In The Quiet Spaces Between You And I

Silence is better together IV

Chapter tags/warnings/ themes: AU!pirate hunter!Simon, fem!reader, mythological symbolism, angst, hurt/comfort, emotional whiplash, slight argument, bittersweet moments, Simon’s non-canon backstory, mentions of violence, mentions of 141, character death (Soap) grief, loss, trauma, flashbacks, survivor’s guilt, past abuse, soft!Simon, protective!Simon, tenderness & affection, confessions, pet names, fluff, slow burn is not slow buring anymore

Word count: 6,4k

A/N: Thank you so much for reading my story! I truly appreciate your support and for staying with me until the end of this series. And yes, I have to announce that this is the final part of Silence is better together. At first, this was supposed to be just a one-part thing, but I got carried away and ended up writing more. That’s why some scenes, especially the ending, might feel a bit rushed. I simply ran out of inspiration and didn’t want to drag this series to nowhere. Yet, I’m planning to write a few extra scenes that I didn’t get the chance to explore. Once again, thank you for being part of this journey.

Previous part

“When were you planning to tell me about this? If you were ever planning to do so. I feel like a fool,” you say, trying your hardest not to shout at him.

“I wanted to tell you, but I didn’t want to expose you to what I did or what happened in my past.”

“Expose me to what you did? Are you one of them? One of those who brought destruction to my village?”

“No. Don’t associate me with them. Never!” Simon exclaims, emphasizing each word.

“I don’t know what you did or who you truly are, but I was a fool to blindly trust you. At first, I wanted to take some time to assure myself that I could trust you, but then I allowed myself to believe you were different. You showed no signs that I should fear you. Yet, I am disappointed in myself. I regret meeting-”

“Don’t even think about saying that when you know damn well that is not true. It was my fault; I should have told you sooner.”

“No, it's mine. I should have pushed you to tell me more about your past when I met you, but I was so focused on other things…”

“You were focused on taking care of my arse. You made damn sure I kept breathing,” he completes your sentence, his voice low, mind filled with the moments you spent ensuring he stayed alive.

“Yes, I did that. I promised myself I would keep you alive. I couldn't bear the thought of letting you die, especially after witnessing my people die, powerless to stop it. I did not want to see another soul disappear too soon from this world. I did not want to lose someone again,” you continue the sentence in your mind.

“Listen, I need to make things right for the trouble I’ve caused you. I have a long story to share, and now feels like the right time to do it,” Simon says, his tone filled with remorse as he tries his best to redeem himself in your eyes. It’s not just about the two of you needing to cooperate to survive the colder season; it’s also about the strong connection you built together over the past few weeks - one he would be damned if he lost.

“Simon, if that’s your real name, you don’t owe me anything. I did everything expecting nothing in return. You don’t have to prove anything to me anymore. That’s enough,” you reply, your voice heavy with defeat.

“I never lied to you. I thought sheltering you from the harsh realities of the world outside was a good idea, but it wasn't. You need to understand the other side of the story.”

“What do you mean by that? Is there more to know?” you respond, your tone laced with a strange curiosity.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

You take a deep breath, bracing yourself for what’s to come. “This time, don’t omit any important details. I need to know the truth.”

"After everything you've been through, you deserve to hear the truth. It's time to confront what’s real."

He closes his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath as memories from his past flood his mind. When he opens them, a hint of melancholy lingers, and hesitantly - with an unfamiliar emotion - he begins to share his history with you

Simon's story was devastating, full of tragedy, loss, and profound pain. He begins to paint a portrait of his childhood - a troubled one. His mind wanders back to his early years, a time marked by anxiety and fear, rather than the warmth of innocence, hope, and nurturing growth that many children his age experienced. His very being was molded by the tumultuous feelings of his past. Although he promised to share his full story, he felt the need to spare you the haunting memories of his violent father. He revealed only fragments of that turbulent time, driven by a desire to justify himself to you - to see him as he is, his true self.

Now, you understand why he struggles to express his emotions freely and articulate what he truly thinks. His complicated family situation formed him in this way; he lacked the privilege of growing up in an environment that nurtured this side of him. As a result, he often found himself isolated and quiet. Despite his mother's efforts to mend the harm caused by his heartless father's actions, the misery had already settled deep within his soul. His father's mistakes made him the man he is today. He vowed to himself never to become like his old man, and he has kept that promise to this day.

He believed that after his father left, his mother and brother's life would improve - he was wrong. When he joined the Privateer Unit, a group organized to hunt and capture the pirates that plagued the seas, he returned home for a short time, only to find his mother in debt and his brother struggling with addiction. His new mission was to help his family. After a long period of recovery, he had to come back to his work. Not long after he left, the Red Wave attacked his town, destroying it much like they had done to your village. However, at that time, they were just beginning their criminal path and were not as bloodthirsty as they would become when they destroyed your island. His family survived: his mother, brother, his brother’s wife, and his little nephew.

Yet, they were hurt, especially Tommy, his brother, who did his best to protect their family from these thieves. Their town was ravaged; they took everything they could carry. If his family had been lucky enough to escape this misery, it did not mean that the other families were also fortunate. Many people suffered at the hands of those cruel individuals. One of them was Henry, who faced a brutal death after trying to help his mother. Simon grew up with him; he was his only childhood friend. He remembered running away from home to escape his father's violence, wandering the streets for hours, even when it was cold or dark outside. Henry’s mother would often ask him to come inside to warm up. Hesitantly, he would want to decline, but the cold and his hungry stomach forced him to accept every time. They would pull out a chair at the table and welcome him with open arms, feeding him fresh food - even sweets afterward. Simon’s mother was an excellent cook, but he avoided sitting at the table with his family because his father always found a reason to raise his voice at him. He would quickly grab a piece of bread and leave, unable to bear the tension at the table. Henry’s father never raised his voice at his wife or son, and Simon felt a pang of jealousy at that. However, he pushed the feeling of envy to the back of his mind and pretended, if only for a moment, that this was his life.

He was grateful to Henry’s family for everything they had done for him. He felt an even deeper appreciation for Henry, who had been his only friend during a time when he felt all alone. Although he spent time with his brother, Tommy, he sometimes struggled to understand why their father seemed to favor him. This led him to distance himself from Tommy, even though he knew it wasn’t his brother's fault. He believed it was his own fault for being who he was. Over time, he learned to accept these feelings and focus on other aspects of his life. Deep within his soul, it still hurt, but he had grown accustomed to it by now.

He explains that he had decided to move his family to a place far from the ocean - somewhere safe and out of sight of the pirates. He wanted to prevent any future attacks. However, he knew he couldn't just wait and hope for the best; he had to take action. His mother was particularly stubborn, refusing to leave her home. It took a long time to convince her that it was for the best.

Since that moment, his life mission had been to hunt down those who wounded the most precious people he held close to his heart. He wanted to prevent their expansion into other areas as much as possible. His aim was to put an end to the suffering caused by their wicked actions, but doing all the work on his own proved to be a difficult task. Although he possessed ambition equal to ten men, he was also a man who acknowledged his limits.

He struggled to find allies he could rely on; most were only interested in fighting for money, not for the cause. This was understandable, yet the few men he had hired - initially eager for revenge - soon became clouded by their desire for more. They took the gold and goods stolen by the pirates, filling their own pockets instead of trying to give back to those who had suffered. While their desire for wealth was comprehensible, their greed was not. Now, they were no better than the pirates of the Red Wave.

Simon thought he would have to come back to the days of fighting alone, but fate had other plans. A man with an authoritative presence appeared out of nowhere, demanding that he join his team - he commanded, not asked. Simon was taken aback by such boldness, initially thinking the man was out of his mind. Yet, the man's speech was too good to ignore. In that moment, Simon found himself reevaluating his sanity as he made the decision to join the team, feeling trapped by circumstance. This is how he became part of Team 141, led by the rugged and determined Captain John Price, whose powerful moral compass guided their every move. Alongside him was Kyle Garrick, known as Gaz - a man with a sharp tongue and a fierce dedication, always ready for action. Then there was the unpredictable man that introduced himself as Soap, whose infectious humor, brilliant mind, and strong loyalty often caught Simon off guard. Within this new team, Simon discovered something he hadn’t felt in a long time: a sense of belonging.

Strangely, he felt at home in this team formed by three men who had once been nobody to him. It could be the sense of camaraderie he felt being with them, or perhaps it was the mutual reason they were fighting for. Maybe it was the feeling that he was an important piece of something greater; a piece that was undeniably needed. He felt seen and, oddly enough, understood by these men who did not know the full extent of his troubled past. They didn’t need to know his entire story to understand that somehow, they all shared the same cruel fate in life.

Soon, 141 became the first opponent of the Red Wave. No matter how hard the Red Wave tried to recruit the fiercest mercenaries, they consistently faced defeat. Battle after battle, they suffered significant losses in resources, personnel, and ships. The pirates were nearly brought to their end - until one day. On that day, 141 was struck by an unforeseen challenge: two or more pirate groups formed an alliance with the Red Wave. Historically, the Red Wave had operated alone, preferring to hire mercenaries rather than collaborate with other pirate factions. However, they had to set aside their pride and resort to drastic measures. Now, every pirate was in danger as 141's power grew with each passing year, and many began to forge alliances with them.

The upcoming battles grew increasingly brutal. Both sides fought with fervor, desperate to suppress their adversaries, and the struggle was palpable. For over six months, the conflict raged on, claiming countless lives and sending ships to the depths of the ocean. While vessels could be rebuilt, the profound loss of life weighed heavily on the hearts of those who remained. Just when Team 141 believed they were on the edge of victory, the unthinkable struck again. Fate seemed to laugh in their faces as they suffered the devastating loss of Johnny MacTavish - Soap. He was a man celebrated for his unwavering bravery, strategic mind, and bright personality. His absence left a void in the very spirit of the group as they faced an uncertain future.

The loss of his comrade, friend, and brother made Simon unpredictable. He felt a whirlwind of emotions: disbelief, shock, grief, guilt, and anger. Deep down, he knew it was a bad idea to join them. He was aware that he would grow attached to his teammates, who had become his second family. Now, he reminisces about the good times spent with Soap: laughter, silly jokes, and drunken ramblings about the past and future. Simon chuckles as he recalls moments during battles; always, one of them had to crack an idiotic joke to lighten the mood. They had a knack for telling jokes in the most unusual situations. But nowadays, he finds himself haunted by the horrible memories, particularly the moment Johnny passed away. He relives that instant every time he closes his eyes, vividly remembering the light that had once shone in Soap's eyes, now extinguished.

Simon confessed that he could no longer focus on their mission, constantly distracted by his racing thoughts. He felt like a coward for opting for the easy way out, yet he knew his poor mental state could compromise the entire team. This struggle ultimately led to his separation from 141.

“I always say the people you know can hurt you the most, either by betraying you or by losing them,” Simon explains, his gaze clouded as he looks at you.

You struggle to maintain eye contact; your mind is consumed by guilt. You feel ashamed for making assumptions about him when he had lived through similar experiences. You now understand his reactions, mannerisms, and the way he speaks - everything has a reason. He was hurt so deeply in the past that he still relies on these coping mechanisms to this day. He has gone through hell and has come back alive each time, but he carries the consequences of that suffering. He endured the separation from his family and chose to act as if he was dead to protect them from his enemies. He has had to live with the losses of so many people, including Johnny; especially him.

“I am so sorry, Simon. I shouldn't have made those accusations. I’m truly sorry -” you say, voice trembling and tears welling in your eyes.

“Don’t cry, love. It was just a silly miscommunication that led to this,” he reassures you, gently extending his hand to wipe away your tears.

"You didn’t deserve to suffer all of this. You deserve more good things to happen to you, Simon," you say as you clasp his hand, the one that cradles your face.

He knows he doesn't deserve your compassion, he doesn't consider himself a good man, even though he knows that the cause he was fought for was a good one. He committed unspeakable acts in pursuit of what he called victory. The same hands that cradled your face in comfort during the night when you were distressed were the ones that had killed man after man. The hands that were stained with your tears were the same hands that, in the past, bore the blood of his enemies. Those gentle hands that had brought you so much peace and consolation belonged to a man who was not proud of his past actions, but felt he did what was necessary. At the same time, Simon believed he had somehow protected you indirectly by ensuring that none of those men would again come close to you. Yet, he knew that from the moment he met you, he had tainted your soul with his very presence. He recognized that it might sound selfish to think this way, yet, he felt an overwhelming sense of contentment because he had met you. For the first time in his life, he believed he could offer more to someone who cared so deeply for him, even when he struggled to see himself as worthy of your affection. For once, he felt truly alive, not merely existing or surviving a cruel fate. He wanted to live a life worth living, and you showed him what that could be. The way you showed him how to appreciate the little things: the feeling of the sun on his face, the cold morning breeze embracing his body, the smell of the ocean, the songs of the birds, the pleasant taste of warm tea on a cold day, the laughter at silly things, and so much more. Unbeknownst to him, he began to pick up on traits from your behavior. Often, he found himself gazing at certain things with sparkles in his eyes and a genuine smile on his lips. However, he couldn't help but notice that his heart was filled with warmth when his gaze was upon you. He once more pledged to shield you from all harm, vowing to himself that he will not let anything or anyone to hurt you again.

As you read his mind, your expression shifted from comfort to worry in an instant. A disturbing thought consumes your mind.

“What happened, love? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Simon says with a hint of his typical humor.

“What if they come back to seek revenge?” you voice your concern.

“That is not possible, dear. There's no need to worry about them anymore,” he reassures you.

“How can you be so sure? You said there were many more of them. What will happen then?”

“There's no need to worry; everything is going to be just fine. The people who followed me were the last survivors of the Red Wave. You can set aside those concerns. Trust me, we are safe.”

“How can you be so sure that there aren’t more of them?” you ask, panic rising in your voice.

“Because I took every measure that was necessary. I handled it all, and no one was left standing,” Simon changes his tone from soothing to serious. His mind drifts for a moment to the time after he left 141 and decided to work alone once again. He made sure to follow every ship that flew the Red Wave flag and sank them to the bottom of the ocean. Even though there were times when he failed miserably, he remained unstoppable. Soon, he became known as the Ghost of the Ocean. No one knew when he would appear, and when he did, he left no traces - just like a ghost.

“They are not returning, not now or ever. I am here to ensure that no one will ever harm you, love. Do you understand?” he continues.

“Yes, I understand now. I just panicked, sorry…” you confess with embarrassment in your voice.

“It’s going to be alright, darling. And it’s the time we admit we both need to rest after all this madness.”

“I have to confess, I could really use an entire day to recover after everything…” you say, a question haunting your mind. “Would it be alright if I lay next  to you tonight?” you ask, knowing that you need a moment of quietness, but most importantly, you need his presence.

“You don’t even have to ask. Let’s go now, dear,” Simon chuckles as he guides towards the bed.

You fall asleep reflecting on the events that just unfolded. Simon's vivid recollections of his experiences, thoughts, and emotions still linger in your mind, refusing to fade away. You try to approach his stories with caution, hesitant to accept everything he shared. It puzzles you why, despite his repeated demonstrations of loyalty and truthfulness, a wall of distrust still looms within you. You grapple with your own insecurities, determined to put an end to your doubts. Yet, your paranoia, like a restless spirit, continues to claw at the confines of the cage you have built to function normally. Deep within your soul, you feel a sharp sensation, like a knife twisting into a wound. It is the pain that accompanies the realization that he is telling the truth, and you don’t want to accept it. You struggle to believe that someone could suffer so profoundly throughout their entire life, especially during their childhood, and at the hands of the Red Wave. You also find it difficult to accept that someone had to choose violence and endure such brutality to stop the horrors inflicted by others. He had to embrace violence to put an end to someone else's. You must admit that you admire his burning devotion to eradicate the wrongdoings of others. His intention was to avenge those who can no longer fight for justice and to protect others from suffering the same fate that both he and you have endured. This is simply who he is; this dedication is deeply etched into the fabric of his being.

Simon was a man with a tumultuous past, marked by blood, tears, and agony, yet he treated you with such gentleness that it was hard to believe anyone could ever show you such kindness. He always made sure to make you feel seen and understood, even when he couldn’t provide any answers. He would look at you and nod, paying close attention to everything you had to say. As you revealed your past, he held your hand tightly, knowing how difficult it was for you to speak about that part of your history. He grasped your hand in consolation and support, recognizing that it was up to him to help keep you together as pieces of you began to crumble before his eyes. In moments like this, he was the sturdy marble column that held your unstable ruins in place. His rough, scarred hands seemed to find their way to the soft skin of your cheek, gently wiping away the tears that escaped from your eyes. In your most vulnerable moments, he was there - never asking for or demanding anything in return. He anchored you in the present, never letting go. He was the support you needed to keep you grounded and sane. Simon was the presence you needed badly in order to begin the healing process after experiencing that terrible incident. Curing a wound that has been open for a long time will be difficult, but you won’t be alone anymore. He is there for you, just as you are there for him. And in the morning when you wake, you will find him still next to you, just as he is now, sleeping peacefully, his chest rising and falling with each breath he takes - he is real and alive.

As you gaze over his face one last time before drifting off to the land of dreams, a sharp sensation pierces your heart abruptly. You are struck by the shocking realization that you have developed strong feelings for Simon - feelings that go beyond friendship. It feels as if you have been profoundly hit by Cupid’s arrow. Instead of bleeding red, you bleed the golden hue of a summer sunset on a beautiful, warm day. Golden like honey being poured into a fresh cup of tea. Golden like the precious thread that ties your fates together. Golden like his eyes in the candlelight.

Despite your desire to wake up first and welcome him to a new day, Simon beat you at this game once again. He wakes from sleep with a warm feeling beside him. When he looks over to your side of the bed, he is surprised not to see your back as he usually does. Instead, you are facing him, nuzzling your face into his arm. One of your hands is entwined with his, while the other is lazily draped over his chest. As much as he would have liked to greet you this morning with a fresh cup of tea, as he often did, he lets you rest. He can’t deny that he enjoys your closeness; it is pleasurable to wake up beside a soft, warm presence on a cold morning like this. He is so accustomed to waking up in a cold, empty bed in various locations and under different circumstances that this intimate greeting feels unfamiliar to him. He forgot what it is like to live in a house and how to feel at home - somewhere where he is seen, wanted, and where he belongs.

Carefully, so as not to wake you, he turns his face to admire your sleeping form. You look so peaceful in your slumber, wrapped in an enchanting and mystical allure. He can’t comprehend how you can radiate such energy after enduring so many horrific experiences. You are not defined by your past traumas, nor is he, but those experiences can profoundly affect your present, shaping the aura you emit. Yet this isn’t you. You envelop yourself in a transcendent glow, as if you have broken free from the realm of the gods he has read about. Then, he remembers - the myth.

He recalls the legend that began to take shape after the Red Wave destroyed your village. The lighthouse, which had always shone to guide the navigation of ships at night and during foggy weather, stopped shining. Many sailors chose to avoid that area afterward to prevent accidents caused by the unlit path on the ocean. After that, people began to spread tales of how the land of your village was haunted by the spirits of those who had fallen, seeking revenge.

As time passed, people began using this tale to scare their misbehaving children. But that wasn't all - someone, a man, added fuel to the story by claiming there was a sole survivor from the village. This man was one of the few survivors of the Red Wave imprisonment. Nobody believed him; they thought he had gone crazy after spending so much time as a prisoner. Somehow, Simon overheard the man discussing the story with curious children. He recounted tales of a woman, also a prisoner, who had once lived in a beautiful village situated on the cliffs of Crescent Island. This woman, who sadly passed away, had spoken to him about a beautiful and strong girl who survived it all. Soon after, the children began to create enchanting songs about the lonely girl who lived at the very end of the world, weaving tales of her solitude and dreams into melodic verses. However, their parents forbade them from singing or even thinking about the tale any longer, as some children were determined to rescue her, while others remained saddened by the thought of her loneliness. With that, they all forgot about her - until he crossed paths with you. The story the man told turned out to be true.

Now, Simon looks at you, your face slightly obscured by your hair. He reaches out and gently tucks your hair behind your ear. You haven't woken up; you are still deep in your sleep. He slowly begins to caress your face with feather-like touches, thinking about how he would burn the world to protect you from all the harm that exists. Each touch is filled with a fierce promise; the soft movements of his hand against your skin serve as a reminder that he is always there for you. Each promise is sealed by an insistent desire to make you happy and ensure that you will never again know pain. He doesn't question this reaction towards you; he thinks it is natural, spontaneous in an unusual kind of way. He wants to protect those who need protection, but with you, it is different. He hadn't questioned himself until this moment - he finds himself smiling as he caresses your face. Is this normal? He feels a strange sensation in his chest, like his heart is hurting, but there is no pain at all. It is more of a phantom sensation than a physical one, but it is there. He feels this way when he looks at you or when you make eye contact with him - paying attention to him, listening to him, and being there for him.

He realizes he often feels this way around you, yet he never questions it. He begins to reminisce about the times when you made his heart tighten in his chest; it was as if you held his heart in a firm grasp and never let it go. You made him feel this way when you smiled at him, appreciated the little things he did, held his face before you drew his portrait, or simply looked at him with those mesmerizing eyes. His mind is in a constant battle trying to decipher his own emotions, yet it is clear - he has fallen for you.

Simon continues to absentmindedly touch your features, tracing the beautiful contours of your face with his fingertips. He is so lost in his thoughts that he doesn't notice you are awake, gazing at him with a shy smile.

“Good morning, Simon,” you say with a drowsy voice.

He yanks his hand back from your face, pinching the spot between his eyebrows as if that might somehow hide the fact that he’s been caught off guard; embarrassment is visible across his features. “Morning, love. How did you sleep?” he asks in a hoarse tone. It’s a question that has become his signature line, one he utters first thing each morning, reflecting his deep care for your well-being.

“I slept well. How about you?” you respond, wanting to stretch your arms in the air but surprised to realize that your hands are tangled around Simon’s body. Slowly, you begin to untangle your arms from him, avoiding eye contact as much as possible, too ashamed to meet his gaze.

“Surprisingly, very well,” he replies, gazing at you with amusement as you struggle to maintain your composure.

“Wonderful. May I have the honor of preparing you a cup of tea?” you ask with a silly grin, eager to distract yourself from the awkwardness of the moment. Fate seems to smile upon you as an affirmative hum escapes Simon’s throat.

You distract your mind for a short period as you prepare the tea, adding a few dried flowers and strongly scented leaves to infuse in the hot water. You start gathering ingredients for a freshly made breakfast, perfect for this cold weather. Behind you, Simon busies himself with putting firewood into the wood-burning stove. Your hands are moving, but your mind is still frozen in that morning moment - Simon’s warm body next to yours, your arms embracing him as you wake to the gentle caress of his hand on your face. If you could, you would stop time at that moment, never wanting it to end. It felt so addictive - in a good way. You never thought you would miss affection so much. It was so healing, a gentle reminder that you were not alone anymore. As you recall the feeling of his fingertips kissing the skin of your cheeks in a tender way, the newfound memory stirs in you a desire to cry - and you do. The weight of this feeling makes you silently sob, your body trembling slightly as you grip the edge of the table for support.

Simon quickly notices that something was wrong with you. “Dear, what is it? Are you hurt?”

You struggle to form a coherent response, but only shaky breaths escape your lips as you inhale deeply and exhale. Simon stands frozen beside you, unsure of what to do next, waiting for your reply. You wrestle with the decision of whether to tell him the truth, fearing his reaction. You don’t want him to see you as weak, especially since you already believe he perceives you as fragile and vulnerable. You don’t want him to feel responsible for your emotions, yet it seems he has taken that role upon himself. At the same time, you make a silent vow to be honest with him from now on, recognizing that he has already tried to be open with you. Taking another deep breath, you finally share the real reason behind your emotional state. You begin by expressing how long it has been since you felt the caring touch of another person - one that feels as if they are pouring their heart into that tender caress - warm, affectionate, and sincere.

“Oh, love…so that was the reason for your tears” he says in a sweet voice, while the worries wash away from his body.

“Yes, a silly motive, I know…” you look away, embarrassed.

“Listen, dear, it’s not a silly thing. What you’re feeling matters,” he says, placing his hands on your cheeks and wiping away the tears from your eyes with his thumbs. He gazes intensely into your red-stained eyes, his heart breaking at the sight of you like this. After that, he opens up his arms and says: “Come on, love.”

“I don’t -” you pause for a moment, but your concern fades in an instant as you throw yourself into his arms. One of his strong arms envelops your body while the other finds its way behind the back of your head, fingers softly tangling in your hair. His face nestles into your hair, breathing in your sweet, intoxicating scent. You hide your face in the crook of his neck, enjoying the mixed scents on his body: his natural one, the floral notes of your homemade soap, and a hint of tea. It’s an unusual combination, but it creates a comforting blend of essences, accompanied by the warmth radiating from him. One of your hands mimics his, tangled in his longer strands of hair at the back, while the other is tightly pressed against his back, your nails almost digging into his covered skin.

The harmonious entanglements of two souls intertwine, becoming one. The golden thread of fate weaves their destinies together - heart to heart, their beats synchronized. Two become one.

He is Simon Riley. Riley, his father’s name, weighs heavily on him, a burden of his father’s terrible wrongdoings. He is the Ghost of the Ocean - terrifying, vengeful, merciless. Once, he was a troubled, forgotten, suffering child. But for you, who is he? He is simply Simon - thoughtful, gentle, kind-hearted, wise, bright-minded, protective, amusing, loving - your Simon. If you had asked him whether he ever thought he would become like this, he would have laughed in your face. But things are different now. His stone walls have begun to crumble, piece by piece, since he met you. His ice-covered heart melted at the sight of your happy smile.

