ghost tugs on something beneath the bed. You turn your head just enough to watch.

Ghost tugs again, and out comes a trunk.

He pops the tabs, opening the lid. The first thing he removes is a pair of clean boxer briefs. Ghost stands up, and you have to pretend you’re staring at the ceiling and not what’s swinging between his legs as he puts them on.

He goes down on his knees again, shifting through whatever is inside. As you start to lean forward, curiosity getting the better of you, you’re met with fabric to the face.

“Put this on,” mutters Ghost as he shuts the trunk.

You hold out a shirt, something far too large to fit you properly. Slowly, you tug it over your head, wiggling it down until it comes to mid-thigh. Ghost snags the towel off the bed, taking yours and his back to the dividing wall. He hands them over the side.

“Be honest with me, Lieutenant Riley.” Ghost doesn’t acknowledge you. “Please.”

This time, he turns, and you have no idea what he might be thinking. His features are passive. Neutral. You want to dig around, crack him open, figure out the inner workings of his mind. You’re angry, but you’re lost.

A sparrow in a dark forest.

“This mandate. Bringing me back to a…safe zone. When I come out of processing, am I yours? Do I belong to you?” He stares, and a sinking feeling emerges. You need answers. You desperately need them. “Please,” you say, voice cracking.

He takes a step toward you.

Another.

He comes to a stop at the edge of the bed, staring down at you. Fingertips brush against your bare arm. A shiver runs through you.

“No,” he answers. “You don’t belong to me.”

It’s out there. Hanging.

But is it the truth?

“Scoot over,” he murmurs. “Sleep is calling my name.”

taglist:

@glitterypirateduck @suhmie @z-wantstowrite @kylies-love-letter @keiva1000

@iloveslasher @ravenpoe67 @sadlonelybagel @nishim @arrozyfrijoles23

@voids-universe @itsberrydreemurstuff @sageyxbabey @glassgulls @miaraei

@weasleytwins-41 @eternallyvenus @chaostwinsofdestruction @cherryofdeath @ninman82

@fern-reads @waves-against-a-cliff @beebeechaos @smileykiddie08 @whisperwispxx

@jianyi22 @sethell @atpeacee @konigssweatyhood @dreamingoftomorrow

@katerinaval @morguethemagpie @galactict3a @sarah-the-bird-nerd @mikachu-bitez

@unclearblur @kurochan3 @sans-chara @all-by-myself98 @hisuccubus

@km-ffluv @thriving-n-jiving

one of me is cute, but two, though?

one | chapter index

fresh from a breakup, you fucked your ex-something's ex-best friend - and it looks like he left you with more than hickies to remember him by

relationships: baby daddy!Geto x f!Reader

content: smut and angst and fluff unplanned pregnancy, one-night-stand to coparents, pregnancy symptoms, soft domestic Geto, making out, hickies, fingering, unprotected piv sex, this man is already down bad and worships you, falling for each other, comfort <3

a/n: this is part of a larger fic (falling snow found here, branches off of pt. 10 of gojo's ending, picking up a couple months after her and geto's hookup), however it can be read as a standalone <3 gorgeous Geto art is by @grartsss

Your tits felt weird.

A little heavier maybe? You squinted at your reflection in the mirror, readjusting your bra for the third time this morning. How was it too tight? You just bought it before you moved in to your new apartment and out of your old city. It had barely been six weeks.

Frustrated, you unhooked the back and returned to your dresser to fish through the drawer for another one. Maybe it was just the lighting, but it almost looked like your nipples were just a shade darker too.

Weirder.

You pushed the thought to the back of your brain while you kept getting ready. It wasn't until you were pawing through your medicine cabinet trying to find your deodorant that you saw the unopened box of tampons pushed to the back and a little click! went off in your brain.

Must be about time to start your period.

You paused.

When was the last time you'd gotten it?

You quit your birth control the week after your brutal break up, convinced you were calling off all men for the foreseeable future. And okay, yeah, maybe you fucked his former best friend two months later, but that was in the name of getting over him and under someone else.

Either way, you were pretty sure you'd gotten it a week or two after he discarded you. Or at least the month after that. But last one? You had no idea.

Between moving all your stuff in and working overtime half the week, the days had flown by so fast you hadn't even thought about it. Frowning at the box in front of you, you chalked it up to stress and your hormones being out-of-whack.

This was supposed to be your fresh start.

A new job in a new city, fresh faces and a nice apartment to return home to. Someplace you could carve out a sweet little slice of life from and start over again.

Still, the whole day you couldn't shake the lingering feeling that something was different.

“We're going to grab a bite to eat. Wanna come?” The receptionist called out to you, leaning across the desk as she chatted with a few other women you'd talked to a handful of times since you started.

“Sure,” You nodded, backtracking to where they were standing. Honestly, you'd give anything to stop thinking about how off you felt today.

“You seem a little down today, sweetie,” One of them patted your shoulder. She was the type to bring homemade cookies for everyone on Mondays, never forgetting to greet you with good morning before you’d even set your bag down. It was plain to see her concern.

“Everything good?”

“Yeah, I'm okay. Just not feeling very well,” You tried to smile.

“Are you sure you're up for dinner? You don't have to come if you're sick,” The receptionist frowned, searching your features with worry.

“I'm fine, just think it's about to be y’know, that time...” You trailed off, knowing the women would immediately pick up on it. They laughed, offering their sympathies.

“Could be worse,” The receptionist giggled. “At least you're not pregnant.”

A gnawing pit opened in your gut the second the last word fell out of her mouth.

There was no way.

No fucking way.

“I'm actually starting to cramp,” You lied, panic pumping through your veins. “Join you guys next time?”

“Okay,” They waved you off with a chorus of hope-you-feel-betters, heels clicking hard against the tile as you hurried out in search of the nearest pharmacy.

Enduring the embarrassment of being in the family-planning aisle and staring at the assortment of pregnancy tests lining the shelves, all boasting things like a 99% accuracy rate to detecting it as early as the first day of your missed period. How the fuck were you supposed to know what to pick? You didn't miss the tremble in your hands when you grabbed a couple different ones or how white your knuckles were against the boxes as you waited in line to checkout. You couldn't be pregnant - that was insane.

But if you were, then the morning-after pill must’ve not worked. Or maybe you took it too late. Oh God.

“Next?” The cashier's voice snapped you out of your daze as you stepped forward and set the pregnancy tests on the counter. He didn't even bat an eye, scanning the barcodes and monotonously telling you the total as you slid over some cash. He pushed them into a plastic bag, handing it and your change over, already moving onto the person waiting behind you.

Like this purchase didn't have the potential to change the trajectory of your entire fucking life.

“Thanks,” You muttered, stuffing the plastic bag into your purse.

It felt like you were walking around with a loaded gun.

You tried to think about anything else. What you were going to eat tonight, whether or not to make the drive to crash at your friend's place this weekend, what you'd been too lazy to unpack from the moving boxes yet. Definitely not that you might need to call Suguru Geto and tell him he was about to be a father.

The second you unlocked your apartment door, you made a beeline for the bathroom to take every single one of those stupid tests.

Surely you'd feel a lot better once you knew you weren't pregnant.

You’d always heard stories of other girls having pregnancy scares, but it felt ten times worse living it.

So you ended up staring at the ceiling, sitting on the cold tile of the bathroom, staving off a panic attack and waiting for the timer on your phone to go off. Chewing your nails down to nubs as each second dragged on excruciatingly long.

Ding ding ding.

Pushing off the floor, your hand froze before you reached for the first one. Too scared to see what you already suspected. You hesitantly picked it up, teeth gritted as you stared blankly at the two dark lines in the middle.

Two dark lines.

“Fuck.”

