Mdni Under The Cut •

a song of past romance a royal / greek au gojo fic

pairing ⸺ suitor/king!gojo x princess!reader

summary ⸺ king gojo satoru of ithaca travels to sparta, seeking to win over who they say is the most beautiful mortal woman's heart. so when he sees you upon his arrival weaving under an olive tree, looking goddess-sent, he immediately loses the plot and concludes that it must be you that the tales and legends must talk about. it is not, but gojo has chosen who his queen will be. as gojo continues to break down your walls with his endless devotion and silver tongue, you must decide: will you let duty and your loved ones's expectations decide your fate, or will you choose the man who would defy even the heavens to claim you as his queen ?

warnings ⸺ smut, p i v sex, oral f recieving, whimpering gojo agenda <3, fluff, a big of angst if you squint, some insecurity, pining, banterTM, gojo is really whipped for reader, odypen inspired (this one's for my epic/pjo baddies), extensive greek mythology knowledge not needed, athena is tired of gojo lol, jealousy, helen is a sassy diva, not totally accurate to the lore of the illiad bc i just use the premise, mentions of children/pregnancy at the end if you squint, semi edited, art by @/yunonoaii

a/n my hyperfixation made me write this lol. you dont need to know anything about greek mythology to read this fic it's more of a period piece / royal au :3

general masterlist

You had registered the young man’s presence for quite some time now.

Ever since your beloved cousin Helen—the most beautiful woman in the world, the kallikomos, kalliparēios Helen—had come of age, your palace had been plagued by an unceasing tide of suitors. Even a respite alone in the garden, in peace, was not guaranteed to you; just as the ivory haired suitor (who thought himself furitive) that had been sneaking and skirting around you for a while now, there were countless of men on the palace grounds desperate to even get a glimpse of what the countless legends and tales about Helen had described. 

Though, you weren’t jealous of your lovely cousin—you loved her to death. But it was getting on your nerves, because you had hoped for a quiet evening relaxing under the olive tree you were sitting in. This mn, however, was different.

For some time now, the ivory-haired suitor had been skirting the edges of your sanctuary, moving as though he thought himself invisible. You could feel his gaze, sharp and intent, as you alternated between weaving and reading. His persistence should have irritated you. And yet, there was something amusing about his poor attempt at stealth.

The telltale rustle of grass betrayed him once again. You sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before reaching up to gather it all, baring the curve of your neck to the evening breeze.

The stalker suitor tripped with a loud thud.

You blinked. Then, sighing once more, you set down your spindle and turned. "I know you’re there," you called, unimpressed.

Silence, then a low chuckle.

When he finally stepped into the open, your disinterested gaze lifted—and promptly widened.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. The build of a warrior, yet the face of a prince. A mischievous, almost boyish charm softened the sharp lines of his features, but his striking blue eyes gleamed with something untamed.

Helen would have a field day with him. Like that one thing she said about how she looovedd versatile men, the ones that could manhandle you but also whimper. Or whatever. 

Then, to your utter shock, he dropped to one knee, extending his hand toward you in a bold gesture of devotion. His demeanor was confident, but you saw him sporting a hue of pink on his cheeks. It was rather cute, but any feelings of fondness disappeared at his next words.

"O’ Helen—" the suitor began, his voice rich with reverence, "fairest of all women, whose beauty outshines even the dawn—"

You exhaled sharply through your nose. Of course.

"—permit me but a moment to bask in your radiance, for no mortal man could gaze upon you and remain unchanged—"

Your fingers curled tightly around the threads of your spindle.

"—grant me the honor of—"

"Try again," you cut in, your voice deceptively sweet.

The suitor paused mid-sentence, blinking up at you.

"Pardon?"

You raised an unimpressed brow, tilting your head. "If you’re going to wax poetic, you might at least direct it toward the right woman."

His lips parted, then pressed into a puzzled frown. He tilted his head, sharp blue eyes scanning your face as if trying to decipher a riddle. "But… you are Helen," he said slowly, as if testing the words.

You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Afraid not."

A pause.

His gaze flickered over you again, as if he could will you into being Helen just by staring hard enough. "Are you sure?"

You gave him a look. "I would hope I know my own name."

His brows drew together, clearly struggling to process this revelation. "But you’re—you’re sitting under an olive tree, looking vaguely divine. Your hair caught the light just now in a way that seemed very… goddess-sent. You have the whole tragic air of someone who is probably devastatingly beautiful and sought after by hundreds."

You blinked, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t be affected by his bromides, for his words must be a ploy to gain back his image after offending you. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"

He squinted. "More like a logical assessment of my mistake."

You sighed. "Well, your 'logical assessment' is incorrect."

He sat back on his heels, regarding you with blatant skepticism. "I don’t know," he said slowly. "I came here for Helen. You’re here. And you're lovely. Seems like a very Helen thing to do."

You gave him a flat stare in return. "What, exist?"

"Exactly."

You rolled your eyes. "I see why they make you fight instead of think."

At that, the suitor huffed a short laugh, his earlier embarrassment giving way to something more amused, more interested. "Alright," he conceded, crossing his arms over his knee. "If you aren’t Helen, then who are you?"

You leaned back against the tree, allowing yourself a small, satisfied smirk. "The woman you just proposed to by accident."

He blinked. Then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "The gods are laughing at me."

"As they should," you replied smoothly.

To your surprise, he grinned. "That makes two of us, then," he mused, tilting his head at you. "I get the feeling you enjoy seeing men suffer."

A non committal hum from you. “Maybe, maybe not.” With that, you began weaving once more, giving him the signal that his presence and platitudes were no longer needed.  

Yet, he remained.

You could feel his gaze lingering, heavy with an amusement that refused to wane. He had the look of someone thoroughly entertained, and that irritated you more than anything. Having conversed with him, you knew he was sharper than the average suitor—quick-witted, quicker still to recover from his blunders. Though he had not done anything to overtly suggest it, there was something about him that set him apart. It was a feeling—an air around him, something god-graced.

You paid it no mind.

He had not meant for you to be the one on the receiving end of his affection, and it would do you no good to cling to a man who had come here seeking another. He was meant to lose his mind over Helen, not take interest in you.

"Tell me your name," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You didn't pause in your weaving. "Why?"

A short huff of laughter. "I figure if I’m already embarrassing myself in front of a woman, I should at least know which one."

You shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "Bold of you to assume you’ll be staying long enough for it to matter."

His grin deepened. "Well, now I have to stay, just to prove you wrong."

You sighed, shaking your head. "You’re insufferable."

"I’ve been told worse," he admitted. Then, leaning forward just slightly, he added, "Though never by a woman whose name I don’t know."

You lifted a brow at him, unimpressed. "And do you have a name, then, mysterious suitor?"

His expression shifted, something proud yet teasing gleaming in those striking blue eyes.

"Gojo Satoru," he declared, as if it should mean something to you. "Of Ithaca."

You hummed, as if considering. "Never heard of it."

He blinked, then scoffed. "Never heard of Ithaca?" He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "A land of brilliant minds, fierce warriors, and some say the most handsome men to ever walk the earth—"

"Ah," you interjected, dry. "That explains it."

He smirked. "Explains what?"

"Why I’ve never heard of it."

A beat of silence. Then, to your dismay, he laughed—fully, unabashedly, as if you’d just handed him the greatest gift in the world.

You huffed, returning your attention to your weaving. "Now that you have a name to be proud of, surely you can be on your way."

"Not yet," he said, far too easily.

You didn’t look up. "Why?"

"Because you haven’t given me yours."

You didn’t miss the way his voice dipped, taking on something smoother, something more coaxing. He was trying to charm it out of you, as if your name was a prize worth winning.

"Perhaps I simply don’t wish to give it," you mused, feigning disinterest.

"Perhaps you’re afraid," he countered.

You did look up at that, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. "Afraid?"

He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "That if I know your name, I’ll never forget it." His gaze flickered to your hands, to the weaving that had slowed ever so slightly. "And maybe… neither will you."

You forced yourself to resume your work, your fingers steady despite the odd flutter in your chest. "You think too highly of yourself, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca."

"I’m told it’s my greatest flaw," he admitted, smirking. "Well—one of many."

You ignored him, the rhythmic motion of your weaving serving as a convenient distraction.

Gojo exhaled, as if relenting—though something told you he was nowhere near finished with you. He rocked back on his heels, eyeing you with unconcealed interest. "Alright, mystery woman," he drawled. "If you won’t give me your name, I suppose I’ll have to keep guessing."

You didn't dignify that with a response.

But somehow, you knew—this would not be the last time Gojo Satoru of Ithaca sought you out.

He had yet to claim your name.

No matter how cunningly he pried, no matter how sweetly he coaxed, you remained steadfast, denying him that small but significant victory.

Satoru had undoubtedly set sail for Sparta in search of a worthy challenge and a faithful bride—but he had not expected to find both in one woman. You were a puzzle, divine and elusive, a riddle spun by the Fates themselves. And for a man who relished the thrill of unraveling mysteries, you were the most captivating enigma he had ever encountered.

Not since the day he bested the enchanted boar—a feat that had drawn Athena’s keen eye and earned him her favor—had he felt such a rush.

He’d dare say you were the first one he’s felt an affinity for, despite the countless of women and candidates he had faced ever since becoming the king of Ithaca.

But before he could ponder more on the thought, he sensed a presence, tensing immediately. Heavy-set footsteps, trying to be quiet in the hallway they were both in.

Satoru crossed his arms, halted where he was. “I know you’re there.”

A laugh barked out in a deep voice. “Perceptive like they say, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.” 

Satoru watched as Toji Fushiguro sauntered toward him, his movements unhurried, yet carrying the unmistakable confidence of a seasoned warrior. The man was broad-shouldered, his presence commanding, the kind of brute who could cleave a man in half with a single swing of his blade. Yet his grin—sharp, knowing—held more calculation than recklessness.

Toji came to a stop before him, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one foot like he had all the time in the world, smirking. "No wonder Athena’s got her eye on you."

Satoru tilted his head, feigning nonchalance. "I do have a way of impressing gods and mortals alike," he mused. "Though I imagine you didn’t come all this way just to admire me."

“Just assessing the competition,” Toji hums in response, eyes still assessing Satoru. He was trying to plan three steps ahead; unfortunately for him, Satoru was ten steps ahead. 

“There is no competition,” comes Satoru’s cool response. 

Toji studied Satoru for a moment, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with an amused scoff, he asked, "You’re not here to fight for Helen’s hand? Are you crazy?”

Satoru let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if the very thought was amusing. "Helen?" he echoed, letting the name roll from his tongue with deliberate care. He lifted a hand, absently brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "No, I’m afraid I have no interest in her."

Toji studied him, eyes narrowing. "She’s the most beautiful woman in the world."

Satoru did not deny it. "So they say."

"And yet," Toji pressed, his tone skeptical, "you aren’t here for her?"

Satoru finally looked at him properly, his head tilting, his gaze alight with something teasing, something unreadable. "Not in the way you are." He let the words settle between them before continuing, his tone almost indulgent. "You’re welcome to her."