From a curious girl who picked and crafted beautiful pieces from seashells to offer as gifts to your loved ones, you evolved into the nameless mystical presence, one that survived the horrific attack of the Red Wave - a story told by survivors and sung about in children’s songs. But for him, who are you? You are selfless, soft-hearted, doting, sharp-witted, eloquent, loving - his darling. Since he came into your life, your broken soul began to fuse together, one shard at a time.

You had been praying for this moment to last forever, frozen in time, just the two of you. Yet, the realization that this can't happen to be true hit you as the boiling water shattered your unity. Quickly, Simon takes the pot from the stove, placing it on a spot so as not to get hurt by accident. He turns his body to face you, slowly closing the space between you.

“Better now, dear?” he asks with a light expression covering his features.

He is waiting for your response, which was slow to arrive. Your impulses get the best of you; you grasp his face, and soon, your lips are pressed together. A kiss that begins with you soon becomes guided by Simon, as you find yourself unsure of what to do next. What started as awkward pecks evolved into a more intense kiss, filled with passion, longing, and emotion. Hands caressing each other's faces, memorizing every contour with closed eyes, as if trying to preserve the moment in memory forever. From a gentle kiss, it transforms into a desperate one, consumed by the flames of the deep affection you held for each other. Each kiss, move, and touch was a declaration of love, marked by the promise of a happier and better future.

After a few moments, your lips finally part, both of you breathing heavily, your eyes shimmering with sparkles of hope and unspoken emotions. You cradle each other’s faces with such affection, looking into each other’s eyes and pleading for this to be true. It felt as if one wrong move could make everything vanish - your presence would become mist, evaporating into thin air. It was too good to be true, yet this was real and tangible. You could feel his facial muscles move under your touch - he was smiling, and so were you. Both of you let out a chuckle of disbelief, especially you, as you never thought you would be this bold.

“Yes… everything is better now,” you break the silence, still holding his face and running your thumbs over the smile lines etched into his skin. You crave to always see him this happy and, at the same time, want to be the reason he is.

“I can clearly see that. You are daring, love. I’ve got to say, I quite like it,” Simon responds with adoration in his voice, tucking some loose strands of hair behind your ear to get a better look at your face.

All it took was a moment of vulnerability, trust, and profound tenderness for you both to truly realize that your souls belong together, intricately intertwined forever - a bond secured by the unbreakable chain of fate. With him hugging you from behind, his arms wrapped around your waist and his face nestled in the crook of your neck as you stand on the veranda, enjoying a warm cup of tea and gazing at the beautiful view as the sun's rays break through the thick veil of clouds. You think: “Silence is better together.”

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Dog with No Teeth // Chapter Three

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Chapter Specific Warnings (MDNI): post-apocalypse au, swearing, dubcon showering, dubcon nudity, power imbalance, sexual tension, brief description of canon-typical violence

Word Count: 4.4k

You and Ghost shower together. He answers your questions. The reality of your situations comes to light.

Chapter Two // Chapter Four

ao3 // main masterlist // dog with no teeth masterlist

Carapace nest. Gator teeth. Swamp water.

Survival. Survival. Survival.

“You should shower. Enjoy the hot water.” Ghost grasps the bottom of your chin, tilting your face upward. You’re unable to look away. “Promise I won’t look.”

Empty words. Nothing more than a tree hollowed-out by rot.

You slap Ghost’s hand away, uncaring if the action will draw his anger. The brute doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink.

“Don’t touch me,” you growl, forcing yourself to hold eye contact with him.

With a soft snort of amusement, Ghost’s head tilts slightly, gaze assessing. You won’t be the first to blink—the first to look away. Glancing down is a show of submission, and you refuse to bow out and make yourself appear weak. It hurts though. A deep pain like a drill to your skull.

Rolling his shoulders, Ghost retreats a step.

It’s a small thing, and you should feel victorious. Yet it’s more like permission, as if he’s allowing this behavior by the grace of his sincerity. The urge to break eye contact flares hotter—bites deeper—and Ghost’s refusal to drop his gaze only makes it that much harder.

Backward step after backward step. A languid sway until he reaches the chair. He slowly eases down into it, sighing loudly, stretching his legs until he’s spread out and comfortable. Relaxed and unhurried, Ghost begins to remove his gloves, absently tossing them onto the floor, revealing tattooed knuckles. Flexing his fingers, Ghost forms a fist, and then relaxes the tendons, repeating the process a few times.

Leaning forward, Ghost starts to unlace his boots. There is no hurry to it. The fact that he’s completely comfortable grates at your patience. He slips off one boot and moves to the other. He reaches for his weapons next, removing his pistol and knives.

“Enjoying the show, love?” he asks dryly.

You roll your eyes and remain mute.

This power dynamic is frustrating, and you’re sick of him pushing your buttons, forcing you into corners. Only moments ago, Ghost was telling you to strip down and shower, to give him something to watch.

No. You’re not playing this game.

If he’s so goddamn adamant about you dipping under the hot water, then so fucking be it. If he wants you to shower—you’ll fucking shower. He wants to see you naked and dripping wet? Fucking fine.

You’ll put on a goddamn show.

Bending forward, you reach for your boots, unlacing then kicking them to the side. Ghost notices, his gaze drifting upward yet he remains silent, his movements staying steady and unhurried. It’s when you wrench your jacket off and start lifting your shirt that Ghost begins to slow. The dirty, blood-drenched shirt crackles as you pull it up and over your head. You drop it onto the floor without giving it a second glance.

Ghost has his hands on his belt, but it’s almost like he’s not moving at all. His gaze lingers on you, and though you pretend not to notice, his chest heaves slightly. Reaching behind your back, you pop the clips on your bra. The flimsy material slides away. Behind the skull mask, Ghost’s eyes grow wide.

You don’t allow yourself space to linger on what you’re doing or if this is a radically poor decision. As the bra hits the ground, you’re already undoing the front of your pants, shoving them down along with your underwear, revealing everything.

You unfurl slowly. Full frontal and bold.

Ghost is motionless. All you can see are his eyes as they dart around, taking in your nakedness. You retain that eye contact, daring him to say anything, to give himself a good look since he wanted it so badly.

Those brown eyes of his roam up, connecting with your gaze. He stills. Coughs. Clears his throat. Glances away.

Fucking men.

You extend your arms out slightly like you’re presenting yourself for his inspection. “Are you?” you counter before placing your hands on your hips.

Ghost keeps his gaze averted, unspeaking.

With victory singing beneath your skin, you turn right, striding toward the shower. The promise of hot water is tantalizing. Not that you don’t have hot water where you’re from, but it’s not automatic. It’s not available with a simple turn of a handle. That’s a luxury from before, and it shouldn’t exist. Yet it apparently exists here.

The promise of a hot shower nearly overtakes whatever adrenaline-fueled nonsense that drove you to strip down in front of Ghost. Now, you’re naked and vulnerable and trapped in a room with him. There is no place for you to flee to. No chance for escape. No privacy.

With your back to the room, you place your hand on the knob below the showerhead. It gives easily under your palm. There’s a rattle—a clanking coming from behind the wall—then water shoots out.

You gasp, stepping back.

It’s ice fucking cold.

The bastard lied. He lied.

Your nipples harden, and your skin pebbles. Instinct kicks in, and you cross your arms over your chest, covering your breasts in a protective gesture.

But just as you’re about to turn away from the icy spray—to curse the skull-faced fucker out—the chill dulls into a lukewarm ache.

You pause. Wait.

The water is warming. It’s actually warming.

“Oh my God,” you sigh as the water heats further. “Oh God.”

Cupping your hands under the spray, the water pools in your palms. You bring it up to your face, eyelids closing as you splash it over your skin. A little giggle escapes you, your smile so wide it hurts your cheeks. Standing directly under the water, you allow it to run all over you, warming you everywhere until you’re almost bouncing on your toes.

Opening your eyes, your gaze scans the wall, and the small nook nestled there. You lean in, and read the labels. There’s shampoo, a bar of soap, and—you blink, shaking your head as if your eyes deceive you. Reaching out, you snag the second bottle and turn it.

It’s conditioner. Fucking conditioner.

Absurd. Ridiculous. How do they even have this?

Back home, shampoo and soap are handmade. Flowers are dried and added to give scent, but that’s only ever for part of the year. They’re usually unscented. Conditioner is unheard of, and if someone needs to give their tresses a lift, they might use a few drops of oil warmed in the palm and applied to wet hair.

Placing the bottle back, you reach for the soap.

A large, muscled arm covered in tattoos appears to the left of you. It extends forward, palm resting firm and flat against the wall. You stare at it, surprised, but it’s fleeting. A solid body bumps into you from behind, forcing you forward. The hot water no longer rains down on you but on the man directly behind you. The very naked, very large man.

His other arm appears to your right, that hand also pressing flat against the wall. You’re caged in. Trapped.

Ghost groans with contentment as the water rushes over him. “Told you there was hot water,” he sighs. He shifts, and you feel all of him, including a hardening appendage that pokes you in the hip.

Seriously? This asshole couldn’t wait?

Glancing over your shoulder, you give Ghost a scowl, only for your stomach to flip upon seeing him. Beneath the skull mask, you weren’t sure what you’d find. Not like you thought about it in any decent capacity. Curious, sure, but also cautious.

What you weren’t expecting was someone attractive. Handsome. Not in the traditional sense, but in the ruggedness of his features. Strong but also scarred.

Goddamn it. Fucking shit.

You should feel nothing for him. He’s taken you hostage, intending to take you somewhere for…processing. Whatever the fuck that means.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you ask with as much venom as you can muster.

“Showering,” he replies with a sigh. Ghost runs his hand over his face and then his head, slicking back his blondish-brown hair. The eye black is smudged now, running away in little rivers down his face.

“That’s obvious,” you retort. “But you couldn’t wait until I was done?”

Ghost shrugs. “Hot water is limited.”

“Oh.” You snort. “How fucking convenient.”

With a slow roll of his neck, Ghost lifts his head and stares directly at you. “I’ve been out in the bloody wilderness for over a month. Same unit. Same blokes. Breathing the same air. Spending all goddamn day together. Forgive me for wanting to enjoy a simple comfort.”

“Right,” you say slowly. “Is that why your dick keeps stabbing me in the side?”

Ghost chuckles and runs his hand over his mouth. “Just told you I’ve seen the same ugly mugs for over a month.”

“And?” you counter. “That’s an excuse?”

He leans in, lowering his voice. “It’s a natural fucking reaction when I haven’t seen a naked woman in over a month.” You try to move away from him, and only end up bumping into the shower wall. “What would you like me to do about it?”

“Great question.” You shrug. “You could stick it elsewhere.” Ghost’s eyebrows rise with a hint of a devilish smirk. “I mean—”

“I can think of a few places,” murmurs Ghost.

“Fucking—shut up. Just don’t let it…poke me.”

“Fucking hell,” he chuckles. “Hand me the soap.”

“No.”

Ghost reaches for it. You slap his hand away.

“Oh, love,” he chides. “If you want my friend to stop poking you, being adorably stubborn isn’t going to help things.”

“You’re a disgusting pig.”

“Then hand me the soap. I clearly need it.”

You do not give Ghost the soap. “If you’re going to force this,” you say, gesturing vaguely. “Then at least answer some questions.”

Ghost nods like that’s a reasonable request. “And what do I get for answering your questions?” he asks, straightening slightly.

“Soap,” you deadpan.

“No,” he laughs. “I want a scrub down.”

“You want—” You pause, startled, and then quickly cover. “You want what?”

“Suds me up. Scrub me down. I’ll answer your questions.”

You shake your head. “No. Absolutely not. Ask for anything else.”

It’s the wrong thing to say.

Ghost grins, and you know you’ve messed up. “All right, love. Fine.” He pushes off from the wall, the water falling between your bodies. “Now that the mask is off, you want to try that kiss again?”

You scoff. “I’d rather not touch you at all.”

“Kiss,” says Ghost. “Or a scrub down. You pick.”

“Neither.”

“Those are the two options.”

“And I hate them both.”

“Then I don’t answer your questions.”

You lick your lips, looking away from Ghost’s piercing gaze. Stalling. You’re stalling. You don’t want to choose either option, but he’s offering to answer all your questions. Regardless of what’s transpired, Ghost hasn’t lied to you or been dishonest. Flirty and forward? Yes. Pushing your boundaries just to rile you up? Absolutely.

The kiss would be quick. One and done.

“Fine,” you reply after a few moments of deliberation. “I choose kiss.”

Ghost smirks. “You want to kiss me?”

“Didn’t say want,” you correct.

The smirk lingers, and you suddenly doubt your choice.

“Too late,” he says with a brief shake of his head.

“Too—too late?” you exclaim. “What do you mean too late?”

Ghost shrugs. “I want both now.”

“Oh,” you laugh, blowing raspberries. “Go fuck yourself.”

“My hands no fun,” he muses. “But I’ve made it work the last month or so.”

“Fuck this,” you mutter, turning around.

Ghost’s hand if on the front of your throat in an instant, forcing you back around to face him. “What’s you decision?”

Your heart thunders in your chest. Ghost’s hold is firm but not breath-stealing. This is a show of dominance—a clear signal that he’s the one in charge.

“Is there one?” you ask, even though you fear you already know the answer.

Ghost remains quiet, but his hand on your throat loosens, lingering for a few seconds before dropping away.

The last thing you want to do is give this man any room. And if you agree, what else might he ask for? There’s still the whole night ahead of you, and a singular bed that you’ll be forced to share with him. What can you do in a situation like this?

“I’ll scrub you down,” you murmur. “But I won’t kiss you.”

Ghost nods. He reaches past you, retrieving the bar of soap. He offers it. “Ask me your questions.”

You take it from him, and Ghost straightens to his full height, looking down at you with a neutral expression.

Between your palms, you rub the bar of soap until it lathers. Reaching out with one hand, you pause just before you make contact with his chest.

“Ask me a question,” murmurs Ghost.

He speaks so gently to you that a hint of flustered nervousness arises. You lick your lips, exhaling deeply to absolve the tension. There’s so much you want to ask. Question after question pops into your head, but you’re unsure of which to grab on to.

Clearing your throat, you close the distance, your soapy hand splaying wide over his right pectoral.

The beginning. Perhaps you should start there.

“Why were you after those men?” you ask, moving your hand in a circle.

“They’re terrorists,” he replies blandly.

You rinse your hand. Start lathering again. “That’s all I get?”

Ghost cocks an eyebrow. “You want specifics?”

“Yes.”

Ghost’s gaze briefly flickers away from you. There’s a moment of hesitation, like he’s unsure of what to say next.

“Those men were part of a larger group. A group that likes to paint themselves as revolutionaries. Resistance fighters.”

You move up to his shoulder, scrubbing there before descending down his tattooed arm. “It’s common to paint an opposing group as the enemy.”

“This is different.”

“How so?”

“They want to live differently, and that’s perfectly fucking peachy. But they go out of their way to try and free others through violence.”

You shrug, scrubbing at his forearm. “Doesn’t sound much different from how you treated me.”

Ghost grasps your wrist, stilling your hand. You glance up at him, finding that his demeanor has completely changed. There’s a look of sheer desperation and anger on his face, but it doesn’t feel geared at you.

“If those men had taken you hostage, they’d have taken their turns. And if you were somehow alive after that, they’d take you to wherever they call home, and keep going until you died or became pregnant.” You go to yank your arm away but Ghost holds firm. “They’re evil, disgusting monsters.”

A little wave of fear rises, swirling to seize your stomach, turning it into a tumultuous storm. “And what you’re doing to me now is kinder?”

Ghost doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch under that question. “We were hunting this group down because they kidnapped a few of our littles. Do you know how they returned them to us?”

“Don’t,” you whisper.

“They strapped bombs under their clothes before reuniting them with their mothers.”

“Stop.”

“You asked for specifics,” he replies. “I’m sure you can figure out what happened next.”

The corners of your eyes sting, tears threatening to spill over. All you can think about are Ben’s two little girls and the children you read to during story time. Imagining any of them disappearing like that, only to be reunited in such a gruesome way brings misery to the forefront.

Ghost’s grip on you eases. You withdraw your hand, vigorously rubbing the soap until the bubbles overflow and drip toward the floor.

“They deserved worse than an executioner’s bullet,” murmurs Ghost, his voice firm yet full of grief.

Placing the soap back on the ledge, you gently lift his hand, scrubbing the suds between and over his fingers. His words linger, hanging in the air until you have to ask.

“Were any of them yours?” you ask, voice a near whisper.

Ghost gives a quick shake of his head.

“I’m sorry,” you reply, turning his hand over to reveal his palm. “That’s terrible.” You make slow circles with your thumb. “What will happen to the three you brought back?”

“They’re probably wishing we killed them,” he replies. You nod, swallowing, reaching for the soap again. “Anything else you want to ask me?”

“The emblem on your uniform.”

“What of it?”

You start on his other arm. “What does it mean?”

“The flag of England?” he asks, perplexed.

“No,” you smile, shaking your head. “The other one. With the olive branches. It’s familiar but I can’t place it.”

“It’s the emblem of the United Nations.”

You glance up, hands stilling against Ghost’s muscled arm. “The United Nations,” you exhale, a disbelieving laugh falling on the end of it. “But they don’t exist anymore.” You sound desperate. A bit insane. “Nothing exists anymore.”

Ghost’s gaze narrows. “What do you remember?”

“I remember when we withdrew from NATO. How eastern Europe started to collapse first.” You take a moment, lathering up the soap again. “I remember how country after country declared war. The rationing. The constant threat of a nuclear attack.” You shake your head, scrubbing at Ghost’s skin to distract yourself. “Endless fucking war. And for what?”

“I fought in that war,” says Ghost.

“Good for you,” you mutter, scrubbing harder.

“You’re upset.”

“How observant.”

You keep going, and Ghost takes your wrist again. This time, he’s gentle, stepping closer to you, the water rinsing away some of the residual soap from his skin.

“Ask me something else,” he softly urges.

“How does the United Nations still exist?” you continue. “What’s happened since the collapse?”

Ghost’s expression is grim, and you want to scream.

Did Zac know? Did they know and not say anything? You believed the world to be nothing more than desolation, poisoned from nuclear fallout and disease. Is it all a lie? Or is the destruction not as widespread and extensive as you were led to believe?

“I think you should ask me something else,” Ghost urges again.

The water is starting to cool, and you haven’t even washed your hair.

“I think I’m done,” you mutter, returning the soap to the nook in the wall. You reach for the shampoo, but Ghost grabs it first.

“Allow me,” he says, squirting some into his hands.

You reluctantly turn around, giving him your back. You stay still, and then his fingers slide over your scalp, gently scrubbing. It’s refreshing—relaxing. You sigh, shoulders lowering as the tension leaves your body. Ghost massages the shampoo in, lathering it up.

The two of you fall into silence.

Ghost rinses the shampoo from your hair, and then does his own as you run conditioner through your strands. It’s a quiet back and forth, the two of you moving in and out the water to rinse and repeat.

He reaches for the knob, but you block his forward momentum.

“The water is growing cold,” he says.

“I know,” you murmur. “But you still have black around your eyes.” You gesture at your own face, indicating where there are still smudges on his.

Ghost starts to rub at his face. You step up to him, reaching out to grasp his hands and pull them away from his face.

“Allow me,” you insist, adding a bit of soap to your hand.

With one finger, you swirl it around the suds in your palm. Bringing it up to Ghost’s face, you lightly rub at the faded smudges.

“Have any more questions for me?” asks Ghost. You nibble on your bottom lip. Nod. “Go on then. Ask away.”

Using the tip of your nail, you lightly scratch at a few flecks of black. “What’s the mandate?” Ghost grimaces, and you inwardly flinch. “Is it something bad?” you ask tentatively.

“No. Just—” Ghost sighs. “When someone is found outside the designated safe zones, it’s mandated that we bring them back for processing.”

“That’s what your captain said. That you’re to take me for processing. But I don’t know what that means.”

“It’s reintegration.”

A deep dread forms in your stomach, turning it to lead.

“To what?”

“Society.”

You drop your hand from Ghost’s face. “But I have a home. People that love me. That are waiting for me. I don’t need to reintegrate into anything.”

Even as you say it, you know there is no negotiating. There is pity on Ghost’s face, and you hate it because he knows he’s ripping you from your life, upending everything for some arbitrary rule.

“I won’t go,” and this time your voice is firm. Steadfast.

Ghost turns the knob, shutting off the water. The air rushes in, cooling your skin where the water touches.

“I can’t take you back.”

“You can,” you insist. “You absolutely can.”

“I can’t,” emphasizes Ghost. “In the morning, we’re going home. To the nearest safe zone.”

“No,” you gasp. “I won’t go. I refuse.”

Ghost takes a step forward. Instinct has you stepping back, but it only pushes you up against the wall. “You said you’d behave. That you wouldn’t cause problems.”

“Refusing to take me home isn’t winning you any favors.”

“You’re already on base,” growls Ghost. “There is no going back.”

You smack his chest. “You bastard. You selfish fucking bastard.”

“Don’t,” he warns.

You smack him again. Harder. “Do you get some kind of bonus for bringing me back? An award?” When Ghost doesn’t reply, you form a fist, beating it against his chest. “Or is it something worse?”

Ghost takes a step back but you move forward, raising both fists. You’re ready to swing. Ready to fight.

“Don’t,” he repeats, but you’re seething.

Anger is like a lustful tide, swallowing you down into its depths. “Tell me, Lieutenant Riley. What do you get for bringing me back?” You shove at him, but he hardly moves. “Is it me?” you laugh. “Am I your war prize?”

“Final warning,” he growls, but you ignore him.

“Will they make me your whore?”

The question is a taunt. Airless. Empty. It’s a push. A verbal shove. And it sends Ghost over the edge.

Ghost surges forward, a wall of brute strength and muscle. You stumble backward, only to be shoved up against the wall. His arms rest on either side of your head, his own head bent down, making the space feel small.

“Listen to me,” he says, trying to keep his tone calm and even.

A small voice inside your head tells you to comply, to hear him out. But there is another voice—this one louder and more insistent. It tells you to cause trouble, to put up a fuss.

“Fuck off,” you reply sharply.

Water drips off the tip of Ghost’s nose. It falls onto your breast, rolling toward your nipple. His gaze follows it, and you promptly strike him across the face. The crack is loud. It echoes against the tile wall.

Ghost mouth drops open, skin reddening where you hit him.

Shit. Oh, shit.

With a growl, Ghost pushes off from the wall, lifting you into his arms without effort. You scramble for purchase, surprised by the sudden movement. He takes three steps and then tosses you onto the bed. You bounce as you hit, one arm shooting out to steady yourself, fingers pressing against the wall as you wobble.

You’re fuming now. Raging.

“Going to have your way with me now?” you mock. “Is that part of the mandate?”

Ghost ignores you. Turning away, he heads back to the shower. He grabs two towels off the rack.

“Let me make it easy for you,” you continue, not backing down. You lean back onto your elbows, chest pushed out, legs extended and bent at the knee in front of you. As Ghost steps around the dividing wall, you spread your thighs, revealing your pussy to him. “You can slide right in. I won’t make a fuss.”

Ghost stills, staring down at your naked body. Your chest heaves, nipples hard and erect. It roams over you, and then he’s staring you down, clearly unamused by this outburst.

“You think I’d take advantage like that?” he asks.

“You joined me in the shower,” you counter. “Doesn’t give me much faith.”

Instead of replying, Ghost throws a towel at you. “Cover yourself,” he mutters, turning away, using the other towel to start drying off.

You hold the towel against your chest. Drawing your legs up, you close them, using the towel to cover the little it can. Ghost is still naked, and he appears in no rush to cover himself. You watch him, observing every movement, expecting him to circle back.

But he doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t even look in your direction. Even when he discards the towel, standing bare in the middle of the room, Ghost continues to ignore your existence.

He strides over, and your cheeks flame as his cock bounces with every step. You look away, staring at the wall as he takes a knee beside the bed. Grunting, Ghost tugs on something beneath the bed. You turn your head just enough to watch.

Ghost tugs again, and out comes a trunk.

He pops the tabs, opening the lid. The first thing he removes is a pair of clean boxer briefs. Ghost stands up, and you have to pretend you’re staring at the ceiling and not what’s swinging between his legs as he puts them on.

He goes down on his knees again, shifting through whatever is inside. As you start to lean forward, curiosity getting the better of you, you’re met with fabric to the face.

“Put this on,” mutters Ghost as he shuts the trunk.

You hold out a shirt, something far too large to fit you properly. Slowly, you tug it over your head, wiggling it down until it comes to mid-thigh. Ghost snags the towel off the bed, taking yours and his back to the dividing wall. He hands them over the side.

“Be honest with me, Lieutenant Riley.” Ghost doesn’t acknowledge you. “Please.”

This time, he turns, and you have no idea what he might be thinking. His features are passive. Neutral. You want to dig around, crack him open, figure out the inner workings of his mind. You’re angry, but you’re lost.

A sparrow in a dark forest.

“This mandate. Bringing me back to a…safe zone. When I come out of processing, am I yours? Do I belong to you?” He stares, and a sinking feeling emerges. You need answers. You desperately need them. “Please,” you say, voice cracking.

He takes a step toward you.

Another.

He comes to a stop at the edge of the bed, staring down at you. Fingertips brush against your bare arm. A shiver runs through you.

“No,” he answers. “You don’t belong to me.”

It’s out there. Hanging.

But is it the truth?

“Scoot over,” he murmurs. “Sleep is calling my name.”

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bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-one —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3.5k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: I'm sorry lmaooo nine months... hopefully we can finish this thing!

The last bed you laid in smelled like lemon mint detergent. It was the full bed in your sister's guest room. Everything was crisp and white. They rarely had guests besides you. Some of your clothes stayed in that closet, one of your toothbrushes stayed in the connected bathroom, waiting for your visits. You'd awaken that last morning not thinking you'd never sleep in bed for another five years. You left it unmade.

This bed smells like pine and warmth.