Okay, maybe one could be a fluke. False positives happened sometimes. You snatched the second one, heart sinking in your chest as you saw the single word in the tiny box.

Pregnant.

“Oh fuck.”

You called out of the work the next day, feigning a stomach bug as you scheduled an emergency appointment at the nearest gynecologist. Not like it wasn't that far off from the truth.

“When was your last period?” The nurse asked, poised to type over her keyboard.

“Uh, I'm not sure?” You swallowed hard. “July? I think?” She hm-ed like you answered wrong.

“If you don't know, you’ll need an ultrasound so we know how far along you are,” She informed you. You nodded, clutching your purse against your stomach as she went through a checklist of questions that you stumbled through answering. Standing up, she ushered you down the hall into a dim room with a medium-sized screen against one wall next to the exam table. As soon as she closed the door, leaving you to get on the bed and wait for the ultrasound tech to show up. There wasn’t any way to distract yourself or keep the panic at bay laying back on the crinkling paper and scrunching your eyes shut. Your mind constantly wandering back to how you were waiting to see your baby.

You couldn't think of a scarier pair of words.

The tech knocked on the door before pushing it open. She was perky, greeting you with a smile that reminded you of Yuji's as she sat down next to you.

“Morning!” She chirped, looking over the chart in her hands as she confirmed your name and birthday. “So your last period was in July, huh?"

“I'm not sure,” You admitted. “But I think so. Maybe August?”

“No problem,” Her voice was smooth, trying to offer a little bit of comfort as she pulled out a white bottle with red writing across the label. “Why don't we go ahead and get started?”

“Okay,” You mumbled, hesitantly lifting up the hem of your shirt to expose your stomach.

She tucked tissue paper in the waistband of your pants, pulling them a little further down on your hips.

“The gel might be a little cold,” She apologetically said.

“It's fine,” You swallowed hard as she squeezed a fair amount on your stomach, using the wand attached to the ultrasound machine to spread the jelly-like substance across your skin.

You were a little surprised at how firmly she pressed the wand against your lower stomach as she clicked a few buttons on the keyboard. It always looked so gentle whenever you saw it happening in movies and tv, just skimming the surface. Not like this.

A black and white staticky image popped up on the screen, and you had no clue what you were supposed to be looking at. You squinted, trying to make out the vague shapes as she moved the wand along.

“See that?” She pointed to a tiny gray splotch standing out against the black. “That's your baby.”

“Uh-huh,” You said, dumbstruck. It was so small.

It’s not like you were expecting to see a fully-grown fetus or anything. But the thought of that little glob on the screen being a baby, your baby, was sending you in a bit of a tailspin. You nervously laughed, waiting to wake up from whatever weird dream you were in.

“You okay, honey?” She paused, seeing the panic-stricken look on your face.

“Um,” You paused, the lump in your throat choking you up. “It’s, uh, different seeing it.”

You scolded yourself for calling the baby it, but you didn’t think you could say the words out loud yet.

“Yeah, feels more real now, right?” She sympathized, returning her attention back to her own screen. She was typing something with her free hand, taking measurements and offering explanations that went in one ear and out the other. You didn’t understand how she could tell what any part of it was. “We’re going to check for the heartbeat now.”

“Okay,” Your mouth was so painfully dry, palms clammy as you waited for it.

You didn’t know why you were so anxious when it took her more than just a few seconds to find it. But then you heard the muffled and grainy thump-thumps of the baby’s heart beating so fast you could feel your own pulse thrumming in your veins.

You stayed quiet, not a single thought floating through your brain as you watched her click a button and photos of the ultrasound started printing out of the side of the machine. She pulled them off, handing you a roll of photos that all looked virtually identical to you.

“Looks like you’re about eight weeks along,” She commented. “So that’d put your due date around mid-April.”

You felt like you might puke. Or faint. Or maybe both.

“Oh.”

“If you want to keep the baby, if not, there are other options-”

“I want to,” You interrupted, surprising yourself. Although you were admittedly terrified, the thought of not having it was worse.

So what the fuck happens now?

The rest of the appointment was a blur, being shuffled back around to a new doctor who handed you a packet of papers practically two-inches thick with dos and don’ts and what-to-expects and a prescription for prenatal vitamins that she recommended you pick up as soon as possible. Thumbing through it in the driver’s seat of your car, knowing your eyes weren’t processing a single word they were reading while you sighed. Maybe it was silly considering you weren’t actually together, but you still wanted to tell Geto first. He was the father. Even if he ended up not wanting anything to do with it.

You tried to comfort yourself with the hope that he wasn’t the kind of man who’d get angry or upset with you - but you had to remind yourself that you didn’t know him all that well.

Where he worked, what his family was like, what hobbies he had or any of the little things that added up and amounted to who someone was. You’d let him lead most of your conversations, and he usually ended up asking about you and offering very little of himself.

It’s not like you could just pretend this wasn’t happening though.

You were supposed to visit your friends this weekend anyway. You unlocked your phone, pulling up his contact information before you chickened out.

You: Are you free this weekend?

You immediately set the phone down in the cupholder, leg bouncing up-and-down anxiously as you tried to distract yourself by reading the first page for the fourth time since you got in the car. But your phone vibrated only a few seconds later and you couldn’t help snatching it back up.

Suguru Geto: Yeah, everything OK?

You: I’ll be back in town tomorrow morning. Can we meet?

Suguru Geto: Of course.

At least it was a beautiful day to tell your one-night-stand he knocked you up.

The sun was out, pleasantly warm outside. A light breeze floated by, the leaves on the trees just starting to change from green to sunset shades as they drifted down with the wind. You pulled your jacket around you tighter, waiting on a park bench for Geto to show up. The carefully folded ultrasound pictures you brought felt like they were burning a hole in your pocket.

You could tell he was a little confused when you picked a park to meet at when he offered to take you out to eat instead, but you honestly didn’t know if you’d be able to tell him with other people around when you hadn’t even managed to even say it in the mirror.

“Hey,” A warm familiar voice greeted you, a hand on your shoulder as he snuck up on you.

“Hi,” You turned around as he walked around the bench to take a seat next to you. At least you wouldn’t have to worry about your baby being ugly with him as the father. His bangs were down today, but he had put half of his long hair up in a messy bun in the back of his hair. The cream-colored sweater hanging off his broad shoulders suited him, made him look even more sophisticated somehow. He had a small bouquet of flowers in one hand, holding them out for you.

It only took him a couple seconds looking at the panic in your eyes for concern to flicker across his face. He sat the flowers down in the small gap between you on the bench, the plastic wrapping creasing as his expression darkened.

“What happened?” He asked, skipping the song-and-dance of him asking if you were okay and you pretending that everything was fine.

I’m pregnant.

The words were on your tongue, lips parted like you were going to say them, but you couldn’t get a single sound out. He reached over, covering your hand with his.

“Hey, it’s okay. You can tell me,” His voice was low, so soothing. You didn’t want him to stop talking to you like that.

“I’m sorry,” You apologized, even though you knew it took two to make a baby. That didn’t make you feel less guilty for the information you were about to drop on him.

“What’s wrong?” He asked.

You stuck your other hand in your pocket, pulling out the ultrasound photos and half-shoving it in front of him.

“I’m pregnant,” You muttered, barely audible. You couldn’t look at him when he took the film from your hand. He didn’t say anything.

Geto sucked in a sharp breath.

“The baby’s mine?” He asked. You shakily nodded.

“I went to the doctor yesterday. I'm, uh, due in April,” Hearing yourself say it out loud was surreal.

“You went by yourself?”

“Yeah. Haven't told anyone else,” You hesitated. “I thought you should know first.”