Toji’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His instincts told him Satoru was not lying, yet something about the Ithacan’s expression, the way he carried himself, the glint in those striking blue eyes—it all made him wary. He had met many warriors in his time, but this was no brute with a sword, no hotheaded prince desperate to claim a prize.

Satoru Gojo was something else entirely.

"So what is it, then?" Toji asked, crossing his arms tighter, his voice edged with suspicion. "You sailed all this way, and for what? A festival?"

Satoru’s smirk deepened, his expression inscrutable. "Let’s just say Sparta has given me a rather interesting puzzle."

Toji scoffed but let it drop, running a hand through his dark hair. "Whatever," he muttered. "If you're really not here for Helen, then maybe you can help me."

Satoru hummed in vague interest. "Oh?"

"I intend to win her," Toji stated plainly. "But I could use an extra hand in ensuring things go my way."

Satoru did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze upward, as though admiring the vaulted ceilings of the hall, as though considering some grander design that only he could see. Then, with the ease of a man wholly unbothered by the concerns of others, he exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Don't worry about it," he said at last, his voice rich with something almost too smooth, too assured. "Everything is already falling into place."

Toji stiffened slightly at the words, his war-honed instincts bristling at their implication. He did not like things he could not predict, and Gojo Satoru of Ithaca was proving to be as unreadable as the gods themselves.

His brows lowered. "And what the hell does that mean?"

But Satoru only laughed, turning on his heel, the faintest shimmer of torchlight catching in his silver-white hair.

"Guess you’ll just have to wait and see."

And with that, he strode off, his footsteps unhurried, leaving Toji standing in the flickering shadows, frowning after him.

The great hall of Sparta was alive with the clash of bronze and the roars of men. The suitors, assembled from all corners of Greece, fought with a desperation that could only belong to those who sought glory and the hand of Helen. Blades flashed, spears thrust, and the resounding clamor of shields meeting shields filled the air like the din of battle.

Satoru Gojo of Ithaca stood at the edge of the fray, watching with a detached amusement. He had not drawn his blade, nor did he so much as feign interest in the chaos unfolding before him. Instead, his arms were loosely crossed, his posture relaxed, his sharp blue gaze studying each warrior as though they were mere pieces on a game board.

Meanwhile, you and Helen watched from the shade of a marble colonnade, seated atop a cushioned bench where servants had arranged fruits and wine for the both of you. But neither of you reached for the offerings; your gazes remained transfixed on the chaos below.

You shook your head at the ridiculous display. "It must be nice to be fought for by so many men," you murmured, resting your chin in your palm.

Helen sighed daintily—in a way that was so typically Helen it made you smile fondly—her hair catching the afternoon light like threads spun from the sun itself. “I will admit that it has its advantages.”

You cast her a dry look before gesturing at the men below. “Helen,” you shook your head, sighing exasperatedly, “they’re savages. They’re beating each other senselessly. Does this not disgust you?” Instead, your cousin’s beautiful lips curled up in a knowing smile, teasing you, “Jealous, my dear cousin?”

“No.” But the answer came a little too quickly, a little too defensively. The yells and violence was a display of brutishness—but you would not be truthful to yourself if you didn’t admit that you were a bit envious of the attention your cousin was getting. 

However, one would be a fool to confuse your sentiments for bitterness—as a princess yourself, there were no shortage of men who would be here to get you as a prize, if they did not get Helen. No shortage of men wondering who is he? Who is the man who’ll have the princess as his wife?

But unfortunately, it seemed that your father, the Spartan king Icarius, had other plans, for he would not let any man be your husband so easily. In fact, he did not wish you to marry and be taken away from him.

It was safe to say that not much male attention was on you due to this obstacle.

Helen showed no reaction to your response, but only hummed. “This fighting—sooner or later, you’re going to be in my shoes. You’re going to have to choose at one point, too, my dear.” 

“Says who?” You scoffed, turning your eyes back to the courtyard. “Do not forget Helen, these men want power. Power so they can tower above each other, place themselves above all others.”

Helen shrugged. “So what?”

You shook your head. “Silly Helen. Wouldn’t you prefer some intellectual prowess over some…savage?”  

Before Helen could reply, a shift in the air drew both of your attention back to the courtyard.

The chaos had stilled, if only for a moment. A singular figure stood at the center of it all, his ivory hair catching the wind, his stance languid yet poised.

That suitor.

The gathered nobles whispered among themselves, exchanging glances as Satoru approached the high table where the King of Sparta, Tyndareus, sat watching. The aged king stroked his beard, his expression unreadable as the Ithacan prince stopped before him, offering a bow that barely concealed the glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Your Majesty," Satoru began smoothly, "it seems we have our victor. But before we move forward, I believe there is an agreement that must be made."

The murmurs in the hall grew louder. Tyndareus narrowed his eyes slightly. "Speak, Gojo of Ithaca."

Satoru straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "These men have come from every kingdom in Greece, each seeking the honor of marrying your daughter. Such a prize, however, comes with its dangers. Whoever wins Helen’s hand will earn not just her love but the envy and ire of the rest." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the hall. "If left unchecked, this jealousy could lead to war."

Tyndareus’s jaw tightened. It was a concern he himself had harbored, though few had dared to speak it outright.

Satoru’s lips curled at the edges, his voice turning smooth, persuasive. "I propose an oath. Let every suitor here, whether victorious or defeated, swear allegiance to Helen’s chosen husband. Let them vow, upon the gods, to uphold this union and defend it should any outside force seek to undo it. In doing so, Sparta ensures peace among the great kingdoms, rather than sows the seeds of discord."

Silence fell over the hall. The assembled nobles exchanged glances, the weight of the proposal heavy in the air. Even Toji, ever the warrior, raised a brow in consideration.

Tyndareus studied Satoru for a long moment, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You are wise beyond your years, Gojo of Ithaca. Your proposal is sound. Let it be done."

A herald stepped forward, calling for the gathered suitors to kneel. One by one, they bent the knee, placing their hands over their hearts, swearing their loyalty to Helen’s future husband, binding themselves to an oath that would shape the course of history.

As the final echoes of the vow rang through the hall, Satoru turned his gaze to Toji, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. The pieces were falling into place, just as he had foreseen.

Meanwhile, in your place—where you and Helen were spectating the whole event away from common sight—Helen nudged you slightly, voice hushed in interest you hadn’t seen her display for any suitor yet. “Did you see that—the way he sweet talked my father?” Her gentle eyes widened in a way that could kill a man. “Who is he?”

You had no answer. Because, truthfully, you were wondering the same thing.

The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The scent of myrrh and olive trees lingered in the air, mixing with the faint salt of the distant sea. You sat with Helen beneath the shade of a vine-laden pergola, her back pressed against your legs as you wove your fingers through her silken strands, carefully braiding them into an intricate plait.

Helen, ever the restless one, sighed dramatically. “Do you suppose I should be flattered or terrified?”

You didn’t have to ask what she meant. The courtyard had been in an uproar for hours after the suitors’ oath had been sworn. Servants gossiped in hushed tones, and noblewomen tittered behind their veils. The future queen of Sparta had just gained the loyalty of every warrior present—whether she wanted it or not.

“Why not both?” you mused, separating another section of her hair.

Helen laughed, tossing her head slightly. “It is one thing to be the object of admiration. It is quite another to be the cause of bloodshed.”

You hummed in acknowledgment, though your fingers stilled when she spoke again, voice full of mischief.

“Did you see him?”

You resumed braiding. “Who?”

Helen turned just enough to throw you an incredulous look. “Who?” she repeated, mockingly. “As if you do not know exactly who I speak of. Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”

You clicked your tongue. “Oh, him.”

“Oh, him?” Helen scoffed. “Do not play coy, cousin. He commanded that entire courtyard without lifting a blade.”

You smiled, but she could not see you. “That only proves he is cunning,” you pointed out, keeping your voice neutral.

“That proves he is powerful,” Helen countered, shifting as you tugged lightly at her braid. “He held those men in the palm of his hand.”

Barking out a laugh, you continued your work. “Or perhaps he simply enjoys hearing himself speak.”

Helen laughed, tilting her head back against your lap. “You wound me with your dullness. Do you not see? There was something about him. He has the air of a man accustomed to winning.”

You tried not to scowl. Of course he did.

And if Helen had her eye on him, there was no chance for you.

The thought settled in your chest like a stone.

It was not as though you had entertained any hopes—but you were not blind. The way he had looked at you in the hallways, the way he had tried to coax your name from you, the way he had seemed amused by your defiance. It had sparked something treacherous inside of you, something unspoken and foolish.

Because no man, no matter how powerful or wise, would ever choose you over Helen.

You forced your thoughts aside and tightened the braid. “And what of Toji Fushiguro?” you asked lightly, forcing the subject to change. “I noticed you watching him as well.”

Helen hummed, pleased with the shift in conversation. “A brute, but a striking one. I imagine he fights as well as he looks.”

You snorted. “I imagine he thinks with his fists.”

“All the better,” Helen teased. “I should not mind a warrior who throws me over his shoulder and carries me off.”

You rolled your eyes, but you giggled regardless. “You are insufferable.”

Helen twisted, kneeling so that you were now face to face. She reached for your hair, her fingers beginning to weave it into a braid of your own.

“You say I am insufferable, but you have yet to deny that Gojo Satoru is worth admiring,” she murmured.

You sighed exasperatedly, looking anywhere except for your cousin’s eyes. “Must we discuss this?”

Helen’s fingers worked deftly, her expression smug. “It is only natural to discuss the most intriguing men.”

“And yet I am sure you are doing it to torment me.”

“Perhaps a little.” Helen’s grin softened as she studied you. “You would not be so opposed to him if you did not find him interesting.”

You swallowed, looking away. “That is not—”

“You braid my hair with such care,” she interrupted, looping another section of yours. “And yet, you guard your own thoughts as if I am the enemy.”

You closed your eyes briefly, inhaling the scent of lavender and sun-warmed stone. Helen had always been perceptive when she wished to be.

“There is nothing to guard,” you murmured.

Helen merely smiled, finishing your braid with a satisfied tug.

But the knowing look in her eyes unsettled you more than any battle in the courtyard ever could.

Despite coming for Helen, Satoru continuously seeks your presence.

Your presence is intoxicating, even the smallest of glimpses of you enough to induce a feeling, one he’d liken to eating the gods’ ambrosia or drinking the finest nectar. Every time he saw you, it was passing moments in the hallways of the palace or sneaked glances while you were in the garden—your chin up, posture proud. Your eyes downcast as if you had no interest in the countless of men among you. The light only returned when you were weaving, or discussing with your cousin.

But Satoru had not been able to see you more than just those miniscule, fleeting moments—it was your accursed father that kept an eye on you during dinners, his withered glare threatening all suitors, as if to remind them: You’re here for Helen, and keep my daughter out of this, for she is not a prize you can easily win.

Little did he know Satoru loved challenges.

So he thanks the gods that an annual Spartan festival is thoroughly celebrated in the palace today.

The hall is the spitting image of revelry. Men adorn their finest tunics while women have braids of flowers and cloths, wine, fresh fruits, and meat are plentiful on all tables. There’s singing, there’s dancing, and, best of all, there’s you.

