The Mask I Live With - Pt 14

=͟͟͞♡ Healing Hearts =͟͟͞♡

=͟͟͞♡ Pairings:-Doctor Gojo x Intern F!Reader

=͟͟͞♡ Contents/warnings- MDNI- NSFW- a little light angst hitting here now, it's still decently light hearted, an INTENSE sex scene, we are back at the hospital for most of this chap! Warnings- light violence, there is also some insinuation over overuse of prescription meds, smacking (during sex), rough sex, oral sex (m and f receiving) teasing, prone bone, creampie. Reader, 26, Dr. Gojo 34- Grey's vibes ✨️

=͟͟͞♡ Word Count- this chap- 12k (longest by farrr)

=͟͟͞♡ Summary- You are the top Surgical Doctor intern, along with Maki, Yuta and Toge. You all are exhausted from passing the first month, sixteen plus hour days, days you don't even go home, all to get a top spot with the star Surgeon, Dr. Gojo, your resident doctor and boss. Or as you call him, Dr. Hojo. He's takes nothing serious but his surgeries it seems, and has a reputation for being a player, but he has that top spot, so you want to prove your worth! You just have to ignore those stupid butterflies he gives you, and those pretty blue eyes, along with his interest in you, and focus!

♡ Reblogs and comments appreciated, LONG chap to make up for taking so long ♡

=͟͟͞♡ Part Four =͟͟͞♡ Playlist =͟͟͞♡ Masterlist

Part Five

Maki is snickering into her hand, while you palm your forehead, watching Satoru Gojo, your… boyfriend/lover!?- knock your ex down like he is nothing. Satoru is straddling Mahito, laughing maniacally, pulling back and punching his face with a resounding thwack.

“Oooh! We need snacks, Yuta bring em baby.” Yuta eagerly yanks the chips and dip, they both start munching as you glare at them. “What?”

“My money is on Dr. Gojo.” Yuta says.

“Well duh, no bets here!”

“You guys…”

Toge watches with a small smile, coming to stand next to you now, hands in his pockets. “Are you betting too?”

“No.” He says simply, and Maki and Yuta are munching on the chips, as Satoru is punching Mahito again, who is rolling over and grimacing in pain.

“He wants ‘em both beat up.” Yuta says, Toge lets out a little laugh, surprising you, but it’s hard to focus on your chaotic ass roomies when Mahito is getting the breaks beat off him by your very tall, very strong boyfriend. You’d be lying if you didn’t get this flutter in your tummy from it, from how good he looks, the pure manliness of him.

“You’re simping so hard.” Maki teases.

“Shush!”

“Who the fuck are you… ah shit… fuck…” Mahito pulls out from under Satoru now, getting on top of him for just a minute, and you go to yank him off now, surprising him and making Satoru laugh, knuckles sprinkled with blood.

“Mahito what the fuck are you doing? You’re going to need a doctor if you don’t stop now.” You shove at him, he glares, grabbing your wrist.

“If you’d just talk to me, and stop running like you always do.”

“Ah-ah. Off her now.” Satoru goes to walk up, but you hold your hand up, shaking your head.

“We broke up, what more do you need?” He sighs, putting back on these big sad gray eyes, trying to step closer to you, but you step back.

“Sweetheart we just need to talk is all, I don’t want to give up on us, even if you clearly have a… mistake you’ve made.”

“Mistake!? We’ve been done for months! And he’s not a mistake.”

“He is, you just don’t know better. Just give me a moment and I’ll leave you alone forever-”

“Gaslighter.” Toge grumbles, Satoru, Maki and Yuta all laugh, your living room is pure chaos, now Satoru is eating snacks while shirtless and messy, you notice, shaking your head at the people surrounding you.

“Satoru is my boyfriend now, and it’s none of your business. We are done. Talking alone won’t change it.”

“I can’t believe you’re doing this to me.” He whispers, leaning close, making you tense in disgust.

Fuck you had bad taste didn’t you?

“I am not doing anything to you, you’re the one coming here and punching my boyfriend, uninvited, crashing our party. I need you to leave.”

“Please just…” He grabs your shoulders, the entire room tenses, you wonder if he realizes everyone in here will beat the shit out of him. “Walk me to my car then, and give me just a minute.”

“No way.” Gojo says.

“No fucking way.” Maki says now.

“Fine.”

“What!?” Your friends all shout, even Toge, and you sigh.