“Because I'm the father,” He said it like he couldn't believe it. You weren't entirely convinced you were over your own shock yet.

“I understand if you don't want anything to do with this,” You mumbled. He squeezed your hand tightly.

“You want to keep the baby?” He sounded so tender you had to look back over at him. He was staring down at the ultrasound in his free hand, eyes glued to the little gray speck.

“Yeah,” You confessed, feeling self-conscious.

Geto paused, both of you staring at each other while the weight of the decision started sinking in.

“Do you want the,” You cleared your throat, tongue failing you again. “Um, baby?”

You had to cringe at yourself, how tense the word came out, your voice cracking with all two syllables of it. Holding your breath and hesitantly meeting his intense gaze.

“I do,” He softly said. Maybe it was the way the morning’s rays caught the warmth in his brown eyes, but there was something gentle and affectionate in them reflecting back at you.

“Oh,” You squeaked, on the brink of crying and not even knowing why.

“Hey,” He soothed. “It's going to be okay.”

You hadn't realized how badly you needed to hear that until he said it. Geto let go of your hand, reaching up to brush away a tear you didn't know fell. It wasn't even necessarily romantic when you moved the flowers to your other side so you could scoot closer to him.

With his leg pressed against yours, he pulled you against him, one hand deep in your hair while the other still held tight to the ultrasound photos.

“I’m scared. And I don't have anything figured out,” You admitted into the thick cashmere fabric, words broken up by quiet sobs. It’s not that you thought you had to be married to have a baby, or ever really considered the possibility of even getting pregnant beyond a passing thought. But you always sort of figured you’d be in a committed relationship if it happened.

Nothing like this. You just moved cities away and he lived here and you didn’t know the first thing about having a baby, let alone raising one and -

“We have plenty of time,” He talked into your hair while you tried to catch your breath. “Whatever you want to do, I'm here. I'll support you and our baby.”

Our baby.

“I'm gonna get makeup all over your nice sweater,” You started to pull away, sniffling as you blinked back the last of the tears. But he just pressed you back into his chest.

“Go ahead,” He chuckled a little.

The sound escaping your throat was half a sob and half a laugh.

“What are you doing for the rest of the day?” He asked, his thumb dragging along the back of your neck down to massage the tension in your shoulder.

“S’pposed to go see my friends,” You mumbled into his sweater. The idea of telling your friends that you were pregnant made your stomach churn.

“Let me take you out to dinner tonight, okay?” You looked up at him, the seriousness and sincerity in his fox-like features as he brushed your hair out of your face and wiped away the damp trail of tears from your cheeks. For the first time since you’d seen the two lines on the test strip, you felt like things might actually be okay.

“Okay,” You shakily nodded, his fingertips tracing your cheekbone. It wasn’t love in his eyes, but a quiet sort of admiration and adoration to let you know you could depend on him. “Do you mind if we keep this between us for now? Until I’m a little further along?”

“Sure,” He kissed your forehead.

It’s not like it’d be particularly difficult to keep it a secret at least until you started showing, right? How hard could it be?

And yeah, while you made it through visiting your friends just fine, dinner came sooner than you were ready for.

It might have been the most awkward date (question mark?) of your life.

He didn't seem to get the message though Sitting across from Geto in a cozy little booth at a family-style restaurant tucked between some shops you'd never heard of before. It wasn't quite what you expected when you told him he could pick the place. Skimming through the menu and stealing glances at him over the laminated paper.

You had a hard time grounding yourself in the moment.

He was as put-together as ever, not a hair out of place or wrinkle to be found on his clothes as his eyes scanned across the menu.

“Have you been here before?” You tentatively asked, hoping to break the silence. He sat the menu down, directing all his attention towards you.

“Not as much now, but I used to come every month. The girls love this place,” He casually said.

You stared blankly at him, not understanding what he meant by his last sentence. Girls? Was he implying that he used to bring dates here or what?

Sensing your confusion, he frowned like maybe he was just realizing something.

“I’m sorry, I don't think we’ve talked about Nanako and Mimiko,” He paused, going to pull his phone out of his pocket and scrolling until he found what he was looking for. He held it out, showing off a picture of him with two girls a few years younger than you. Probably still in college, grinning brightly at the camera. You recognized one from the work party you first met him at, but you hadn't gotten a great look at her then.

“Sisters?” You asked. He shook his head.

“Adopted them when I was still kind of a kid myself,” His face was grim, like maybe the memory of it was unpleasant before resuming his neutral mask. “But they turned out okay.”

Part of you sympathized - it reminded you of how hard Choso had worked to take care of Yuji. Unfortunately for you, the larger part of you was stuck on the fact you were about to be a what? A mother and a stepmother of sorts? Ok, maybe that was getting ahead of yourself.

You didn't think Geto necessarily wanted a serious relationship with you, but still, your baby would already have siblings before it was even born.

What if they didn't like you? Or the baby? They’d been his family far longer.

Would that change things for him?

“They must really love you,” You commented. It hit you again how much of his life you weren't privy too - just how little you knew about him. You'd be taking care of a whole human with him in less than nine months. Was that nearly enough time to get to know him?

Especially considering the fact you no longer lived in the same city?

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” He asked, watching your reaction through half-lidded eyes.

“Not really,” You shook your head. It was probably best to be upfront with him. “Just thinking about how much we don't know about each other.”

He shrugged like it didn't particularly bother him.

“We've got the rest of our lives to learn,” Geto said, setting his phone down on the table and picking the menu back up.

“How are you just okay with this?” You gaped at him, finger tapping the table nervously. The fluttery panicked feeling was stuck in your throat, the question strained. Could he really be that cool and collected under his polished surface too? Was vulnerable even in a word in his vocabulary?

You probably cried on-and-off for two hours after getting those positive tests. Him? He ended up comforting you not even a full minute after you broke the news.

“It’s our baby.”

It sounded so simple when he said it like that.

But it also made you feel like you were going to have an anxiety attack in the middle of the restaurant. You might actually have if you weren't interrupted by an approaching waiter.

He ran through his memorized greeting spiel, reciting specials with his best customer-service smile before asking what you wanted to drink.

“Just water,” You nodded, your eyes drawn back to Geto as he politely addressed the man and gave him his drink order. The demure confidence that practically oozed out of him no matter what he was doing was intimidating.

What, would you have to be prying other single moms off of him every time you took your kid to the park?

Once the waiter walked away, he turned back to you, the corner of his lips just barely turning upwards realizing you were already looking at him.

“Let's start spending weekends together,” He suggested. You chewed your cheek, considering the logistics of an arrangement like that. “That way we can get to know each other, right?”

“My friends would probably be a bit suspicious if I'm coming down here every weekend and disappearing half the time,” You mused.

Still, you wanted to get to know him. If he was going to be in your baby's life and by-extension yours, it would be nice to have a good relationship of any kind.

“My apartment isn't quite as nice as yours, but I wouldn't mind you staying over,” You added, almost embarrassed by your own invitation. “If you want to, I mean.”

“I’d love to,” His small smile turned into a smirk at your shyness. It felt kind of ridiculous to be worried over such surface-level pretenses when the two of you were here thanks to something so much more intimate. “I meant that you could stay at my apartment too, you know. Not your friend’s.”

You blushed, really embarrassed now.

“Oh,” You mumbled, looking away and praying the waiter would return with your drinks and maybe a gun to put you out of your misery.

But he was nowhere to be seen and you could feel those dark eyes focused solely on your face.

“We could just trade off. I could drive to you one weekend and you come over the next?” You nervously suggested. There was still an absurd amount left to figure out but it sounded like a good place to start, at least.

“Okay,” The look on his face was almost enough to convince you that there wasn’t anywhere else he’d rather be. “I’m holding you to that.”