Satoru’s been observing you for quite some time now. It wouldn’t be fair to call it something akin to a predator stalking his prey; no, you far from being bested by Satoru. More like a bird waiting for all the weaker mates to filter themselves out.

They were like peacocks, the men that came up to you, with the way they flared their artificial grandeur. Each time a young man sat next to you, you remained aloof, giving them nothing but a bunch of polite glances and nods. But it was clear that what ever your responses or questions were, they were nonplussed. Satoru almost felt bad for the fools if it weren’t for how they were encroaching on his time to finally talk to you.

It was the opening that a particularly witless and brutish man had given him—the guy basically leaves the seat next to you, almost in tears from whatever you had said to him, but you only blinked as Satoru approached.

Satoru slid into the recently vacated seat beside you with the grace of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He draped an arm over the back of his chair, all effortless ease, as if he had been waiting for this moment all night.

"Whatever you said to him, I’d like to hear it," he mused, his lips quirking in amusement. "Though I do hope you go a little easier on me—I’m rather sensitive, you see."

Your gaze flickered to him, unimpressed, though there was something almost imperceptible in your eyes—mild intrigue, perhaps.

"If you are so easily wounded, Your Majesty, then I fear you are not prepared for a Spartan woman’s words."

His grin widened. "Oh, but I live for danger."

You hummed, noncommittal, before returning your attention to the food before you. Satoru, however, found himself transfixed by the way you reached for a slice of fruit, your fingers delicate yet decisive as you brought it to your lips. You took a slow, deliberate bite, and for the first time in his life, Satoru forgot how to speak.

It was absurd, really. He had seen beautiful women eat before—Helen herself had a practiced elegance to it—but there was something about you. Something about the unthinking ease with which you did it, how your lips parted just slightly before closing around the fruit, how you chewed with quiet, effortless grace, unbothered by the weight of hungry gazes that lingered on you.

For a man who had always been surrounded by beauty, who had spent his life sated and indulged, it was utterly unfair that something so simple could leave him spellbound.

Perhaps the gods were toying with him.

"You’ve been staring for quite some time," you remarked, snapping him out of his reverie.

Satoru exhaled a laugh, recovering with impressive speed. "Can you blame me? I’m simply trying to unravel the mystery of how you managed to make that poor soul flee in tears. I’d rather not suffer the same fate."

"Then I suggest you leave now, Your Majesty."

"Not a chance."

You sighed, though there was the ghost of amusement at the corner of your lips. "Persistent, aren’t you?"

Satoru grinned. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me."

He watched as you reached for another piece of fruit, this time slower, as if testing him, watching to see if he would stare again. He nearly laughed—because, of course, he did.

"You truly are hopeless," you muttered, shaking your head.

"Ah, but at least I am entertaining," he countered. "And I do believe I’ve managed what those other poor fools could not—I’ve kept your attention."

You opened your mouth to retort, but he was faster. "Go on, you can admit it," he teased. "I make for much better company than them, don’t I?"

For a moment, you merely regarded him, expression unreadable. Then, to his absolute delight, a soft laugh escaped your lips.

It was small, barely more than an exhale, but it was real.

And gods, it was beautiful.

Satoru leaned in slightly, drinking in the sight of you as if committing it to memory.

"See?" he murmured, triumphant. "I told you I’m quite good at this."

Your amusement lingered, but you shook your head as if in exasperation. "If you say so."

He did not say so. He knew so.

Because despite all the reasons he had come to Sparta, despite all the men who had gathered to win Helen’s hand, Satoru had found himself drawn to you instead.

And he had no intention of stopping now.

But before he could get another word in, a horn sounds, and you nod to him, somewhat apologetically. “That is my call.”

Before he can ask, you head, skirts fluttering behind you as you move to join a growing group of young ladies in the middle. It’s clear the gathering has captured the interest of most of the men that were previously dining. 

You make your way down to the middle, where you arrive at your position—it’s the one you’ve occupied every year. This dance is a show of grace and lineage, a chance for the noblemen to watch and admire, to see which girl carries herself with the most poise, the most elegance, the most effortless charm.

In Gojo’s eyes, it’s easy to determine who that is.

You take your place among your cousins, hands joining as the musicians begin their melody. It is a lighthearted dance, nothing too intricate, nothing that demands much more than the ability to move in time with the others. Your skirts flutter with each step, the long strands of your braid swaying as you turn.

It’s a girlish, lighthearted dance you’ve done since you were little. You and your younger cousins giggle as you go through the motions, reveling in the attentions of the spectators that witness the lovely display with amusement and pure, wholesome adoration.

That is, until you register a special set of eyes on you.

In a specific turn along to the strum of the lyre, you turn gracefully—a move that orients you towards Gojo’s direction. When you finally see his face and notice his presence, it’s like you’re kicked in the chest in a spar with Helen, with the way your breath leaves you.

His eyes are dark, enraptured on you, and only you. Heat creeps up your neck as you move your hands as you’re oddly flustered. His gaze is admiring and is respectful, but the intensity of it—like longing that is toeing the line between lust and pure yearning—makes your heart quicken in a way that you rue your accursed organ, for it to beat so traitorously. When he notices that you’re staring back at him, his jaw—which was clenched—loosens in a smile, but the smile isn’t innocent. It spells out a promise—one unspoken, one that curls at the edges of his lips like a secret meant for you alone. It is the kind of smile that men wear when they know something you don’t, when they have already decided on something long before you’ve even had the chance to argue.

It is sharp. Focused.

It traces the curve of your waist, the sway of your hips, the way your arms extend with each graceful movement.

It darkens.

Heat spreads up your neck before you can help it. The flickering torches of the hall must be to blame, or perhaps the wine in your belly, but you feel warm, too warm, and it is absurd.

Why should you care where Gojo of Ithaca’s eyes linger?

His smirk grows, and it is cocky. Infuriating, even. You snap your head away before he can see how your face burns, resuming your dance with the others, willing yourself to shake off the foolishness that has settled in your bones.

But even as you turn, even as the skirts of your dress flare and the room around you continues its celebration, you feel it—

His eyes.

Still watching.

“Athena, I swear to you that I need her. She is my future wife!” Gojo insists, stomping his feet as he trails the goddess as if he were a child. It reminded the goddess of wisdom of when she first met him—when he had taken down the magic boar she had let loose, showing him of having intellect worthy of being mentored by her. 

But Athena had meant to be a mentor to a warrior of the mind—not this lovesick, pathetic fool in front of her, like a dog whining for food. Athena sighed exasperatedly as another animal she was hunting runs away from Gojo’s sheer loudness. “Enough!” she snaps, but not unkindly. “Who is this princess you speak of, and what kind of spell has she cast on you to become this much of a fool?”

Gojo ignores any insults directed towards him, and instead adorns a bright smile at the mention of you. “She is the cousin of Helen of Sparta, and the daughter of Icarius—”

Gojo is interrupted by a snort. “The same one that swore to never marry his daughter off?”

This gives Gojo a reason to pause. He had not known this fact. “So, how do you propose I—”

Much to his chagrin, the w goddess is already a few steps ahead. “To waste my time on strategy to secure a woman, Gojo, is quite preposterous.

But if you must insist on my counsel, then you shall earn it," Athena declares, turning on her heel to face him fully. Her gaze, sharp as a well-honed blade, sweeps over him, as if assessing whether he is truly worth the effort. "Icarius is a man of reason before all else. He values intellect, discipline, and above all, loyalty. If you wish to stand a chance, you must prove to me two things: one, that she is a wise woman worth of being sought after, and, two, you must prove that you are not merely another suitor blinded by beauty."

Gojo grins, clearly pushing his luck. "So you will help me?"

Athena exhales, the very picture of divine suffering. "I will not gift you the answer, but I will grant you the means to find it yourself."

"Which is just a long-winded way of saying you will help me." He nods sagely, as if he has unraveled the mysteries of Olympus itself.

Athena rubs her temple. "I should have let the boar trample you."

Gojo only laughs, stepping in line beside her as they weave through the woods. His mind is already turning, piecing together what little he knows of Icarius, of you, and of what he must do to win. Because one thing is certain—he will win.

Icarius may have sworn never to wed you off, but Gojo Satoru has never been one to abide by the rules.

You do not want to be here.

All you simply wanted was time in your sanctuary, your olive tree. It remained hidden in the royal gardens, so it’s a wonder that Gojo of Ithaca had found you. Of course, you would have to be a fool to not admit that these suitors’ wit paled in comparison to that white-haired young king. Such as this one, for example.

“My lady, I could not help but notice your fair disposition when I looked upon you,” the suitor grins, his teeth bared like a dog catching scent of a meal. It is not a pleasant expression. You do not react, save for clutching your weaving tighter to your chest. He steps closer, and you take measured care not to recoil, though the instinct is strong. “May you grant me your name—”

“I would have to apologize,” you cut him, already turning away. “My father does not—”

You’re stopped by a harsh grip on your wrist, and you wrench your gaze back to the suitor in shock. 

"You wound me, my lady," the man says, still smiling as if this was amusing. As if he had power over you. Physical power, you suppose, but clearly this man was lacking in intellect, to not have noticed his presence. "You have been so cold to me, and I—"

He does not notice the shadow behind him.

“Ah,” a voice interjects, smooth, easy. “That’s no way to hold a lady’s hand, is it?”

The grip on your wrist slackens, but another takes its place—light, barely a touch.

Gojo.

The suitor’s face twists in confusion, but it quickly shifts to pain as Gojo applies the smallest pressure to his wrist.

“You—”

“She said no,” Gojo interrupts breezily. “And I’d hate to make a scene, so do us all a favor and leave before I decide to break something, yeah?”

With an effortless flick of his hand, the suitor stumbles back, shaking out his wrist as if burned.

Gojo does not spare him another glance. His attention is on you.

“Are you alright?” His voice is softer now, no teasing lilt, no easy arrogance.

You hesitate, unsettled.

“I was handling it,” you say, though it does not come out as firm as you would like.

Gojo only hums, something that sounds like, I know you could, but you’re distracted by his eyes drifting down to your wrist, where a faint mark has already begun to bloom.

His gaze darkens, but you hurry to assure him. “I’ll bandage this, it’s not a big wound—”

He interrupts you. “No need,” gently holds your shoulder, as if imploring you to follow him into the direction he’s started to walk, “I’ll do it myself.”

“That’s not—”

“Look.” He shoots you a look, but it is not unkind nor patronizing. You realize belatedly that it has set your heart aflutter. “I trust that you know how to bandage your wound. But I have had countless like it, so you are with a skilled master in healing. And who knows which suitors may find you on your journey to the physician?

You purse your lips, biting back a retort but failing. “And aren’t you one of the said suitors?”

His lips pull back in an amused smile, and you notice his hand is still resting lightly on your shoulder. “I think we both know I’m different.” You bite back a smile.

“Oh, really?” you remark dryly, but the look in your eyes is anything but. “And how did Your Majesty acquire the title of being different?”