Ghost's room is small and dimly lit. The ceiling slants so that one end is not tall enough for him to fully stand. There's a dresser and a nightstand, leaving only a sliver of floorspace.

After the metal latch on the door clicks shut, Ghost lays the blanket down and grabs a pillow for himself. That leaves the bed to you. Springs creak beneath your weight as you silently slip under a heavy, rustic quilt. The years-embedded scent of him wraps around you like a drug-induced fog. You hesitate to move, frozen as he flicks off the light. You wonder if he always locks the door or did it for you, to make you feel safer.

Only when his moving about ceases do you allow yourself to get comfortable. You cocoon your body under the quilt and turn to your side, closing your eyes.

A thought reopens them minutes later. You roll onto your back and speak into the darkness. "Have you known about this Switzerland place?"

For a moment, you think he's already asleep. Then, from below the bed by your feet, he says, "Heard of it."

"That is what you guys talked about, isn't it?" you ask absentmindedly.

"Among other things."

You sit up so you can see him, but all that you can make out is a dark shadow. "Care to share?"

"Some things are on a need-to-know basis," is all he gives.

"And I don't need to know?"

"Precisely."

It stings; you don't know why. "Some team we make, huh? Or I guess we're only a team when you need me to do something for you."

You quickly realize how petulant you must sound. The shadow sits upright. "They asked me to go with them. I said no. Too far. Too many variables that are hard to predict, and she's not ready for them. Happy?"

Happy—no, but relief replaces the slight uncertainty in your gut since your conversation with Nereida. Joining them was shut down. You wouldn't tell her, but their idea sounds asinine, whether or not that commune exists. The trip will be risky at best, fatal at worst. You're tempted to ask him how many days he thinks they'll recoup here before continuing their journey, but opt for sleep instead. He seems done with the conversation, too, lying back down. Then, you have the best sleep you've had in years in his bed.

When the sun turns pink, you awaken to a room void of Ghost. He's gone. It should be expected, but you'd thought he might wake you up to train like normal. Though, the past twenty-four hours haven't been normal. You look around, the details of his room more visible now. On the nightstand, there is a stack of books and you scan the titled spines. Mostly classics. One Hemingway. All tattered and read frequently. Beside them lays a silver chain attached to a dog tag. You gently finger the engraved metal so as not to move it out of place: Simon Riley. 

Snooping through his things is more tempting than you're willing to admit. You slip out of bed, socked feet padding over to the dresser. There are mostly papers. His map with the marked circle around what you now realize is Switzerland, a notepad with scribbled half-cursive on it, and then a faded photo beneath it. You freeze, breath hitching, as if you've done something dangerous just by stumbling upon it. Curiosity is thick in your chest, difficult to ignore. Gentle fingers reach to shift it out, revealing a picture that you know right away is of Blue and her mom. Blue is a baby. Maybe one year old. A woman with light brown hair holds her up, sitting on a bench in front of a playground. She's pretty and young. There is a sadness when you wonder if this is the only picture he has of them—before her death. Then, there is another feeling. You swallow it. 

You quickly slip the photo back just the way you found it and leave the room. The living room is quiet, people still sleeping. Price and Kyle's blankets are empty, but Kyle is the only one you spot outside. He sits on a tree stump, using a knife and some soap to shave his beard. He looks at you the moment you step outside.

"Good morning." He splashes a scoop of water on his smoothed jaw. 

You tuck your hands in your pockets. "Morning."

Without the facial hair, he looks even younger. Maybe in his early thirties. He pushes to his feet and you are reminded of his above-average height, though he is not as monstrous as Ghost. His form is lean, all muscle, with much less ink on his exposed skin. It is now you notice a scar across his jaw. Thick but faded. It trails halfway down his neck.

"Do you know where Ghost went?" you ask.

"Working on that truck of his. With Price."

A glance over your shoulder confirms it; you spot some movement behind the cabin where you know his truck sits. Guess that means no training. You nod. "So, um, you were in the military together, right?"

He takes a moment to look at you before answering. "Yeah. Same unit. Price was our captain."

"I kind of figured. He is... captain-y."

"'Captain-y.' Good way of putting it."

You're ready to turn away when he asks, "I hate to pry, but I admit I'm curious how you ended up here with him."

You force a smile. "It's not a very interesting story, sorry."

"I'm not looking for entertainment."

"What are you looking for, then?" You sound more defensive than you mean to. 

He shrugs. "Just curious, is all. You're a bit young."

"I'm not fucking him if that's what you're getting at." His brows lift to his hairline, and you're almost embarrassed for assuming that is what he was thinking, but before he can speak you add, "And you're young, too. I can handle myself just as you can."

"Of course." He shakes his head, moving his hand over his chest in earnest. "I apologize if I insinuated otherwise. Though, I am older than you."

"How old?"

"Let's see. Thirty-one last November. Or maybe it's just thirty. Hard to keep track, innit?" His smile is more genuine than yours, flashing white teeth. Then, his face turns more serious and he sighs through his nose, head tilting. "Look, I understand."

"Understand what?"

"I don't know your story, but I'm sure it is a gruesome one, and you have every right to feel uncomfortable. We'll be out of your hair soon enough. I appreciate you having us, though."

You want to tell him it's not like you have a choice; you're not the host here. But he already knows that. He's trying to be nice. "Thank you," you tell him honestly. 

Kyle bends to pick up his knife, wiping it off on his shirt. "So what did you need Ghost for?"

"Oh, nothing really."

"Care to accompany me for some breakfast, then?"

You consider saying no, but you need to hunt, anyway. Besides, you don't think he'd try anything in broad daylight. In another life, you may have looked at him with a more appreciative eye. But as you wade in silence through the woods, bow cinched to your back, you study him like an opponent. He's more agile than Ghost, likely quicker. When he crests the hill, it's hard to match his strides. 

Small conversation picks up by the pond and you find yourself easing up. You learn he's from London, too.

"What part?"

"Islington. I shared an apartment with my girlfriend. The rent was shit but it was worth it. Top floor loft with a good view and this insane Turkish bakery just below us." His tone is so casual you forget where you are for a second, until he suddenly throws his knife. It pins a squirrel to one of the trees. He bends to dislodge it and carries the dead animal, blood on his fingers. 

You keep walking. "What happened to her?"

"I had to make a choice. Go to London and find her, or go with Price and get my nephew, niece, and sister-in-law."

The understanding hits with the force of a fallen tree, and you pale. 

He notices your expression and continues. "I don't regret my decision. I've come to terms with it. There was no chance of me finding her in London, not with how quickly the infection spread there and the phone lines went out. I didn't even know where to look for her. At work? Home? Up north, things weren't as bad yet. I got in contact with my sister-in-law, Ameena, and told her to meet us at the small college up there where Nereida worked."

You recall what Nereida said, about Ari's mom and sister dying, so you don't pry about them. "What about your brother? Ari's dad?"

"He died before shit happened. He was in the military, too. Different unit. Multiple gun wounds while in Afghanistan a few years back."

"I think your story is more gruesome than mine," you admit.

His lips twitch ruefully. "Not a competition. Gruesome world, gruesome stories."

A more comfortable quiet settles. He is not so different than you, you realize. Only difference is he still has his nephew to look after.

The sun is already high, enough to make a collar of sweat appear on your shirt. There is a small dirt ridge you have to climb and the effort reminds you of the still-healing bruises on your body. A skirt of movement catches your eye and this time, you act quick. You use your bow to kill a squirrel up on a branch. It falls to the ground.

"Damn." Kyle whistles, low and long, as you wriggle the arrow free. "Hell of an aim you got."

"I'm... alright."

"No need to be modest."

You straighten and wipe your bloodied hand on your shirt. The movement lifts it, and you hear him suck in a breath behind you. A hand touches your shoulder, gentle than firm, as he spins you around. You're confused, then follow his gaze to the sliver of exposed skin on your hip. It's a gross yellow. 

"Twix." His voice lowers, and his friendly eyes are confused. 

Shit. "It's not whatever you're thinking."

"I'm thinking someone has put their hands on you." He frowns and shifts closer. "I know you have no reason to tell me things, but I can tell you I am not okay with that shit, no matter who it is."

You inwardly cringe. "Ghost is not... hitting me. Well, he is—"

"Fucking hell—"

"No, no. I asked him to." The bewildered look on his face makes you palm your forehead. "Not like that. Jesus. We train together, okay?"

"Train together," he repeats, shoulders loosening. 

"Yeah, like to help me get stronger." The embarrassment remains on your cheeks. "It's silly, really."

Kyle shakes his head and grins, clearly amused now that he knows you're not being abused against your will. "Not silly. Thought you two were into some kinky shit for a second there." He continues walking over a patch of dryer land, stepping onto a small rock and chuffing a breath under his nose. "Wouldn't have been surprised."

Your fingers absentmindedly tighten around the squirrel's limp neck. Your feet are frozen for a moment as you shake off a deep blush, then call out behind him. "Did you miss the part where I said I'm not fucking him!"

He simply laughs. 

---

The rest of the day passes in languid warmth. 

It's weird having so many people here, but you try to continue your day like usual, skinning the kill and washing your clothes. You learn more about Nereida as you eat together. You haven't had a female friend in... a long time. Save Blue. She used to be an arts professor at a private school. Sculpting, mainly. That is how she came to meet John Price, when he attended one of her galleries, buying a piece from her for far more than the listing price. He was just looking for a way to take me out to dinner. The way she speaks of him is that of a doting wife, despite everything they've been through. She tells you they were engaged before the infection. A makeshift ceremony at their old camp was the best they could do. 

"No wedding ring, but we do both have this." She pulls up her sleeve to show you a small scar carved on her shoulder—a faint letter 'J'. Price has the 'N'.

You're not sure what Ghost needed to fix on his truck that morning, or why it was important to do it with Price, but when you returned with Kyle, something felt off. Ghost's tension was palpable. He usually seems in thought, but even more-so. When Ari takes Blue for a quick ride on the horse—apparently Cherry used to be owned by his parents on their family ranch in Newcastle—he watches for only a minute before disappearing somewhere with Price. You pretend to need something from the cabin. You sneak around the back way, finding them again by his truck, muttering in low voices. Only pieces reach your ears.

"...through the rural parts. Not a straight path..."

"...could take months..."

"Got quite a bit of those."

Then, he's showing Price something under the tuck bed's tarp where you catch sight of that kayak once again. 

"Find it?"

A low voice in your ear. You startle and turn around.

"Huh?"

Kyle raises a brow. "You said you needed something."

Your hand flattens against the side of the cabin. "Right. Um, I just—"

Boots scuffle behind you. You don't need to turn to know Ghost and Price have detected your presence, making their way over. Kyle's gaze flicks to them and you feel like a child who's been caught by her parents—embarrassment laced over your irritation. You wouldn't have been eavesdropping if they weren't so secretive.

"Everything alright?" Price's timbre is calm. Your neck prickles where you feel Ghost's stare.

You find yourself nodding. "Yes. Just fine. Sorry."

It gets cooler by nightfall. Your knee bounces slightly under the table during dinner. You listen to Blue explain the rules of battleship to Ari. You don't eat much more of the meat you caught with Kyle. With a mostly empty stomach, you enter Ghost's room after everyone else has gone to bed. His broad form hovers over his dresser. For a moment, you fear he's somehow noticed that you looked at his things earlier. But then you realize his eyes are glued to the map, and he's penciling some things on the margins.

He looks up when you close the door behind you. His brows are deeply knotted. 

"Figured you would be sleeping out there for tonight."

"What?"

"Seems like you feel just fine around them now." 

He looks away from you as if you're not even there. He places the map down and opens the top drawer. Without warning, he pulls out a clean shirt and changes, revealing his bare chest. His shoulders flex as he slips it over his head by the collar. Then, he moves toward you, eyes dully expectant.

"Being asleep near them is different than hanging out during the day," you finally respond. Mouth feeling dry, you swallow. "What's going on? I can tell that you... you've been thinking about something."

"You mean you've been listening." His brow lifts. He shakes his head before you can defend yourself. "I am always thinking about something."

"Would it kill you to not be cryptic for once? I thought that we were..."

"That we were what?"

"Being honest with each other now."

A dark, slightly amused breath leaves his nose. He contemplates your words for a moment. "It is my plan to go there," he then says. "I'm not stupid. I know she needs more than what I can offer her here. It has always been my plan. Just not now."

"Because she's not ready," you breathe.

"Because she's not ready," he repeats, chin tilting. His eyes darken, veering to the left. "Price seems to disagree."

Your nails curl in your palms. "And?"

He looks back at you. "And I am thinking of your camp. What happened to you. I can't grow complacent."

The mention unsettles your stomach. Of course, he needn't elaborate, not when the memory is more fresh than you'd like. "But going to Switzerland would take days, weeks. And they have no idea what they might run into out there. It's not like we have inside info on the state of France and—and wherever the hell else we'd have to cross through to get there. They could be worse than London."

"I'm aware."

"So what, then? You're considering it now? I thought you told them no," your hushed voice edges a bit harsher, and the pulse in your neck quickens.

You hate what you think he's saying, even if you understand it. He has his daughter's future to think of. Even if he were to try finding some safe community when she's older, the opportunity of traveling with two other military-experienced men would be gone, along with whatever weapons and supplies they bring to the table.

The contemplation is vivid in his eyes as you study them. Ghost's head lowers, dipping down at the same time that he emits a harsh breath, and you realize how close the two of you have become in this quiet exchange, keeping your voices safe from any awakened ears. So close, in fact, that his exhalation hits the space between your neck and collarbones, where a small patch of skin tingles with alertness. 

His voice emerges low and thoughtful after a drawn moment. "I haven't fully decided."

You nod with deep breath to steady yourself, taking in his answer. "Will you tell me when you do?" 

"I can do that."

And that's all he offers—four words that give a minuscule amount of comfort, because now bitter uncertainty has snuck upon you once again. Your fate lays in his decision. You can't survive on your own, not even here, so if he leaves you have to go with him. The impending doom fogs your brain. You fail to notice his hand has moved, pinching the hem of your shirt between thumb and forefinger, and beginning to carefully lift it up. A breath hitches at the top of your throat and your eyes unfurl, only to find that he is pensively looking down at your exposed stomach.

"What the fuck are you—"

You're cut off when his bent knuckles gently brush over your mottled abdomen, sweeping down the sore midline, leaving you frozen. It's a thoughtful, slow touch—calloused skin against smooth softness. His thumb traces a particularly bad one by your hip, causing your muscles to flutter as a pleasant heat blossoms. For the second time today, your bruises are under scrutiny, and you curse yourself for not applying more of that paste on them.

"They're healing well," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, and lowers the shirt back down. He steps back. Eyes find yours. "Don't get too comfortable."

You blink dazedly, then stiffen. "Um, what?"

"Sleeping in my bed. My room isn't a hotel."

The change of topic gives you whiplash. "You're the one who made me sleep here," you remind him pointedly. "I'll just take the floor tonight, and you have the bed."

"You're a woman. Take it."

"As if you give a fuck about being a gentleman."

"You're right, I don't." A dismissive shoulder shrugs, then his back turns to you. He lays in the bed before you have the chance to even move, which leaves the blanket on the floor for you.

You should've just accepted the bed.

Once the room is shrouded in darkness, you bury your head in the pillow. 

"Comfortable?" he says sarcastically above you.

"Fuck off."

Then it's silent. You don't sleep nearly as well.

Butcher!Simon x gn!reader Part 11 I know it's been forever. I finished my exam and then fell into an energy coma and did not get anything done. Sorry if this chaper is kinda disappointing but I'm trying to find my flow again with this; I gave it my best shot. These two still make me go insane. As always if I messed up readers description please tell me. I am merely a self indulgend human who is prone to mistakes. Part 10 | COD Masterlist | (Part 12)

Simon’s pretty sure he’s beet red under his helmet. Now that he’s making his way through traffic with your arms wrapped around him the previous interaction is catching up to him and he can’t believe he had the audacity to touch you like that.

Then again, you hadn’t objected. Maybe you’d just been too polite to shove his hand off. But you had grabbed it, held it too, maybe that moment hadn’t been as one sided as he feared (who is he kidding, why would an angel like you willingly touch a sinner like him).

He tries to shake the thoughts off, just being thankful that he got those precious moments forever seared into his memory.

Suddenly your arms are gone from around him and he almost gets worried until he realizes that you merely spread them to the side, wriggling your fingers trying to feel the wind. Before he can stop himself one of his hands finds your thigh and he gently grabs onto you, making sure you’re still there. His heart is beating so loudly he can feel it echo through his body, surely you can feel it through the thick gloves and pants, drumming against your skin, spelling his devotion in Morse code.

The fact that you don’t seem bothered by it in the least tilts the picture he had of you in his mind sideways. You’re wary, shy and scared without your dog, but not uncomfortable with casual physical touch and he’s incredibly thankful for it.

Simon’s not sure since when he’s someone who wants to casually touch others (he doesn’t, he only wants to touch you, he wants you to touch him too, wants you to wrap your hands around his throat and make him yours) but he wants to touch you. Preferably all day, every day.

He can feel himself short-circuit when your arms wrap around him again and your hands slowly stroke up and down his chest and stomach. Hopefully you can’t feel the way his heart tries to squeeze its way through his ribs to fall into your perfect hands.

Once again his chest swells with a warm thick feeling and he wants to tear his ribs open, carve out his heart and make a home for you in its stead. He wants to chain you to him so he won’t have to spend another second without you (okay, fucking weirdo, he should really get a grip on his thoughts).

It’s the best ride of his life with you pressed close to him and every now and then spreading your arms. He can even pretend you’re wrapping your arms around him out of want and not necessity. Maybe he can remember the feeling the next time he wakes up alone from a nightmare.

He thinks of your mutt, who gets to wake up to you every morning. Simon would sleep in a dog bed too if it meant he could be close to you like that.

The ride is over far too soon when he parks a few streets away from the venue. Immediately he holds out his hand for you to get off and you take it, putting your other hand onto his shoulder to stabilize yourself while you get off with ease.

You take of the helmet and gear. Simon can’t help but appreciate the view of you stripping something off, even if it is only the outermost layer. Immediately he admonishes himself for the path his thoughts take but he really can’t help it when you wriggle out of the gear and hand it to him to put it back in the cases.

“Ready?”, he asks you and your excited grin is almost infectious. Now that you’re near the concert hall you’re all restless buzzing energy. Most of it excitement but he can sense an underlying nervousness too.

Simon is sure that Wraith could have calmed you down in seconds. For a moment he almost misses the mutt, if only for how comfortable he makes you. Then he shakes it off. He’s here and he’ll take better care of you than the mutt. He’ll show you that there’s nothing to fear with him at your side.

Slowly he places one of his hands on your shoulder and your body stills. His eyes zero in on the way it looks so fucking big against you and he swallows dryly. Your eyes find his and he tries to reassure you through his body language alone, squeezing your shoulder to ground you.

You take a few deep breaths and then your hand comes up, reaching for his. He nearly chokes on his own saliva when instead of brushing him off, you take his hand in yours and bring it down so you can comfortably hold it.

“So we don’t get separated.”, you say softly while slight pink dusts your cheeks.

Oh.

Simon is so utterly fucked.

It takes all his willpower to just gently squeeze your hand instead of sweeping you off your feet so he can kiss you breathless and slip his tongue between your perfect lips, taste if you’re as sweet as you look (oh god, he should stop fantasizing about kissing you or he’s going to lose his mind).

He nods, like a normal person and manages answer without stumbling over his words. “Of course.”

It’s a throwback to the way you strolled through the park, but this time you initiated the contact and Simon might be floating instead of walking.

As you approach the concert hall more and more people join your direction and your eyes widen as you take in the crowds. Now you’re looking around a lot, scanning those closest to you as if you expect danger any moment now. It reminds Simon of a little meerkat on the lookout and he probably should not find it as endearing as he does.

He takes a deep breath and when he exhales a bit of calmness settles over him. It’s almost like a mission, when he thinks about it. Get you safely into the building, let you enjoy yourself and safely get you back. Stuff like that he can handle. Stuff like that he’s done before. Stressful situations are where he –

You step closer to him, your other arm coming up as well and now you’re damn near hugging his arm. Simon almost stumbles over his own feet but he catches himself and looks at your overwhelmed expression.

He extracts his arm from your almost hug and instead puts it around you, effectively pulling you into his side. He holds his breath for a second, afraid that any unnecessary movement may spook you (breathing is unnecessary when it comes to your comfort).

Instead of pulling away you seem to slightly relax and he continues leading you into the hall. When you enter you crane your neck to look around and then your eyes settle on Simon.

“I’ve never been to an event this big!”, you shout over the deafening sound of thousands of people having their own private conversations.

“Get ready to have your mind blown. Been to one of their concerts before. They’re bloody brilliant, sweetheart.”, he shouts back and once again you giddily hop in place a bit. This time he gets to feel the movement against his side and he fights himself to not crush you against him in his intense need to hold you closer.

He looks around, satisfied that he managed to herd you to the front row directly before the stage. After all you deserve nothing but the best experience and any regret he could have had for the people behind him that might have a slightly obstructed view, dies the second you beam up at him.

“Thank you, Simon.” You nearly squeal and he knows his eyes crinkle with the way he smiles so wide.

“Welcome, sweetheart.”

His own excitement is growing, not just at your anticipation but because he can’t wait for the music to start. His gaze is embarrassingly soft as he looks down at you, next to him and he fights the need to place his hand on your hips and pull you closer.

At least he knows that the hall will get so crowded that more physical contact between you two is inevitable and Simon will soak that up like a sponge that’s been dry for years.

defiance | king!sukuna x servant!reader

chapter ten: hidden letters

summary: a psychic shares her vision with the king, saying that his soulmate would replace all 5 of his concubines one day. he had her banned from the premises for that absurd prediction. it wasn't until months later when he started believing the old bitch, after one cute yet disobedient servant started working at the shrine. TL;DR: sukuna's a sorcerer in this one, still ooc but not too much. mc pretty much ran away from home for being a hoe, and went to work at sukuna's shrine lol.

genre: female reader, heian era au but incredibly historically inaccurate, 18+, grumpy x sunshine, fluff, smut, so much crack, angst, mutual pining, might be seen as dubcon but she wants him lol, no he wont have two sets of arms, and no he wont have two dicks, srry srry srry

fic warnings: profanity, explicit smut, ooc, mentions of grooming, graphic depictions of violence, suicide, more will be added as story progresses

word count: like 3.8k?

notes: no chapter warnings this time (: enjoy the read and happy sunday!!

master list

playlist (lana heavy)

“You’re joking.” 

“Oh come on,” Hayami scoffed. “That would be purely diabolical on my part.”

You crossed your arms, “What did they say?”

“That they’d like to see you again. They said they’ve been sending letters here for over two months now.” 

Interesting how the only ones you’ve received so far were from Hayami— making your mind going straight to a certain salmon-haired menace who most likely knows where they are. 

“And how did they find out?”

“I honestly have no idea.. I’m guessing from Toji, maybe?”

“Probably if it’s been two months,” you grudgingly said.

—

Sukuna had just gotten back to his chambers after a long training session with Uraume, and immediately heard ruffling coming from his office in the very back. 

Whoever had snuck in obviously didn’t hear him come inside since the noise didn’t stop, so he quietly shut the door– wanting to scare the shit out of whoever it was before he punished them. 

Right before he reached the doorway, he heard a little “ugh” that he was all too familiar with, immediately stepping into the office to see what you were doing there. 

He froze in place, eyes blown wide open and jaw dropped at the fact that he just got caught red fucking handed. 

He knew he couldn’t even talk his way out of this— all 12 of the letters he hadn’t disposed of were in your hand, all while you glared at him, waiting for an explanation. 

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” He asked in a panicked tone. 

“You’re really asking me that right now?” You retorted, beyond baffled at his pathetic response to getting caught hiding your mail. “Kuna, how long have you had these?” 

He slightly pursed his lips together, pretending to think, knowing the answer was at least 2 months, but not sure if he should tell you that. “Over a month.” 

It technically wasn’t a lie. 

“And why haven’t you said anything?!” 

He doesn’t like it when you grit your teeth like that, or the way you were staring into his soul at that moment. 

He quickly pulled it together, reminding himself that there was nothing to be nervous about. “Because they’re fucking assholes.”

“I’m well aware of that, I just don’t get why you decided it was a good idea to keep these from me,” you scoffed. 

“You’re the one who said you wanted them to think you’re dead!” He argued, just remembering that little piece of information on the spot, hoping your mood wouldn’t get worse than it already was.

“I did, but I still think I deserve to read whatever they have to say to me!” You argued back. “Don't you?!”

“Ugh, yes,” he groaned. “Okay— okay! It was wrong, I shouldn’t have hid them from you.” 

“Are these all of them?” 

“Yes,” you raised your eyebrow at his hesitancy to answer the question. “No,” he corrected himself. “I burned the first two.” 

“Un-fucking-believable,” you pinched your nose bridge. “Whatever, can’t take it back now.” You mumbled to yourself. 

That was right, no he could not. 

“They didn’t say much in the first two anyways.” He scratched the back of his head while accidentally admitting that he read them too. 

You felt your eyes roll into the back of your head from how he didn’t even realize he told on himself just now. “What did they say?” You let out a sigh.

“That they missed you, that they were worried about you for the longest time, apparently. And that they were happy to hear you were doing “okay”— no apologies or even acknowledging what they did to you.” 

“Of course they didn’t,” you said in a defeated tone. “You swear you only burned two of them?” 

“I swear.” He was quick to throw his hands up as he promised, slightly relieved that you seemed more sad than mad. It was easier to make you feel better when you like that. 

“No apology?” 

“I’m not apologizing for trying to protect you.” He retorts, rather firmly, making you roll your eyes again— you swear he’d rather die than apologize to another person. 

“‘Kay, thanks for that.” Your tone wasn’t too convincing, but you weren’t trying to fight with him. 