“I’ll walk him out and we can get back to Friendsgiving. Okay?” You shake off his touch, walking next to him out of the door, Satoru pauses you, hand on your back.

“You sure?” He murmurs.

“Yes, I’ll be back in a minute.” You kiss his cheek, before stepping out into the evening, seeing your ex coughing just a bit, holding his ribs, you can’t help but feel a little satisfaction. “Listen…”

“No, you listen. I’m willing to forgive all your mistakes, take you back.” You blink at his audacity, while he caresses your cheek, your fingers itch to smack his hand off. “I love you enough to forgive you.”

“Mahito you never loved me, you only love yourself.”

“How can you say that? After all I did, after I stayed with you during all that schooling, during all that interning?”

“You didn’t support me, you just whined and were needy. Don’t even get me started on the rumors of you fucking around too.”

“I never-”

“Enough.” You cut him off again, shaking your head. “I have moved on, I admit I didn’t pay enough attention, but y’know med school is a bitch, and I was exhausted. I needed someone to just… be with me. Not demanding this, or that. I can’t deal with that anymore. Just let it go.”

“You’re such a cold bitch.” You glare then, smacking him right in the face, he glares right back, raising his hand to his cheek, stepping closer.

“Are you serious? No, I’m not cold, and you will not call me a bitch ever again. Literally, I’m done, you’re making a mutual breakup hell.”

“How can you leave me if you loved me?” 

“I… don’t think I did.” You start to let it sink in, what you felt the entire relationship wasn’t like one minute with Satoru, even the moment you met him, not that you can call it love yet, it’s too soon and scary.

But those feelings? Blow anything you’ve had out of the water.

“As I said you’re cold, and a-”

“If you call me a bitch one more time, I will dislocate your jaw and relocate it. You got me?” You ask with a pretty smile, and he steps back, going to his car door now and opening it.

“We’re not done with this conversation.”

“Yes we are.”

He speeds off, peeling tires, you roll your eyes, shaking when you step back into the house, Satoru has one of Yuuta’s shirts on now, it’s clinging to his muscles, way too small on his broad chest. They all look at you, Satoru holds up a glass of wine and you take it gratefully, while he pulls you against his side.

“You okay baby?” You nod, sipping the wine and sighing.

“Are you okay? He hit you.”

“Psh, that? Nah he didn’t do shit.” He taps his abdomen, when the stove starts beeping from the kitchen, you gasp when you see smoke, running over to it now, opening it and seeing the smoking turkey.

“Is it savable? Should I perform CPR?” Maki says worriedly, once the smoke clears however you have an only slightly darkened turkey, turning and grinning at them.

“It’s fine! A little well done.” You’re fanning it, and Satoru’s snorting in laughter.

“Your house is chaotic.” He says then.

Your heart hammers in your chest. Is it too much? He already doesn’t want commitment, and now you have baggage and-

“Love it.” Satoru puts his arms around Yuta and Maki's shoulders now. “I’m cutting the bird, daddy’s home you know.”

“Daddy’s home!?” Maki demands, snorting.

“Gojo I’m not calling you daddy.” He wiggles his brows, letting them go and then grabbing oven mits, helping you pull the turkey up and out, then leaning close after he shuts the oven door.

“Bet you will next time I get you alone.”

*****

Two days later

Friendsgiving turned out fun, but it’s back to work now, you’re getting changed into your scrubs, when your bra gets caught on your sweater. “Shit… Toge, could you help out?”

He’s the only one in there with you that you’re comfy with, but he turns bright red, just staring at your back. He then runs off, slamming his locker, leaving your upper half folded into the sweater, you curse internally, you’re already having a shitty morning. You found a zit on your face, you are a little hungover from too much wine, and you barely got sleep last night.

And now, you’re late, and Gojo hates when one of you is late, for someone so relaxed and late himself to shit, he seems to have no tolerance for it from his interns. You hastily keep trying to get out of your sweater until your arms are trapped, and you hear your name being called out, then a burst of laughter.

“Intern, ya need help?” Comes Satoru's amused voice, you glare into your sweater.

“Oh just do it!” He comes to you, quickly unlatching your bra, you free yourself, hair a mess, exhaling and looking at him, expecting amusement, but he's staring at your exposed breasts, eyes dilated. “Not gonna make fun of me?”

He gulps now, helping get the soft threads from the hooks of your bra strap. “Too pretty.”