It was difficult to say no when he suggested you return back to his place for the night after your meal.

His apartment hadn't changed in the past couple months since you'd last been there. But there were a few new additions to the coffee table, books on parenting and pregnancy stacked with the receipt still tucked in the front cover. The idea of him leaving your meeting this morning to go straight to a bookstore to pick those out was more endearing than you'd like to confess.

He shrugged his jacket off, hanging it on the coat rack by the door, not hesitating to help peel yours off and hang it up next to his.

“Thank you,” You swallowed, feeling suddenly meek remembering his hot and heavy touch, how he hadn't hesitated to throw you on his bed and take you like you always belonged to him.

“Of course,” He murmured. His tall frame hung behind you, his breath warm on your neck.

Was it wrong to want him to kiss you? It’s not like it would be the first time.

If you were being honest with yourself, you really wanted him to.

You didn't turn fully, just glancing curious and cautiously back up at his expression. He was watching you back just as intently.

“Are you going to kiss me?” You asked, voicing the thought you couldn't get out of your mind.

He cupped your cheek with one hand, his kiss searing your lips. You slipped your arms around his neck, twisting into his body and parting your lips for him.

“Baby,” He murmured in the shallow gasps for air, picking you up with your legs wrapped around his waist as he tenderly marked your throat with fevered kisses. You could taste the need, the want for more radiating off of him, practically able to see the leash he was using to hold his desire back.

You still weren't sure what this was to you, much less to him - the chemistry just as confusing as it was compelling. Did he need you or just the comfort of having someone warm underneath him? Geto didn't give you a chance to think much further on that.

He pressed you against the wall of the hallway, pausing to suck a harsh mark above your collarbone. You giggled, reaching up to pull out the hair tie on his half-bun that somehow got disheveled in the heat of the moment.

“What? Getting me pregnant wasn't enough? Need to leave hickeys too?” You teased, watching his pretty black hair frame the fine features of his face. The smile that adorned his face came easily, his eyes crinkling in the corners before he buried his face back into your neck.

You groaned into him, letting your fingers sink into his silky black locks, tugging as he grazed his teeth against your skin.

It was like he couldn't get enough of you. Like you might somehow manage to slip away while still in his arms, he had to close the gap. His body slotted so firmly against yours that your thighs ached when they spread further to accommodate him, ankles crossing behind the taut muscles of his back. Pinned against the wall, letting him pepper your skin with heated kisses that melted the thoughts and worries which left you frozen in anxiety and panic over the past two days. You tilted your head back, the exposed tendons flexing as he didn't hesitate to press his tongue hard and flat against one, the sensation sending goosebumps down your arms.

“You're teasing me, you know?” You accused, biting your bottom lip as the growing bulge in his pants rubbed against you tauntingly. He chuckled, his dark eyes flickering over to meet yours as he squeezed your ass in his cupped hands.

“Maybe I missed you,” He casually smirked. Your brain was frazzled by the feeling of all of him grinding against you, the friction bordering on agonizing through too many layers of clothes.

“Better prove it then,” You jutted out your bottom lip, and he didn't falter, didn't hesitate to hoist you up higher, readjusting his grip to carry you the rest of the way to his bedroom. The door was half-open already, and he used his foot to kick it the rest of the way before your back could hit the wood. Instead of throwing you down onto the mattress like last time, he laid you down softly without ever letting go. His mouth found purchase on yours, your back sinking into his mattress.

“I've gotta be gentle,” Geto mumbled into the corner of your mouth, barely two inches away.

His hair all the down and so handsome it hurt, he stared so intensely it stole the breath right out your throat.

“You can still fuck me, you know?” You swallowed hard, moving your hands from their spot around his neck to touch his face, trace the line of his bottom lip and craning up to deliver a soft kiss. When he kissed you back, it was harder, rougher, and you could taste the restraint in it.

“You better behave,” He chided.

How could anyone expect you to behave when it came to him?

“Make me,” You taunted, bucking your hips up to harshly rub against his groin. A low moan escaped his throat, his head snapping down as his hair fell in a curtain around his face.

Watching him try to maintain his collected demeanor, attempting to control himself was absurdly attractive.

Why should you hold back now?

He already got you pregnant. It's not like he could do it again.

He sat up, grabbing the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head while you propped yourself up on your elbows. Geto slipped a hand behind your back, pulling you up into a sitting position so he could get yours off too. When his gaze landed on the way your breasts had already started to practically spill out of the now almost too-small bra you had yet to replace, he paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing tightly in his throat.

“None of them fit right,” You defensively said, crossing your arms over your chest. No one had ever told you about that part of pregnancy, the fact that a baby was barely the size of a raspberry could already be affecting the rest of your body so much. What you just dismissed as period symptoms had persisted, your breasts still swollen and tender.

He grabbed your wrists in one large hand, pinning your hands over your head and pulling one out of the cup before you could protest. Running his fingers across the sensitive peaked nipple and smirking at the gasp he elicited.

“We can go shopping tomorrow and I’ll buy you new ones,” He promised, his voice a smooth velvet meant to distract you before he continued licking and pawing at you while you squirmed under his firm hold.

You slid a knee up to press into his crotch, massaging it up-and-down. If he was going to be a tease, you were going to return the favor. He groaned, his mouth still wrapped around one of your nipples as his free hand slipped down under your skirt to find the band of your panties.

All it took was one finger to slip in, just barely ghosting against your damp skin, for him to laugh.

“What am I going to do with you?” He sighed, but you could see a glimmer of contentment in his eyes as he let go of your wrists so he could stand up and (finally) take his pants off.

“I guess I'm your problem now,” You laughed back, scooting up on his bed and shimmying your skirt down your legs to toss across the wooden floor of his bedroom. You had just managed to reach around and unclasp your bra before he was back on you, hands on your back and skin-on-skin as he pulled you into his chest. Each aching kiss left you wishing his lips had lingered a little longer.

“Yeah,” He softly muttered. “Mine.”

Butterflies fluttered in your stomach at the word.

You weren’t confident, you’d never been, but you could let yourself believe in it while he was here.

He pulled down your underwear, tossing it behind him without a glance. You wanted his mouth everywhere, your upper thighs and dotting across the crook of your hips and smothering your own.

“Sugu,” Your breath was labored, tension packed into every crackling atom hanging in the air between the narrow space between your body and his. There were so many things you wanted to say but nothing would come out.

He trailed feather-light kisses down your chest, pausing when he got to the soft spot of your stomach just below your belly button. His dark eyes looking up to meet yours, a mutual understanding that he meant it when he said he wanted this with you.

“Are you going to let me be gentle now?” He nonchalantly said, not looking away once. You nodded, tongue numb.

He slowly slipped a finger in, easing it in like it might hurt you despite the fact you’d been wet from the moment he pushed you against the wall earlier. He fingered you like he lived - steady and practiced, taking his time and measuring your reactions with an almost smug expression.

“God, please,” You fisted his bedsheets, arching up into his hand.

“Come on, use your words,” He goaded, sliding his finger up to circle your clit. Biting your lip hard enough to bleed, you whined.

“Can’t you just fuck me?” You pouted, desperation bleeding through your question, thighs trying to close around his hand as you searched for any scrap of friction you could get against your clit. “Please?”

He didn’t reply, and you got the impression that he might give in if he did. Instead, he nestled his head in between your thighs, his tongue darting out to paint meticulous patterns inside while one of his long, sturdy fingers massaged the sensitive bud above it. His slow pace was driving you insane.

“Suguru, ah, I can't-” You gasped, trying to buck up into his mouth. He didn't stop, even when he chuckled at your weak mewls, writhing as he slid his other hand up to grope one of your swollen breasts.