“Where are you going?” He held his arms out.

“Back to my chambers?” 

He shook his head at you for trying to leave him so soon. “I’m coming with you, hold on.” 

You groaned at him making you wait for him while he changed out of his training clothes and into one of his daily robes. But you left it at that, not wanting to snap at him anymore than you already did. 

He already knew you were mad, there wasn’t really a point in trying to prove it even more by continuing to attack him— no matter how questionable his thought process was. 

— 

It took you around 2 hours to thoroughly read the letters, all while Sukuna found random shit to do like awkwardly tidying up your room, even though it was already clean. 

He was just pointlessly moving around decor and random items at that point.

You figured it was out of guilt and you just let him wallow in it for a bit, until you finally invited him to sit on the bed with you while you read the last letter— the one that came in literally 3 days ago. 

All twelve of the letters were pretty much the same— asking how you’ve been the past year, how much they missed you, how they wanted to see you again– everything Sukuna said, along with them avoiding talking about what drove you to live at the shrine in the first place. 

You wanted to talk about how much they fucked up your life, but you’ve recently come to the decision that you’d stop mentioning any of the life regrets you had in front of Sukuna, who’d get quiet whenever you did. 

He obviously enjoyed having you here, continuing to talk about your misfortunes would just be a slap in the face to him at this point after all the effort he’s put into trying to make you happy here.

“Are you going to write them back?” He asked, looking over your shoulder and quietly reading the last letter with you despite having already read it.. three days ago.

“I’m not sure. I still don’t forgive them for all the things they’ve said to me.. and literally trying to kill me. I swear I could still feel how hard my dad slapped me if I closed my eyes and really thought about it.”

He frowned at that, tucking your hair behind your ear and rubbing your cheek, unable to understand how anyone could hurt you like that. 

Your own father out of all of the people in this world too. He’s convinced that they only reached out to you just so they could visit the shrine, maybe climb up the ladder a bit in terms of social classes. Having a daughter that was a concubine of the king was definitely one of the easiest ways to do it, especially with how he was well known to be picky with his partners. 

They could also work hard, but if they didn’t try to do that before, he doubts they’d try to do that now. Not only that, your parents and older brother just seemed lazy from the stories you’ve told him. Taking advantage of others and then playing the victims once they got caught. 

Sure, he believed in taking what you could get, he did it all the time. 

But you couldn’t be an asshole and a victim. There was a difference between making others think you’re a good person just to steal from them and simply going up to someone and demanding they give you something. 

He was a part of the latter of course, and if it was fucked up, at least he was true to himself.

On top of that, he couldn’t stand how fucking righteous they were. So what if you slept with people before marriage, it's not like you were born a noble or anything. 

It clearly worked out well for you in the long run anyways, if you asked him. 

A little too well, actually— not once leaving him disappointed, ever.

“Whatever you choose to do, I’ll support you,” his words brought a smile to your face. “But if they try to fuck with you I promise you I’ll skin them alive.” He concluded, wiping the short-lived smile right off your face. 

“What a hero,” you dryly responded. 

“More like a villain,” he snorted as he shamelessly corrected you. “Someones gotta be one and I do a wonderful job at playing the part.”

“That you do.” You agreed.

“Sooo,” he reached for the rest of the stack on the bed. “Can I burn these too?”

“Absolutely not, Kuna.”

—

“My king,” Kaori walked up to Sukuna and Uraume, bowing with her five other attendants. “It's a beautiful day, isn’t it?” The young woman attempted to spark up a conversation with him for what seemed like the millionth time.

Sukuna was on his way to the throne room, not in the mood for small talk. “I guess. Too bad I can’t enjoy it since I’m late for the hearing,” he briefly responded, hoping she’d get discouraged from keeping the conversation going. 

“I’m sorry to hear that. Were you being accompanied by any of the concubines today?” 

“Lady Ayame’s already there.” 

He tried to get you to come today, and wished you actually would’ve because then this woman wouldn’t be approaching him— but you didn’t have the stomach to go to hearings on most days, today being one of those days. 

The only ones who could truly stand them were Ayame and Yuna, but he learned his lesson with Yuna after just one time. 

That little shit started laughing and clapping like a fucking seal after he beheaded someone for a reason he could no longer remember since it was already long ago. The only thing he remembers was Yuna embarrassing him and her not giving a single fuck if she did— never again.

“May I join? I would love to see what your daily commitments look like.” She smiled at him warmly.

Fucks sake— this is what he gets for trying to get another concubine when you both were fighting. Now he’s cursed with some random girl that thinks he picked her out because he was interested in her. 

And to make matters worse, you pushed him to visit her, which he ended up doing a couple times— you were an absolute trooper for even suggesting that, but eventually told you that he was done. 

Fast forward to now, both him and Uraume genuinely feel like she spends her day walking around the shrine trying to search for him, judging by the amount of times she’s approached him since the first visit.

“No, you may not.” He answered coldly, staring her down as if she were some persistent gnat. Nothing annoys him more than when a person asks him for something. 

The girl thankfully excused herself, still surprisingly as gracious as ever, even after receiving a harsh rejection. It was something he would’ve respected in the past prior to meeting you, but now it’s just old and boring.

Have a backbone, look at him like you want to stab him or something if you really want his attention. 

He found it funny how much things could change in less than 6 months— who would’ve thought he’d grown to enjoy being scolded, even feeling compelled to start petty little arguments to get you riled up. 

Key word: You. 

If anyone else were to try that shit with him, fuck— good luck. 

Having Kaori at the shrine wasn’t all that bad though. He surprisingly got along well (enough) with her father, who was the shogun of the Silk District. 

It was the main reason why he didn’t go back on the deal, even though he had already made up with you before it was finished. 

Direct access to silk didn't hurt anyone. Plus, he figured you’d like the clothing from there too— and you did. He likes the way your eyes light up when he brings you back new dresses, skirts, robes, whatever.

Now he just needed to find a way to get Kaori to fuck off, that girl was too persistent— it was going to drive him up the wall.

—

“Hey, is Mariko free right now?” You asked her lady in waiting that opened the main door to her chambers.

“Yes she is!” Mariko yelled out from the general area, before her attendant could even answer. “Please, come in! Aiko, could you make her some tea please?” 

“Of course, my lady.” Aiko bowed and excused herself.

“How can I help you princess?” She asked, her tone laced with her usual playfulness.

You wanted to roll your eyes at the nickname, she started calling you that after sitting next to Sukuna during the ceremony on the second day of the festival.

“Well..” you handed her the letters you received from your parents. “I’m trying to figure out if I want to write back to my family or not. Help me out here, Miss Consultant.” 

“I’d love to,” she said, immediately reaching for the papers. “You know, I thought you’d feel comfortable enough to come to me after one or two— not 12.” 

“Actually, there were originally 14. Sukuna burned the first two, and then I found the rest hidden in his office.” 

“Of course you did,” she mumbled while skimming through the letters, not even wanting to get into how much of an idiot that man could be at times— smart enough, yet so irrational. 

“Your parents are assholes.” She concluded after reading one of the letters. She already knew about your backstory, courtesy of Sukuna and his big mouth.

“I know.” You wholeheartedly agreed.

“Not even an apology?” 

“Nope.” 

“I mean— do you still want a relationship with them?” 

“Sometimes,” you admit. “But then I remember how easy it was for them to disown me.” And attempted to murder you, but you left that part out because you were pretty sure you sounded like a broken record at that point.

“Okay, keep this between you and me,” she directly faced you and started to whisper. “But General Toji’s so hot. If I were your mother, I would’ve been so proud.” 

Your eyes widened at the concubines confession. “Please don’t let Sukuna hear you say that.” You whined, not failing to think about the grade A tantrum he’d throw if he ever heard that sentence— you within a 20 feet radius of it. You had enough ptsd from the flower festival to make you physically recoil from her words. 

“He’s just jealous,” she nudged you with her elbow. 

“He’s terrifying when he’s jealous.” You murmur. “Anyways,” you quickly change the subject, “should I write back to them?” 

“It wouldn’t hurt,” she shrugged. “It’s not like they could do anything to hurt you now that you're here. You don’t have to have a relationship with them either. You can always make that decision after hearing what they have to say to you.” 

“That’s true,” You smiled, remembering how Sukuna said he’d support you either way. “Ok, I’m gonna do it. Even if it’s just to get some closure.”

“That’s my girl,” she clasped her hands together before pulling you in for a hug. “Now onto more important matters— when are you going to give the throne an heir?!” 

“Not anytime soon,” you clicked your tongue. 

“Boring,” she booed. “It would be such a cute kid too, what a waste of genetics,” she pouted.

An heir was something Mariko had been bringing up with you and Sukuna more and more often lately. Sometimes even when you two were together, but he never made it weird.

Ever since taking you to his son's grave, he’s been surprisingly honest with you about how he felt about having another child. 

And his feeling on that being that he didn’t want to have another one just yet, he also knew and understood your own fears when it came to pregnancy and motherhood. It was something you two would revisit in the future.

He however had slipped up many times while having sex with you— deliriously telling you that he was going to put a baby in you, and how you’d be the prettiest mommy. You both always ignored that little detail though once you both finally came back to your senses.

There was also the newly common occurrence where he’d “forget” to have Uraume bring you your usual morning concoction. 

“When will Uraume be coming this morning?” 

“Why would they come here?” 

“..To drop off the elixir?”

“Oh.. right— yeah, they’ll be here soon.”

Mornings like those always made you wonder if he was just lying to himself, but you weren’t going to push the subject— he’d eventually say something to you if he were that serious at giving fatherhood a second chance. 

—-

Kaori waited near the exit of the throne room, hoping she’d run into Sukuna again so she could invite him to eat dinner with her later. Her heartbeat steadily picked up once the doors opened, servants coming out first, the king and higher ranks usually being the last. Alas, after finally seeing him come out of the building she started making her way towards him, ready to greet him with a smile on her face— one that was just for him.

Except she was beat to it by you and your newest lady in waiting, Hayami.

A lowly servant turned concubine and a used up whore turned attendant— both of low birth, never once contributing anything useful to society except your bodies and wasting the shrine's resources.

Apparently you two were childhood friends, it made plenty of sense to her with how classless you both were— both of you spending your days frolicking around the estate, you being openly affectionate with the king for everyone’s eyes to see.

It was shameful how desperate you were to have the king's attention— all to yourself, at that.

For the first time ever, she saw a smile creep up on his face that usually held a stoic expression for the world, including herself, to see. 

The smile he had on his face being just for you, as you walked up to him with a letter in your hand. 

The circulating rumors of you being a witch made more and more sense to her with each day that passed. There was no fucking way King Sukuna could be that interested in whatever was in that letter— all while something randomly possessed him to tuck your hair behind your ears. 

And as if that wasn’t enough to have the misfortune to witness, he started rubbing your back and shoulders as you started to read its contents to him, his smile growing wider by the minute.

She was stunned you even knew how to read, most servants being illiterate due to lack of education.

He even spoke kindly to your lady in waiting, despite his reputation for being known to act like the servants and attendants in the shrine didn’t exist aside from his own— and yours, apparently.

She’ll never understand how some men could have shit for taste despite having the world at the palm of their hands. 

You didn’t even have manners— your eyes glazed over during the entirety of the ceremony that was held during the festival, not one ounce of respect or care for tradition that’s been around for hundreds of years.

How dare you act that way in the presence of a king?

Disgraceful.

Vulgar.

Ill-bred bitch.

And of course he let it slide after you took him back to your chambers afterwards to let him fuck you like the whore you were.

But it’s like what her mother told her: men will play around with whoever’s easy and available while they’re young, but they always end up marrying the good girls— the ones who’d actually make good wives and good mothers.

And that’s why she wasn’t worried about you, at all. He was going to use you for all that you had until there was eventually nothing left for you to offer, and then inevitably toss you aside, like the opportunistic whore you were. 

—- 

“Sooo.. what do you think?” You asked him right after reading him the letter you were planning on sending to your parents out loud.

He took the letter from your hands and skimmed through it, while his other hand kept a gentle, yet firm hold on the back of your neck.

“You spelled I hope you’re doing terrible wrong—“ 

“No I didn’t,” you hissed, pulling a chuckle out of him. 

He didn’t get why you were so nervous all of the sudden, it’s not like they were going to disown and throw you out onto the street. 

They already did that, like the useless people they were— clearly undeserving of a daughter like you. The last thing you needed were people like that in your life. 

But he did promise you that he’d be supportive, no matter how much he hated the idea of you potentially forgiving them. 

So he was going to keep his mouth shut and  do exactly just that— be the emotional support you needed for when or if they inevitably broke your heart again. 

“You wrote them a kind letter.” He said, holding back the many other choice words he had lined up for your family. “Did Mariko end up helping you with it?” 

“Nope, it was all me,” you proudly said. “I did ask her for her advice though before deciding if I wanted to write back to them or not. For now I just want to hear them out. If they’re insincere about it, then I’m not going to try to rekindle a relationship with them.” 

Thank fucking god. 

“Smart girl,” he continued to rub the back of your neck. “Anything else you and Mariko talked about?” 

“Nope,” you chirped, trying not to let his little smirk get to you. 

“You sure?” He prodded, alluding to the subject that woman has been persistently circling back to lately whenever she was around either of you.

Judging by how red you got, Mariko definitely brought up you both trying for children when you visited her earlier. You were always so shy when the topic came up, it was fun teasing you about it— he thought it was sweet.

“Positive,” you grit your teeth, removing his hand from you, only for him to take your hand in his and placing a soft kiss on it. 

“Don’t get all feisty with me now, I’m just asking you a question,” he continued to taunt you, tongue in cheek— all while Hayami held back her own giggles in the background, watching it go on until you complained about being hungry and wanting to eat already. 

And of course he offered to take you back to his chambers, letting Hayami have the rest of day and night off as usual.

next chapter

notes: kaori's a real joy isn't she? also, how are we feeling about sukuna hiding 2+ months worth of letters? and him teasing her about mariko pushing her to have babies?

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houndtooth [17]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - cw: see masterlist - 15.6k words

Ghost keeps his crosshairs on you like you’re his target. His infrared vision tracks you like prey, he follows your heat signal amongst the sea of cold-blooded vermin that infest your home. 

He keeps his post as you instructed him to. Settled into character by following your orders, as obediently a member of your guard would have. In truth, it wasn’t as much an order as a meek request - that he remain hovering at the perimeter, hidden by shadow. Such a thing comes to him innately, ghost that he is. 

His mastery of stealth is tested, though, as he watches you drift between your dead husband’s many comrades. You fawn at them with a well-trained domesticity, jittery hands politely interlocked in front of you as you accept their sneering condolences with saccharine gratitude. Pointedly ignoring how their pig eyes fondle you, how they exchange glances with each other as though sharing the same thought when you pass them by. 

He knows what thoughts they share. 

He can see it in their greasy smiles and their ruddy necks. Frothy-mouthed at the sight of you, so vulnerable and sweet. No husband in sight. 

None of them are accompanied by their own wives. And they do have wives, near all of them do; Ghost knows each of them by full name and date of birth by virtue of his mission dossier. Instead their women have been left tucked away and out of sight, not here to survey how lecherously their husbands covet the fresh widow. 

The thought alone makes his temples hot and his jaw tight. He remembers the words of your supposed ally; once the boys get their hands on her . Was this the very thing he was referring to? An army of war profiteers swarming the mansion of their late leader so they can take turns with his dowager? 

You shouldn’t have worn that fucking dress. 

He’s sure you chose it thinking it was unappealing; severe and structured, coating you in black fabric from clavicle to ankle. You couldn’t see it from behind, could you? 

He could have demanded that you wear something else, when he found you stooped in front of your mirror. Ordered that you should shove on black slacks and a bulky coat, maybe a thick scarf for good measure. But the longer he looks at you, the more apparent it becomes that his instruction that you wear nothing pretty was inherently unachievable. No amount of hideous clothing could conceal an artless beauty as preternatural as yours. You are an ineluctable magnet for gluttonous eyes, and magnetise you do. 

The men you aren’t talking to look at you still, even as they are engaged in droning conversation with one another, glasses of liquor and cigars between their turgid fingers. The entire affair strikes him more as a dinner party than a funeral, and he supposes he should have expected that. They’ll all be celebrating the usurpation of a leader who clung to his power far longer than he deserved. 

The usurper himself is yet to arrive, and you seem as potently aware of that fact as Ghost is. 

You’re petrified of him. Makarov. Whatever the cretin has done to you, or threatened to, Ghost needn’t know. He can guess well enough. Every utterance of the name turns your skin grey and your lips dry. 

Your nervous eyes flit to the entrance of your mansion every odd moment, and occasionally you’ll meet Ghost’s glare between the gaps of your guests. You give him glittering stares, swollen with pleas he cannot grant you. Little thing. He can’t jeopardise the mission at hand to offer you comfort. 

When a stern knock on the front door echoes out from the foyer, your chary head perks up and you freeze on your feet. He can see you trembling from here. You know who knocked. 

The fucking bastard could just as easily open the unlocked door, march into the heart of your home unimpeded and announce his arrival to all of his sycophantic subordinates. Instead, he chooses to knock. To lure the grieving hostess away from the crowd that might witness him. Away from your only protector.

You hesitate before you retreat from whatever foul conversation you were trapped in, eyes wide and twitching. It takes you a moment to summon the bravery, and you offer an apologetic smile to the pig in front of you before retreating towards the exit. 

You pat down your dress as you leave the room to let in the dog, and you disappear through the archway. 

Out of his sightline. 

In the humming quiet of the foyer, you can hear every machination under your skin. 

The thunder of your arteries, the buzzing of the fire in your nerves, the squeaking of your grinding teeth. You can feel the panic in every muscle, the needles, the venom leaking between sinews. 

The front door is solid black, though it may as well be transparent. You can see the silhouette of the man as clearly as you can feel him there. His coldness trickles under the gap in the door and makes you bristle. You don’t want to open the door. 

You don’t want to open the door, but he knocks again. 

Three gentle knocks, intentionally soft - because he knows you are standing there. He’s simply waiting. Maybe he wants to see how long it takes you to overcome the terror that keeps you there. Maybe, the longer you take, the wider his grin. The sharper his teeth. 

He finds amusement in your terror. He always has. 

When your numb fingers curl around the handle of the door, reluctantly peeling it open to reveal him, he is already smiling. 

He stands with his feet apart in suede oxfords, his hands courteously held together in front of the buttons of his suit jacket. His head already bowed to address you, with the thick tendons in his icy neck pulled tight. The vein that bulges in the centre of his forehead passes through his curled brows, a marker of the feral rabidity that thumps under his skin and collects in the corners of his pointed mouth. He’s riddled with it. Sadism exudes from him like radiation. You can smell it, taste it; metallic and hard, as he tilts his head and awaits your greeting. 

A henchman stands behind him, black bulletproof vest tight over his dark blazer. You can see the pistol tucked in a front strap, and he hovers behind his master with the stiff obedience of a muzzled doberman. You wouldn’t expect Vladimir to venture anywhere without his myrmidons, so it surprises you to see only one of them. He mustn’t believe he needs any more protection than that. You are no threat to him.  

Your mouth is dry, full of chalk that grits between your teeth, and you can’t even part your lips to utter a word. You aren’t sure how to greet him, now. If you had Victor at your side, you’d have called him Vladimir, as he did. What is he to you, now? Should you address him as sir? 

“Госпожа Захаева. Рада снова тебя видеть.” Mrs. Zakhaev. Lovely to see you again.

Your jaw tightens. His voice, still, turns you to ice - brittle enough to shatter, translucent enough to expose the trembling obeisance he exhumes from the deepest parts of you. 

Mrs. Zakhaev. Not once has he called you that. No, you had always been Девчонка . Girl. Or simply you, with a snap of fingers or a gesture in his direction. 

His politeness is as clear and sharp as glass - he is mocking you with it. Only now are you Victor’s wife, a missus, with your husband dead. Only as a widow are you granted that reverence. 

You swallow. It takes a shaky breath before you can bring yourself to speak. “Добрый вечер.” Good evening. 

He lowers his head in feigned respect. “My condolences, ” he says, rich with derision and a thick Soviet accent. “We lost him so suddenly. You must be devastated.” 

Facetiousness drips from every word. 

You nod tensely. “Thank you.”  

A pallid hand crosses the space between you, then, and his palm lands unabashedly on your cheek. 

You immediately flinch - his palm stings against your skin as though barbed, and the alarm it rings claws down the back of your neck, makes every one of your little hairs stand on end. His calloused thumb brushes towards the corner of your mouth, as if accidental - but the black gleam in his eyes makes plain his glee. 

“Бедняжка.” Poor thing, he murmurs. “It must be so frightening to be alone.” 

The tips of his heavy fingers press into the hollows of your cheekbone and temple, close to your ear, and you can hear his pulse through your skull. It is deathly slow. 

You struggle between agreeing with him to appease him, or feigning confidence to spite him. He is right - it is terrifying. It is so, because of him; and he knows that as well as you do. 

You only nod, again. Pleasant and quiet. 

He gives you a pout, a mask of pity, before his rough hand slithers behind your neck and under your hair, and he reels you towards him. Your heart thunders to resist him but your body does not obey, and you acquiesce as immediately as he had grabbed you. He wraps his other arm around your shoulders, and with his chin atop your head, he holds you firm against his body. A hug, if you could ever call it that. 

Even an act as innocent and well-meaning as an embrace is tainted by ridicule. He knows you abhor his touch with every cell that you consist of, as much as he knows how desperately you avoid displeasing him. 

You feel his breathing in your hair, acidic, it makes your scalp sting. 

“Ax, моя дорогая.” Ah, my dear, he says deeply. “You won’t be alone anymore.” 

He says it like a threat, and it is one. 

Eyes wide and dry, you stare into the individual fibers of his powder-blue shirt. He smells of cheap tobacco and gunpowder, with an edge of chemical sweetness, aspartame. 

As you breathe him in, your dreaded fate begins to settle in the pits of you. Edges towards certainty. 

Maybe he’ll claim you as your husband did. Maybe you are to be passed on to your husband’s successor as though you had been left in his will. An heirloom, too feckless to be left without reins, too precious to be left for someone undeserving. 

You envision such an outcome if your efforts to thwart him are to fail, if Simon breaks his promise and abandons both you and his mission, and you are left to fend for yourself among the carnivores.

Vladimir would not play the same role as your husband; demanding but patient, hungry but restrained. He wouldn’t offer you kindnesses or feign any form of compassion, beyond the rotten affection that cloaks his depravity. He’ll play with you as though his toy until he grows bored, and it would not take him long to do so. 

Perhaps you were foolish to ever imagine a reality where you escape. The world beyond the one you have come to know has slipped into obscurity, after all - so out of reach that you have begun to forget what it looks like. 

He pulls back from you with a pleased sigh, and his hands settle at each side of your head, fingers weaved into the hair behind your ears. His stare is hard and intruding, heterochromic eyes bite at you wherever on you they land. Body, lips, eyes. Even the act of perceiving you is as violating as his touch. 

“Grief doesn’t suit you,” he remarks, glower intruding. “Not with those eyes.” 

An insult and compliment in the same breath, though you cannot fathom that he might be attempting to ingratiate himself. Worse, that he’s bemoaning your dour expression. Next he’ll ask you to smile. 

“Do you miss him yet?” He asks coldly, after a beat.

The smugness in his expression tells you that there isn’t a correct answer to his question. It seems to you a trap, so you do not answer. But a blink, or a shift in your gaze, or a quirk in your lip, evidently answers it for you; because he grins. 

“Mh, милая Мия.” Mh, dear Mia, he drones. “It’s no secret that you never loved him. You have nothing to prove to me.” 

“Of course I loved him.” You dispute, briefly compelled not to let his ego be sated by such a presumption.

A huff of laughter escapes his nostrils. 

“You did?” He questions candidly, though the vein that splits his forehead protrudes with the words. “Are you sure?” 

You can read the shift underneath his smile. How it mutates from artificial pleasantry to true malice. The joy he takes in tormenting you oozes from his pores and between his teeth. You can see in his eyes exactly what he is thinking about, what he is ecstatic to remind you of; he needn’t even say it. 

“Yes,” you utter, because you know that is the answer he wants. 

“Even after all that you did for me?” 

Your blood pools at your feet, and his thumbs stroke the prickling skin of your cheeks with tangible satisfaction. You want to look away from him, at your feet, at the sky - anything to conceal the grimace that knits in your face. Instead, you deferentially hold his gaze; eager to ensure he doesn’t feel compelled to elaborate, to remind you in any greater detail, of the whims you were given no choice but to indulge. 

He opens his maw to speak, but something catches his eye, and his stare shifts upwards to something behind you. 

You are as yet uncertain what or who has drawn his attention, but his rough hands slip from your cheeks and fall to your shoulders. 

“Mh,” he grunts through pursed lips, as he straightens his back. “Она ведь все еще держит своих собак при себе, да?” Still keeps her hounds with her, eh?  

It is apparent he is not addressing you, so you turn as much as his grip allows you to; to your surprise, a constraining hand drops from your shoulder, and you are free to see who had approached from behind you. 

Your protector. 

Masked and severe, he stands tall, arms locked militaristically behind his back. He utters not a word, but you see his chest rise and fall, controlled but bordering on detonation. His eyes catch the shine of the porchlight through the gap in his mask, but his glare does not fall on you. He keeps it pinned on the man whose other hand still lingers on you. 

Vladimir only grins. A smile that twitches, tips between intrigue and genuine humour. His imposing touch abandons you, then, as he steps cavalierly towards your mercenary. 

“Ты та самая тихая. Сергей упомянул вас.” You’re the quiet one. Sergei mentioned you. 

Riley doesn’t nod, doesn’t waver, doesn’t move his boots from where they are planted on the floor. Offers no acknowledgement of the man approaching him beyond the pointed stare that follows his every movement. 