You feel the heat on your cheeks from his praise. “Oh?”

“Oh. Turn around.” He clears his throat, you turn and he helps re snap your bra on, fingertips trailing down between your shoulder blades, making you tremble, when Dr. Nanami walks in suddenly, you step away, but Gojo’s fingertips stay.

“Satoru, seriously?” Nanami says. Satoru clears his throat now, looking at you when you turn, throwing the scrub top over your chest.

“Was helping her, she was… stuck.”

“That's what we're calling it?”

“I really was stuck, Doctor Nanami.” He shakes his head and sighs.

“Be more cautious.” He goes to his locker now, taking his jacket and shirt off, when you see him you're enamored for just a moment, earning Satoru standing in front of you.

“Are you checking him out!?”

“What!? No! I swear. No?” Nanami smiles just a bit, you swear you see him smirk, though you’re not sure if it’s your imagination.

“You'll make me jealous.” Satoru pouts and you giggle, looking around before giving him a little kiss.

“I love your body. He's just built like a whole action star, it threw me off. It's ridiculous how jacked he is.” You whisper, Satoru scoffs.

“I heard all of that, you know. You two calm down, get to work.” Nanami says, all dressed now and serious.

“Yes sir!” You both salute him, darting out now.

“You think he's hot!” Satoru huffs.

“Satoru really? Are you getting jealous?” He glares now, stomping away. “Really now?”

“You get to do charts, missy.” Satoru orders minutes later, as Maki and Yuta try to keep their laughter in, handing you stacks of them.

“What, I swear you're so immature!”

“Am not. Your turn for charts. Maki, wanna scrub in?” Maki grins.

“Sorry he's mad at you, but hell yeah.” You glare at the both of them, setting the charts down on the table with a sigh.

“Oh whatever. Go on then.” Satoru leans down over you as you plop down in the seat, breath tickling your ear, lips just a tease.

“You're my girlfriend and my intern.” You pause again, it makes you way too happy when he says it, damn near giddy. “Check him out with your mouth wide open again and I'll never let you out of paperwork.”

“My mouth was not open!” He just smirks and everyone runs off to their assignments.

Sleeping with your boss has the opposite of perks.

*****

Your hands are aching from paperwork, you’re stretching them as Satoru enters the elevator now, still glaring at you, you both are silent as the doors shut. You gently brush the backs of your fingers against his, thinking he’s so mad still he may pull away, but he brushes his back, looking down at you then with those eyes of his, the ones that ruin you.

“Satoru, I was just teasing, I think… well I think you’re the most attractive man I’ve ever seen, okay?” You say softly, he grins then, big wolfy grin.

“Knew it.”

“Oh god.” You roll your eyes, pulling your hand away, he turns and presses you against the wall now, making your breath catch. Your hands slid up his white lab coat, as his lips were just a breath away.

“I was jealous. I only want you looking at me.” He kisses you softly, a brush of his lips now.

“For someone who doesn’t ever want anything serious, you’re very serious about this.” He blinks, pulling back now, and you curse under your breath. “Sorry, I’ve been holding shit in I think.”

“About the no marriage thing? I thought you understood.” He eases back, you sigh, looking down at your shoes then.

“I understand just fine, but it’s nowhere near how I feel about relationships.”

“Are you so old fashioned?” He teases, you shrug, nodding.

“Yeah, I guess. Like I could maybe go without the paper, but I want to live with the person I end up in love with, I want kids.”

He blinks in confusion. “As a doctor?”

“Yes, as a doctor. I want a family of my own, I don’t really have one.” You break off a bit as it’s quiet now. “None of those things have to happen now, but they are things I will want in the future. I absolutely love being with you, but I don’t know if I can sacrifice that.” He blinks once more, opening his mouth and then closing it.

“Are you saying we’re done already?” He whispers, you shake your head then, a hand on his shoulder.

“Not at all. It’s just I don’t know what the future would be for us. I’m overthinking it, I know we’ve only hooked up and had like a couple dates. But…”

“I just can’t change overnight.” He says, breaking you now.

“I know. I don’t expect you to, but I had to get it out there, it’s been eating at me is all. For now, take it one day at a time?” He nods, leaning down and cupping your face, and you feel far too much.

“I respect what you want. Can you respect what I want?”

You nod, and he exhales again, kissing you, as the elevator dings, you both separate just in time, walking side by side, his kiss radiating off your lips. “I am sorry I threw that on you…” You murmur.