“You can,” He muttered, pinching softly at your clit, sending a surprised jolt through the rest of your body.

Suguru Geto was definitely not like anyone else you’d ever met.

You didn’t know if that was thrilling or terrifying.

Maybe both.

Once he felt like he prepped you enough - borderline edging you alternating between his soft and hard touches of his tongue and fingers - he moved up, positioning his throbbing cock against your slit.

His tongue lapped at the blood on your split bottom lip from where you had bitten it earlier, the corner of his mouth red.

“I wanna look at you,” He murmured, thumbs pressed into the corner of your brows as he gently eased the tip in, giving you time to adjust to him. It felt like every part of you was throbbing, aching for all of him.

“Need you, Sugu,” You panted, nails scratching down his back. A not-so-small part of you wanted to mark him too, stain his skin with some proof you were here now that you were carrying part of him with you.

“Need you too,” He promised, his cool was starting to slip a little, sweat dripping and plastering a few loose strands of his bangs to his forehead. He finally started thrusting in-and-out, struggling to keep his strokes gentle. “Fuck.”

His hoarse curse had you curling your toes, lost in the darkness in his eyes and the feeling of how well he fit into you with every careful movement of his hips. He readjusted his position just enough to allow one of his hands to slip back down to rub against your clit while he fucked you.

It was almost embarrassing how fast he’d pushed you to the edge. You hadn’t even realized it until you were on the brink of falling over.

“S-Sugu, shit, ah, I’m gonna cum,” You whined.

“I know, beautiful,” He half-whispered into your ear, hair tickling your face as he rutted into you faster. “Think you can make it a little longer?”

You whimpered, nodding and trying to hold yourself back, clawing at the feeling trying to keep it at bay.

“That’s my girl,” He kissed the side of your neck, and you couldn’t stop yourself from snapping, coming undone under him with a loud moan. The sound of your voice seemed to push him past his limit too, a low noise coming from his throat as he finished inside of you.

He took care not to collapse on top of you, pulling out slowly, cum leaking onto your legs while he sighed. He climbed off the bed, his gaze hanging onto your body bare before him like it was an altar to worship at.

When he watched you with those eyes, it was nearly enough to convince you that all his sweet nothings exchanged in between kisses were whole-hearted and real. As much as you didn’t want to hold your past relationship experiences against him, you were struggling. The weight of them wasn’t his burden to bear but you didn’t think you could carry the load alone.

“You wanna take a shower?” He asked.

“Yeah,” You nodded, pushing down the messy feelings clouding your judgment. You had time to figure out whatever this was going to be.

He held out a hand to help you up. You took it, wishing all the other decisions coming up would be as simple as that.

tags: @inthedarkshadows000 @universal-s1ut @theonlyhonoredone @sugurusfavemonkey @chsuguru @ravester @unikornboop @ivyvenus333 @nylve @shibataimu @20kglex @cuntphoric @starriesworlds @cryingoverpixelsetc @psychoartiste @saurondriell @simplyraeblue @deftoneslut004 @theclassbookworm @grapelover2000

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-five —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.8k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. menstruation. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

Jagged rock burns into your palms. Slapping a hand up, you feel for the grassy ledge, barely visible in the darkness. You heft the backpack over it before managing to pull yourself up, landing on your stomach with a grunt through your teeth. The sneakers you scavenged from the closet are tight around your toes—better than Salome's thin shoes, but still far from pleasing as you stand and press on towards the road.

Moonlight guides you north. 

Not long until sunrise, judging by the sky.

Small white clouds puff around your mouth as the chilled air brushes the damp spot on your too-big jeans, the cuffs rolled and the waist cinched to keep them from slipping. You couldn't leave in the middle of the night, so you held a mug of water as a makeshift alarm. The moment sleep tried to steal you, the splash on your thigh ended it abruptly. 

You'd woken Blue up to tell her. At first, grey eyes scolded you in the dark. She looked away, ready to argue, before quietly reciting instead: the house they kept her in, the layout, any hiding places she may have seen.

"What about her?" you had asked. "Anything important to her. She probably saw antibiotics as a gift from God or something."

"Yeah. She would've," Blue muttered. "She liked to knit. And, um, talked about birds. Her husband owned the whole place, but he died. I don't know if any of that helps."

"It does. It's better than nothing." You gave her hand a squeeze. "Make sure he eats again. And check his back. You might need to drain it. You know how now, right? Nereida could—"

"I've got it." She slipped her hand away. "Just—don't do anything stupid, okay?"

"Of course not."

Sneaking out had been easy—only because Nereida was on watch. You slipped out the back and wove through the tall grass, barely stirring the stalks. Price would've caught you for sure. But you made it across the creek with nothing more than the slow unrolling of your jeans to slow you down, the cuffs dragging in the water and soaking through. You rolled them back up, but a kilometer up the road, they've slouched back down, heavy and clinging to your legs.

Time is an enemy you've already lost a day to. With a sigh, you drop onto the hood of a rusted car, pull the knife from your waist, and hack at the fabric’s ends. A serrated blade would make this easier. The hems are jagged, but at least they won’t get in the way.

Ghost’s fever is bad, but the real threat is sepsis—the blood poisoning, organ failure, the things you haven’t told Blue. At best, he has a week. At worst, another day. The thought has you scrubbing a hand over your tired eyes before pushing off the car. You toss the cut scraps into the grass just as a disturbance prickles the back of your neck.

You whirl around, dropping the knife in favor of the pistol. 

"Just me."

"Jesus. Kyle. I was ready to shoot."

"Honorable of you to give me a quick one."

You huff, bend for the knife, and slip it back at your waist.

He closes the gap, rifle and backpack slung over his shoulders. 

"Why wouldn't you tell anyone?" His brows lower. "I went to feed him, and Blue said you’d gone back. Hell of a surprise."

You give him your back. "I've already wasted time. I knew what you'd say."

"And what exactly did you think I'd say?" A hand on your shoulders pries you back around.

Your eyes drift up to his, narrow, then veer to the side. "That it's a long shot."

"Yeah, it is." His hand drops. He brushes past you with a sigh, long and ragged, adjusting the rifle on his back. "Come on, then. You're not the only one who gives a shit about him."

There isn't anything to be said as you trudge beside him, no argument able to form. You know his company is invaluable. Gratitude is still hard to find, even when he prevents you from going the wrong way. "We turned here last time." Apparently you hadn't paid much mind. The road fills the gaps of silence, dawn breathing life into the buzz of cicadas. Long drags of air fill your lungs: sweet flowers only, until, something else. A waft of charred meat.

"You should eat."

Kyle extends a piece of squirrel. Despite the twinge in your stomach, you brush him off. "While they were starving you, we were getting stuffed. Fatten the mares, get a strong foal—all that."

His jaw ticks. "Ah."

"Damn good food, too."

"Lucky you."

"Lucky us."

Conversation shrinks to a brief exchange of what Blue said. He doesn't look convinced it'll help much. The stench doesn’t sour the air until the first sign for Fleurbaix rises at your right—like a breath in your face. Humidity clings to it, thick and unmoving, until there’s nothing else to breathe. In the sunlight, familiar stone walls and red-shingled rooftops repulse you, almost more than the sight of aimless Greys—some weaving between clotheslines, most trapped within the fenced pasture. The cows, however, have already fled through a broken gap, eager to escape uphill.

"They should've lost interest by now. The blood isn't fresh," you mutter.

"Humidity. Less evaporation, more smell." He nods the tip of his rifle. "Over there. That one has a wraparound porch like Blue said."