“Спокойно.” Take it easy, Vladimir teases as he stands beside your guard, patting him with a firm hand on his opposite shoulder. “Я буду вести себя хорошо.” I’ll behave myself. 

He holds Riley’s cloaked gaze for a noticeable beat. A second longer than would otherwise be natural. Your breath catches in your throat. Is he trying to get a better look? Might he recognise the soldier if he looks too closely? 

With a dismissive nod and an affable pat on the shoulder, Vladimir struts past him and ventures towards the hallway, armed dog in pursuit. As familiar with your home as you are - if not more so - he disappears into the reception room to announce his arrival to his new subordinates. 

Like a boot had been lifted from your ribs, a rush of air erupts from your chest the moment he is out of sight and earshot. Your blood turns runny with the transient relief, and you suddenly feel as though you had stood up too fast; knees and hands shaky, you see stars when you blink. Wiping your hair back from your face with clammy palms, you attempt to settle your ravaged heart by breathing deeply and staring knives into the tiled floor. 

The skin he had marred with his touch burns and itches, and you wish you could peel it off from the flesh beneath it. You imagine burrowing your fingernails into your scalp and picking the leather loose from your skull, flaying your skin off by the seams. Maybe they’d leave you alone, once your exterior is shed. What would be left? 

“You’re alright,” comes a grumbling whisper, from the shadow you had forgotten was standing there. 

Your eyes flit to meet his, and you abruptly feel the ground beneath your feet again. His shoulders have softened, his hands hang relaxedly from his tactical vest, and you are alone in the foyer with him. 

Not a query into your state of mind, but a stern reminder. You’re alright . You can almost believe it while you have him within sight. 

Foolish of him to come to the door to check on you, because none of your husband’s mercenaries would have shown that level of devotion. But you were grateful that he had frightened off the wolf, if only for the briefest moment. You might have thanked him if he weren’t the one to force you into this predicament, into the arms of the very man who you’d rather cut your hands off than spend more than an hour with. 

How much had he seen? How much had he heard? 

You wonder how long he had been standing there, watching as your husband’s rival caressed you with his pretend affection, listening as he mocked you with his own transgressions. You shrivel up like a raisin at the thought of him witnessing any of it, sucked dry by shame and an overwhelming desire to hide from every pair of eyes that has ever looked at you. 

“Yeah?” Your protector presses, and you blink at him. 

You nod, and sigh sharply, attempting to regain some lost composure. You have an objective, you remind yourself. You just have to make it through the evening. You only have to fawn enough to get something, anything useful.

“I’m fine.” You insist, as you begin your march deeper into the hallway.

Ghost looks past you as you brush around him in a hurry, and he leaves a few bloated seconds before he brings himself to follow you. 

There’s a line to toe in his donned role as a paid bodyguard, between loyal dedication and professional apathy. He finds it difficult to strike the balance, having only ever swung to either extreme of the pendulum. He knows that he has leaned too far towards the former, by stalking you, and only you. By unintentionally keeping his vigilant attention on you, and not on the many targets that surround you. By all but threatening the only target that matters to him for daring to lay a finger on you. Despite his decades of experience, of trained resilience, of pure stoicism - it is only growing more challenging to suppress the compulsion. 

Worsened by your present company, threats around every corner and through every door, is the urge to fulfil the role of guard dog in every sense of the term - only he cannot bark, and he cannot bite. Muzzled by duty. 

Your potent fear of Makarov is not without cause. 

He is more verminous in person than through a screen or a scope. Somehow more feral, more crooked, more rat-like in his features than any blurry CCTV image could ever have accurately depicted. He reeks of malignant pride, and it filled the room like putrid smoke the moment you opened the door to let him in.  

What sadistic conceit made him confident enough to touch you? Audacious enough to hold you?

His hands seemed to find purchase on your skin with a borderline familiarity, an intimacy that appeared habitual rather than a cautious venture into uncharted territory. 

Ghost’s stomach wrings at the thought of it. 

Organs twist and shudder with a fury only worsened by the need to force it down. It pushes against the inside of his ribs, rises in his throat - and all he can do is swallow it, and tighten his knuckles to keep himself stable. 

How often had the cretin broken past that boundary? How many times have those filthy fucking hands touched you? Your face, your neck, your shoulders? Where else have they dared to venture? 

The very end of your conversation bounces around the inside of his skull, on repeat, as he attempts to decipher what had been cryptically referred to. 

Even after all that you did for me. 

He creeps through the dark of the hallway, in pursuit of you, as the words ring in his ears. Perhaps it was a brazen and salacious reference to some sexual favours from your past, some lascivious orders he had made of you, some effort to make a cuckold of your husband. 

Did you fulfill those demands? Were you given a choice? He won’t ask, and he doesn’t want to know - but the imagined sight stains his vision all the same. Sees you on your knees in a shadowy corridor, sees you locked in a bathroom, sees the very same visceral reluctance printed on your face that he himself has grown so familiar with. Sees too the rabid grin stretched in the warlord’s thin lips, as he makes an unwilling adulteress out of you. 

Even after all that you did for me. 

As he approaches the open door into the kitchen, and sees the back of you, he grinds his teeth. What if Makarov referred to something else? Some unspoken agreement between the two of you? He imagines any number of conversations you might have had with him in the past; the closest comrade of your husband, after all. It stands to reason that he might also be a comrade of yours. Had you gotten a message to him through your friend, Vasiliev? Did you make a plan with him before Ghost had ever found you in your glistening castle? 

Had you lied to him? Are you in on all of it? 

Perhaps your proficiency in artificial personalities was even more effective than he had come to believe. That you had effectively wrapped him around your finger, had him feeling pity for you, manipulated him into caring more about your wellbeing than the outcome of his mission. 

Despite his ingrained scepticism, rooted in countless betrayals; he doesn’t believe that. 

You tip your head back as he comes to a stop in the entrance to the brightly lit kitchen, and it takes him a moment to see that you have knocked back a glass. Of gin, he discovers, made evident by the bottle of Bombay Sapphire that sits with its cap off on the counter in front of you.

“Don’t get drunk, for fuck’s sake,” he snaps, under his breath, once he notices there is nobody else in the kitchen with you. 

He sees you jolt in fright, before your head swivels hastily on your neck. Your body loosens when you see it is him and not one of your comrades, and you wipe your mouth with the heel of your palm.

“I’m not,” you whisper shakily. “Just - I just need a little.” 

“A little?” He scolds you, having watched you take easily three gulps of liquid before you put the glass down. 

Your eyes glisten with fearful shame as he approaches you. He can barely glance at you without being overcome with it, that guilt - you look at him with dewy eyes and his once rigid scruples crumble to his feet. 

Pathetic . 

“I can’t even-” You take a sharp breath and shake out your hands, as though treading water. “-I can’t even talk, I c-can’t even get words out around him. I need something. Just something to make me more, more-”

“Fine,” he hushes you, “It’s fine. Just that one glass, alright? Or you’ll fuck us both over.” 

You nod obsequiously, and as if to prove you mean it, you grab the metal cap and screw it back onto the bottle. 

He notices, then, the eerie silence that fills the bowels of the mansion where there had previously been the migraine-inducing chatter of more than a dozen men. 

“Where are they?” He murmurs discerningly, and you point towards the direction of the dining room. 

“They’re all in there,” you whisper. “He called them all in straight away.” 

He immediately moves towards their meeting room, situated around the corner, and keeps his body out of sight of the towering glass door. He can hear them, quiet Russian murmuring, just loud enough to make out a few words. 

With a gesture of his fingers he beckons you over, and you refuse, remaining frozen in place with wide eyes and a shaking head. Only with a second, more fervorous demand of his hand do you reluctantly tiptoe in his direction. 

He hovers a gloved finger over his lips, shushing you, and holds out a barring arm to keep you behind the corner. You look up at him with your lips sealed, unblinking and awaiting instruction. He cranes his head and holds his covered mouth beside your ear. 

“Listen,” he orders; a whisper so low it is barely a breath, directly into the cavern of your ear, and your warmth oozes through the knit of his mask. “Listen to everything they say, yeah? I’m going to check whatever they’ve left out here.” 

You remain dead still, and without a physical response, he insists; “Alright?” 

“Yes,” you breathe, with a feeble nod. 

“Good. Stay quiet.” 

He reels back from you, then, and turns away before the compulsion to remain and watch over you overtakes his drive to fulfil his mission. He almost succeeds, passing through the kitchen’s exit, before your soft whisper hooks him by the ankle and rivets him in place; 

“Be careful.”

He releases a ragged sigh. You are a winsome liability, aren’t you? 

He wishes, more than anything, that he could tuck you away - lock you in a cupboard, or a bunker, or ship you off in a helicopter - so that the risk of harm coming to you would cease from plaguing his every thought. He has one - one objective. His prescribed mission is not to keep you safe, not to hover behind you like a shadow, not to fight off the hounds that might want a taste of you. His task is to get his intel on the Ultranationalist’s imminent genocide, to prevent the deaths of tens, hundreds of thousands - and all he can think about, is you.

He turns his head, barely lets himself get a glimpse of you over his shoulder. He feels your eyes on his back, the claws of a cat scratching at the door to be let in. 

“I will,” he grumbles, faltering before he breaks free. 

You’ll be fine, he tells himself. He repeats it over as his distance from you stretches thin. You’ll be fine. 

Your stomach drops heavy once your protector leaves your line of sight.

His return to the cold and clinical demeanour you knew best was jarring, but unsurprising. Perhaps it’s for the best, to imagine him a mercenary and not the man who has bared his face to you. His loyalties might be more plain, then. His motivations more in line with what you’d expect. You’ve paid him to protect you, and he’ll fulfill his contract as best as he is able. That’s the only level of devotion you have come to know. 

You don’t shift your feet from where they are planted, from where he had ordered you to stay. There is some reassurance to be found in explicit instruction. Ever since the first man arrived at your door, you have been nauseatingly adrift; as though you had suddenly forgotten what to say, how to act, beneath the looming fear that every word might make obvious your espionage. The stakes are now higher than your own self-preservation, for the first time in your life. You want to do right. You want to be good.

You know these men. You know how rarely they mean what they say, how often they hide secrets between their words. You know who you are to them. What you are. You know how they look at you, what they think of when they do. What they see. What they remember.

You wait by the corner, as still and silent as a gravestone, with your ear close to the wall. 

They speak in hushed baritones with one another, entirely in Russian, unaware of their eavesdropper. You focus your attention on each of the voices - most of which you recognise, and can distinguish - others, you cannot. 

“We had Konni do a thorough sweep of the entire estate once we sent her off. They found nothing.” Sergei, you determine. 

“Nothing? Fucking nothing, you say? Victor’s entire militia was wiped off the face of the earth - I don’t believe the men who did that left nothing behind.” 

The venom in that voice is potent even through the wall that blocks him from sight - Vladimir. 

“Nothing. No bullet casings that didn’t belong to the same guns the guards used. Even the boot marks were the same as their uniform.” 

A different man chimes in. “What, so one of the guards did it?” 

“No, fool. Someone with enough intel did this. It was well planned.” 

“It makes no sense to me. If all they wanted was to assassinate the bastard, why would they go to the effort of slaughtering an army of security?” 

You hear an irate groan from Makarov. “There was something else they wanted. Killing Victor does nothing. They’ll be as aware of that as we are.” 

“We found nothing to suggest Victor’s digital assets were compromised. It didn’t look like they even touched the vault.”  

“They didn’t kill every person on the property to get to one man. Your Konni friends found nothing because they are fucking inept. We’ll have the premises swept again by somebody competent.” 

“Fine. I’ll talk to Arkady.” 

“What, then? Who do you think it was?” 

“I have guesses,” Makarov seethes, and you can hear the signature drumming of his knuckles on the table. 

Another man, a voice you don’t recognise, addresses Sergei; “You got nothing else out of the girl?” 

Your ribs tighten at your mention. 

“She said they sounded Ukrainian. I don’t know. I don’t believe she has a clue.” 

“You’re soft on her, Sergei. You let her lie to you and you’re too stupid to tell.” 

“I made sure-”

“She knows you’re stupid, too. You saw the state of her. They were with her for a while. She will have heard more than their fucking accents.” 

“What do you want me to do? Torture the poor girl after she watched her husband die?” 

Then, a sudden yell. “Mia!” 

Your blood turns to lead, and you immediately back away from the door. Did Vladimir see you? Hear you? Was he calling you to enter, or expressing that you were to blame? 

On the tips of your toes, you silently retreat into the kitchen, lean against the counter so that it might appear to a spectator that you were busy with the dishes and not listening in on a confidential conversation. Your heartbeat shudders in your ears. Your knuckles turn white. 

The bellow thunders out once again, in English - for you. “Mia, come in here, now!” 

You feel fragile. You might faint. You stare at the knives in the knife block and imagine it might be easier for you to slice one of them through your own throat, than to be trapped in a room with those men again. You might have even gone through with such an ideation, if you hadn’t reminded yourself of the stakes that supersede your survival.  

It takes every weary synapse in your brain to force the movement of a single muscle, before you can begin to inch yourself in the direction of the dining room in earnest. Your body resents it with every fibre of its being. Your knees shiver with every step. 

You see them through the glass door before you open it. All leaned back in their chairs, surrounding the vast dining table in the centre of the room; Vladimir at the head, where he always wanted to sit. He glowers at you through the glass. Spots you even when you try to hide in the shadow. 

Meekly opening the door, the shrill squeak of the hinges echoes across the silent room, and all the heads turn on their necks to face you. Every set of beady eyes lands on you at once, and you can feel each of them; hot brands, sizzling and mean, on every part of you.

The air of the room is heavy and warm, reeks of cigar smoke and corked wine. You suck in a quivering breath, arms pinned to your side, as you wait for someone to speak. You can’t bring yourself to say the first word. 

“Shut the door,” Vladimir orders dryly, cigarette in his lips. 

You do as you’re told, and close the door with a heavy clunk. 

“Come here.” 

He beckons for you with two fingers. He watches you as intently as the others do, and their heads follow you as you carefully float closer to the table. You remain on the opposite side to the man who called for you, and hope he doesn’t demand you any closer. 

“The men who killed your beloved husband,” he begins, a tug in the corner of his mouth as he says the word. “Sergei tells me you think they were Ukrainian?” 

You chew your lip, near the point of drawing blood, before you can croak out a response. 

“Or Kastovian,” you utter. “I couldn’t - it sounded like Russian but I couldn’t understand what they were saying very well.” 

“Very well?” He interrogates, unrelenting. “Or not at all?” 

It takes you a moment to think of a lie on your feet. Who could the imaginary assassins have been? What do you imagine they might have said? What can you tell the men in front of you to goad them into spilling some information that they shouldn’t? 

“They - there were a few words I understood, but, I d-didn’t know what they meant by them.” 

“Like what.” 

“They kept referring to, um, флешка - I think, is what they said. Like, a USB drive?” 

With every lie you utter, your adrenaline picks up threefold. You feel it buzzing in the tips of your fingers and prickling in your scalp. 

Vladimir shoots a pointed glare at Sergei, who adjusts his blazer instead of acknowledging the wordless accusation. 

“What else.” 

“I don’t - I’m not sure. I thought they might have said something about a - a warehouse. But I don’t know if I have the word right-”

“What was the word?” His vicious impatience cuts through the air like a knife, you feel the blade at your skin.  

“Завод.” Factory . 

You know the word. You’re pretending to be clueless. 

Vladimir slams the surface of the table with both hands - the startling bang makes you jump and sends a shockwave of fright from your chest to your extremities. 

He addresses Sergei in Russian with a renewed fury, and his eyes bulge with it; “Fucking idiot. You could have asked her this and we would have known forty-eight hours sooner.” 

Sergei rolls his eyes. “Give me a break. She was concussed when we found her.” 

“So they know about Mialstor?” A man whose face you recognise asks, and your ears perk. 

“How the fuck would they know about that?” Someone else. 

“Maybe we’ve got a leak to plug.” Another opines. 

Vladimir’s eyes return to you, then. Fixed and curious. “Remember anything else, девочка?” Girl?  

You exert every muscle to maintain some level of confidence in your character. A mournful widow, forced to remember the night her husband was slaughtered in her bed. At the notion you remember the true moment you lost him - the bullet shot through the back of his head, the seizing of his limbs once his skull was split open, the expression that remained in his vacant eyes once he was gone. You let the tears well. You let your feeble body tremble with its horror and grief. 

“Not - not much else,” you croak. “One h-hit me in the head - I didn’t wake up until they were all gone.” 

“Mh,” he ponders, dissatisfied. “Did he hit you hard?”

The blatant delight behind his question almost makes you wince, and you stumble on any words you try to give him. “I- I don’t - I suppose so-”

“More than once?” 

“I don’t know,” you answer eagerly, flustered, you feel the burning in your cheeks as the intensity of his barrage only tumefies, a blister ready to burst. 

“What do you think they did while you were out?” He drills. 

“I wasn’t-”

“Were your clothes on when you woke up, Mia?”

A snort blurts out from another man at the table, another whom you recognise. “Fuck’s sake, Vlad,” he chides, with a deeply ill-placed humour. “Victor’s only been gone a day.” 

Vladimir chortles, taking a drag of the stub of his cigarette, and it becomes evident he was hounding you more for his amusement than any hunt for information. 

“Didn’t stop him last time,” another says. 

The floor quakes beneath you. It might open up and swallow you whole. You hope it does. You hope they can’t see how you shake, how your eyes twitch, how your knees threaten to buckle as you listen to them joke about it - you must conceal it, because as far as they are aware, you cannot understand them. 

There’s a chorus of acrid laughter between the dogs as they reminisce on it. The few that weren’t there must have heard about it from the ones that were, because they laugh too. You wonder how detailed their descriptions were. How vivid their storytelling. 

Your eyes sting. 

“Give him another vodka and he’ll have her up on the table again.” 

More chuckling. 

“We don’t have the props for it this time.” 

“I’m sure we can find some. In the kitchen, I bet. You going to grab the cucumbers again, Vlad?”

“No, look at him. He’s still bitter he couldn’t get her to use the knife.” 

“No Victor to worry about this time, eh?” 

Your body is numb, your tongue is dry. Vladimir hasn’t taken his ferine eyes off of you for the duration of their perverted raillery. He simply wears a fading smirk, takes the odd puff of his wet cigarette, watching the minutiae of your expressions as if you’re as entertaining as a television. Glares at your terror and shame like it is pornography. 

You can see it in the pits of his predatory stare, that he knows you can glean the topic of their conversation. He wants you to know. He wants you to remember what you had devoted yourself to forgetting in the years since it had happened. What you had done before you knew you could refuse their demands, before you had the well-established status of a wife, before you understood you’d be stuck in their country for the remainder of your life. 

There was no refusing them, but they hadn’t needed to force you - nor to order you, nor to touch you at all. Not a hand was laid on you. No, you were so uncertain of your fate, that you did it willingly. 

Therein lies the root of Vladimir’s mirth. He calls you a whore with his mouth shut. He makes you remember all of it, at the funeral of the very man to whom you had feigned fidelity. The man who remained blissfully unaware that you had debased yourself in front of the comrades he worked with daily until his dying breath. 

The bile rises in your throat, and you spin urgently on your heel - rushing out of the room in hasty stride, retreating in the midst of their degenerate laughter. 

“She figured it out!” One hollers, and you leave the door ajar as you hurry into the kitchen. 

Panic and resentment swells hot and fiery under your skin, you feel close to bursting with it - every limb, every sinew of you writhes with the vicious humiliation that they have pumped you so full of. It is all such fun for them, endlessly entertaining to see how terrified they can make you, hilariously satisfying when you succumb to it. 

In your urgency you sweep the bottle of Bombay Sapphire from the counter, gripping it by the neck, and carting it with you as you march out of the kitchen. Flick off the cap as you storm down the corridor. Shove the open top between your lips, and suck down a hard mouthful. It makes you cough, but the harsh burn of its crawl down your throat is the only source of comfort you can find in your frenzy. You swallow another, and another. Maybe if you drink enough of it you might go to sleep and never wake up. 

You have to tell your guard dog what you’ve learned, first. You have to do something right, anything to make up for your complacency in your husband’s dreams of genocide, before you even think to check out early. 

You have to find him. 

Once you reach the foyer, though, you hear the beating of footsteps fast approaching, and your heart drops to your feet. 

A growl. “Where are you running?” 

Vladimir followed you. Sniffed after you like the bloodhound he is. 

Your body screams at you to run from him, but you only manage a few steps backward as though trudging through knee-deep tar - and before you can turn, he is two paces from you. 

There is no option but to surrender, then, and your bones turn soft. 

His hooks are in you before you utter a noise, thumb and forefingers digging into your cheeks as he drives you by the head - wrangles you against a wall, in the dark and silent hallway, out of earshot from anybody else in the building. 

You pant into his palm, eyes watering at the severity of his grip, brows knitted as you hold back the sob that nudges its way up your throat. 

“Why are you alive, Mia?” He snarls, his eyes as black as the shadow he hides in, as manic as a rabid dog. 

“W-what?” You groan, near a cry, dizzied by his question. 

He jolts you, a violent shove into the wall he has you pinned to, if only to make you squeak. “They killed everyone on that estate. Every single man. Even the dogs. But not you?” 

The sob you had been struggling to suppress leaps out from your teeth, you feel yourself begin to shrink. “I don’t unders-”

He moves his grasp from your face to your collarbone, hooking rough fingers into the slash neckline of your dress. With a violent yank he stretches down the hem, close to tearing the fabric - and reveals the plum and yellow bruising on your sternum, the ambiguous scrapes that speckle your skin. Utterly unnecessary, for whatever point he is attempting to make - there are plenty of visible bruises sprinkled over the parts of you not covered by fabric, and yet, he sought to reveal that one. 

“You want me to believe they kept you alive for what, for fun?” He seethes, and you feel the splatter of his saliva on your face with every consonant. “That they wouldn’t have finished you off once they were done with you?”

Every lie you might utter in your defense turns to mist in your mouth. You feel every tear he pulls in your story, excruciating as if it were your own skin. 

He stoops closer to you, mere inches between your face and his. “What did you do for them, hm? What did you bargain with?” 

Nothing you can say will do anything to help you, now. He isn’t interested in whatever excuse you spit out. He doesn’t care whether or not you are innocent. 

He is just playing with his food. 

He makes plain his appetite when he holds his face against yours, his carnivorous teeth grind against the shell of your ear. 

“What happened, Mia?” 

You shut your eyes, a reflex, some subconscious effort to hide from his bombardment of questions and his nauseating proximity - until a sudden release of pressure forces a torrent of air from between your teeth, and the claws that had nestled into your flesh you no longer restrain you. 

A shriek escapes you as your assailant is forcibly torn away by his collar, and he is tossed backward like a kicked dog. 

In the blurry dark you struggle to see who had broken you free, but you know who it is. You can hear his ragged breathing, you can hear the cracking of his knuckles as he reels back his elbow and wrenches his gloved hand into a stone fist. 

And while he still holds the Russian by the lapel of his jacket, he jettisons his clubbed hand into the centre of his face with such a force that the thwack of the collision cuts through the air like a gunshot, echoed by the splintering of bone under skin. A strike so brutal that your guard dog must have broken his own knuckles upon impact, and he almost follows his victim on his way down. 

But he catches himself with a boot, and towers unruffled over Vladimir, who tumbles hard into the opposite wall and only just prevents himself from collapsing onto the tiled floor. The black of his blood splatters the white wall behind him, and oozes from his nostrils, coating his lips. 

A turgid silence then settles like smoke. 

It fills up your lungs as you wait, deathly silent and pressing your back against the wall, for the impending eruption. A gunshot, a roar for backup, a retaliatory strike with a fist or a knife. You know well what the man is capable of. The lengths he will go to to punish any perceived profanation. A knife would be the most gentle, most charitable penalty, regardless of where he put it. 

Instead, Vladimir sniffs as he stands himself straight, propped up by the wall, swallowing the blood that pools in his mouth with a foul gulp. 

He glowers at you. Burrowing. Torture in itself, for many moments too long - to you, an eternity of silence within which he can wordlessly threaten you. You know the many fates that have befallen others, each more harrowing, more gut-wrenching than the last. Acid, fire, gas, steel. He makes you shrink, your eyes dry, and you look down from him on instinct. 

His glare then shifts to the man that had so violently come to your aid. There’s a glimmer of recognition in the hollows of his eyes. A quirk in the corner of his mouth. An unspoken understanding. 

He says nothing. You feel the weight of it in the pit of your stomach.

A brief grin stretches in his lips; blood filling every gap between his teeth, smile painted red. “Милая Миа.” Dear Mia, he coos. “Что ты наделала?” What have you done? 

“Get out,” you croak, voice breaking; the command tumbles from your mouth and surprises even yourself. Emboldened by the masked shadow that stands between him and yourself. 

His twitching smile returns for a single snicker, as though pleased with your brief retaliation. He waits, for a pregnant pause, before he decides to give you a single nod. 

“Victor left a lot of important things behind, mh?,” he says pointedly, with an uncanny smirk, as though he had said it to purposefully confound you. 

You do not blink as he steps around your protector, and brushes past you on his way to the front door. His gait utterly unaffected by the blow to the head,he stands tall and proud as always, as though he had not been struck at all, as though his nose weren’t shattered by a deserved fist. He adjusts his jacket as he opens the door, and cold air floods into the room. 

The clamour of the others crowding out of their meeting room echoes from down the hallway, too late to intervene, and you stay furtively silent, unmoving so as not to draw their attention. 

“What the fuck happened?” An approaching voice calls out, in Russian, and Vladimir looks up as he coolly sticks a cigarette in his teeth. 

He offers nothing but a shrug, and a dim smile. “We’ve outstayed our welcome.” 