His thumb brushes, just barely, against the fabric of your sleeve before he withdraws his hand entirely, as if sensing that he’s lingered too long. But his smirk remains, insufferable as ever.

“For one, I don’t make a habit of forcing myself upon unwilling women,” Gojo remarks, a pointed edge to his otherwise careless tone. “And for another…” He tilts his head, considering you. “I daresay I might be infatuated in a way they—or you—couldn’t comprehend.”

Your breath catches, but you recover quickly, huffing as you turn away. “All these sweet nothings. Helen will love you.”

Gojo chuckles, stepping ahead of you as he leads the way. “Yet she is not the one I am after.”

You pause. Soak in his words. Outwardly, you roll your eyes and follow him for you were at a lack of words, but inside Poseidon’s storm rages inside you at his words, creating a ferocious whirlpool of conflicting feelings.

His strides are long and easy, as if he belongs wherever he walks, and yet, he slows his pace just enough for you to keep up. The gesture is not lost on you.

The physician’s chamber is quiet when you arrive, save for the distant chatter of servants outside. Gojo does not call for assistance. He merely gestures for you to sit, pulling out a small cloth and a bowl of water, his movements easy and practiced.

“You’ve done this before,” you murmur as he kneels before you, pressing the damp cloth against your wrist.

His smile is unreadable. “I am a warrior, am I not?”

The cold seeps into your skin, making you shiver. Gojo notices. His touch, for all his bravado, is unbearably gentle. You do not know what to make of it.

“You’ll bruise,” he says softly, fingers skimming over the faint marks. “Does it hurt?”

You swallow. “No.”

A lie.

Gojo’s gaze flickers up to yours, and for the first time, there is no teasing in his expression—only something quiet and knowing, something that makes your heart betray you in its weakness.

For a moment, you both fall into a silence, and, to avoid his gaze, you go back to clutching at your hand and staring at it, as if there’s something really intriguing about it. Then, he speaks up. “Want to play?”

You bring your gaze back to him, caught off guard. “What?”

He cocks his head in a direction to which you face, and there you see it: a game board. One to play petteia. 

You turn back at him, blinking. “You play petteia?”

Gojo grins, stretching out with a lazy ease that only makes you more suspicious. As if he has ulterior motives to this. “What, surprised? Strategy games are a warrior’s pastime.”

You squint him. That line of reasoning was rather true, you suppose. Something told you—something being the way he convinced Helen’s father so easily, how he always seemed three, no, six steps ahead—that he was no normal warrior, no normal brute. Huffing, you remark offhandedly, “I suppose a true warrior does sharpen his mind as well as his sword. It’s a pity that you’ll be losing today. To me.”

His smile deepens, and it makes you notice small indents in his cheeks as a result, and the way there’s a rosy pink hue on his cheeks, as if he’s excited to see what you can do.  “Then by all means, put me to shame.”

You settle onto the floor, determined, as he arranges the pieces between you. The rules are simple enough—capture your opponent’s pieces by flanking them on either side—but the way Gojo moves is anything but. He plays with an insufferable sort of confidence, shifting his pieces with flicks of his fingers, as if the game is already his to win.

Until it isn’t, obviously.

He frowns when the click of stone dropped onto the board sounds. You’ve cut off his advancing soldier, trapping it neatly between two of your own.

“Huh,” he muses, tapping his chin. He stares at the board, mind no doubt going at a speed unfathomable to most. His eyes flick rapidly, as if assessing the position of all the stone and calculating all the possible moves and permutations that can salvage him out of the situation you’ve created for him. You maintain your poker face, but inside, you want to smile. You had calculated those said combinations a few steps ago, and it’d be really hard to get out of this. Then, comes out a “That was… unexpected.”

You smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? Did the great King of Ithaca not anticipate that?”

Gojo exhales, dragging a hand through his hair while huffing out a laught. “You’re quite ruthless, aren’t you?”

“I’m practical,” you correct, claiming another of his pieces. “And good at this game.”

Gojo squints at the board, as if trying to decipher where exactly he went wrong. “You do know you’re supposed to let me win, right? My pride is fragile.”

“I wasn’t aware kings had fragile pride.”

“You wound me, my lady.” He presses a hand to his chest, but his movements are distracted as he moves another piece—only for you to immediately trap it.

His head snaps up. “Wait—”

You make your final move, effortlessly cornering his last few soldiers.

Silence.

Gojo blinks at the board.

You clear your throat. “Do you need a moment to process this?”

Slowly, he leans back, shaking his head with something close to awe. “You know, I was planning to go easy on you, but I don’t think that would have helped.”

You grin, triumphant. “I’ll take that as an admission of defeat.”

Gojo exhales through his nose, then tilts his head at you, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.

“You’re dangerous,” he says, and you’re not quite sure if it’s a compliment or a warning.

“Maybe to an overconfident king who underestimates his opponent.”

That urges out a laugh from him, and he shakes his head. “Trust me, I was not underestimating you. It seemed that I had overestimated myself.”

Before you can respond, Gojo leans forward, propping his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unsettlingly thoughtful.

You don’t trust that look.

“What?” you ask warily.

He hums. “Just thinking.”

“That’s a dangerous pastime for you.”

Gojo presses a hand over his chest, as if wounded. “Cruel. After I iced your wrist and let you absolutely demolish me at petteia, this is the thanks I get?”

“You act as if I owe you something.”

His smirk returns, slow and smug. “Well, since you mention it…”

You narrow your eyes. “No.”

“You didn’t even hear me out.”

“I know you well enough to predict whatever absurd request you’re about to make.”

Gojo lets out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back. “And here I was, about to propose something completely reasonable. A fair exchange.”

You arch a brow. “Fair?”

He nods, all feigned seriousness. “See, I let you win.”

“You most certainly did not.”

“And I helped with your wrist.”

Your lips press into a line. “Which you did of your own volition.”

Gojo ignores this. “So, as a completely justified request, I think you should let me meet you in the royal gardens.”

You blink. His words hang in the air between you, a casual proposition that somehow carries more weight than it should.

“The gardens?”

He nods. “By the olive tree at sunset. The one where we met.”

“Why?”

Groaning, he lounges back, pushing his feet out while doing the motion. It makes his long legs come closer to where yours are opposite from him, so much that you can feel their heat. Not direct contact, but there. “Have I not made my advances clear by now?” He moves to a sitting position, a more serious look in his eyes as he earnestly looks at you, but you find it hard—despite your usual dry disposition towards suitors—to maintain eye contact, so you opt to look at your hands instead as his next words strike blows to your treacherous heart.

 “Your Highness, I am here for you. You are far wittier than me—I have things to learn from you. You have bewitched me, for I did not know it was possible for a lady to consume my every waking thoughts in such a violent way as you have. You may think me a stranger, and you may think me one of the many foolish suitors here for Miss Helen’s hand, but I will make you fall in love with me. I will show you that despite my pride, I will be a kind and gentle husband.” He exhales, as if steadying himself, but his eyes remain fixed on you. There is no jest in them, no trace of the arrogance he so often wears like armor. Only something raw.

“And I will absolutely not leave this city until you come back to me in my kingdom as the Queen of Ithaca. It may require god-like skill to convince your father to marry me—but I am nothing if not persistent.”

Before you can even begin to form a response—before you can push past the breath lodged in your throat, the furious pounding in your chest—there’s a voice.

"There you are!"

Helen.

You turn just as she strides toward you, golden as ever, a vision of effortless beauty. She doesn’t seem to have heard a word of what was just spoken, too preoccupied with her own delight at having found you.

"I’ve been looking everywhere," she sighs, linking her arm through yours before glancing at Gojo, who, for once, remains uncharacteristically silent. Her eyes flick between the two of you, and then she hums. "I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?"

Gojo recovers faster than you do. "Not at all, Your Highness," he says smoothly, a practiced smile slipping into place. "I was simply getting to know your cousin better."

Helen gives him a flirtatious smile, but nevertheless turns to you, frowning. “And why are you at the physician’s?”

You feel Gojo’s eyes follow your movements as you shake your head and rise, walking towards Helen. “An unruly suitor. It was a light bruise, it is not a great matter–”

“A bruise?!”

“Come with me,” you hissed, waving her along so she did not question further. It seemed that the room was very warm, for you felt a heat creep up your neck the longer Gojo’s eyes unequivocally stayed on you. 

Helen blinked, at a loss for words, no doubt pondering why you both were leaving Gojo’s presence so readily. “But His Majesty—”

“Cousin,” you snapped, “did you not have a reason to be looking for me?”

Helen blinks, momentarily distracted. Then, as if something suddenly occurs to her, she brightens.

“Oh! Yes, Father wanted to see you.”

You exhale, relieved—only for it to be short-lived, because she doesn’t move.

She remains rooted in place, glancing back at Gojo with a look that is far too amused for your liking. The flirtatious smile returns, softer now, more intrigued.

“But surely,” she muses, tilting her head, “you wouldn’t mind if I stayed a moment longer? It’s not often one meets a man as charming as His Majesty of Ithaca.”

You narrow your eyes. “Helen.”

“What?” she says, all innocence. “We’re simply talking.”

You glance at Gojo, expecting him to look insufferably pleased, but instead, he’s watching you. Not Helen. You tear your gaze away.

It’s only once the two of you are walking through the halls, out of earshot, that Helen sighs, linking your arms again.

“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” she murmurs.

You keep your eyes ahead. “Perhaps. A bit arrogant, though.”

“He’s clever,” she corrects, then gives you a knowing look. “And you like him.”

You scoff, though the heat on your skin betrays you. “I do not.”

Helen only laughs, shaking her head. “Dearest cousin,” she sighs, “I have seen you endure the most persistent suitors with all the warmth of an ice-cold river. And yet, here you are, playing petteia with him, letting him tend to your wounds.”

You do not have an answer to that.

And Helen does not press further. She only smiles wistfully to herself, as if she already knows how this story will end.

…

The halls are silent at this hour, save for the whisper of your steps against the cool stone. You keep to the shadows, careful, quiet. If anyone were to see you like this—wrapped in a cloak, a weaver in hand, slipping through the corridors like a thief in the night—there would be whispers by morning.

But then again, what whispers have ever concerned you?

The thought does not comfort you as much as it should.

Your grip tightens around the weaver, its familiar weight grounding. You brought it with you on the off chance that Gojo, like most men, proves unreliable. You have no reason to believe he will come; his feelings for you could be temporary lust, a second option in case his primary one—Helen—fails. No reason to have entertained his invitation at all. And yet, you go.

You cannot say why.

A foolish impulse, perhaps. Or simple curiosity. Or maybe—

You push the thought away, focusing instead on the memory that surfaces unbidden.

A conversation with your father, just today while you dined.

You had spoken of Helen’s upcoming wedding of the foreign princes and warriors who sought her hand, of the future that awaited her.

Your father had frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “It is dangerous,” he had said, quiet but firm. “To entrust my daughter to a man who cannot ensure her well-being.”

You had smiled then, easy and unbothered, as if his words did not touch something in you. “It is not you he must convince.”

He had looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze, but ended up remarking offhandedly, as if reminding you. “I do not want you to go far from me.”