“Nah, it’s fine, intern.” He smiles just a bit. “How about another date, you need to make it up to me.”

“I can do that if you take me off chart duty.” He snorts, nodding then. “All right, date where?”

“Do you get motion sickness?” You giggle at the question, curiously shaking your head. “Alright then meet me after your shift.”

“Sounds good, Doctor Gojo.” You ache to kiss him then, you feel awful for having spilled all of that out, but he’s giving you a bright smile, so you hope everything will work itself out.

“Sutures now.”

“Really?” You glare, and he sticks his tongue out. Clearly he’s not done punishing you for the day.

You’re later sitting and stitching up a patient’s shoulder, when Maki walks in, all excited and waving her arms, breathless and excited. “Bitch we decannulated a fucking heart.”

“Oh go on, rub it in.” Yuta grumbles, the patient watches you all with amusement, you smile apologetically.

“Intern things.” You explain, when Toge comes in, glaring at you suddenly. “What are you so mad about?”

He says nothing, sitting down in a seat, as do Yuta and Maki, nibbling on snacks, the shift is finally almost done for the day. “You decannulate a heart and I was stuck on baby duty with Dr. Shoko.”

“Dr. Shoko is awesome though.” You counter, Yuta sighs.

“Sure, but I want to decannulate hearts. Who did you work under, Maki?”

“Dr. Gojo. Thanks for pissing him off babes.” She winks at you, the patient giggles now as you finish up.

“Have you angered your boyfriend?” They ask, you gasp, and Yuta and Maki snicker, but Toge still is glaring. “Or… is he your boyfriend?”

“Toge? No he’s my best friend, or he was. He’s mad at me.”

“Clearly.” The patient agrees, Toge stands then, glaring at you once more, walking right out, Maki and Yuta make an ‘oooh’ sound.

“What’s wrong this time?” You demand, and Yuta sighs, nibbling on his cookie and leaning back.

“You’re with Gojo, it’s got him upset. Plus I heard you got naked right in front of Toge this morning.”

“Whatever, I got stuck in my sweater and he ran. We all get naked, you know, it’s a locker room.” You’re using the antiseptic carefully, bandaging the patient up now. “How are you feeling?”

“The morphine is great.” You three snort in laughter now. “How’d you piss both your boyfriends off?”

“Oh god.” You lean back in your spin chair, yanking off your latex gloves and tossing them in the waste bin then. “I angered the one boyfriend by saying Dr. Nanami was hot.”

“You wanna bang the entire hospital.” Maki earns you throwing a paper cup in her direction. “What? It’s true.”

“Says you. Oh… they’re together, too.” You whisper to the patient, earning both of them blushing.

“No wonder Toge’s mad at you, you’re annoying.” Yuta sticks his tongue out now, and you smirk, wiggling your brows.

“Oh am I? Thought you all loved me!?”

“We do sometimes.” Yuta grins at you.

“Keep pissing him off please.” Maki says, standing and winking.

“Keep pissing who off?” Comes Doctor Gojo’s voice now, as he waltzes right into the room, and the patient gasps.

“Oh, no wonder, I’d date him too.” Gojo snorts, covering his face for a moment, as you’re a blushing mess now.

“Right? I’m the most handsome doctor, hmm?” He grins at the patient, who has to fan themselves then.

“Oh yes.”

“See? Maybe if you agreed you could have decannulated a heart.” Gojo says, and you sigh, standing up now.

“No date.”

“What!?”

You walk right past him, and soon Gojo has chased you down, you glare at him before shutting yourself in one of the bunk rooms, Satoru sneaks right in though, devious smirk still on his handsome face when he presses you against the door. Your breath catches, being alone with him always sets you on fire, the way his big hands slip under your scrub top.

Your body reacts when his hands press into your waist, sliding up the curve of it, thumbs under the swells of your breasts in your lacy bra. Your own hands glide up his chest, resting where his heart is thudding steadily, you see the glint in his pretty eyes, how they’re lidded, lashes casting shadows on his face in the dark little room.

“My intern is kind of a brat.” Gojo’s voice is husky, you giggle then, shaking your head. “Oh no? She’s been really bratty all day.”

“Maybe you should cheer her up a bit?” You tease, he moans softly, kissing you, tongues entwining as his hand slips down your tummy, it trembles when his fingers go under the waistband of your scrubs.