You remain tucked against the wall behind you as the rest of your dismissed guests file out of the front door, murmuring spitefully after being ordered to leave by their superior. 

Ghost keeps his post steadfast, standing in front of you, a barricade; eyes following every one of the pigs as they are herded out before he follows behind the very last one. 

He slams shut the door the moment the last hoof is clear of the frame, and he locks the deadbolt with a clunk. Through the sliver of a window beside the door he watches them fill their black cars, listens to their engines churn, before they finally pull off in a convoy down the driveway, and their headlights disappear among the trees. 

He hears your mousy breathing in the subsequent silence. 

His back remains to you while he finds the right words to say, and it doesn’t take him long to determine there are none. An apology would fall on deaf ears. A check on your welfare would be salt in the wound. He left you alone with them, after all. Alone with the very creature you had warned him about so vociferously. What might he have done if Ghost had taken a minute longer to find you with him? 

Do you blame him as much as he blames himself? 

Once he turns to look at you, though, you have already wandered off down the hall; your faltering silhouette disappears into your empty kitchen. 

He could leave you be. He could, if he chose to, let you recover in solitude. He considers it as he unbuckles the straps of his cumbersome vest, pulls it over his head and dumps it on the tiles. As he unstraps the velcro bands of his gloves, plucking them off by his fingers and leaving them on the console table. Maybe you want nothing more than to be alone, than to curl up and hide from everyone who has assailed you. Himself included. 

What happened the last several times he left you by yourself, unguarded?

He isn’t ignorant of his selfishness when he chooses to follow you. 

He hears you pacing before he passes through the open door, hears your frenetic panting echoing from where you bite your nails by the island counter in the centre of the kitchen. 

You catch his eye and freeze in place. 

Before he can utter a word, you cock back your bottle of gin behind your head, clutching it by its neck. You catapult it at him without warning - it whistles as it barrels through the air, before it explodes against the top jamb of the doorway in an ear-splitting crash . He holds up a defensive arm and turns his head away, to protect himself from the shards of blue that spray out from the collision and the spiced liquor that rains down on him with it.  

He stills, utterly agog - you only glare at him, the dim downward light above you illuminates the bulging mania in your eyes. You radiate a fury that he never imagined you capable of, and he can feel the shuddering heat of it from where he stands. 

“You fucked us!” You roar, so ferociously that your once soft voice breaks in the strain. He can see it thundering in your temples, twitching in the tendons of your neck, red on your chest - a rage so harrowing it makes your eyes wet. 

“Did you hear me?” You shout. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” 

There’s nothing he can say, and nothing he wants to. He feels no compulsion to calm you down.

You storm towards him with heavy feet - plant both palms into his chest, and shove him backward with all of your might. He stumbles back a step, he offers you that, but he stands his ground. 

“You - you promised!” You wail, your broken expression shifting from wrath to heartache and back again. “You told me I could go home if I could get what you needed. You told me I could go home, and now you’ve fucking taken it away again. For fuck’s sake, you hit him! He knows, he knows , I have no chance, no chances left. You told him everything he needed to know and you didn’t even say anything!”

It is clear to him that his lack of reaction is only engorging your anger, but he doesn’t want to dampen it. 

He can’t bring himself to take it from you. 

“Are you fucking stupid? Are you? You - you - you’ve fucking killed us both! You gave away everything. You gave it away. You gave me up! What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

In the midst of your tirade he watches your arm wind up, and you swing it with a force, open palm smacking into the side of his face - hard enough to knock his head to the side, vicious enough to sting even through the knit of his mask. 

Your violence is almost a relief, to him - he cannot justify it. Have you ever, ever been given the chance? The space? The opportunity to erupt as viciously as you do now, without the dire retaliation that would inevitably follow? 

How many years worth of torment, hatred, agony, wrath have been packed so deep into you that they’ve been embedded into the very fibers of your being? How many years have you been forced to withstand the ever-building pressure, bursting at the seams with it? 

“You’re as pig-headed as the fucking rest of them. It was all your idea and now you’ve ruined it! I - I told you. I told you what fucking animals they were and you dragged me here anyway - now what? Are you going to punch every single one of them?”

In your fury you reach upwards and take the forehead of his mask in a tight fist - tearing it off his head in a single pull before savagely throwing it across the room. He remains stone-faced, he keeps his lips sealed, his hands by his side. He watches your every movement with heavy eyes. 

Your fiery glare scratches about his face now that you have forcibly exposed it, and after a blink, you truly succumb to your apoplexy. You slam your fists into his chest, another attempt to shove him, and he gives way to you with a step back. 

“You never think , are you even capable of forming a fucking thought? No, you just attack whoever or whatever gets in your way - anything you don’t like - just maul everything like you’re a fucking dog. You’re dogs. You’re all dogs!” 

Another shove, more flailing hands, he cedes to you under every attack. You force him backwards until his back hits the wall behind him, and you berate him still. 

“You - they - everything you fucking touch, why does it always hurt? You just can’t fucking stop yourselves from biting, can you? Always scratching and grabbing and fucking hitting and breaking - never once, not once - do you ever think it might hurt? Always so hungry for more, and more, do you ever think I might be fucking hungry, too? God - that I don’t want to scratch you and grab you and hit you and break you? No - you - you all just fucking laugh when I tell you to stop or to shut the fuck up, for once . It’s always so funny to you, to think that I might want to fucking maim as badly as you do.” 

Is he still the one you are referring to? 

Does the pith of your rage lie beyond him? Is he merely the receptacle of it? The catalyst? 

In the blast radius of your onslaught, he finds himself rapt. 

The rest of the room, of the mission, of the country, of the world beyond it - it all dissolves into fog. You, an ember, the only thing lambent enough to see. Speechless, because you have finally burned away any image of you he had cloaked, smothered you with since he found you. 

“Why are you looking at me like that?” You thunder, though your rage has begun to barely cool into indignant exasperation. “Fucking say something!” 

Is it your real self, now? Unfettered, unaltered, raw? Has it always been? 

“What do you want me to say,” he murmurs hoarsely, head tilted down to meet your eye. 

Out of breath, you let out an incensed groan, wiping down your face with red hands. “I want - I-”

Your brows knit in frustration as you seem to hunt for the words, reluctant to let them out - you chew on the inside of your lip, glaring at him, eyes forlorn despite the anger you radiate. 

“I want you to tell me everything will be okay.” 

You grow humiliated in the silence he leaves after your answer. 

Your eruption has left you ragged, shaking with the tsunami of adrenaline that flooded you from your neck to your feet, that poured your soul out through your teeth. 

Once it began, there was no swallowing it. The wrath in your bones controlled every movement, the spite in your tongue, every word. It drips from you, still, in the quiet - you can almost hear it landing on the floor, soaking into the slate. 

You weren’t sure who you aimed to hurl it at. Who you envisioned as the target of your bombardment. You fired at the skullhead who kidnapped you, at the American soldier who stripped and tortured you, at your genocidal husband, at the ophidian cunts at your dinner table, at the apotheosis of your fear, the wolf who goaded them into defiling you. At your father, at your secondary school teacher, at your johns and your bookers. 

Even at the man under the mask, who has only existed to you in moments of his humanity - Simon, whose face is only unveiled when he deigns to be compassionate. 

You didn’t expect his apathy. You climbed to the peak of your rage and girded yourself for his retaliation, anticipating that he would reflect your abuse back to you tenfold, your outburst quashed. Instead, he absorbed it like a scream into a pillow. Siphoned all the anger out of you and let it pool at his feet. 

His face is bare, now, and expressionless - yet, laden with infinitely more to say than you have so far seen in it. His lids hang low over his amber eyes, and they do not leave you. Do you see apologies in them? Pity? Familiarity? They flay you with their candour, and you cannot break away from them. 

“God - even if it’s a lie,” you grimace, resenting every second of silence he forces you to fill. “Just say it.”

His lips remain shut, but barely held closed. You follow the pink scar that splits them up his cheek, where it stops at the bone. You look at the shallow crow’s feet that spider out from the corners of his burdened eyes, more likely from a life of squinting through scopes than a life of laughter. At the concentration of freckles on the bridge of his nose, and under his eyes - the parts of his face most often exposed to the sun, the rest hidden under his skull-faced identity. At the bend in his nose, fragile bones within it once broken, maybe twice, and never truly healed.

The armour of fury sloughs off from you, in pieces, as you wait for him to speak. To say what you want him to say. To do what you asked. Is he staying silent as retribution for your tirade? Or is it too much of a lie to even utter?

“Just say it,” you exhale, resigned, as you keel forward. 

You don’t spare a moment to second guess yourself, to think better - as you lean into him, and drop your forehead to his sternum. You rest your weight in him. You need the solace of human warmth, too weary to stand on your own. You hope he’ll hold you upright, at least, for a moment. 

His heart beats directly into your skull. The fleece of his jersey is soft on your skin, the thick padding of his chest so gentle, so cushiony to sink into. 

You anticipated more rigidity, that he’d turn to stone upon your touch - but, instead, a warm and wide hand settles at the back of your head, and your eyes flutter shut. 

You rise and fall with his ribs as he draws deep a breath, you feel him sigh, as he rocks his head back against the wall he leans on. You can feel it in his touch, hear it in his breathing; he doesn’t know what to do with you. The whiplash of your outburst has confounded yourself more than it possibly could him.

“It’ll be okay,” he grumbles, the words barely make it past the gravel in his throat. 

The vibration of his voice reverberates directly into your head, makes your mind buzz, and you turn your head to press your ear to his chest. 

Whatever line you have crossed - torn through - is long behind you, now. Whatever rationality you had left has long since crumbled through your fingers. You untuck your hands from beneath you, slide them up his chest - you slither your arms over his shoulders, around his neck, and you stand on your toes to reach. 

His reaction is delayed, almost hesitant - you can hear, feel the arguments he wages with himself. But you feel his breathing in your hair, warm and hazy, and his thick arm hooks reverently around your waist, forearm nestling in the small of your back. 

“Are you lying?” You breathe, your nose brushing the skin at the crook of his shoulder, where the collar of his fleece meets the zipper. 

Your fingers drag up the back of his neck, the skin there burning hot; you brush through the buzzed-short hair at the base of his skull, and your other hand grabs at the back of his jersey. There are no justifications for your actions; merely the machinations of a disillusioned machine, aching for some unfindable comfort. Maybe you’ll find it in him. 

He bends downward to meet you, and you needn’t stand on your toes anymore - both of his mammoth arms wrap around you in earnest. His broad hand glides up the nape of your neck, fingers weaving with the hair that remains in a collapsing bun at the back of your head. He doesn’t yet pull you in very tightly, though - as if fighting to allow you room to escape, convinced you’ll change your mind and break free at a hair trigger. 

His lips graze the shell of your ear, feather down the side of your neck, and your stomach drops. 

“Don’t know,” he murmurs into the skin of your shoulder, gooseflesh prickling out from where his mouth ghosts over your skin. 

His arms tighten, only just; the button of his trousers scrapes against your belly as you weld yourself to him. You snake a hand down his torso, fingertips traversing the hills and troughs of his pectorals, catching in the small folds of fleece, scratching the length of his zipper. 

Once you reach his stomach, though, he is quick to cuff you by the wrist with a firm hand. 

“Don’t do that,” he huffs, his lips retreating from where they almost found purchase in your skin, but didn’t commit to taste. 

Disappointment deflates your fervour, and you cannot take it. You feel compelled to explain yourself, but any desperate excuse you can muster is too pathetic to utter aloud.

You want it. You need it - just once, the embrace of somebody who doesn’t get off on hurting you. Who doesn’t hate you, who doesn’t leave the bruises of his hatred behind when he is done with you. You can’t even rightly claim that the man you now cling to won’t do the same, but your longing belief that he won’t is enough to spur you into craving him. 

Perhaps he thinks it’s immoral, to touch, to feel, to taste his prisoner of war. Is that really where he’d draw the line? 

“I want to,” you insist; it emerges as a trembling whisper, scarcely a breath, and you bunch the thick fleece of his jersey in your fists. 

He lets out a hounded breath, pent up within his ribs, and his grip on your wrist only grows tighter. He reels his head upward, his stubbled chin grazes your cheek before he widens the gap between his face and yours and leans his back against the wall. 

“What,” he grunts, tone tender yet goading. “What do you want.” 

Is he really going to make you say it? 

Do you even have an answer? 

You don’t know what you want from him, not in any way that you can adequately explain. Asking him to fuck you would be too crude to articulate what you truly, deeply crave. You don’t want him to bend you over, you don’t want him to simply fill you up and leave you empty. No, you want him surrounding you, against you, inside you - you want the sensation of soft skin, of praising hands, of indulging mouths. You want to be corporeal again, a tender human and not an animal, a woman and not a spayed bitch. You want to be adored, not consumed. Needed more than wanted. 

The thought of speaking any of it aloud forces you to reckon with the unadulterated lunacy of what you are doing, of what you want to do. Clawing for the man, the soldier, the war criminal, that abducted you and slaughtered your husband. 

But, in your thirst, you mould your reservations like soft clay. 

Maybe the man he executed wasn’t your beloved husband, but a manipulative, perfidious sociopath, who kept you around as a pedigree showpiece and a hole to fuck. Maybe you were more pleased at the sight of the corpse than you had let yourself believe. 

Maybe your abduction was in fact a rescue, offering you the only breath of freedom or hope of escape you had ever been granted. Maybe the mission of espionage he forcehanded you into was not purely a death sentence, but an opportunity to do something that actually matters, for once, to make right the horrors you had been blindly complicit in.

You aren’t certain how much you believe any of your excuses, but, the longer you hold your tongue, the louder they ring true. 

Your eyes fix to the thrumming of his arteries under his tense jaw, the movement of his adam’s apple as he swallows. The satin sheen of sweat on his skin, despite the cold air of the empty kitchen. 

Your misgivings spill like milk, and you take a sip of air. 

“I just-” You hesitate, quiet words knotting your tongue. “I just want to feel good.”

He stills for a beat, before the hand he had shackled around your wrist loosens - he grazes it up the length of your arm, settling into the crook of your neck, his thumb brushing the underside of your jaw. His dusky eyes inspect you down the bridge of his nose. 

“Y’want me to make you feel good?” He murmurs richly, voice low. 

The surge in your chest turns your blood thick, and hot; you feel it flood into the apples your cheeks, into the tips of your fingers, into the crux of the pulsing bead between your legs. 

Your lips barely part, your heavy eyes flicker about his face, your fists open flat on his stomach. You can’t bring yourself to meet his eye when you nod, barely moving your head, too diffident to bravely admit it. 

He wedges the tip of his thumb under your jaw, and hinges your head backward, insisting you look at him. A warm shiver trickles down your spine as he cranes his head, his breathing tickles your lips. 

“Say it.” 

He’s tormenting you. Your tongue is too fevered to form the words for you, it takes a tremulous breath to gather them. 

“I want you t-”

Your confession is cut short, when he closes the narrow distance and presses his open lips into yours, too impatient to await the full sentence. It sucks the air from your lungs, but it doesn’t startle you - no, you sink into him the instant you taste him, opening your mouth to him with an ardour you have never been so consumed by. He clutches your head with both hands and almost lifts you by it as he kisses you, thick fingers weaving into your hair, rooting keenly in your scalp. 

His tongue tastes of cinnamon chewing gum and the smoke of your Benson and Hedges, decidedly softer than you would have expected, when you lave yours against his in your mouth. Your eager claws climb over the sides of his torso, digging into his back - pulling yourself as deeply into him as your bodies allow it, you want his warmth so firm against you that you might absorb it from him.

His lips drag from yours to plant wetly on your cheek, trailing to gnaw at the underside of your jaw, to taste your jugular with an open mouth - his teeth graze the tendons of your neck, but he doesn’t bite. Only lavishes your skin with a fervour that leaves you flustered and short of breath. 

You offer him no such tenderness - you mouth at the skin behind his ear, taste the salt of his sweat on your tongue, teeth burrowing into the fleshy muscles of his neck like you might take a bite out of him. Your avaricious fingers scratch up the back of his scalp, combing through his cropped hair, burrowing your nails into his skull as you clutch him so covetously. 

His right hand runs downward from your shoulder, sweeping the hollow of your waist, over your hip and down the side of your thigh. With his fingers he rakes the heavy silk of your dress up, up, up, and deftly gathers the fabric in a fist at your hip. 

You gasp as he grapples you by the thighs with both hands and hoists you smoothly upward, parting your legs so that they wrap around his hips. He carries you three fluid steps forward, before planting you on the edge of the marble island counter in the centre of the kitchen. The countertop is biting cold against the bare skin under your skirt, and he wedges your legs open with his torso. In your impatience you clutch his head by the jaw with two eager hands, dragging him downward to kiss you again, teeth clacking together ungracefully in your ferocity. 

You feel his thick fingers slither up your thighs, to your hips - they hook into the waistband of your underwear, and your heart jumps to your throat. He plucks them downward, lifting you just slightly to pull them over the swell of your ass, shimmying them down your thighs with an urgency that dizzies you. 

He pulls away from your mouth with a ragged breath, and your hungry hands lose grip of him - he shifts back to drag your panties to your knees, and he sinks downward as he pulls them to your ankles, off your feet. You don’t see where he drops them, and he doesn’t come back up. 

No, he remains on his knees beneath you. Doesn’t even take a breath before he plunges between your legs, doesn’t spare a second to admire your cunt for his own satisfaction, doesn’t waste a moment teasing you, nor preparing you - he parts your shamefully sodden lips with an overindulgent tongue, laving from your fluttering opening to your puffy clitoris in a single taste. You choke on air in the shock, flurried and light-headed, catching yourself from buckling over with hands atop his head. 

He eats you like a hound, messy and greedy, sucking your clit between his teeth and then releasing it with a smear of a flat tongue. The noises you make are embarrassing, unfamiliar - you have only ever performed them, sweet and delicate moans, music tailored to the man pretending to please you. Instead you choke, squeak, whimper like you are drowning in rapture as thick as honey, and the sounds spring from your throat despite your efforts to contain them. 

He rivets you to the counter with two expansive hands, fingertips bore into the pillow of your hips, holding the skirt of your dress up and out of his way. His coarse stubble chafes against the inside of your thighs, you feel every movement of his jaw as it opens wide and clamps shut. Your talons rake through his hair, scratch into his scalp with nearly enough force to break the skin. Your clit burns hot under his ravening, tender and hypersensitive - you gasp for air with every graze of his tongue, bite out a whine with every suckle. 

Neck growing weak, your head falls back from your shoulders; with it, you collapse backward and land against the countertop, knocking over a stemmed wine glass that shatters loudly and sprinkles glass over the marble and the floor. You do not notice it, back arching as though in a fit, spine contorting as you unwittingly buck your hips away from his mouth, but he follows you. 

He keeps the impetus of your pleasure under his tongue despite your writhing, reminding you of his strength when you involuntarily try to evade him. He does not restrain you with brutality, though - his hands are simply demanding, guiding, and as your squirming eases they soften their grip. One loosens and glides along the outside of your thigh, languid and tender across your skin, settling at your knee and steadying its position hanging over his shoulder. 

The knowing gentleness of his touch, the caution in the caress of his fingers, the overindulgence of his tongue - emulsify into a surge of liquid heat, unctuous and boiling. It floods scalding from the core of you, through the vessels and nerves of every extremity, pumping into the centre of your spoiled clit and setting it alight. You come in his mouth with a fervency that suffocates you, and you choke on a keening cry as he sucks more out of you - it charges through you in waves as you tumble over the edge of it, forcing you to jolt as though electrified, over, and over, until you finally plant a heel on his collarbone and push him off of you. 

You whine as you exhale, no air left in your lungs, as his mouth finally peels from your cunt. You take a moment to recover, back flat against the cold stone, eyes fluttering shut as the aftershock of your orgasm keeps you twitching. 

His rabid breathing echoes yours in the silence of the room, and you tilt up your head to look at him down the length of your nose. His murky stare catches yours over your mound; his eyes stygian in the shadows as he glowers at you from under his brow, reflecting a faint glint of light in their centre. His mouth hangs open, your liquid and his soaking his lips and dripping from his chin. 

He pants like a dog. 

You’re still hungry. 

The taste of you lingers in his mouth, and he refuses to swallow. 

He savours it for as long as he can, letting your heady syrup soak into his tongue, he wants it imbibed by every taste bud. Your sweet breathing is music, spent whines almost as euphonious as the sounds of your orgasm, velvet in his ears - he relives the feeling of your needy clit spasming against his tongue, how eagerly it twitched when he persisted in spoiling it, and resists the urge to take it in his mouth again. 

Your lethargic eyes cling to him, blinking slowly, lips wet. 

Did that feel good, little thing? 

Did he surfeit you? 

Was he soft enough? 

He tried to be. Christ, he tried - he exerted every ounce of his strength to subdue the savagery that roiled within him, that threatened to forcibly breach the cage he muzzled it with. It doesn’t come naturally to him, touching without forcing, lavishing without teeth. It goes against every fibre of his being, in fact - he is a carnivore by nature, he hunts and he snares and he chews, he overpowers with strength and fear, he controls with the threat of his aggression. 

He had never practiced restraint until he met you. 

It was far easier, when you kept your distance, when you avoided his eyes, when you resisted his touch.

Now, you run your fingernails through his hair. You wrap your thighs around his neck. You blink at him winsomely, supplicating, awaiting his next move. Unaware or uncaring of the predator you tempt so pointedly, how much effort he employs to tame it in your presence. 

The animal in him has its own hunger - starved, in fact - its stare flicks to your cunt, inches from him, shuddering under the heat of his breathing. Pink and pillowy after his avaricious praise, glistening with its stickiness; your nectar seeps in a rivulet from your slit, clear and glossy. His cock is heavy, only growing heavier, thrumming rich with the blood you fill it with. 

He does not deserve it. 

He catches your eye again, as you push yourself upward to sit straight, and he forces himself to stand. His nose brushes up your silk-cladded stomach as he rises from his knees, and once he stands tall, his face is a hair’s breadth from yours. 

Your cheeks are rosy, shiny with the glow of the paroxysm he ate out of you. Lips bitten red, shimmery with your saliva, part gently to breathe. Hair mussed, askew, falling out of the updo you had pulled it into, pieces of it cascade in waves and frame your face. 

Fuck, you’re beautiful.

He could say it aloud, but he doesn’t. Is that what you want to hear? Does it even matter to you? 

Your gaze lingers on his lips, he watches your eyelashes as they flutter. You shift forward to press your mouth to his, lips barely open; you are reserved, shy about it, as if kissing him now is a crossing of a boundary, as if he could ever mount any boundaries against you. You need only blink at him and they crumble. 

Can you taste yourself in his mouth? 

Does it make you as ravenous as it does him? 

He feels your fingers on his stomach, scratching at the fleece - and like you tried to before, you trail them downward, past his navel, catching in the stiff waistband of his trousers. He lets out a grunt, a sigh, as he looks down to see your diffident fingers hook the button of his fly, pushing it through the eye with a dull pop. You move slowly, cautious about it, as if he can’t see, can’t feel where you venture. As though he might catch you in the act of your transgression, and you’d be in trouble.

Do you feel that you owe it to him? That he did it for a reward?

Tasting you was a reward in itself. One he could never have deserved, one he cannot yet fathom you deigned to grant him. 

Maybe it’s habit, all you have come to know - sex as a transaction, a contract you need to fulfil. That if you don’t open your cunt or your mouth to repay the favour, they’ll be opened for you, whether you like it or not. 

He can’t have that. He won’t let you offer yourself out of obligation, nor out of dread. Not with the knowledge of what he has done to you hanging heavy from his neck. Not with your wrathful words ringing poignantly in his skull. Because, you were right - he does scratch, and grab, and hit, and break, he spends every waking second hungry, and the compulsion to maim is written on, embedded in the flesh he consists of. His very being is anathema to you, and he should be. 

He refuses you, again, taking both of your little wrists in one hand, shackling them together and tugging them away from him. 

“Stop,” he grumbles, and you look up at him through your lashes. 

He can’t decode you. Your expression reads to him as both nervous and discontented, embarrassed and yet frustrated. 

Do you even know what you want? 

With a pent breath you lower your head, pressing your forehead under his collarbone, and he feels your leg shift up his side. He hopes you have given up. That he has left you depleted of the lust that drove you to make the mistake of indulging him.  

“Please.” 

A whisper, so muted he thought for a moment that he had hallucinated it. 

“What?” He presses, under breath, and you sink deeper into him, mouth against his jersey. 

“Please,” you repeat, a whine, muffled by fleece. 

Your supplication turns him to putty, and his cuffs slacken. He doesn’t believe you - or, just as likely, he doesn’t trust his own ears to be hearing what he thinks you have said. Your slippery hands escape him, and unbridled they return to their objective; fingers catch the zipper of his fly, you watch your work as you pull it down. 

“Please,” you insist, unprompted, each utterance more desperate. 

His cock grows as solid as iron; straining against the boxer briefs you release from behind his fly, twitching with every slight movement you make in its proximity. His war not to touch you is lost, and he ghosts a hand across your shoulder, up the back of your neck, combing into your hair as he presses his nose and mouth into the top of your head. 

Do you know what you are pleading for? 

Do you want him inside you?

Do you need the fullness he can give you?

He could oblige you, if that is what you truly want. He could sink his cock into you deep enough to make you dizzy. He could stuff you full enough to slake the turmoil-induced concupiscence that has possessed you. 

But he won’t do that for you, little thing. Not unless you beg him to. 

You pluck at the elastic waistband of his boxers, another unspoken appeal. 

“Say it again,” he growls, into your hair, doing his level best not to dig his teeth into you.

With a quivering breath you tilt your head upward to face him, your lips brush lightly against his. The tips of your wary fingers brush the underside of his length through the fabric of his boxers, and he bites down on a grunt. 

“Please.” 

You whisper it into his mouth, and his scruples turn to smoke. 