And you, still smiling, had said nothing at all.

Now, in the solitude of the night, you are no longer smiling.

You know your father’s concern is not unfounded. It is not simply Helen’s future that weighs on him—it is yours.

But it is a strange thing, the way his words linger, how they press against you, heavy and quiet. Not as a warning. Not as a burden. But as something else. Something you cannot yet name.

You reach the courtyard, the olive tree standing tall against the night sky behind a series of trees. You exhale, slow and steady, before walking to reach it, weaver in hand.

If he comes, he comes.

And if not—

Well. You were never the kind to wait idly for a man.

But before you could go on your endless mental tirade of how despicable the male species were, you heard a voice. Gojo’s voice in particular.

Walking closer and closer—to where your olive tree was but not where you were visible, trees providing coverage—you noticed him talking to someone in a hushed, yet excited tone. You use the window of sight allowed by the gap between the trees’ leaves to see him, standing with an owl on his forearm. It’s turned to him, as if paying attention, although exasperatedly, to him while he stands tall as ever, his foot tapping impatiently against the grass.

You hesitate, watching as the owl blinks at him, as if listening, considering his words.

And then it notices you. Its, well, owlish eyes are wide as they lock in on your figure.

With a quiet rustle of feathers, it takes flight, disappearing into the night.

Gojo turns, following its path before his gaze lands on you.

“You scared my friend away,” he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

You blink at him. “You were talking to an owl.”

He shrugs, as if this too is perfectly reasonable. “She’s a good listener. A little judgmental, though.”

You give him a look, unimpressed. “I see you’ve finally found an audience that suits you.”

His lips curve into a slow smile. “And yet, here you are.”

You huff, settling onto one of the smooth stones beneath the tree. “I didn’t come for your company.” You hold up the weaver in your hands, as if that alone is proof of your intentions. “I came to pass the time.”

“Ah,” he drawls, stepping closer, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. “And yet, you’re talking to me instead.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but he only grins, triumphant.

“Tell me,” he muses, dropping down beside you. “Were you hoping—or predicting, with that fast mind of yours—I wouldn’t come?”

You don’t answer right away, fingers idly threading the weaver. The night air is cool, the scent of olives and earth thick around you.

“Would it have mattered?” you ask at last, voice light, careless.

Gojo watches you, and for a moment, he does not answer either.

Then, quietly, as if confessing something neither of you are ready to name, he says, “Yes.”

You inhale slowly, fingers stilling on the weaver as his answer settles between you.

Yes.

It wasn’t spoken in jest, nor with the easy arrogance he so often wielded. Instead, it was quieter, more certain—like an unshakable truth, unburdened by expectation.

You don’t know what to make of it.

You cast him a glance from the corner of your eye. He’s sitting close but not too close, his long legs stretched out before him, arms resting lazily over his knees. His usual grin is absent, replaced by something unreadable, something you cannot name.

The weight of his gaze is different now. Not teasing, not searching for amusement—but waiting.

You look away first.

Your fingers resume their slow, practiced work, weaving delicate patterns into the fabric, though your thoughts are anything but orderly.

“Why are you here?” you ask, voice softer than you intend.

A beat passes before he answers.

“Because you are.”

You swallow.

He leans back onto his hands, tilting his head toward the night sky, moonlight catching in the pale strands of his hair. It makes him look otherworldly, like a figure carved from myth—too beautiful, too untouchable.

“I’m not Helen,” you say after a moment, unsure why the words leave your lips. “You have nothing to gain from this.”

Gojo exhales, a quiet sound, but when he looks at you again, there is something almost amused in his expression—touched with something softer, something more patient.

“Do you think I speak to owls for political gain?”

You huff, trying to ignore the warmth threatening to creep up your neck. “I think you do most things for your own amusement.”

He hums, as if considering that. “You wound me.”

“I doubt that,” you mutter, eyes fixed on your work.

And yet—his fingers twitch where they rest against the stone. It’s small, barely noticeable, but your eyes catch it, and you wonder.

Does he want to reach for you?

The thought unsettles you more than it should.

He exhales again, then shifts, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, expression thoughtful. “You know,” he muses, “I had a whole speech planned.”

You raise a brow. “Oh?”

“Something about how I was drawn to you the way sailors are drawn to sirens. That you, unlike any other, have made me question things I thought I knew.” He looks down at his knees, lips pulling in a mischievous smile. “But with you, I doubt a night of spilling sweet nothings or perhaps…other things would have swayed you.”

Your fingers still.

“But I think I’ve changed my mind,” he continues, tilting his head. “I think I’d rather just talk to you.”

You stare at him, caught somewhere between wariness and something dangerously close to wonder.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “What would you have said next?”

His lips twitch, and for the first time tonight, there is mischief in his gaze again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You roll your eyes, but the moment has shifted, lighter now, though something unnamed still lingers beneath it.

“Keep your secrets, then,” you mutter, returning to your weaving.

“You wound me,” Gojo says again, pressing a hand to his chest as if truly affronted. “Here I am, spilling my heart, and you deny me even a scrap of sentiment.”

You let out a quiet scoff, keeping your focus on your weaving. “Perhaps if your words weren’t so dramatic, I’d be inclined to believe them.”

Gojo gasps. “Dramatic?” He leans closer, an almost boyish grin tugging at his lips. “My lady, I am nothing if not a man of sincerity.”

“Oh? So that speech about sirens wasn’t an embellishment?”

“Not at all.” He sighs, as if suffering under some great burden. “I wake in the morning thinking of you, I lay my head at night wondering if you’ve thought of me at all. It’s agony, truly.”

You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. “That sounds more like a malady than love.”

“Ah, but love is a sickness, is it not?” He exhales dramatically. “And you, my lady, have made a very ill man of me.”

Despite yourself, a laugh escapes—light, unguarded, like something slipping past your defenses before you can catch it.

And then—silence.

You glance at him, and find him already watching you.

His usual mischief is gone, replaced by something softer, something wholly unprepared. His breath is caught somewhere between his ribs, his lips slightly parted as if the sight of your laughter has stolen the air from him.

And then—

A blush, unmistakable even in the moonlight.

Your heart stutters.

Oh.

For the first time, you allow yourself to study him properly. The sharp angles of his jaw, the elegant bridge of his nose, the vivid eyes that hold yours so intently.

He is very handsome.

The thought settles somewhere unexpected, like an admission you’ve been avoiding.

Before you can dwell on it, something light catches against your shoulder—a drifting leaf, caught in the folds of your garment.

Gojo moves before you can react.

His fingers brush against the fabric near your collarbone, and then linger, featherlight and warm, as he pulls the leaf free. The moment stretches—longer than it should, charged with something unspeakable.

You feel his breath before you see him move, close enough now that the space between you is barely a whisper.

His hand, now free of its task, hesitates—before it trails downward, catching yours in his grasp.

He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to fill the moment with jest. His thumb traces the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, as if memorizing the shape of you.

Your own breath falters.

His breath is warm in the cool night air, his proximity setting something taut beneath your ribs. You are no stranger to flirtation, nor to men who think they can win you with pretty words, but Gojo—Gojo is different.

Perhaps it’s the way he looks at you now, his usual mischief tempered by something quieter. Or perhaps it’s the fact that, despite his arrogance, despite his clever tongue and tireless persistence, he does not presume to take.

He waits.

A dangerous thing, because it gives you time to notice the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your sleeve, the way his lips part as if tasting the words before speaking them.

“You’re staring,” he murmurs, tilting his head.

You arch a brow, feigning indifference despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Am I?”

His lips curve. “Should I be flattered?”

You hum, as if considering it. “I’m only making observations.”

“Oh?” He steps just a fraction closer, his voice dipping. “And what have you observed, my lady?”

“That you blush quite easily,” you say smoothly, pleased when the faint flush creeps further up his neck. “That despite your grand declarations, you are, in fact, a little shy.”

Gojo lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Shy? My lady, you wound me.”

“Do I?” You tilt your chin up slightly, your voice softer now, your hand still in his.

His gaze flickers to your lips.

Your breath catches, just for a moment.

And then—

His hand moves, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw before settling at the nape of your neck, his touch deliberate, careful. A question, waiting for an answer.

You don’t grant him words—only the tilt of your head, the briefest lean forward.

It is all the invitation he needs.

He kisses you like a secret, like something to be savored—slow at first, testing, before he grows bolder. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and warmth floods through you, seeping into your bones.

The world is silent save for the soft hitch of breath, the faint rustle of fabric as he deepens the kiss, as you allow yourself to press into him, fingers curling into the front of his tunic.

For a man who never stops talking, he is utterly wordless now. 

When you wake up next in the morning, it is grumpy and tired. Not only were you up late into the night, talking to and…kissing Gojo of Ithaca, or rather, Satoru (while you were drunk on each other, he had convinced you to call him Satoru), but the sound of Helen’s squealing made your head ring, putting an unbearable pressure onto them.

“Helen!” you scold her, throwing a spare pillow at her. She easily dodges while you sit up in the bed, half-heartedly rubbing your eyes to wipe the sleep from them. As she throws herself onto the foot of the bed, you notice and hear the pitter patter of rain, casting a somber gray light in your bedroom that is occasionally interrupted by Zeus’s thunder, as if the god was angered or sharing a premonition. 

Shaking off the thought, you scowl at your cousin, who’s excitedly prattling about things you still have yet to comprehend. “Slow down! Tell me, without spewing all your words at once.”

“Father gave me permission to marry!” she squealed, jumping on you and hugging you closely. She seemed happy, and you loved your cousin very much, even if you did not show it much. Pure affection permeates your countenance, as she continues. “You know I’ve always wanted to marry him, with his big arms and all. He could totally manhandle me, but you knoooww I love the ones that can whimper—”

“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your ears as if scandalized (you’ve said much worse to her), but you grin regardless. “Who is the man that you have chosen?”

“Well,” she laughs, flipping her hair off her shoulder, “Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.”

Your heart drops to your stomach.

What she says next seems to blur together, not registering because you are shocked, your world almost tilted.

Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.

It is then you realize belatedly that Helen seems to be calling out to you, and what you notice the most out of anything on her face is the soft smile she has on her face. One that shows that she is fond of Satoru Gojo, that she has affection for him. And who are you—the girl whose father doesn’t wish for her to marry, one that isn’t to be promised—take that away from Helen, from him?

Gojo has made it clear that he is not here for Helen—but wouldn’t it be better for him and his kingdom (which you discovered last night that he cares so dearly for) for him to marry Helen? A beautiful queen and a wise king. 

What a match.

You swallow, throat suddenly dry, but you manage a smile—strained, weak, but a smile nonetheless.

“Helen,” you begin, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you, “are you certain?”

“Of course!” she beams, oblivious to the way your fingers tighten in the fabric of your bedding. “Father said Gojo has yet to ask officially, but he will, I know it. And why wouldn’t he? A match like this—it’s fate.”

Fate.

What cruel irony.

You remember last night—Gojo’s hands warm against your skin, his laughter pressed against your lips, the way he had murmured your name like a vow.