“Cheer you up, like this? Fuck…” He moans when he finds you, soaking wet against your panties, you whine out softly, covering your mouth then, when he rolls his finger in a little circle.

Gojo could say he did not want to date or even do anything but fuck, and you fear your body would go along with it. You’re crying out when you kiss him again, when he bends down and angles his arm just so, rubbing your clit side to side, pinching it with two long fingers. You’re rubbing him over his scrub pants then, feeling him thicken under your touch, he gasps against your neck.

“Fuck you’re so wet, baby. All for me, hmm?” You nod eagerly, as he nips your neck with sharp teeth. “Say it.”

“All f-for you-” Both of your pagers go off then, you curse, overheated, as does he, adjusting himself with a wince. “Dammit.”

“I know.” He cups your face with one hand gently, brushing back your hair gently, sending shivers down your spine at how good you feel when he looks at you. “Tonight, yeah?”

“Yeah.” He kisses you once more, then you both walk out, as an ambulance is waiting out front, carrying a woman on a stretcher, you both run out then together, Gojo starts asking questions as you get a look at her, covered in blood.

“Car accident?” He says, and the EMT nods.

“There is glass everywhere.” He takes his hand off where he’s applied pressure on her chest, you take over, placing your hand where there is blood gushing out, she smiles up at you as if she’s fine.

“You’re pretty.” She says, you smile softly then, as does Satoru.

“She is, isn’t she?” He says with a wink, as you all start walking her into the hospital and through the halls.

“You’re pretty too. Pretty doctors.” She muses with a giggle, you realize she’s so clearly in shock then.

“Right, we have all kinds of pretty doctors here.” You whisper, and now as you get into a room, Satoru starts ordering everyone, from the nurse’s assistant, to the nurses. They start hooking her up to an IV and oxygen, your hand is still pressed firmly against the wound, which is bleeding under your touch.

“Can you tell us your name, love?” Satoru asks, while everyone starts flitting around her, and Satoru is checking her stomach, seeing the wounds on her skin, but he maintains his calm and sweet demeanor, amazing you and everyone that ever watches him.

“Yes, my name is Michelle, pretty Doctor.” He smirks, you smile at her, while she finally looks down at where your hand is pressed.

“Call me Doctor Gojo. Alright Michelle?” 

“Doctor Gojo. And your name?” She repeats it, sighing then. “And you’re keeping me from bleeding out? You’re an angel.”

“She’s no angel.” Gojo teases, she laughs a bit then winces. “I know I’m hilarious but you’re not allowed to laugh, that’s an order.”

“Got it.” She takes a breath as Gojo gently takes your hand off her stomach.

“It stopped bleeding, that’s perfect. Good job intern.”

“I just put pressure, that’s all. Should I wrap her and get her to CT?”

“Perfect. After that give me the results so we can see our next step. Also, Miwa can you pump our lovely patient full of the good stuff?” He asks, earning Michelle’s grin when Miwa hits the button.

“Oh I’m in love with you Doctor.”

“Everyone is.” You roll your eyes and smile as he comes over to you then, leaning close to your ear. “We may be late for our date.”

“We can always rain check you know.” He peeks at his watch, humming to himself then.

“It’ll be too late for what I want to do when we finish, so let’s try tomorrow. Alright get to it, intern.”

You take Michelle to get a CT scan, and soon you’re in Doctor Gojo’s office, you’re so fatigued you can feel the day starting to creep on you, yawning as you hand him scan, he hangs it up on the board, turning on the light. You both stand over it, you feel a little dizzy, barely having eaten all day, like you’ll fall on your feet, but you push through.

 “Can I ask you something, intern?” Satoru’s voice makes you focus.

“Sure Doctor Gojo.”

“You want kids when you’re going on a seventeen hour shift?” He raises a thin white brow, you feel heat creeping up your cheeks at the question.

“I don’t want to stay doing trauma, Doctor Gojo.” Your admission has him confused, clearly.

“No?” He crosses his arms, looking at you curiously.

“No, I ideally would enjoy working for a cardiovascular office, but of course I have a lot to learn and go before I can do that.”

“So you’ll leave me when your internship ends?”

“I didn’t say all that. I think that if I had a family I’d need a more manageable schedule is all. But, why ask? I understand you won’t, and we are far, far from getting to anywhere like that anyway.”

“Did your ex want ‘em? Kids.”