The view vanishes behind overgrown trees as you crest a hill, descending toward the commune. Kyle motions you forward, weaving through structures, keeping clear of the Greys. As long as they can’t scent you, they will stay distracted. You step over a few stray bodies, faces picked apart by crows that scatter at your approach. Clinging to a stone wall as you follow, a bony hand bursts forth from a window—Kyle knifes its skull before it can grab you.

Other than that, there aren't any close calls.

You reach the house that fits Blue's description.

The door is wide open.

Kyle sweeps in with the poised rifle.

You are greeted by an already ransacked interior. Tipped chairs, half-yanked cabinets, tossed couch cushions. A sick understanding settles at your fingertips, curling them around the gun. 

"They were here. The women. They knew she would've hidden them."

More signs that this is just a dead end; a waste of precious time.  

Kyle lowers the guns and presses forward into the hall. "That doesn't mean they found what they were looking for. Check the rooms."

Maman's house is as expected, even in disarray. Quiet and balmy. You kick open the first door. Polished wood, gold-embellished hinges, a closet stuffed with white gowns. A knitting bag catches your eye. You sift through it, tossing out balls of red yarn. Nothing.

More nothing under the bed. 

You tear the painting from the wall, only solid stone behind it.

A family photo thrashes to the floor beneath a swipe of your fist. You find Kyle in the other room, where a smaller bed is tucked beneath a window—the sight makes it hard to breathe for a moment. The blood stain on the sheets. Somehow you know whose it is. Your stomach rips at itself. You force yourself to look away before you lose it. 

"The floorboards. They didn't look under them. Help me."

He raps the butt of the rifle against the wood. A hollow echo near the doorway offers promise. A knife jammed between the planks pries them apart. When you sink to your knees, all that fills your hands are stashes of faded euros. No pills, no vials. 

You rip up the notes and let the shreds feather through the air, leaning back on your palms as a quiet hiss leaves your teeth. "Where did you put them you vile, ugly, goddamn hag."

"Maybe her son kept them," Kyle murmurs, threading a hand through his hair. "He had the guns."

"No." Your voice is firm. You stand and pace. "She would've wanted them close to her. Antibiotics—she was saving that for the women. The births."

You reach for your knife and stab the mattress, slicing it open. Springs and foam. Books maybe. You run back to the shelf in the hall and rip them one at a time, flipping them open to see if any were hollowed out. Even the Bible is just a book. 

What else?

What else?

"How much time are we willing to spend looking for them, Twix?" he asks lowly behind you. "Maybe we check somewhere else. A town."

"They'd have picked them clean years ago." You toss the Bible to the floor with a thud. "This was our best bet. We had them. We fucking had them."

"And now we don’t. We can’t keep tearing this place apart. We focus on keeping him stable—keep the wounds clean, use what we’ve got. He’s made it this far without them. We just need to buy him more time. There might be another stash in one of the other houses."

You lean against the wall, eyes fluttering shut briefly. A deep inhale. "There's just—something I'm missing."

"Twix—" He sighs, running a hand down his face. "Alright. Let's do another sweep. I'll check the floors in the living room."

Thoughts race. A frothy tide refusing to settle. You press your thumb to the scabbed cut on your wrist, the sting sharpening your mind. Back in the cell. Morning sun slanting through the window. Obsessively studying what’s around you. Replaying everything you learned about that woman. A dead woman. If you could’ve told the Greys to hold off, let her speak before they tore through her neck, you would have.

In the midst, a dove’s call breaks through—three notes, too close in your ear. You must be imagining it, but Alexandre’s voice stirs in your head: La tourterelle chante pour toi.

He said that when he heard the dove.

Why?

Birds.

She talked about birds.

You push off the wall and follow the sound to the room where they kept Blue. The coo draws you to the windowsill by the bed, where the glass is cracked just enough for the curtains to stir, the stench outside seeping in. Twin beady eyes snap to yours, a mechanical tilt of its neck. A collared dove, you think. Paul used to rise early to listen to them.

"Where are they?" you press lowly, accusing. "You know, don't you?"

The bird doesn’t answer, only flutters down from the sill.

Your fingers grip the edge of the window as you kneel on the ruined mattress. Below, the bird perches in the flower box—no flowers, just dried weeds and a nest of twigs.

"Tell me." It watches the whisper curl from your lips. "Tell me, or I’ll rip apart your home."

It flutters off. Your arm lunges after it, clawing at the nest in blind retaliation. Twigs snap. Dirt kicks up into your eyes. You blink hard to clear it. A strangled sound catches in your throat—half a curse, half a cry. Then, something strange beneath. Sharp rust that makes you freeze.

You sweep debris off the top of a—a lock box—loosely buried within the soil. A breath lodges in your throat as you claw at the dirt, dragging the rusted metal loose, launching backward on the bed with it clutched in both hands. It can't be real. You give the box a sharp shake. Something rattles inside, and your chest tightens.

"Kyle!"

Thunderous slaps of his boots echo down the hall. He rushes in, scanning you with a sweep of his gaze.

"No, I'm—this is locked." You tug at the bolted metal. "Can you open it?" 

He doesn't question it. Relief flickers across his face, quickly replaced by grim determination. He raises the rifle and slams the butt against the lock. A sharp clang echoes, metal chipping but holding. Exhaling through his nose, he adjusts his grip. You meet his eyes and nod—keep going.

He hammers at the lock, pausing only to yank at it, testing for weakness. You wipe dirt from your jeans, watching. Whatever she buried here—it mattered. It had to. A dove lands on the windowsill, but movement beyond it sends your pulse spiking above the sharp cut of metal.

Greys.

When did they—

"Shit, shit, shit." You lurch from the bed. 

He stops, yanking up the rifle to jut it toward the window, shooting a snarling one that clambers up on the porch. It flails back, revealing more alike behind it—many more—shambling out from wherever they'd been lingering. "Fuck—how!" He tucks the lock box under his armpit and grabs your wrist. "Come on."

The living room windows reveal just how many have begun to close in around the house. Faster ones are already at the front door, clawing at the wood. Kyle swears, yanking you toward the bathroom—higher ground, a window above the porcelain tub. He slams it open with the rifle, then hands instantly find your waist to lift you. You shed the backpack, pulling it through behind your feet to squeeze through blindly.

"Anything to climb?" he barks.

You look up. "A gutter!"

You grab it and tighten your core, hoisting yourself up as your sneakers scrape against the siding, the moans below growing louder as they round the corner of the porch. Your palms press into exposed rafters, the gutter serving as a shaky foothold, but the last push onto the roof eludes you.

A firm shove at your thighs sends you over. You scramble up, steadying yourself before glancing back.

Kyle is halfway up, rappelling fast—until a bony hand clamps around his ankle, yanking him downward. Disoriented from the rush, you slap for the gun at your waist, firing wildly—two bullets wasted before one lands, shattering the Grey's skull with a squeal.

He throws the lockbox. You catch it just as he hauls himself onto the shingles.

Your head reels as you watch Kyle drop to one knee and start picking them off. Four, maybe five drop with ease, but the rest move erratically—jolting, frantic. He slows, trying to track their unpredictable movements, each shot requiring more precision. If you had your bow, you could help. But the pistol? You don't trust yourself.

He grunts in frustration, adjusts his stance, then reloads as he circles the perimeter of the roof. That’s when you feel it—not a hunger pang, but a deep, familiar ache, piercing low in your gut. Then something wet. Warm. A slow gush down your leg. Your breath stutters as you glance down at the stain blooming red across your thigh.

"It's me," you say.

"What?"

"Fuck, it's me they smell. My period."

His gaze drops to your body, widening when he sees the evidence. You should feel exposed, but you don’t. The thought slams into your brain at the same time your hands move—unbuttoning, yanking at the fly. The moans below swell.

"We can use it. Look away."

His eyes snap back to yours, then dart away with a sharp exhale. "Christ."