And yet—

You look at Helen, golden and radiant even in the gray morning light, her eyes alight with genuine happiness. You love her, truly, and have since childhood. She has always had her pick of men, but there was something softer in the way she spoke of Satoru just now.

The soft smile, the dreamy lilt to her voice.

She wants this.

And what of you?

Your chest aches, but you laugh, the sound lighter than it should be. “You sound quite taken with him.”

“I am,” she beams, watching you. “He’s gorgeous! Charming, too. He told me last night that he thinks my eyes are like the sea at sunrise.”

Your stomach twists and it seems that the panic overwhelms you because all you can manage to do is swallow and nod. “Well,” you look at her with a tight smile, “I congratulate you. Let us discuss this matter further over breakfast.” She smiles and squeezes your upper arm in a goodbye, and the touch of it burns.

You don’t ever make it to breakfast that day.

It continues raining that day, and it’s quite appropriate for how you’re feeling. The feeling of melancholy permeates the air around you as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually, you occupy your time by reading or, more likely, weaving, but you couldn’t muster the energy to find interest in that either.

Over a man. What a shame.

You were not one to lie idle—you were constantly praised as a princess wise beyond her years, and it would be wise, in this situation, to move on. Because the man you had grown feelings for is now engaged to your cousin, or, at least, your cousin intends to be engaged with him. And it would be wiser to let it happen, for Helen’s happiness was your happiness.

Sighing, you stuff your face into your pillow and groan, muffled by the linen fabric of your seats. You then decide grudgingly that if you’re not going to leave your room at all, it may be best to shed yourself of your clothing and lay comfortably in your loincloth and mamillare.

But right as you put your hand on your clothing to strip yourself, you hear a noise. 

The sound comes again—a sharp, rhythmic tap-tap-tap, just barely audible over the rain. You freeze, fingers still curled around the fabric of your chiton, half-peeled from your shoulder. At first, you think it might be a stray branch scraping against the stone, wind-tossed by the storm. But then it happens again—more deliberate this time, insistent.

Then, looking at the new objects strewn across your balcony, you realize it’s not branches—it’s pebbles.

You scowl, tying your garments hastily before moving toward the balcony. The rain is gentler now, more mist than storm, clinging to the stone and silvering the world beyond. You grip the railing and peer down—

And there he is.

Satoru.

Drenched from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, a frown curving his lips as he concentrates on where he’s going to throw his pebble next. His stance seems urgent, but you’re so caught up on the fact that he’s here, as if he isn’t supposed to be engaged to Helen or be subjected to whatever congratulatory round of alcohol men bestowed upon each other after securing the most beautiful woman alive.

Your heart stutters.

You pull back immediately, breath catching in your throat. You shouldn’t have come to the balcony. You shouldn’t be looking at him, shouldn’t be thinking about this morning when Helen’s voice still lingers in your ears—Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.

The pebble strikes the stone beside you.

“I know you’re up there,” Gojo calls, tone indecipherable. “Are you really going to ignore me? After all we’ve been through?”

You swallow and your voice trembles when you say, “Go away.”

His resulting laughter sounds betrayed, hurt. “You don’t mean that.”

“Satoru,” and you don’t know if it’s a plea or a warning. His head tilts, an anguished look on his face as he closes his eyes and sighs.

“You wound me,” he huffs out a pained laugh, “After all, I run the risk of sickness just to see you and tell you that you believe wrong.”

Something is created in you, then. Something dangerous like hope. “What?”

But instead of answering, Gojo crouches, then, in one smooth motion, leaps up, catching the edge of the balcony with ease. You barely have time to react before he’s pulling himself over the railing, stepping onto solid ground with practiced grace.

You stumble back, eyes wide. “I told you not to come up.”

“And when have I ever listened?”

There’s something in the way he looks at you then—an intensity you aren’t prepared for. The air between you is charged, thick with something unspoken, something far too dangerous to name.

He takes a step forward. “I thought you were smarter than this.”

You blink, startled. “Excuse me?”

Gojo exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “Why would you ever think it would be Helen?”

Your stomach lurches. “She said—”

“She assumed,” he corrects, cutting you off. “But I did not accept her. And you let her do that.” His voice drops lower, softer, a stark contrast to the teasing lilt he so often wields. “Do you truly think so little of me?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, it will come spilling out—the hope you tried to bury, the ache that settled in your chest the moment Helen uttered those words.

He moves closer, and you don’t stop him.

“Princess,” you can see his ivory lashes with how close he is, his face covered in raindrops, “for how wise you are, you seem to not have caught on. What animal is the emblem of Athena?”

Blinking, you’re taken aback by the sudden quizzing. “Owl, what about it—”

Oh.

He sees the realization dawn over your face, and now his tense expression melts into a bittersweet smile. “The goddess of wisdom has been my companion ever since I was a child, helping me attain whatever I needed the most. Whether it be to gain the knowledge one must have to be worthy of being king, or,” he inhales sharply, vibrant eyes scanning over your face vulnerably, “to gain the power to be able to make the wisest, wittiest, funniest, and most beautiful girl I’ve ever known my queen.

“After all, I have my wit—add a little of godlike power, and even I could defeat your father. Respectfully,” he adds quickly. He looks anxious you realize, as if he is about to make a risky move, a big ask. Something he’s been anxious to ask, but scared to. His eyes are still scanning you and his hands twitch at his side as he says, “I hesitate to make this decision, to ask you still after knowing the true nature of my desire for you—”

“Ask me what?”

His eyes are fixed on you, and you think that both of your hearts are beating very, very fast at the moment. “What do you think, princess?”

The silence that falls is loaded, heavy, and laden with hesitation. It’s as if a vice has caged its way through your heart, squeezing and squeezing until all the things you’ve left unsaid threaten to spill out. Things like I don’t want you to marry my cousin. Or yet, even worse, I want you to marry me. “I would not want to throw out my guesses, Satoru,” you instead opt to say, voice soft. “Things like this must be said directly, to not leave any confusion or misunderstandings.”

His jaw tightens, his breath coming harder as he stares at you, something raw and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “I agree. These things should never be left unsaid.” His voice is low, almost seething, but not with anger—no, this is something else entirely, something desperate. “I love you.” The words are unshakable, like a vow. “And I refuse to sit here and pretend my thoughts of you are anything less than ruinous. I dream of you in ways no other man is allowed to, ways that would send me to Hades with a smile on my lips. You have bewitched my soul, stolen the breath from my body, and most dangerously—you have claimed my mind.” His voice drops, softer now, but no less intense. “I do not know how to make you believe me, only that I would sooner challenge the gods themselves than let you slip through my fingers. The world could promise me tens of Helen, but there is only one woman I would ever choose.” His hand finds yours, fingers tightening, as his next words fall like an oath.

“You.”

Your breath stutters, throat tightening as his fingers tighten over yours. His touch is searing, as if the gods themselves have set him aflame, and yet you cannot pull away—you do not want to pull away.

“Satoru—” His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he swears under his breath, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb pressing just below your lips, as if he is fighting the urge to kiss you.

“I would tear down Olympus itself if it meant keeping you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek. “I would make war with the gods, call upon Athena to guide my spear, and spill the blood of any man foolish enough to think they could take you from me.” His voice is rough, almost a growl, and you swear your knees would give way if not for the way he holds you now, as though letting go would be his ruin.

It is reckless, to let yourself lean into him, to let your fingers curl into the fabric of his damp chiton as though you could anchor yourself to him. But he is an anchor—pulling you into something deep, something dangerous, something you know you will not escape from unscathed.

His nose brushes yours, his lips so close that you feel his every breath, his every hesitation. But you see the war in his eyes, the battle between restraint and desire, and for once, you decide to let yourself be selfish.

So you whisper, “Then prove it.”

And that is all it  takes for him to break.

His lips crash against yours, urgent and claiming, as if to kiss you any softer would be to deny himself the air he breathes. He groans as your hands tangle in his hair, your body pressing flush against his, his own hands no longer gentle but gripping, desperate, possessive. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he deepens the kiss, one hand trailing lower, pressing against the curve of your waist, then lower still—

Thunder crackles, as you gasp out his name. He pulls you both apart, looking anguished as if he’s fighting the urge to keep touching you, to make you moan out his name. Realizing this, you grab his hands and put them on yourself. “My love,” you say, tenderly, and you see how his pupils dilate in response, “you may touch me—”

“Are you sure? For if you say that, I may not be able to stop myself from indulging. Because I will take and take, until you can give me no more.” The way he says it, uncharacteristically serious and brows furrowed, makes you heat up even more, dizzy with lust and your pent up longing for the man.

But your response stays the same, paired with a firm nod. “I am sur—mmmph.”

He smothers you with his lips before you can finish, cupping your jaw until his hands start to move downwards. They move, tracing the planes of your body, and they are relentless in their exploration—they grab you possessively, pushing you closer and closer to him until his hands are below your thighs. Satoru maneuvers you until your legs are straddling his waist so that he can pick you up and carry you to your bed.

After he throws you down like carrying you poses to him as much of a challenge as carrying a light potato sack, he admires you—-thighs clenched, hair splayed around your head like a halo. The skirt of your clothes has inched its way up, exposing your thighs. “Gods, you don’t know what you do to me.”

But instead of playing the innocent maiden, you look at him through your lashes, laughing. “Satoru, time is of the essence. Flattery will get you nowhere—you must show it through your actions.”

You didn’t know what saying his name—and prompting him like that—does to him. He meets your lips in a furious kiss once again, this time hand sneaking up your skirt. He meets the fabric of your loincloth, hooking at its sides and pulling them downwards and downwards, until it is hooked off your ankle (not before Satoru leaves it a trailing kiss there, of course. It is only until Satoru’s eyes hone in what’s in the middle of legs that you realize that you are bare to him. “Satoru, I—”

“I must do something,” he instead responds, and you look at him in confusion. He’s moving down your body as you ask him what he means and if something’s wrong.

You’re interrupted by your gasp as his mouth descends on you, leaving hot, openmouthed kisses directly on your core. His tongue delves inside your lower lips, pleasing the nerves and leaving them singing. He undoes you, leaving your legs feeling like jelly, and the fervor he does it with is nauseating—as if your nectar is ambrosia itself. 

Soon enough, with his reverent worship—and a finger or two added to stretch you out and make you emit embarrassing noises that only encourage him further—you come with a cry of his name. As you roll your hips, riding out your climax, his mouth and head follow and trail your hips, unrelenting in pleasuring you even though you’re overstimulated and left quivering. 

“I—” you blurted, trying to fill the silence after he had just made you taste colors. “I hate you.”

Satoru faux pouts, biting back a grin. “Rude thing to say when I just made you—”

“Don’t finish that!” you shriek, swatting his head lightly as he laughs, kissing his way back up your body. In a tone more shy than you’d like, you say in a small voice, “But I hope we’re not done yet?”

Satoru’s made his way up to your clothed breasts, kissing them tenderly. However, when he hears the question, he stills, looks at you with wide eyes, and he groans, as if surprised by your forwardness. “Princess, the things you do to me.”