“Yuck.” He snorts then. “Sure he did, but thank god I didn’t go there with him, what I felt for him…”

“Go on.”

“Satoru, we should focus.”

“What you felt for him?”

“It’s nothing like what I feel for you.” He exhales, eyes locking on yours, drifting to your lips. “Not even a tiny bit of what I feel, which is fucking scary.”

“It is scary, isn’t it? But you’re brave hmm?” His voice is like a caress that washes over you, as he steps so close to you, filling your nostrils with his expensive cologne, your body thrumming with want for him.

“I try to be.” Your voice is just a breath, really.

“I think you’re perfect for the trauma ward, I can’t convince you but I think you’d be bored doing anything else. And maybe I’ll convince you that you don’t want a little brat whining.” You glare at him, the spell he’s cast over.

“Satoru, you're the worst.” He’s chuckling now.

“I’ll make you work under Shoko all goddamn month, nothing but whiny babies slobbering all over your scrubs.”

“I love babies, so go for it.” He rolls his pretty blue eyes, shaking his head and pointing to her scan then.

“Sure you do. Alright, now take a look brat.”

“Brat!? You’re the brat here.” You lean forward, evaluating the scan, seeing her tummy then. “No internal bleeding whatsoever.”

“Mmhmm, she got lucky, what else do you see?”

“Aside from the nasty gash she had, just blunt abdominal trauma, of course her face also needs stitches in several areas from the airbag going off. Her spleen is a little swollen though?”

“So the best course of action?”

“Laparotomy.”

“Good girl.” You melt, and he knows it, leaning down and tapping your nose. “Wanna scrub in?”

“Is this our date!? Yes!” He pops a kiss on your nose now, the tension of your earlier conversations fading now.

Soon you’re scrubbing in with Satoru, masks on, he’s got his surgical glasses propped up on his nose as he starts drying his hands with you. “You know what we’re doing here, right?”

“Yes, I will follow your orders Daddy Gojo.” You wink and he snorts in laughter, leaning close to you for a moment.

“You make fun of that but just wait.”

“Mmhmm.”

You follow him into the O.R. which is freezing cold, goosebumps prick along your arms, the lights overhead glaring brightly, Michelle is already out. There are heat packs on her legs and arms when you start prepping her, Gojo’s hand is on your back when you are ready, giving you a gentle push forward, you blink in surprise then, looking at him.

“I’ll guide you through this one.” He murmurs, your heart thuds in your chest, as the surgical nurse starts handing you tools, you’re shaking internally but on the outside you are completely steady, so ready to show him what you can do.

The beeps of the monitors are a steady rhythm as you both work side by side, he is cutting into her skin with a scalpel, the smell of the disinfectant and antiseptic fill the room, but it mixes with Satoru’s scent. Gojo’s voice is calm, guiding you through the process, and you focus intently, not wanting to make a single mistake. This wasn’t a cadaver, it was a person.

Every movement is precise and careful, as you exhale into your mask, pressing down and separating the layer of fat over the spleen. “Perfect, you’re doing great.” He assures you, making the tension in your shoulders ease.

“Thank you Doctor.” Satoru begins to take over his incision, as you pack around it, watching his movements like a hawk, then you notice it, a faint little glimmer in several places on her spleen.

You look up at Gojo, and his eyes are narrowed, he’s frowning now. He leans in closer, looking at the area you’re working on.

“You’ve found something, haven’t you intern?”

“Yeah, I think so.” You whisper, and he takes the scalpel from your hand, making a small cut, and you see it, a tiny piece of glass embedded in the muscle. “A few pieces of glass, they don’t appear to be very big though.”

“Good catch intern. We’ll have to remove it carefully, we don’t want to cause more damage. So I think on this part you should watch me work my magic, hmm?” The nurses in the room sigh in adoration, you smile behind your mask at his overt confidence, but you love it actually.

“Yes of course, I’d love to watch.” You hand him the tools, watching as he works with the precision of a master sculptor, his hands work with effortless grace as he is carefully removing the shards of glass without causing any further harm. “You’re so precise.”

“You have to be, but it comes with practice. There.” The shards of glass make a little tink sound as he puts them in the metal dish.

The surgery continues, and you assist where you can, his hands guiding yours, showing you the right amount of pressure, the right angle to hold the tools. You’re lost in the rhythm of it, the focus so intense it’s almost meditative, it’s so comfortable working side by side with him, you try to absorb everything he’s showing you, hoping it all sinks into your brain.