You’re already shoving them down, tugging at the loose, borrowed underwear clinging to your hips. Gathering the fabric, you swipe at the blood slick on your thigh, pressing it deeper into the fabric. "It can buy us time—but not much."

You yank the jeans back up. You roll the underwear into a ball. Kyle looks over.

"There—throw it toward that house. The door’s open. If enough go inside, it might trap some. Then we run back to the hill."

Just as quickly as the plan is formed, you hurl back your arm and launch the decoy as hard as you can. It lands in front of the next house, far enough to release the breath caged in your lungs as heads snap toward it, bodies lurching away. Kyle slings the rifle over his shoulder, grips your waist, and helps you down—but the moment he lets go to steady himself, your foot slips on the gutter.

You land roughly on your side and lose hold of the lockbox. All of the breath leaves your body as you scramble to grab it. A strong hand beneath your armpit tugs you back up, and then you're sprinting. A quick glance back shows most are drawn away, but a few still trail you. Kyle snatches the handgun from your waist mid-stride and fires, dropping two before they get too close.

You duck beneath clotheslines, weave through wash bins still brimming with water. Trample roses. The pulse pounding in your neck drowns out everything but the next shot Kyle fires—enough to throw off your step. You don’t see the one lunging until it slams into you from the side.

You feel the jolt of the fall before you fully register the thing wrestling on top of you. Hair whips into your mouth, rancid breath spilling hot across your cheek. The strength is wrong—too fresh, too human. The hands grabbing at you are still strangely soft. A distinct bulge presses you down. Then a glob of dark-tinged saliva splats onto your eye, blinding you before you can make sense of it.

It's only a second of fight before a shot to the skull sends pulpy blood and brain onto your face. 

The weight is torn away as you scrub at your eyes. Part of you already knows before you look at the limp corpse. Time congeals. Blonde hair fans over the grass, framing a pale face with white eyes. The slip dress—the same one you pulled over her head.

Her swollen belly.

You go rigid. Kyle has to yank hard to get you upright.

"Come on!"

"They left her."

The words spill numbly from your lips.

When he shoots another Grey, your wooden, puppet legs move. You leave the body of her behind, adrenaline numbing you. After what is realistically only minutes but feels like hours, the thick trees envelop you once again, and when you finally steal a glance, you can't see them anymore. They've lost your scent for now. Enough for you to pause against a tree, swallowing air to catch your breath. 

You walk deeper into the vegetation until Kyle feels satisfied enough to stop and retrieve a canister of water from his backpack. He offers it to you. It takes a moment to steady it at your lips, then your throat allows some down. But your stomach spasms almost instantly, and you are wrenching it back up at the base of a tree, crumpling to your knees.

"Shit."

Hands collect your hair.

A few more dry heaves consume you, until you're breathing harshly through a hanging mouth.

"No… They didn’t—" A hard swallow. "They let her out. She was in the cell."

"What?" His voice brushes your neck, touch halting at your shoulders. Realization softens his tone. "You knew her—the pregnant one."

You wipe your mouth and stand. His hands stay at your arms a beat too long, grip firm, like he’s waiting for something—an explanation you don’t give. You don’t meet his eyes. "We need to move."

Your stomach still aches, but you don't vomit again. You walk quickly out of the trees and to the road. 

The walk back is spent scanning more closely to see if you've drawn more with your smell. By the time you reach the cliff, midday swelters. Lightheadedness teeters your first attempt down. Kyle tosses the box and rifle to the bottom, then carries you on his back, your fingers interlocking to keep you secure like the backpack that hugs his chest. 

A stop at the creek allows a shaky handful of water to splash your face. Taking off your jeans to wash your blood-stained thighs feels too much of a task. Instead, you watch Kyle finally finish striking the lock, the metal giving way under his relentless grunts. 

"Do you want me to open it?" He glances at you.

A slow shake of your head. Your knees sink before it. Fingers hesitate at the latch. If this isn’t it—if it’s empty—you don’t know what comes next. What fills the space where the smallest sliver of hope has wedged itself in.

The scrape of rusted metal.

At first, all you see is cloth. A yellowed shade of white. A beat of nothing. Then, your hands move on their own accord, unwrapping the contents, brushing hard plastic. The faint rattle of capsules makes you inhale before you even read the first label: amoxicillin. You go still. Dig through for more. Four, five vials. Even more than what you had on you.

The run back to the house is a battle against your own legs.

The smell of blood hits first—thick, metallic. Not human. A quick glance confirms it, Price carving up a hefty cattle he must've found.

He's saying something, to Kyle maybe. You don’t pause.

The front door swings open.

Blue—

She slams into you, arms locking tight, breath knocked from your lungs.

"I saw you from the window."

"You shouldn’t be on your feet," you manage.

She looks down. At your hand. At the pills.

Her voice trembles. "You… you found it?"

You nod.

Up the stairs. Blue tugging at your sleeve. Kyle's steps audible behind you. The bedroom waits. Stale air. Ghost—he's lying on his stomach the way you left him, but a smother of something sticky glistens on his back. 

"Honey," Blue mumbles, wincing as she lowers on the bed. "Ari... he found a hive. I was just about to put clean bandages, too. It helps, right?"

"Not as much as this should help."

Kyle begins lifting him.

"He was up for a bit, but he was... talking weird," Blue whispers as you kneel at Ghost's side, fight the shake in your hand to unscrew the cap. "He asked if you were sleeping outside—like, out loud, to himself. Then he kept saying ‘sparks’ and ‘Washington.’ Do you know what that means?"

The words barely register anything but confusion and the fact that he is even worse. It's Kyle who answers under his breath. "No clue." His gets Ghost upright without disturbing his wounds, steadying a hand at the back of his skull. 

When your thumb presses at his bottom lip, the dry, cracked skin resists. As you try to pry it apart, his eyes flicker open—unfocused. Dilated pupils shift to yours.

"I need you to open," you whisper around the tightness in your throat. "It's amoxicillin. We've got it."

Overgrown hair clings to his forehead, thick and unruly. Sharp stubble scrapes your hand as you try again to open his mouth. Labored breaths hit your knuckles, unnervingly hot, along with a release of words he murmurs through his teeth. "There you are... again. 

Your teeth graze your cheek. "Here I am. Now open, please."

He does—barely. The chalky pill makes it to his tongue. The rest blurs.

Waking up on edge is nothing new.

At first, you keep your eyes shut—squeezing them until the backs turn red. Then, true consciousness jolts through your limbs, setting a heavy heartbeat between your ears. Light floods your vision. Soft cheeks. Pink lips, pursed. Brows knitted tight.

"You make the strangest faces in your sleep sometimes."

"I..."

"Water?"

"Please," you croak.

Pins and needles prickle your fingers as you lift your head. A mug presses to your blistered lips, gentle fingers stroking the greasy hair at your temple. The gulp of water almost makes you moan. You're ready to down the entire things until it's pulled away.

"You're gonna throw up again if you keep going."

You lick your lips. "What?"

"You've been passed out for two days," Blue explains. "Except for when we tried to get you to eat and drink, but that was a fucking struggle. Nereida says you overworked yourself. Not enough sleep and water can kill you, you know." Her brow arches. "I told you not to do anything stupid, but I guess you've been doing that."

Two days.

You inhale through lungs that feel primitive. 

"He—"

"Before you ask, yes. We've been giving him the meds. Morning and evening. His fever finally went down last night. He's been out since."

Your eyes finally drift to the other side of the bed. A steady rise and fall presses warmth into the sheets. You scramble up, reaching over—his cheek meets your palm, warm, but not alarmingly so. Normal, almost. A faint flush dusts his skin, the color creeping back in. His back is freshly bandaged, but his eyelids still bear the violet tinge of exhaustion.