He kneads your ass while he stands up, orienting himself into a position to do—that. A voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re not supposed to be doing this before you get married, but your lust is too strong. And, after all, you trust that there’s no way Satoru wouldn’t marry you.

You feel a slight pressure in your nether regions, and you realize that it is Satoru’s cock. His eyes are on you, blown out with lust, as he continues to stroke the length of it while observing your every reaction. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes.”

With your confirmation, his eyes next left your face as he pushed in, moving slowly and gently. He gauged your features for any signs of discomfort or pain as he moved in shallow thrusts, gradually increasing their length. You gasped, his murmurs and sweet nothings coaxing out your whimpers and whines as he bumped a spot inside of you. As he did, fireworks erupted in the back of your mind, leaving you boneless as he got you closer and closer to your climax once again.

For someone who didn’t experience carnal desires often, you wonder how you’ve gone without this kind of pleasure for so long. Satoru made you feel worshipped, tracing kisses with a love that was almost pious. It doesn’t take you long after that to come once more, thrashing in his grip.

Your climax sheathed on his cock unlocks something in him, for he begins to thrust harder and faster, becoming sloppier and sloppier. His voice is by your ear, whining your name continuously. When he finally feels himself climb over and finally orgasm, he breathes out an “Ah,” and thrusts himself to completely bottom out while his come fills you up, pooling inside of you.

You both stay interlocked for gods know how long. Until Satoru pipes up, voice still unstable and panting, “By the way, it went unsaid, but I’m going to marry you. And you can’t say no.”

Your resulting giggle makes him break out in a big smile before he hugs you, wrestling you both to lie side by side in bed.

It goes without saying, but it all goes smoothly according to plan.

When Satoru had played with petteia with you, he had aimed to show Athena your wit. It is no small claim to defeat him, a king associated with Athena, in the game. The following events further made Athena approve of you and give her blessing. 

So Gojo was already ten steps ahead when he asked your father for your blessing. Your father was furious, of course—he did not want to let you go. After much cajoling and agreement to beat your father, a champion runner, in a race to attain your hand, Satoru wiped his brow. The way your father loved you would be scary to him if he didn’t love you as intensely as he did now. 

And of course Satoru won. Athena got her fellow Olympian, Hermes, to rent out his infamous speed. When he wins, Sparta is in an uproar, including your cousin.

“So, how is he?” Helen asks mischievously. You later found out that day that Helen’s words of marrying Gojo had a purpose—to push you both towards each other, once and for all. 

“I don’t know what you mean,” you turn away, with a hmph. Crossing your arms, you pretend to roll your eyes at the knowing look she had.

“I don’t know, cousin,” she giggles, “I heard a couple of voices in your room when I tried to visit you a few nights back. Tell me, does he whimper—-”

“Helen!” 

The day you marry, donning beautiful and regal clothes, Gojo sneaks you away multiple times to kiss you under your veil when no one is looking.

His wedding gift is built by him—on the voyage back to Ithaca, he not only takes you away from Sparta, but the olive tree that you both had met at. He builds the shared marital bed out of the olive tree for his queen with his blood and sweat. It is a symbol of your love, everlasting, and you would daresay that it is the most precious gift anyone has ever given you.

What you give him in return is one fat and giggly baby. Your father grumbles that the child looks too much like his father, but the way he holds the babe—so carefully, so gently—betrays his affection. Helen coos at her little nephew, amused at how utterly soft Satoru has become, how the once-cocky king now spends his days doting on both you and your child, as if he has won the world itself.

And perhaps he has.

After all, Satoru has always been a man of ambition. A man who would scheme, fight, and even defy the gods for what he desires. And yet, as he holds your child in one arm and you in the other, murmuring teasing words against your ear before stealing another kiss, you realize something—

He had never needed Athena’s wisdom, Hermes’ speed, or any other divine favor to win you.

Because you had already been his, just as he had always been yours.

general masterlist

a/n thank u to my very supportive bestie @purplegemadventures i love all ur ideas ml <3 anyways like always all my beta readers are the goats thank you for reading my incomprehensible ideas. it's 5am and there's a mosquito that's hovering near me and im not totally happy w how this turned out but it was fun writing it kjenkjne. i may write more greek mythology aus but i need to lock in on my series....

ppl who asked to be tagged: @heh123321 @melotter

thank you for reading! reblog and comment to let me know ur thots <3

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

grass stains

simon "ghost" riley

cw: smut/pwp, rugby au, friends-to-lovers, rugby player!simon, breeding kink, pregnancy, wife!reader, cowgirl position, size kink

this bunny runs on reblogs, tags & comments!

simon was a superstar. you had always known that, ever since you were both teens. you remembered him as the intimidating boy with shaggy blond hair who hated talking. but, that was fine. you'd talk for both of them!

now in your twenties, he was still broad and intimidating. now with two fake teeth due to rugby and a sleeve of tattoos. he was one of the best rugby players in england, if not the entire island. people knew simon "ghost" riley fairly well. when you went to games, you often heard the chanting of his name. regardless he was your husband and you loved him more than the flowers in your front garden loved the sun.

"you know mister riley." you said as you scrubbed at the front of his jersey with an old toothbrush. the suds from the cleaner got deeper into the fabric of the jersey, "i don't know how you get grass stains that are so tough! i'm pretty sure if i cleaned soap's or gaz's jerseys they wouldn't have so much trouble."

simon was at the stove nearby, checking on the boiling potatos for the cottage pie he was making the both of you for dinner. he looked over to you by the small dining table, "i'll talk to the team, love."

you raised your eyebrows at him, "and why exactly am i washing this? you have two hands."

he tilted his head towards the boiling potatoes on the stove. he replied, "someone's gotta make cottage pie."

you stuck your tongue out at him, but he pretended to catch it like a kiss then pressed it to his chest. you did have to admit, simon was a better cook than you and the cottage pie was amazing. so in exchange you'd battle the stains on his kit.

the jersey got cleaned eventually and was hung up in the kitchen to dry overnight. and after dinner and clean up (which simon did as a thank you for you working so hard on the kit). simon led you to the bedroom and you got out of the oversized t-shirt and the patterned sleeping shorts you wore.

you got into your husband's lap and he held you close to him as you kissed him gently. you hand touched the side of his face tenderly as you felt his erection against your back.

"my beautiful wife." he said softly against your lips before he went in for another kiss. he felt you then hold onto the front of the grey t-shirt he wore.

"my darling husband. i love you so much."

"not as much as i love you. i try to look from you in the stands even when i know you're home. you're my good luck charm, love. that's why i ask you wash my jersey. so i have a little piece of you while i play."

"you know i'm always cheering you on, simon." you kissed his nose. it had been broken so many times that it was angled weird. but, you loved it, just as you loved every part of him, "and if any other player tries to say anything bad about you, i'll kick their asses."

he chuckled, "like my bullies in secondary school. i remember when you hit that one guy so hard he basically begged me for forgiveness." he cupped the back of your head and looked into your eyes.

you poked his broad chest and said, "yeah, and i'll kick their asses again if i had to."

simon cupped your behind before he leaned in close once more and said, "well then, why don't i show my missuses some tlc for bein' so good to me." he got you onto the bed and helped you out of the rest of your clothes, until you naked for him.

you were both naked on the bed together, simon's strong arms around you as he laid there next to you. he took in the sight of every curve of your body. his beautiful wife.

he remembered when you dyed your hair in secondary school or when you went through your 'punk' phase right before uni. he remembered when you stole two beers from your parents' fridge and you two got a little drunk only to kiss for the first time.

he lucked out with a wife like you. the prettiest bird he had ever seen.

his lips found your neck as you two cuddled together naked. you moaned and held onto those wide shoulders. you went to almost every game he had ever played in. you even packed up your little life to be with him in liverpool.

soon he took you gently and got onto his back. placing you onto his waist. you smiled down at him and rubbed your sweet pussy up against his erect cock. you giggled, "someone wants it."

"love, if i could never have it again. i would die. you're the only one i want." he chuckled as he massaged the fat of your hips. he tensed up when you seated yourself onto his cock.

you let out a soft moan as you got yourself settled. you planted both hands on his board chest for leverage as you moved your hips up and down. he was just so much bigger than you, you remember him before the growth spurt. you were taller than him for a brief while before he shot up well past six feet.

and then came all the muscle, then he had very few bullies after that. but, you'd still give them a piece of your mind. to you, simon was still the scrawny blond with the uniform hat was a tad too big for him. not the mountain of a professional rugby player he was now.

"mmm, si." you said as you rolled your hips against him. you felt the pleasure course through you as you moved up and down on his cock.

you felt the warmth of intimacy in your gut as you moved up and down on his cock. he held you and watched your moved against him. your hands looked so small on his big chest. you were just so perfect for him. being able to take all of him perfectly.

he gave gentle thrusts to match yours, he could feel the heat climb his neck and into his cheeks. "i want you to have my babies, love." he said softly, "i wanna be on the field and see ya in the stands carrying my big baby." he groaned as his eyes squeezed shut for a moment. eventually his hands found your breasts and he groped them as you moved together, "i want a whole house of 'em." he chuckled.

you held him by the face for a moment and looked into his eyes, those darling browns looked back at you, "how about we start with one first there, my love."

he than wrapped his strong arms around your middle and thrusted up into you. you two met each other's pace as he whined, "i just want you so badly, love. you'd be such a good mama to my kids."

you kissed him on the lips as you laid against him. chest to chest as you two moved together. you felt the exhilaration of pleasure in your gut.

he kept those arms around you as he bumped up into you, his lips wet your cheeks as he heavily panted against you. you felt so good against him. he groaned, "pretty wife. my beautiful pretty wife." he was rambling at that point.

you pulled him into a searing kiss, his lips were chapped against yours. you tasted like the sweet lipgloss you always wore, that made his cock twitch inside of you.

"my beautiful husband." you said when you broke the kiss, "with all those scars and tattoos, you're perfect for me. you've become a wonderful man."

his heart fluttered a little. he was so painfully in love with you.

you soon both climaxed within moments of one another, with you first followed by him. he held onto your soft hips tightly as he pushed his cock as far as it would go. he shuddered and gasped, while you let out a string of sweet little moans. you slowed down your pace as you felt the high of pleasure. you held onto your lover's chest and panted heavily before you got the strength to get off of him and laid down beside him. you felt him wipe the sweat off your forehead and give the skin a kiss.

"you're so beautiful." he said, "my missuses."

"of course, simon." you snuggled up closer to him. basking in his warmth, "because i established myself at your number one fan in tenth year, so.... of course no one else is going to take that."

"and who else will get my grass stains out." he chuckled as he kissed your nose.

"exactly!" you said as you looped your arm around his waist and remained close, "no one else is taking my title, dammit!" you said jokingly, you knew you were more than just his wife. he saw you grow up just as much as you saw him grow up. you were a pair for a lifetime.

-

at the beginning of the following season, you found yourself in the same spot scrubbing at the jersey to get all the stains out. occasionally you stopped scrubbing and held it up to inspect it.

you had your daughter in april, little rose riley. even at four months old, she had already shown an interest in rugby. simon even went as far as to make her a onesie with his number and name on it.

currently while you were washing his jersey, he was across the table from you, holding onto your daughter. the little girl was nice and asleep in her father's bulky arms. he could kill someone with them, but yet held his little girl so delicately.