He dives downard, lips colliding with yours, kissing you with a resurgent zeal, his manacles broken and his conscience smothered - your little hands hold him by the cheeks, softer than he is worthy of, and your tongue strokes against his as though drinking your own juices from him. 

He grants your pleas, tugging down the front of his boxers and releasing his burdensome cock with a grip around its curly base. Your needy legs hook him by the hip, and you tug him forward - the underside of his shaft grinds against your slit, soaking in the nectar that pools there, and you spill a yearning whimper into his mouth. 

“Again,” he snarls, against your lips; he kneads the crux of your labia with the base of his head, frenulum rubbing against your swollen clitoris, and your brows curl with the whine he pushes out of you. 

“Please,” you mewl, fingernails nearly puncturing his cheeks. 

Fuck, you’re insatiable. 

It liquefies him when you hurt him. When you bite. When you maim. His scalp still stings from where your claws had all but broken the skin, the side of his neck throbs where your bite marks sink deep. He wants you to wound him, he wants you to take it all out on the body that he offers you. He wants to bleed for you. 

He drags the soft head of his steel cock down your slit, burrowing between the lips so slick he needn’t pause, needn’t prepare you by spitting on his hand and smearing it on you. He wedges his tip against your opening and it almost sucks him in with its voraciousness, but he halts there. His free hand finds your waist and clutches at its hollow, tugging you minutely closer, your ass perched precariously on the very edge of the counter. You look up again, with a little gasp, neediness etched in your stare. 

“Again,” he urges, just to hear you beg for him. 

“Please-”

You gag on your entreaty as he obliges you; he pushes his weight forward and sinks his cock into you, reaming open your taut yet eager pussy as he gradually burrows it deeper. He sees white as you stretch to fit him, and he lets out a broken grunt; the ridged and gooey walls of your cunt engulf him snugly, blindingly warm, you fit his cock like a glove. 

With a breath caught in your throat, you squeak on it - he stills, only half-way deep, for your own good. He refuses to hurt you, even if you want him to. Your cunt clamps down on him as he pauses, muscles rolling up the length of him, and he wrenches shut his eyes; your hands rake from his cheeks to the collar of his fleece, and you reel him desperately closer. 

“You’re not hurting me,” you breathe, lips under his ear, warm on his skin. 

Can you read his mind? 

Is he that transparent? 

He wonders if you have been able to see through his veneer, peer under his mask since the moment you laid eyes on him. As if you can guess his thoughts, decrypt his every motive, predict every decision. As if you can decipher his feelings, better than he can, almost as well as you can manipulate them. He has always boasted his ability to conceal himself, has always considered his truest centre too deep to be retrieved, long gone - but you peel off every layer that coats him, every cover that obscures him, and you expose him without effort. 

It might have made him defensive, cold, being unmasked so brazenly. But, it doesn’t. Not when you’re the one peering under the hood. 

He smooths his hands up your thighs, lifting your skirt, finding purchase in the meat of your hips - he uses his grip to anchor you to the edge of the counter as he thrusts forward, plunging his cock so deep into you that you take him to the hilt. 

He bites back a groan, as his blunt head nudges against the spongy pillow of your cervix, and your fingernails carve into his burning neck. He stays there for a beat, buried as deep as you can take him, swimming in the abundant honey that soaks him from base to tip. 

He reels out of you, indulging his cock with the friction of your walls, gripping his shaft on its way out - before he drives back into you, ramming into the gummy plug of your womb and forcing a succulent cry from your throat. Your cunt swallows him like it was moulded to fit him, and he grits his teeth as he succumbs to rutting in earnest; drags his cock out of you and plummets in deep, relishing in the melody of every little squeak he fucks out of you. 

With the arms over his back you yank at the fabric of his jersey, pulling it up from where it was tucked into his trousers, exposing his back to the cold of the air. He yields to your unspoken request without dispute, fleetingly separating from you to reach behind his back and shuck off the fleece and the t-shirt he wears under it in one go. He knows you like the sight, little thing. 

You hook an arm around his neck with a frayed breath, and slither the other over his ribs, rooting your fingers in the muscles that wrap his scapula. He fucks into you after the transient reprieve, and you burrow your face into his bare chest. You kiss him there, tongue gliding over the scars of burns and gunshots like you can taste the blood that once spilled from them. 

With another impetuous thrust your sanguinary fingernails carve through the meat of his back, as though you want to break the skin; you claw deeper, crueller with every rut, and your mewls grow wetter and sweeter. 

He shifts his right hand to the top of your thigh, and he glides his thumb down the crease of your groin; he nestles the tip of it at the nexus of your pussy, still slick from his appetite, and he burnishes your clit in circles with the pace of his thrusts. 

Can he get another one out of you, little thing?

It sounds like he can - your whines hitch in your throat with every upward swipe of his thumb, with every ram of his cock, and your legs coil tighter and tighter around his torso. He feels your cunt constrict around the length of him, resistance where there had been none, tightening and letting go in rhythm. He’d like to see your pretty face as he takes you over the edge, again, a sight that could never pall - but you are engaged in your own vices. 

Your unquenchable mouth is busy - gnashes at his neck, his trapezius, his collarbone, leaving wet nibbles in your wake. You settle for a pectoral, and he feels your teeth grazing his febrile skin, over where the tattoos of his sleeve spread over his chest. Your heightened whimpers are muffled by his pelt, as he brings you closer, as he fucks you deeper - you hold your breath, clamp your thighs around his waist as you climb to the apex. 

And when you come, when your pent breath escapes your chest in a ravished whine, your jaw finds purchase; you take the flesh of his muscle between your teeth and bite down as he stuffs you full, chewing on his meat like a carnivore, and he groans harshly through a clenched jaw. 

Do you enjoy hurting him, little thing? 

Or do you simply like the taste? 

Perhaps it is both, because you only bite down harder as you roll down the other side of your climax; your nails lacerate deeper, your legs trap him tighter, and your pussy constringes around his cock with the aftershocks of your orgasm. 

The pain you inflict in him is just as blinding, just as shattering as the euphoria engulfing the length of him - his cock rakes against your suckling walls, rooting into the pillow of your cervix, bathing in the flood of your liquor - he feels his stomach sink, his vision goes hazy, his cock engorges in waves from base to head. 

“Fuck-” he bites out, wolfish in his grunting - you are either oblivious to or unperturbed by his looming climax, because you keep your ensnaring legs tight around his torso, your arms hooked rigidly around his neck, your canines in his shoulder. 

He stifles a hoarse groan through gritting teeth, decisive hands seize you by the hips in an effort to unsheathe his cock from the depths of you. But your thighs only contract, grapple him closer; you drive his length back into you, and you squeak insatiably into his skin. 

“Mia-” He grunts, voice ragged. 

Your greedy hands slide to either side of his inflamed neck, and you finally unlatch your mouth from his skin - you hold your forehead to his, languid eyes fluttering across his face, he feels your breathing cool against his skin. 

He’s too close - it wracks him, surges through him with a voltage that turns his vision sparkly and his cock as heavy as lead. 

Do you want him to come inside you? 

Do you need him beholden to you? 

“Please,” you croak. 

Fuck. 

His orgasm rips through him and leaves him blind, floods out of him in a torrent that sucks the air from his lungs - his cock lurches in the snare of your cunt, spilling a spate of thick come against your cervix and pumping you so full that he feels the overflow drool down the base of his shaft. He groans into your mouth and you swallow it, your own spent whimpers echoing his, as his cock continues to spasm inside you. 

The cold water rinses him once he takes a breath, and he lowers his head; he rests his open mouth against your shoulder, panting into your feverish skin. You listlessly run the soft tips of your fingers up his spine, as winded as he is, his head rises with your torso as you draw in a breath. 

His mind is paradoxically empty and teeming - warring between shame and pride, between guilt and reverence. 

He didn’t deserve it. He shouldn’t have obliged you. 

He doesn’t regret it. 

“Thank you,” you breathe, a torpid whine in the sigh that follows. 

He presses a praising kiss into the crook of your shoulder. 

“Don’t thank me.” 

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

Un-evil

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

This is filthy. Short and downright filthy.

Crossposted on AO3.

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3

Word count: 2k

Summary: Simon f*cks you stupid. He's not sorry, and neither are you.

18+ (Can't stress this enough)

CW: smut. that's it. that's the plot. it's just PWP. it's got a little fluff at the end, but it's smut.

Masterlist 🦊

𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬 𓇬

Pain should be something evil, shouldn’t it? Yet you’re mostly positive that Simon’s hands aren’t evil – at least, not when they land on you.

But it's hard to prove your words right when he has his fingers curled into a tight fist around a handful of your hair. It's difficult, if anyone were to see, to convince them that he isn't trying to split you in half, by the way he has you curve your back in an impossible angle.

However, you’d gladly give a Ted talk about how un-evil he is being.

Naturally, the image might not seem the most innocent, so you’d have to work tirelessly to sound convincing. On all fours on the mattress of his own bedroom, with your feet dangling off the edge of the bed. Curled toes and stiff calves. Head so thrown back that your eyes are locked to the ceiling – or, well, they would be.

If they hadn’t been rolling back for the past – what? Night? What time is it, exactly?

In truth, the only thing you’re seeing is the back of your eyelids. Luckily the ceiling ain’t all that to look at.

Your throat is so tight and coiled that your breaths come out ragged and – bloody fucking hell – almost pained. And again, there is a bit of pain. A pinch of it. 

It would be a lot, with your hair being pulled and your back forced into an arch, but the pleasure is just so overwhelming you feel nothing else. The sting of your scalp and the ache of your spine only enhance what’s happening at the other end of you. 

How good he’s fucking you.

It’s deranged, honestly. 

Someone must be thinking a bleeding homicide is occurring in the Ghost’s quarters. You'd love to have some containment, acting a little more prude even if he's pounding his cock right into you something fierce. Maybe mewl and moan and be all breathy and shy. 

But your neck is so thrown back that the groans coming out of you are mostly punched out by the man himself each time he thrusts in and simultaneously pulls back at your hair to slam you against himself.

On the other hand, his grunts are muffled by the fabric of his stupid balaclava. 

Before the whole ordeal started, you told him you wouldn’t fuck him if he wore that thing.

“Not even sure you wash it, L.T.” You’d said, smirking and sounding so proud of having something to mock him for – because he's always so bloody perfect on the field, isn't he.

But he’d shut your mouth spare minutes later, when he’d throw you on your back on his bed, making you feel like you weighed a pound and few spare coins. Lifted his mask up to his nose. Snatched your khakis and knickers off all at once.

And ate you out with such fervor and insistence you were almost positive you’d stopped breathing for a while during the whole meal.

Then, he’d taken off the mask, wiped his mouth with it after you’d soaked it with your orgasm, and put it back on.

“Washed it now.”

Smug cunt.

But now pride and ego and whatnot feel like fickle things, much like your aching back, burning throat, and the impending cramps in your calves.

Now, as your mind squabbles in a puddle of itself, almost disassociating, Simon must notice it. And oh, he doesn’t like that in the slightest. Where are you going, with your pretty little head, when all your blood should be pumping down to where he needs you warm and wet.

“Come back ‘ere,” he grunts, bending forward and pulling your head further back at the same time. He hooks one arm around your front so that he can keep you up when he notices you're all loose and flaccid.

Palm flat to your chest, he presses you flush against his own.

His eyes are hooded and heavy as they lock with yours. Your face is so flushed and sweaty you must look on the brink of collapse, and he can’t deny it has him a little worried.

“Good?” He asks gruffly, and although concerned, his onslaught on your pussy is relentless.

You smile, all teeth. Your lips have drool smeared all over. Your eyes are glossy and heavy. He's been pounding into you for the past hour, you came into his mouth once and on his cock at least twice. The sounds he's punching out of your lips are raunchy and downright pornographic.

It makes something weird and warm swim in his chest.

Fucking hell.

“Words, love.” It’s a demand, but it’s not said unkindly. He’s more than alright with the idea of fucking you stupid, but not so much with the thought of fucking you into a blackout.

And when you don’t respond and get lost in your body again, eyes rolling back once more, he harshly tugs at your hair. “Sergeant.”

Tears are prickling the corners of your eyes when you open them. However, the contrast is striking, with the wheezing moan that concomitantly leaves your lips. 

You fucking like it, don’t you? Dirty slag.

A discovery, you are. Truly.

He loves it. 

“Solid,” you stutter. Your voice is raspy and wet. "Sir."

He loves that too. 

And admittedly finds it almost humorous, how he can make you unravel like that. You came to his door that night, all commanding as if you had any right over him, saying the two of you should stop dancing around each other and get it over with. That you’re adults and that if he was going to use the regulations excuse you were going to blow a gasket because everything you lot do on the field is against the so-called rules, hence a shagwould be the least of you two’s problems.

He hadn’t even had time to rebut. You were so right it hurt his pride. So, he fucked all that arrogance out of you.

And God, did it feel good. You felt good.

You were right, after all. He won't tell you, though. Doesn't need to chub up your ego any further, it's already fighting for space with his own.

He hums at your response. Leaves the hold around your torso and you flop forward like a wet rag, face first in the sheets.

Simon grabs your hair to lift you up, delighted to hear your ecstatic laugh as your head is yanked back once again. 

He growls, “Good fuckin' girl."

And he rams into you again, using the grip on your hair as leverage. Your groans are guttural and fierce, so loud that even he is a little worried someone might eavesdrop on some of them. 

Of course, this is no time for worries and concerns, all sublimated by the scorching heat between your legs. Warmest fucking place he’s ever been in. 

‘S a lot to say, he thinks, since he’s been through hell and back already.

However, he does feel a little merciful. Sure, you’re heavenly in this position, completely at his service, but it’s been a while and you must be aching. You're going to wake up, later, with the worst back pain of your life and a few cracking joints. 

Right, not that he cares. But you’re already a pain to deal with when you’re all healthy and cracking jokes and smiling like you give two shits about him, he can’t imagine how whiny you must be when you’re knackered and it's because of him.

He bends forward, then, chest to your back, and curls his free arm around your belly. Fingers sneakily reach down and trace your pussy. Palm cupping your mons while his ring and middle finger outline your lips. For just a second, he settles at the base of his cock, feeling how the shaft plunges so easily right inside of you. The stretch of your hole sucking him in. How wet you are – Christ.

Like this, he has his mouth next to your ear, but he’s not pounding into you with the same fierceness he’s used until now. And your voice has dulled, probably because he’s relented the grip in your hair, letting your head loll forward.

He looks at you through the haze of sex, trying to push through the mist of bliss you’ve shrouded him in. And your face is different. Your eyes are wide, staring blankly ahead, lips parted to take in sharp breaths. 

He panics for a moment, but it quickly melts away when he pushes in a little deeper and you keel over with a groan. He must be hitting something new, something different. 

Something good.

Which is why he hits it again. And again. And you keen and moan, fisting the sheets and punching the mattress. 

“Bloody fuckin’ hell, look at ya.” He rumbles with a chuckle you can feel rippling in his chest against your back.

In the meantime, because he is so un-evil, the hand he had on your pussy finally finds purchase on your clit. He can feel how raw it must be. How stiff and puffy it is under the rough pads of his fingers.

Your breath hitches the moment he starts rubbing it. Doesn’t bother to be gentle with it, because he’s found out you like it when he barks and bites. 

He’s proven right because the tears that were prickling your eyes before are now flowing freely down your cheeks. Your lips tug at the corners and you wheeze, one hand of yours grasping at the forearm of the same hand giving you bliss. Cheek to the mattress.

You dig your nails into his flesh – scar-thickened skin covered in black ink. 

You’re squirming under his weight, with your arse up and back in a pretty arch, as he works you inside and out with hands and cock all the same.

The groan you let out now truly sounds as if you're in pain. Your free hand lifts to grip the fabric of his balaclava on top of his head, as if you were trying to find purchase on his hair but found cotton instead.

“Oi,” he grunts, sounding uncharacteristically worried, but doesn’t stop until you say so.

And thank Christ he doesn’t, because mere seconds later your cunt clenches so tight around him it threatens to chop his dick off. You go ramrod stiff under him. Throat tight and allowing only the passage of mewls that pitch upward. 

Three fingers swipe side to side over your clit. He pounds into you once, twice – again, again, again, until he’s pushed out of you.

“Jesus –“ 

You’re splashing on his cock, a thick stream spraying directly on his sheets. Muffled sounds of water hitting fabric. You’re so fucking silent he bets you’ve stopped breathing as you came, because not even a second later you’re catching your breath with a guttural groan that goes straight to his dick.

He’s dumbfounded and burning, but thankfully has still enough brainpower to realize he has to fuck you through it – and so he does just that. Puts it back in and lays fully above you, flattening your front to the bed. Your thighs are quivering, and your pussy is still clenching rhythmically around him. He thrusts in more and feels tinier splashes gushing out of you each time he pulls out.

Fuck, you’re so wet he barely feels any friction. 

A whine escapes you at the intrusion, but you obediently lay your cheek on the mattress, exhausted, and catch your breath, looking over your shoulder up to him. 

You’re flushed and so pretty. Looking like an angel and not like the devil that you are, who’s just squirted over his bedsheets.

You deserve a little reward for the show you put on for him because he's surely not going to forget how your cunt fluttered around nothing when it gushed on his bed. It's going to stay imprinted in his forebrain and he's going to relive it whenever his hand won't feel like enough.

He snatches the balaclava off his head and tosses it on the floor. He sees your eyes soften at the sight of the disfigured man underneath, but he won’t have any of that – this is just sex. Just fucking sex.

Before he can have his head wander to unwanted (kinder) places, he roughly grabs your jaw and keeps fucking you raw. His lips slam onto yours in a kiss that sizzles with lust and resentment – because you can’t bring feelings into this, and he will forever hate you if you dare.

“Fuckin’ pretty,” he grunts in your face, as he ruts into you, now propped on his forearms. “Think you can do tha’ again?”

You huff. Probably not.

“Depends how – fuck – good y’ are.” As if he didn’t just wring you dry. 

He chuckles darkly, and bites down your shoulder, making you hiss. “Smartarse. Don’t you dare, now.”

“Dare what, L.T.” 

Oh, you little devil. 

“Stop with the lieutenant shite.” He chides.

You snake a hand in his palm and intertwine your fingers with his. He clenches his fist to tighten the hold because he's a weak, weak man.

“What should I call you, then?” You ask through heaving breaths, “Ain’t calling you Ghost, surely.”

He leans down and kisses your cheek.

You know my name, bird.

“Fuckin’ brat.” He grunts, and surrenders. “Simon will do.”

He feels your cheek lift under the pressure of your smile, right against his lips.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Simon will do.”

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-four —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 3k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex but it isn’t here yet. slow burn!!! enemies to lovers. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: ily

England passes in beautiful shades of green, the last time you'll see it, so you soak it in. Rolling hills streak the landscape like scars. In the distance, you glimpse faded architecture, imagining people living and working there. An ivy-covered university appears, and you picture yourself dozing off in a lecture. These little fantasies entertain you for the next two hours, but Blue isn't distracted by the same game. When you look at her arm, you notice pink scratches just below where the friendship bracelet hugs her wrist, made by her nails mindlessly.

You tear your eyes from the window and nudge your shoulder against hers. "Hey. What do you call a cow with no legs?"

Her lips twitch at the broken silence and she lifts her azure eyes to yours, a bead of sunlight catching in them. "What?"

"Ground beef."

Those eyes roll. "That's stupid."

Nereida smiles from the other side of her. "Oh, I've got one. What did the ocean say to the beach?"

Blue sighs. "Ghost said that one before. Nothing—it just 'waved'."

A recoil passes over Nereid's kind eyes. "I apologize. That's the only one I know."

Quiet air fills the space again, and when you notice Blue's nails dig back into her wrist, you gently lace your fingers through hers and pull her hand to your lap, allowing her to scratch your thigh, instead. 

When an old theme park erects from the grass, Blue's interest piques. "Woah. What is that?"

"None of it works anymore," Ghost mutters, one hand on the wheel.

"It looks cool, though. I have to pee, anyway. Can we stop here?"

"I could use a little stretch for my legs," Nereida adds.

The pitstop is brief enough to allow Blue the chance to curiously look through the decrepit bumper cars, carousel, and even a small rollercoaster that still has the car sitting mid-track. She grabs Ari's hand to show him, but he doesn't seem as intrigued given the pale look on his face. He ends up rushing to a bush and keeling over.

"The back gets a bit bumpy," Kyle says when he notices your expression. "He'll be fine."

"I'll switch with him for the rest of the way."

"You don't have to."

"It's fine. He can probably entertain Blue better than I can."

Everyone uses the small break to eat a little lunch. You already had some of the beans Ghost packed, so you feel uncertain whether you should eat anymore of his food. You haven't even discussed sharing. Rather, you ration the jerky you made and save the rest. 

It is a small meal, so you eat it slowly to trick your stomach into feeling full. Just before getting back to the truck, you spot a tree by the entrance to Kettering Kastle. Hickory. Paul told you once they make for great arrows, a softer hardwood. Pliable yet strong. This excites you. Your sheath is only half-full, so you grab your serrated knife and cut a few midsized branches to take with you.

Sitting in the truck bed is far from pleasant. The tail wind makes it hard to breathe, and you have to grab the side of the truck to keep yourself from flying out. Kyle notices your struggle and seems amused, but reaches an arm over in offering. You hold onto him and it does some to keep you stable. 

The motorway passes through Kettering, which is a smaller city. The smell is retched, though the only Greys you spot don't take notice to you, trapped between buildings and toppled telephone poles. You make out a sign that reads A14 and figure it is headed to Cambridge. If you continue this pace, you'll reach the coastline by sundown.

Of course, things don't work out that way. The road becomes more obstructed with abandoned vehicles. Ghost has to weave through them like a maze, wasting time and fuel. The sun crawls higher in the sky. Finally, there are a few kilometers of straight road. Speed ticks up only to come to an abrupt halt when he reaches an underpass. You let go of Kyle and stand up to see what has caused the stop—a semi truck completely blocks the way through it.

"Jesus," you mutter.

Consecutive slams of the fronts doors indicate Price and Ghost are checking it out. Kyle hops out with them. After a few minutes, he returns and explains with a sigh, "We'll have to backtrack and find a side street that will lead to another motorway ramp."

"That's going to eat time. The sun will set soon."

He offers his arm again as Ghost begins reversing. "I know. It's fine, we'll just get to the water tomorrow. No rush, yeah?"

It adds an extra hour and a half. The sky turns a remarkable orange that would've had you gawking if not for your irritation of having to stop again. Ghost pulls over just before it gets too dark to set up the tents in a small market town called Haverhill. There's hardly anything here except fields of bright, yellow flowers and little shops with slanted CLOSED signs. It is actually pleasant and well-preserved, until you catch the distinguishable shape of a corpse hanging from one of the telephone poles, a black trash bag over its head.

"Don't look at it."

"Nothing I haven't seen before," you dismiss under your breath. 

A more forested patch of land at the edge of the town is where you make camp for the night.

They eat canned goods and you finish your last pieces of jerky. This means you'll have to find more food for yourself tomorrow, or ask Ghost for some. The thought makes you anxious. The last thing you want is to seem like an extra burden. Dead weight that they'd be better off leaving behind. But he also didn't comment when you ate the beans. The uncertainty of where you stand means you need to make yourself useful.

The men need rest, so you offer to keep watch.

Prices dismisses you. "You don't have to, Twix. The three of us can take turns."

"No, really. I'll keep watch and you guys can all get more sleep. I've just been sitting in a car all day, anyway."

He gives in, visibly fatigued after being up over twenty-four hours.

Ghost and Price sleep first.

That leaves you sitting with Kyle when the stars begin to flicker like bright, little heartbeats against the black night.

You pull out your smoother knife—the one you found back at that base—to carve the sticks you found, careful of your bandaged thumb. 

Kyle lays his rifle across his lap. "First time I am seeing you smile today and it's while carving sticks." 

"Arrows," you correct, holding one up and tapping your index lightly against the sharpened point. "And it's good wood. Hickory."

"You're an easy woman to please," he teases.

"My tastes have changed over the years."

"Really? I can't imagine you as one of those people who cared too much about nice things."

You flash him a raised brow. "Are you saying I was cheap?"

He nudges your knee. "Not what I'm saying. You just seem like someone who would prefer a little movie date over a fancy dinner."

"I liked sushi. Is that fancy?"

He hums. "There were some good cheap sushi spots in London—hole in the wall type places. When there was some kid doing their homework at one of the booths, that's when you knew it'd be good shit."

"You're making me hungry."

"Well, you should've eaten more." He looks at you knowingly. "You're scared to ask anyone for food, aren't you?"

Are you really that easy to read? You place the half-finish arrow across your knees and look at the ground, brushing your fingers absentmindedly through the soft grass. "I just—I am aware of my place here."

"Your place?"

Your hands tightens the grass into a fistful. "I am at the bottom."

"The bottom," he repeats slowly, and his voice lowers. "You really think that?"

You rip the grass and sprinkle it over your boot, glancing up at him. His eyes have darkened, or maybe they are simply mirroring the sky. "I am not complaining. I understand that everyone here has others who they would prefer to keep alive over me, that's all. I just don't want to stick out anymore than I already do."

He reels in your words. "You're forgetting that everyone here has their own perspective, their own wants. It is not as simple as you're making it seem." In a change of topic, he reaches for the arrow on your lap. "Here—let me help."

You hand him the knife and he begins carving expertly as a few minutes of silence ensue. You are lost in your thoughts, keeping your eyes on the surroundings, when he suddenly stops in his handiwork, holding up the knife. You watch him study the leather handle carefully, shake his head to himself, then look at you.

"Where did you get this?"

"Huh? Oh—I found it. At a military base actually."

Your answer seems to strike him, and he releases a disbelieving exhale. "The one near Manchester?"

You nod. 