"It's helping." The words press into your teeth. 

The rest of the day passes in gentle fragments. 

A bowl of fire-braised beef pressed into your hands. You eat without tasting, slow chewing through lush fat, while Price and Kyle pore over a more detailed almanac they found in the house. The food settles heavy, to the point of discomfort, but stays down. 

Later, you wade into the creek with Nereida. She was the one who changed you while you were out—scrubbing the dirt from your legs, tucking fresh towels and a new pair of underwear beneath you. You only realize she added rosemary when a sprig falls out as you undress.

You listen to her talk. You don’t tell her about Salome. No. You keep it to yourself. The water is warm. At first, you don’t feel it. But as it swallows your shins and carries away ribbons of dried blood, the gentle current soothes, taking the edge off the sun, which turns the rocks along the bank scorching hot. Birds call from the trees—you don’t know what kind. Worm-like minnows tickle your sore toes.

Back at the house, you sit on the porch to wring out your hair. You catch Ari carrying Blue through the garden, her head tucked against his shoulder, bandaged feet dangling over the arm that hooks under her knees. They whisper about something. His steps are slow, pausing by a beautiful patch of flowers that, apparently, smell rancid by the way she leans in and recoils, making a face. When you look away, Kyle is staring at you across the grass as he hangs strips of beef over a tree branch to dry. 

You should thank him. For not letting you do the stupid thing alone. But instead, you shift your gaze to the sun and watch its slow descent on your own, studying the way it casts an orange glow across the wild growth. It's the sudden assault of dark clouds that send everyone inside. A summer rain that bursts down without warning, without mercy. 

It hasn't relented by the time you fix a bowl of meat for Ghost. He has yet to ingest anything but bone broth and some plum juice according to Blue and Nereida. You chew off little pieces of the least fattiest parts into a bowl and give it to Blue. You go with her to feed him but stop short, keeping your distance. You simply watch from across the room as he manages to sit up on his own despite swaying, brushing away Price's helping arm, and chewing slowly with great effort. His eyes, focused and clear, flit upward to yours. You hold them for a moment, until the pull in your chest turns intolerable, and you look down at his bandaged shoulder instead. 

"Tastes good?" Blue murmurs, brushing the hair from his forehead.

He hums. 

"How do you feel?"

He swallows, then lifts a hand to her hair, thumbing at it. "Young again."

She places her hand over his, biting a smile. "You're so annoying."

She wipes at her eyes. 

Instead of easing, the rain intensifies as the night deepens. Distant thunder rolls closer, flashing into overhead lightning that only sharpens your edge. Blue spends the night with Ari in the living room, where Kyle helped them set up a small fort of blankets and pillows—a small distraction, but one she could use. It takes a nudge from you to push past her hesitation, to convince her it’s okay to leave Ghost’s side, just for a little while.

"It's good to have some space, if you need it."

That leaves you alone in the bedroom with him. He knocked out again after eating. You redo his bandages, relieved to find the wounds free of pus. New scabs have begun to form, fragile but promising.

But you can't lay down. You try—perch at the edge of the bed, press your palms into the mattress—then you're back on your feet.

The walls feel too close. The air too thick. His steady breathing should ground you, should ease something inside you, but it doesn’t. The storm is unyielding, pressing against the house, rattling the windows. It drives your nails into your palms, into the raw skin around them. A string ties itself around your ankles, pulling one foot in front of the other until you're in the hallway, hand blindly skimming the wall to guide you to the spiral staircase.

Upward.

The library. You don’t even realize you’ve come here until you freeze at the top of the stairs, staring at the wreckage left behind by your hands. Books lie scattered across the floor, pages severed and crumpled. A curtain rod rests askew, displaced in the quiet ruin.

When you finally move, it’s a mindless ordeal. The motions of putting the room back together—guided only by the stray flash of lightning—steal any thoughts before they can form. You kneel, gently stacking books against your chest, slotting them one by one back onto the oak shelves. Embellished spines offer familiar titles, even in French. A lot of Jane Austen.

"No Hemingway, huh?" you whisper, swiping a finger through the blanket of dust before bending for more books. You reach the last shelf, lips twitching. "I'm fixing you. Happy now?"

Of course, no answer. Only the faint slide of leather against the wood. 

He’s in the room before you notice.

The presence registers as a skim along the back of your neck.

But you don’t turn, hand freezing after you release Le Comte de Monte-Cristo, then dropping limp at your side. You know it’s him. You feel it in the shift of the air, the weight of it settling differently around you. More so in the slow, deliberate footfalls, each one measured, as if testing the ground. And if none of that gives him away, the warmth of his breath—heavy, uneven—spilling over your scalp does. It sinks into your skin when he reaches you, winds through your veins, curls your toes against the floor until they hurt.

You try to inhale, but the breath snags, fracturing in your throat. "You shouldn’t be up."

"I shouldn't."

His hand lifts, knuckles skimming the flannel draped over your frame before grazing your neck with a slow, unhurried sweep of his thumb. It trails down your arm, pausing at the last book in your grasp. He takes it from you—or maybe it slips from your weak grip. You can't tell.

With a deep breath, he reaches the shelf above you. The book doesn't fit at first, his hand unsteady, struggling to align it. A final rough shove of his knuckles forces it into place. He’s close. You knew he was, but now his scent wraps around you—mossy, salty, earth that you fall face-first into. His chest skims your spine. An elbow grazes your ear as he finishes.

And then he turns you.

His fingers curl around your shoulder, guiding you until you're facing him. Your feet slide to follow, reluctant and all too willing. Storm-filtered light catches on the sharp cut of his jaw, casting it in shadow. You brace yourself. An unformed breath fills your chest. You're unable to meet his eyes—though you feel them, tracing every inch of your face.

Wordless, he takes hold of your wrist. You don’t understand why until he cradles it in his rough palm, between your chests. His chapped lips lower to the tail-end of the healing cut, light enough not to stir pain.

His lips move.

But you don't.

It's as if every function of your brain is funneled into the nerves beneath each kiss he trails up your forearm. Soft, unwavering, yet each one lingering for a beat longer than the last. The next one lands at the crease in your elbow. A breath finally rushes out of your nose when he reaches the top of your shoulder, close enough to the pounding artery in your neck to invite heat over your cheeks. A strange heat. The same temperature of the moisture that begins to cloud your vision. 

You tremble. "Ghost, I—" 

You make a last-ditch effort to clutch the hem of his jeans before your knees can waver, his mouth finding your throat. He kisses the part of it that bobs. Then pulls away just enough to cup your face between his hands, forcing your gaze to his. What you are met with is twin, black eyes. They unnerve you. Like the ground beneath your feet, it feels like they might swallow you whole and spit you out. 

You can't breathe. The shaking is uncontrollable. Rapid blinks dispel the moisture in your eyes before you're gasping, pressing into him. "Please... please. Ghost, I—" you choke, "Please, I just—"

You sound scared, even to your own ears. Like you might get hurt if you he doesn't give you what you're asking for. But you don't know what you're asking for—don't understand why the soft kisses he places on your forehead and cheeks feel like too much and not enough at the same time. You clasp his wrist to pull his hands off your face, nails piercing into the skin there. He allows it—you hurting him—even when almost his entire upper half is swathed in bandages. 

"You're shaking," he murmurs.

"I'm fine." You exhale, but it’s uneven, shaky in its own right. "I just need—"

His thumb presses under your chin in attempt to still you.

A swallow forces down the lump in your throat. The ghost of an inhale. Then you lunge, kissing him. Not gentle or hesitant. But with a desperate growl, bursting forth from your mouth into his, your hand threading into his hair and holding tight onto his skull.