"ya know mister riley." you said as you examined the jersey once more, "i think these stains have gotten harder to clean since last season. it's like they designed this jersey to piss me off."

simon chuckled, "i'll talk to the team next time. tell them to make my wife's life much easier."

you looked at him, "and why exactly am i washing it, again?" you raised your eyebrows at him.

he tilted his head down to your daughter, "someone's gotta hold rosie."

you made a face before you said, "you're lucky i love you. but, if i can't get these grass stains out i'm going to manager price's office tomorrow and talk to him."

"you mean yell?" simon quipped.

"don't make me dump this in the flower garden and have you wash it." you warned with a finger pointed in his direction.

simon shifted his hold on your daughter and said to rosie, "can you believe mama?" he made a face before he looked at you and smiled a bit, "i love you."

you put the jersey down on the table and reached over to touch his tattooed arm, "i love you too, mister grass stains." <3

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.

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

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. 

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

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.

Unspoken Bond one-shot | husband!sukuna x wife!reader

Summary: Sukuna gets into a motorcycle accident and forgets who you are.

Genre: modern au, 18+, established relationship, memory-loss, fluff

Word Count: 2.1k

Fic warnings: ooc, profanity, sexually suggestive language

a/n: tysm to @univocalbaby for the idea!!!!

It’s the eighth day Sukuna’s been in the hospital following his motorcycle accident. You were thankful he lived through it and only broke a leg, but he’s unfortunately suffering from short term memory loss according to the doctor. 

You haven’t been around him while he’s been awake yet. The only time he really was awake was when he briefly came to consciousness shortly after he arrived at the hospital. 

You aren’t 100% clear on what had happened because you were going through every single emotion when the doctor was telling you, but apparently he woke up confused and tried to fight everyone that was on staff that night.. which led to them sedating him.

Multiple times. 

Bless his heart, he probably deserved it given the fact that there’s been hospital security sitting outside the room 24/7 after that incident occurred. You only hoped the next time he woke up, he’d be a little calmer, more open to hearing out the nurses and doctors around him rather than trying to pummel them, again.

You’ve stayed by his side for the most part, only leaving the hospital room for an hour or two at a time to go shower or take a walk. You’ve also gone to his favorite bakery to grab his favorite donuts every morning in hopes that he’d wake up to something freshly made, although he has yet to do so. 

You’re starting to think they gave him a horse tranquilizer, and just by looking at your big brute of a husband, you completely understand.

Luckily, the staff had no problem taking the sweets off your hands at the end of each night, you’re sure it also softened them up towards him as well. 

Turns out the patient from hell on floor 27 has a sweet wife, so he can’t be that bad, right?

It’s currently 11:27 am and you decide to tidy up his room a bit. Some of the flowers that were first sent to him have begun to die, so you do away with those. You also try to clear up the counters and floor as much as you can. 

Sukuna was quite the clean freak, even though he’s never complained or gotten mad at you for random clutter around the house, you just decide to clean up because you know it’ll bring him some clarity when he eventually does wake up. 

Right when you finish, you hear a grouchy little ‘ahem’ from across the room and you can’t help but hold back laughter when you turn around to look at your husband who’s obviously been awake and watching you for quite some time now. 

You don’t know if you’re just happy to see him awake or if it’s from the way he’s glaring absolute daggers at you, unable to move because one of his leg’s in a cast and propped up in a sling that’s hanging from the ceiling. 

He clearly doesn’t remember who you are and you’re genuinely curious to see where it’ll go from here because he was a bit of an asshole when you first met him.

“You’re awake,” you offer him a smile as you walk up to him and you can tell Sukuna is trying so fucking hard to not stare at your chest, because you are a stranger to him at the moment.

“And who are you?” He huffs out, most likely offended that you didn’t notice he was awake until he made it known.

“Your wife,” you say– the moment you tell him that his eyes briefly scroll down because he really couldn’t help himself.

“Real cute, sweetheart,” he waves you off and looks out the window. “I don’t have one.” 

“Yes, you do.” You giggle at how quick he was to dismiss your claims. It reminded you a lot of how snippy he was with you before you started dating– when he tried to convince himself and others around him that he didn’t like you even though he did.

“No, I don’t,” he sounds so sure of himself as he crosses his arms and leans back to look at you, a little smile tugging on the corners of his mouth. 

You can tell he’s trying to flex his muscles in front of you– funny how the car accident wiped away his memory, but not his arrogance. 

But you can’t complain too much, you married this asshole. 

You also know him well enough to know the little smirk on his face could only lead to one thing, which is just ridiculous since he had just woken up. 

“I know what you’re trying to do,” his voice was seducingly low as he began to basically undress you with his eyes. 

“Oh yeah?” You raised your brows. “What is it that I'm trying to do then?” You consider crossing your arms as well but you already know that would be the final straw to him zeroing in your cleavage. 

“You’re just another volunteer trying to fuck a patient,” he sneered and you nearly choke on air because he never fails to remind you how much of an idiot he can be sometimes. “Last time I checked, that’s against HIPAA.” 

“I don’t think you’ve ever checked HIPAA at all, because that would not be the case here,” you groaned, shaking your head. 

“And now you’re calling me stupid, you are never stepping foot in this hospital again.” He promises.

“I never called you that— what are you doing Kuna?” 

He reached for the red button next to his bed and pressed it while holding eye contact with you, menacingly. “Nurse! There’s a little volunteer girl in my room that’s sexually harassing me.” 

You stood there in absolute disbelief over how quick he was to snitch on you and it made you realize just how good you had it when he did remember he was married to you. 

“You’re quite bold, you know that?” He says, smiling as he rests his head on the palm of his hand. “If you had just been a little nicer after getting caught, I would’ve given you my number. You’re actually pretty fuckin’ hot.” He concludes.

“Yeah? You probably don’t even remember it,” you spat back and you’re pretty sure he didn't, judging by the way he scoffed at you and looked back out the window. 

He’s probably trying to remember it right now, but to no avail. 

“Mr. Ryomen? Is everything okay?” A nurse hurriedly rushed into the room shortly after he tattled on you. 

“That’s her,” he points his finger at you. “Take that box away from her and get her out of here.”  

“Mr. Ryomen!” The nurses hissed at him, remembering how he brutalized one of her colleagues when he first got here. “Do not speak about your wife like that, she has been worried sick since you got here!”

You completely stopped trying to explain yourself once she came to your defense, thank god you decided to give the staff the donuts rather than just throwing them away. Sukuna also quickly realized how badly he had fucked up because not only were you his hot wife, but now you were also mad at him. 

To his surprise, you ended up staying after the doctor explained everything that’s happened to him— which might as well be a punishment in itself since you barely spoke to him after that.

And it’s awkward seeing him trying to talk to you because he knows how much of an asshole he was being and he was honestly as nervous as he was when he was on his first date with you.

He did, however, “accidentally” drop the tv remote on the ground— making you grab it for him because he was looking at you with puppy-dog eyes, ultimately breaking the ice between you two because you felt bad for ignoring him.

You didn’t hand the remote back to him though and instead scooted your chair closer to his bed so you could lean your head against it. “Do you even like the show you’re watching right now?” 

“Not really,” he shyly admits before clearing his throat. “Will you put on something I like? Please?” 

“Of course,” you giggled and the sweetness in your voice made his chest flutter. 

“What’s in the box you brought?” He nodded towards the counter in the corner of the room.

“Your favorite donuts,” you gave him a smile, remembering how he had tried to have them confiscated from you before kicking you out of the room all together. “I’ll give you one if you can actually remember what your favorite flavor is.” 

“Not fucking fair,” he nearly lunged out of the hospital bed but was stopped by the cast on his leg. “Hand over the fucking box.”

“Nope. You never even apologized for trying to kick me out.”

“Fine, I’m sorry.” He says rather boyishly and glares at you for having the audacity to smile at his suffering. 

You thought it was funny, what a sick woman you were.

You get up from your seat to grab the box in the corner of the hospital room. Before you sat back down on the chair, he had already scooted over as much as possible and patted the side of the bed so you’d sit with him instead. 

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” he murmurs to himself the moment you opened the box in front of him. 

“What? These are your favorite!” You remind him, even though he really wouldn’t know until he actually tried one. 

“Mine or yours?” He picks one up and looks at the pink, sprinkled donut with disgust. “You’re messing with me.” 

“Am not,” you rip a bite-sized piece off the donut and try to feed him, but he just stares at you– looking extremely skeptical. “C’mon just try it, I wouldn’t bring you anything you wouldn’t like.” 

He quickly gives in because he honestly can’t say no to you. 

And instead of admitting you were right and that he did like it, he instead asked you to feed him the rest because he remembered he was your husband and it was okay to ask you to do that. You were happy to do so of course, especially with him going back to his soft self. 

For a moment, he couldn’t believe how easy it was for you to just.. take care of him. 

Wiping the glaze from the side of his mouth, asking him how his stomach was feeling, rubbing his arm as he told you that he was feeling fine, you looking happy with the fact that he was feeling fine. 

He doesn’t remember much about his life right now, but there was something deep down that knew what he had with you was something he’s spent his life searching for. 

The fact that he just woke up one day to this was a shock to say at the least. 

“How long have we been married?” He felt bad for asking, but wanted to know more about you. 

“It’ll be 4 years 6 months from now. And we’ve been together for a total of 5 years.” you tell him and watch the wheels turn in his head. 

“Wait– we got married that soon?!” He was baffled as he asked you to clarify. 

“Yes we did,” you giggled at his reaction, it was how everyone else reacted. “You were the one who insisted. You got me this big rock too to make it even more convincing,” you remind him as you showed him the ring he proposed to you with. 

He took your hand and inspected the ring. He didn’t remember how much he spent on it and honestly didn’t ever want to know because it was fucking huge. 

“Your hands are soft,” he absent-mindedly mumbles to himself as he starts to rub your knuckles with his thumb. “Tell me more about us.” 

And you do, for the next 4 hours. 

30 minutes into the story telling, he got you to fully lay down with him on the hospital bed with your head on his chest, caressing your back because it honestly just felt natural for him to do so. 

And about an hour in, he’s fully comfortable with you– laughing at all the fucked up stories you had of him that a normal person really shouldn’t be laughing at. But he was anything but normal.

After the 4 hours, he starts to fucking flirt with you because that also came naturally to him. You tell him he’s disgusting and make fun of his broken leg. 

Your eyes then roll in the back of your head after he cheekily tells you that his leg was very much broken, “but this dick isn’t”. 

And his memory might be gone for now, but neither of you were worried in the slightest. The chemistry was always there. You say you’ve known each other for five years, but after just spending five hours with you, he feels as if he’s known you his whole life. 

Even if he were to never regain his memory again, you two weren’t going anywhere– your souls knew who they belonged to at the end of the day and that’s all that really mattered.

All rights reserved © 2024 yenayaps. Do not copy, repost, translate, or modify my works in any platform.

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

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