"It was my brother's."

What?

Reading your expression, he shows you the handle and rubs his thumb over a small etching at the bottom that you can barely make out in the moonlight: PG.

"Patrick Garrick," he explains in a murmur, and your chest tightens. "I didn't even notice it at first. It's been years since I had it. The last time...the last time was when shit happened, and I lent it to a friend of mine at the base."

"Who?"

"Soap," he says, a memory taking over his expression as he rubs his jaw. "He was the other member of our spec ops unit."

"You... Someone mentioned him before. Ghost—he asked you guys about him when you arrived. You don't know what happened to him, right?"

Kyles nods. "He stayed back at the base to keep helping even when Price and I jumped ship. That was the Scottish in him—stubborn as hell. Soap was just his codename, of course. Like mine was Gaz." He looks up at you with a faint dimple. "And yours is Twix, huh?"

"I guess." You press your tongue to your teeth and grab the knife, frowning at it as you try to recall exactly where you grabbed it from. "What was his real name, then?"

"John MacTavish."

"I think—I think your friend is dead. I'm sorry." You gaze at him. "I remember now. I found it in one of the rooms, and there was a skeleton with that name. He... he had it quick, though."

The expression on his typically warm eyes turns unreadable and his shoulders stiffen in the slightest. You wonder if you should have bothered sharing this, but then he shrugs it off with a sigh. "It's okay. Figured as much. Many people have died. He's just another name to the list."

Instinct draws your hand to his shoulder, and the muscles softens beneath your touch. "I'm still sorry."

His eyes find yours. 

He smiles solemnly.

Then, somewhere in it all, he leans over and closes the gap. The sudden, foreign feel of lips pressed against your own stuns you. His lips move gently, cold and soft against yours, and only when he threads a hand through your hair to pull you closer do you fully register what he is doing. Your eyes fly open and you break away, leaping to your feet.

"Why did you—what was that?"

He stands up with you. "It felt right in the moment."

He tries to touch your shoulder but you flinch away. "I'm sorry. I just—I was just trying to comfort you."

"I misread the moment." His eyes are clouded. "So you didn't want it?"

Did you? Your mind feels fuzzy. "I don't know. I need to...I want to be alone right now."

You grab your knife and sticks, rushing around the tents to find solace by the truck, needing to process what just happened. As you move, you bump into a hard chest—Ghost. Somehow you failed to hear the jagged teeth of the tent's zipper. Avoiding his gaze, you try to slip past, but he grips your elbow, holding you in place.

"What is it?"

The lie wedges out of your lips. "Nothing. I just—thought I saw something so I am going to sit over there and keep an eye out."

The difference in height leads to his stare burning into your scalp. "What did you see?" 

"I don't know. Something. Maybe just an animal."

His hold doesn't soften. Stoicism forces itself on your face as you press your lips into a line.

You're easy to ready.

He finally lets go. "I'll take over now. You can sleep."

You find yourself nodding soundlessly, internally glad to be relieved of this duty. 

Sleep offers peace of mind, at least until morning. 

Dawn breaks over the small town in a quiet clatter of spoons against cans and the shuffling of bags being packed up. The dream you wake up from was one of an old life—the last kiss you experienced. But it fizzles quickly from the recesses of your brain the moment your lids shutter open. 

Both you and Kyle seem keen on acting as though nothing happened. More than anything, you are confused. You try to search inside that box of yours for how you feel, but all you find is fear. You've barely been able to keep up with the fear. You busy yourself with helping get everything back in the truck, fitting the supplies like a jigsaw puzzle. You have nothing to eat. A day or two without food is doable until you can properly hunt for something—

"Here."

It is Nereida who catches you by the truck before leaving. She practically shoves a can of tuna into your hands and you look up at her in hesitant gratitude.

"We're all sharing food," she says. "That is how it should be."

"Thank you. Really, this is—"

"Don't thank me. There is plenty for everyone."

For now, your mind chides, but you swallow the thought while scarfing down the meal you pretend is London's finest sushi. 

Once everyone is ready, you head to the back of the truck, expecting an awkward encounter with Kyle, only to find Ghost sitting there beside the kayak, hands relaxed behind his head.

"What are you doing?"

"Needed a break from driving."

You glance at the front to see that Price is behind the wheel, and Kyle is in the passenger side. In a way, you're relieved. You breathe through your nose and hoist yourself up. The bumpy ride is quiet at first. His body takes up space so that each pothole nudges your shoulder or knee against his. The morning ages. You swear you can see there coast at one point, but it must be your imagination, because the passing sign reads Halstead. 

"You really need to work on lying better."

The brash accent registers low against the hum of the engine, and his eyes are closed when you look over. He is leaned back, one leg straight and one bent, seeming to enjoy the seat more than you are. 

"Fine. I'm bad at lying."

"Care to share the truth, then?"

He needn't elaborate for you to know what he is referring to. "I was...I was upset because I found out my knife—the one I took from the base—belonged to Kyle's brother."

His brow ticks.

You continue, "But he actually gave it to Soap, and I—I found his dog tag on a skeleton. John MacTavish. You were friends with him, weren't you?"

His eyes open, but they are too murky to decipher from just his profile. His jaw flexes. "I wasn't a man with friends, Twix."

"You know what I mean."

There is a pause, and then, "He was a sergeant under my command. A good man. Grating, at times. But good."

"Well, I'm sorry he didn't make it. If you of all people say he was a good guy, then he really must've been."

He hums in agreement. Thoughtful. Then—two gloved fingers touch your jaw, turning your eyes to his. "You are still lying, and still bad at it."

You wet your lips. "I wasn't—"

"Help!"

Ghost drops your chin and grabs the gun from his waist.

Your eyes flash around at the sound of a second plea. There is a man at the side of the road, leg draped in bloodied bandages, but there isn't a chance for you to register more of him when the truck takes a sudden, sharp left down a side street and you brace yourself by grabbing the edge with both arms. The small city-scape whirls by in a blur. Ghost swears under his breath, scanning the area as he bends on one knee and keeps the gun secure in his grip. Confused, you grab his arm.

"That man was injured."

His voice is harsh and alert. "He has fucking friends somewhere here. He was just trying to—"

A shattering sound. An audible pop. You're thrown against the truck bed even harder this time as it skids across the street, nearly slamming into a flipped-over car. Ghost covers you, the weight of him keeping you from flying out. The truck swerves to a halt. Everything is black until his weight lifts. He barks an order, jumps out, and pulls you with him.

Pressed against the side of the truck, the world becomes consumed by loud sounds and the distinct smell of gunpowder. Ghost rips open the passenger door and urgently pulls Blue, Ari, and Nereida out, ordering them to keep low. From the other side, you hear Price and Kyle shouting, followed by another series of gunshots.

corporal: ch 1 - punishment

SUKUNAxF!READER ☽☾ HEIAN ERA AU ☽☾ ONGOING SERIES ☽☾ AO3

☽☾ SYNOPSIS: You are such a menace that your father decides to offer your eternal servitude as a gift to the King of Curses.

Sukuna has not accepted such a tribute in years, more often opting to eat the young girls rather than put them to work, which is perfectly acceptable as far as your asshole dad is concerned.

Will the demon make an exception for you?

☽☾ WARNINGS/TAGS: 18+MINORS DNI, blood and gore, violence, abuse, true form sukuna, eventual smut (not yet), references to cannibalism, I suck at tags

☽☾ WORD COUNT: 4.2k

As a little girl, you were inseperable from your sister, Emika. You spent countless afternoons giggling and dashing between the trees in the wood surrounding your home. The same wood you are now running through as your life depends on it.

Even as stitches crawl, burning, into your ribs, you picture Emika's smiling face in the dappled sunlight. When you trip over a root and catch the stony soil with your knees and palms, your mind conjures a memory of practicing katas and swordplay with her in secret, of the many times she put you in the dirt, herself, grinning as she tapped her bamboo sword lightly against your throat. "Dead," she'd giggle. She was so strong.

You bound to your feet and run despite your burning lungs and aching legs. As your pursuer knocks you to the ground, restraining you with a strong pair of arms, you recall the time you walked into your favorite clearing and found her kissing one of the servant girls. Later, she had shared her secret with you, only you. 

As the guards drag you kicking and screaming back to your family home you recall how vacant her eyes had become when the servant girl was sent away. The way her lips no longer smiled when she was given to a man twice her age, a cruel man who kept her pregnant and did not love her. You would die rather than accept such a fate for yourself. You would be the warrior Emika had dreamt of being. 

As calloused hands throw you into the closet used to confine you when you were had misbehaved especially severely, you pictured how Emika had looked at you on her wedding day, a tight smile under eyes shiny with unshed tears. As you scream through split, swollen lips and pound your fists bloody on the heavy wooden door, you pictured her nodding and mouthing a silent goodbye to you. 

When you finally slump against the door and succumb to a darkness so complete that closing your eyes makes no difference, you hiss her name into the silence. Damn her. Why didn't she fight it? All that strength, for what?

Twenty now, you are half a dozen years older than she was when she was married. You are known for your wild behavior which has discouraged many requests for your hand, despite your clan being rather powerful. Your life was not pleasant, as a result.

You had been flogged and thrown into the dark more times than you could count. Your mother does not even come to sit on the other side of the door and tearfully beg you to change your ways anymore. You are utterly alone, and you suffer. But at least you have a modicum of freedom. At least this suffering is your choice.

"So you're back, father," you spit, blinking at the light that filters around his still armored silhouette. Fresh from one battle, into another. You do not give him the satisfaction of crying out when he yanks you out of the closet by your filthy hair. After all the pain you have suffered at the hands of this man and his lackeys, you hardly feel it anyway. 

"Yes, daughter," he spits the word out like he can't stand the taste of it. "And I will finally be rid of you for good."

"Finally grown the balls to kill me?" You sneer as one of his underlings closes manacles around your wrists. You lean away as the back of his hand flies toward your face, angering him further when his strike fails to land. He does not miss a second time. You grin at him with bloody teeth. 

"Worse," he answers. "You are to be given to the shrine." He smiles back at you when your grin falters, your heart skipping a beat. You know exactly what he means. You are to be offered to Ryoumen Sukuna, the king of curses. You have never seen him yourself, but his monstrous appearance and even more monstrous appetites are well known throughout the region. 

You can remember looking out of your window one night as a child, seeing the orange tinge to the horizon in the distance, the faint smell of smoke. "It's the King of Curses, raiding," Emika had explained, as she stroked your hair. Goosebumps raised on your skin as she described the four-armed cannibal warlord, a powerful weilder of cursed energy. The strongest force known to the country. "Don't worry, he won't come here," she had soothed. "Father has ways of keeping him placated."

Your dismay is only momentary, however, as you realize the irony of your father presenting you as a gift: dirty, broken and wild as a rabid dog. You laugh softly. "Perhaps he will kill you for your trouble," you sneer.

Your father looks you up and down before averting his eyes and scoffing in disgust. "Vile as you are, I'm sure you taste the same as any other girl, and that's the only use that savage has for such gifts," he responds. "Have her cleaned and dressed" he says over his shoulder, already marching away from you. 

It takes two men to hold you down while a servant girl is brought in to wash you. Her soft, dark eyes remind you of Emika. They are filled with fear when she looks at you. You do not give her any trouble, not even when she removes the muzzle from your face to clean it with a warm cloth. You slide your eyes to the gaurd whose fingers you had wounded before he was able to get the thing on your face, glaring at him threateningly.

The woman's hands are gentle, especially around your wounded lips, and the cleansing soothes your broken skin. "Thank you," you murmur to her as she pours warm water over your matted hair, combing it out as she washes it. She says nothing, but looks at you with pity, now. You had preferred the fear. 

On the journey to the shrine, you manage to ruin most of her work, throwing yourself repeatedly into the mud. At one point, you even manage to escape, despite being shackled, and forced the guards to chase you through the woods for over an hour. As a result, you are late to court, but your father drags you through the doors, anyway, dripping from an impromptu "bath" he had given you in the river. 

Standing on your tip-toes, you peer over the heads of the crowd. Your heart rate picks up a notch when you spot the monster lounging on a throne piled with skulls and bones at the head of the room. His enormous frame is draped over the chair, his cheek resting on his fist, as he looks down on one of his subjects. The squat old man is currently groveling next to a pool of blood at the foot of the steps that lead up to the throne. Presumably, his predecessor had not fared well.

Tattoos adorn the King's forehead and chin, tracing the sharp angle of his jaw, as well. A pair of piercing red eyes are set into each side of his face, although one set sit inside a rough-textured mask of some sort. The halo of soft, pink curls on top of his head looks strikingly out of place. His white kimono edged in dark blue hangs open over his chest, more black ribbons of tattoos frame his exposed pectorals. An additional pair of arms sit relaxed in his lap, the wrists of all four appendages are circled by more tattoos, like bracelets. 

Suddenly all four of his eyes snap up and he scans the crowd, until he sets his sights on you. You sink back onto your heels, heart in your throat, hoping, for once, that you have vanished into a sea of men. You are beginning to think that the eye-contact was just your imagination, when a booming voice calls out your father by name, asking him to approach. 

"Hold her," your father hisses at his guards, who are, in fact, already holding on tight to your manacled arms. You are grateful for the muzzle, for the first time, hiding your fear behind it. The old man that had been stuttering at the King's feet scurries back into the crowd as your father approaches. 

Sukuna glares down at him in silence for several very long and uncomfortable moments before he finally asks, "Brought your brat here, have you?" 

"I have, your-"

"Is it true," he cuts your father off, examining a long, black fingernail as he speaks, "that she disarmed one of your generals and managed to wound several men with his katana before she was stopped." 

"Regrettably-"

The monster cuts him off again with a low chuckle. "Bring her," he says.

Your legs feel like lead as the guards drag you foward, the crowd parting in front of you, many eyes casting curious looks in your direction. All four of Sukuna's eyes bore into you as you approach. You can't seem to tear your gaze away from his, though it is more out of paralyzing fear than defiance, for once. You wonder if he can sense it. Your fear. It has been a long time since you have been afraid like this, accustomed as you are to pain. The guards stop just a few strides behind your father. 

It feels as if all of the air is sucked out of the room as the two of you stare at each other, neither moving. The man seems awfully fond of uncomfortable silences, you think, as he stares at you with the same heavy-lidded, bored expression.

"What is that shit on her face?" He asks without moving a muscle. 

"Told you to take that off," your father hisses at the guards over his shoulder, even as one has already opened his mouth to answer Sukuna.

"A muzzle, Master Sukuna," the man on your left bows slightly, releasing your arm as he answers, "she bites."

Sudden inspiration strikes and you stomp hard on the toes of the man on your right, causing him to release your other arm and then you are running. You feel like you take only a half-dozen strides before a strong hand clamps down on your wrist. You spin, intending to smash your captor's nose in with your head, but you draw back when you are met with the muscled expanse of Sukuna's tattooed chest. "Leaving so soon?" He growls. He is enormous, you realize as you life your eyes to his, glittering garnets. He is smiling and you make a note of his long, sharp canines.

Frozen in place and unable to tear your eyes away from his, you don't even see the back of your father's hand flying towards your face. Your head reels back with the impact, a warm gush of blood colors one side of your vision red as his knuckles split the flesh under your eyebrow. 

Sukuna flicks his wrist almost imperceptibly and then your father is screaming. A fine spray of blood lands at your feet seconds before his severed hand rolls into your line of vision. Sukuna's eyes never leave yours. You don't move when he removes the muzzle and lets it fall to the ground where it lands just out of reach of the twitching fingers of the severed hand.

"Going to bite me?" He asks, his voice so low only you can hear, he leans in, eclipsing your vision, his breath warm against your ear.

You shake your head. You decided when this man removed your father's hand with a simple gesture that no amount of biting or running would prove effective against him. 

"Run if you want," he says, in the same low voice. "But you won't get far. Either they will get you," he says, nodding in your father's direction. "Or I will." He smiles, a cold display of sharp teeth, "and I like hunting."

He releases your wrist and turns to your father who is clutching his gushing arm. "You are aware that I appreciate useful offerings?" He asks.

"Yes, master Sukuna," your father bleats in a broken voice.

"What use do you think I would get out of her," he gestures at you, and you realize what a pathetic mess you must look, streaked with mud and blood and drenched in river water.

"I- well-" your father stammers, face gone pale from blood loss. "Your- your- appetites..."

He scoffs. "Execute your own children..." He says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Uraume!" He calls, addressing a white robed monk, who, you are peripherally aware, had been standing serenely beside the throne throughout the proceedings. "Put her up in the East wing," he commands. "You know the chambers I mean?"

"Yes, Master Sukuna," the monk nods, but you don't miss the arch of her eyebrows above her pale pink eyes. Despite their surprise, Uraume descends the steps and places a hand lightly on your shoulder. You shiver, their touch is intensely cold, but allow them to guide you towards the exit behind the throne.

Before you are out of sight, you turn to look once more at your father. "If you survive the blood loss, I hope you die of infection," you bellow at the top of your lungs. 

Sukuna throws his head back and laughs.

Uraume is silent as they guide you down empty corridors to the chambers specified for you. When they slide back the shoji door and you step in, you are surprised to find a sizeable suite with varnished floors, a large futon stacked with pillows, cushioned chairs and, what really draws your attention, a vanity littered with combs and perfumes.

"Who lives here?" You ask, narrowing your eyes at the feminine items.

"You, now," they answer.

"I mean before."

The monk hesitates, but finally answers with a shrug. "Master Sukuna's... concubines... but not for a long time now." 

"I will not be anyone's concubine!"

Uraume clicks her tongue. "Master Sukuna does what he likes," they shrug. "But, if it comforts you, he has not shown interest in replacing those he... rid himself of."

"What happened to them?"

"I will bring you a basin so that you can wash up. I'm sure you will find some clothes that will fit you in the wardrobe."

"But-" you begin, but they are gone in a white and pink blur of hair and robe.

All that first night you lie awake on the futon, staring at the shoji doors, half expecting the demon to burst through them and make his motivation for keeping you known. He never comes, although in the wee hours of the morning you hear soft thuds and low growling from the wall at your back. You wonder if the monster's chambers share a wall with yours, and shudder to think what he might be doing to make all that noise. 

After a few restless nights, you are eventually able to sleep. Although you are fairly certain that he is the source of the noises you are hearing at night, they almost comfort you at this point, as they mean that he is in his quarters, not thinking of bothering you.

Weeks go by and you barely see him, except in passing, and even then, he only addresses Uraume or other staff, never you, directly. It is as if you are invisible to him. Except for one instance in particular, you saw him entering through the West gate. Evidently, he was back from raiding and pillaging, as he was covered in blood and soot, wearing only a tattered hakama, hanging low on his hips. When he turned and saw you staring, he flashed a manic grin that had you spinning on your heel and hurrying in the opposite direction. You could hear him laughing behind you, and shuddered at the sound. 

Most days, Uraume would collect you in the morning and assign you some task or another. Cleaning and food prep, mostly. Apparently, Sukuna enjoyed eating large quantities of a variety of foods, not only human flesh. Thankfully, Uraume was the only one entrusted with preparing fare of that kind.  Other than that, you were free to explore the estate and no one seemed to bother you or ask what you were doing. 

You often ate in the kitchen with the other servants, and it was from one of these that you learned what happened to Sukuna's former harem. 

"Ate 'em, he did," Baba, croaked. She was a bent and wrinkled old woman who appeared to be at least a hundred and fifty years old. Her watery, cataracted eyes gleamed over her sunken cheeks as her toothless mouth sputtered out the story. "Got bored of fucking em, sure enough! Or fed up with them treatin' him too familiar, one! One tried running away but he caught her quick as anything and that's the truth! What a mess that was! Thought I'd never get up all that bl-"

"Baba!" Uraume scolded as they walked out of the back holding Sukana's tray. You tried not to look at the contents, or even think about them, as you poked at your salmon with your chopsticks.

"Well! It's the truth, it is!' The old woman screeches, spittle flying as she throws up her hands. "It is," she insists, leaning towards you and fixing her milky eyes on yours. 

Normally, you would smile at the old woman's theatrics, but you find yourself frowning at your food, instead. You recall that first day, how Sukuna had said that he likes useful things. How are you useful to him? You doubt he is even peripherally aware of what little work you do here, and, even if he was, anyone could do it. Why had he specifically put you in a room so close to his own, a lavish one at that, nicer than anything you had ever had at home?

You look up from your plate and down the table at the other servants. The few that are looking at you drop their eyes. Come to think of it, Baba and Uraume are the only ones who talk to you. Everyone else avoids you like the plague. Why is that?  You stand suddenly, knocking the table with your hips, causing dishes to clatter. Everyone is looking now. You hurry to clear your place and rush out into the bright daylight, no longer able to tolerate being confined indoors with your thoughts or with all those eyes on you. I have got too comfortable, you think to yourself.

Eventually, as you pace around the estate, you calm, although your eyes seek out the exit gates more than usual. The space is beautiful, with sprawling courtyards filled fruit trees, vegetable gardens, even a koi pond and a little stream that empties into a hot spring on the outskirts. Carrying your sandals, you walk along the edge of the whispering water. You smile to yourself as you watch the clear water rushing over the pebbled streambed.

Might as well enjoy all this while I can, you are thinking to yourself, when you hear movement ahead of you. Although you are somewhat concealed behind a stand of trees, you are only yards away from the hotspring. You hadn't realized that you had waljed so far. Sukuna stands at the edge of it, having just let his kimono slide off of his shoulders. Rooted to the spot, your eyes trace the lines of his tattoos, then the dips of his sculpted abdominals until they reach an odd line just below his navel. A scar, perhaps? You swallow thickly, finding your mouth suddenly dry. 

Your eyes are still focused on the odd slit on his belly- you could have sworn you saw it move- when his hands drop to loosen his hakama. As heat crawls unwanted into your cheeks and the tops of your ears, you avert your eyes and turn to go. Your heart was already threatening to hammer it's way out of your rib cage when he calls out, "Come here, girl." 

Could be talking to anyone, you reason as you will your limbs to obey you and continue your retreat.  A couple of splashes and then you hear him call out your name, louder than before. You are shocked that he even remembers it. Slowly, your movements dreamlike, you turn and make your way toward him. Holding your chin high and hoping you exude a confidence that you do not feel, you move to the edge of the hotspring opposite to where he is now half-submerged in the steaming water. "You called me?" You ask, bowing stiff and shallow.

"Closer," he nods, but doesn't otherwise bother to move. His upper arms are draped along the edge of the hotspring, his lower ones, concealed beneath the water.

Hesitantly, you move closer, but still  just out of reach of his splayed fingers. He looks, first, at your bare ankles, then, his spider-eyed gaze lingers along the length of your body until your eyes meet. The silence twists knots in your gut, and, although you do your best not to squirm, you feel as if every drop of blood in your body is rushing to your face. He is smirking. He is young, you realize, looking down at his unlined face. Striking, you are unable to stop yourself from thinking of his tattooed features, his extra eyes.

"Do you need something?" You ask, thinking better of the 'What do you want,' you typically have on queue for unloved authority figures. 

"Do you? Or are you content to spy on me from the shadows?" 

"I wasn't-" you begin, scowling. "Actually," you change direction, crossing your arms. "I do want something. I want to know why you keep me here... and why in that room?"

His smirk widens until it is almost a smile. A sinister expression, nonetheless.

"Do you want to go home?"

"I-" you sputter. No you don't want to go home, but you don't necessarily want to admit that, either. 

"I think what you mean to say is: thank you, Master Sukuna, hm?" He says as your mouth opens and closes like a fish. "Does that answer your question, or would you like me to think more about what to do with you?"

While you spoke he had inched closer to you and now you feel the warm slide of his fingers on the back of your calf. You look down at his extended arm, the tattooed wrist disappearing under the hem of your kimono, as you stomach does a series of somersaults.

When your legs finally decide to obey you you turn and speedwalk stiffly back towards the East wing of the shrine. You expect to be called back or struck down at any moment, but Sukuna only laughs at your retreat. 

Thst night, ypu decide you will leave. You manage to gather some food from the kitchen and other supplies without attracting attention. Now all there is to do is wait until you hear the demon thudding around and growling through the wall. Then, you will know that it's safe.  

What is he doing in there anyway, you think to yourself as you pace back and forth across the suite, stopping now and then to actually press your ear against the wall. Growling like that... the image of his thumbs hooked into the waistband of his hakama rises, unbidden, to your mind. You shake your head as if that will clear it. "Stop it," you hiss to yourself, absolutely hating the way your stomach twists and flutters at the thought. 

Hours pass. It is much later than it usually is when you hear him on the other side of the wall. You press your ear hard against the wall and strain to hear, but the only sound is the pumping of your own heart.

You sigh raggedly.

Maybe he's sleeping.

Maybe he's traveling, doing whatever monsters do. 

"Fuck it," you mutter, grabbing the bag full of supplies and slinging it over your shoulder. The shoji door is blessedly quiet as you slide it open. The hallway is dark, empty, silent. You breath a sigh of relief and close your eyes, centering yourself, gathering your courage. Maybe he won't even care that you're gone. Maybe he won't even notice. The thought comforts you and you draw on it for confidence as you take the first step out into the corridor. 

"Going somewhere?"

You nearly jump out of your skin at the sound of his voice. It is a miracle that you don't cry out. You turn slowly, as you would in a nightmare, to see him leaning against the wall bare inches away from your door. You are surprised you didn't hear him breathing, as close as he is.

"For a walk," you answer evenly. 

"With luggage?" He asks, nodding at the bag slung over your shoulder. His eyes and teeth glint in the dim light. He's smiling. This is entertaining for him, it seems.

He chuckles when you say nothing and steps toward you. "Go on, then," he says. "I'll give you a generous headstart... Although," he reaches out and plucks the heavy bag off of your shoulder as if it were nothing, "I suggest you travel light."

There is only one response to that.  

You run.