You can’t even imagine being as good as he is, when he’s stitching her up, the sutures were absolutely perfect, but he gestures for you to come over when he’s stitching her skin. “Now, put those sutures to work, intern.” He teases, standing behind you.

“Is that why you had me on suture duty?” You whisper, taking the needle and thread, gently pulling.

“Nah, I was totally punishing you.” His words in your ear make you heat up, you shake it off, focusing, and as the time ticks by, the surgery is a success, you’re both exhausted but exhilarated. You step back, letting the nurses clean up, and Gojo turns to you, pulling down his mask.

“You did good, Intern.” He says, his voice tired but proud, and you feel a warm glow spread through your chest at his praise.

“Thank you Doctor Gojo.”

It’s only about an hour later than your shift, but your friends have already gone home, as you and Satoru get changed in the locker room. It’s so comfortable with him, everything, surgery, the quiet in the mornings and afternoons, it makes you wonder at the ease it is to just be with him.

He surprises you when you’re taking off your scrub top, his big hands grabbing at your waist, pressing kisses on the nape of your neck. “You know, if you want kids so bad, we could pretend that I’m knocking you up.”

The filthy thoughts he’s putting in your brain wreck you, you shove them down as best as you can. “You’re the worst, Hojo.”

He snorts, as you turn, his fingers caressing up and down your waist, you nervously peek around. “No baby I’m the best.”

You’re aching for him, for his fingers caressing your skin, wanting him so much you can’t stand it. All the memories of the other night fill you, remembering his lips, his touch. His…

“We shouldn’t.”

“Mmm, I know.” He kisses you then, mouth pressing against yours, your lips part in a gasp as his tongue overtakes your mouth, swirling with yours, as he presses your back against the locker. “Could fill you up with so much cum though, huh?”

“Shh.” You’re melting in his arms, as he’s slipping his hands down your hips, your back, gripping your ass over your jeans, your nipples press through your lacy bra against his hard chest, your hands entwining in his silky white locks. You feel your tummy clenching with desire when he pulls you against him.

“Come to my place for a bit.” He eases back as you both hear footsteps, Suguru walks in looking exhausted, smirking at the two of you then.

“The star intern, hmm? How’d the car accident surgery go?” He asks, heading to his locker and easing off his coat, Satoru covers your face then, you giggle.

“Stop it!”

“No I don’t need you ogling him, brat.” Suguru’s chuckle fills the room, you yank down his hand and Satoru’s face is directly in front of yours.

“Am I that attractive that you’re worried about me?” Suguru asks, you turn and slip your sweater on then.

“Sure are baby boy.” Satoru blows Suguru kisses.

“Ugh, you sure you wanna date this guy?” Suguru asks, you turn and find he’s already slipped on a sweatshirt and jeans.

“Of course she does, I’m amazing.” Satoru says, you finish getting your things together as Suguru, you and Satoru leave the hospital, all completely wiped.

“I’ll see you two tomorrow, lovebirds.” He says with a yawn, leaving Satoru and you by your giant old SUV.

“Why do you drive this ancient thing?” You glare at him.

“It’s my baby.”

“It’s hideous.”

“Well, I’m not coming over.”

He presses you against the car door, hands on either side of you. “Yeah you are, I’ll even let you stay the night.”

“You let girls stay the night? Isn’t that too much for a Hojo?” Satoru sighs, easing back just a bit as you take a breath.

“I liked cuddling with you, alright?” Your heart beats fast inside your chest at his soft confession. “You can wear one of my big shirts.”

“It’s sounding better and better… maybe.”

“I’ll make cocoa.”

“Sold. Follow you there?” With another kiss you’re back in your car, nerves hitting as you think of seeing his home, it’s not very far as you drive in the evening, right behind Satoru’s fancy little sports car.

When you pull up it’s about as beautiful as you imagined it would be, if not exceeding your expectations, the house is gorgeous and huge, but nothing as ostentatious as his parents mansion. It was a little more simple and modern, you step out of the car into the chilled air that’s rapidly cooling, making you shiver just a bit when he hops out of his car.

“It’s beautiful here.” You murmur, walking up to the porch now, Satoru unlocks the doors, ushering you in, you don’t know what you expect it to look like inside, but it’s so warm and inviting, the cream colored walls and polished wooden floors. The living room has a giant modern couch and a wall of windows showing the city skyline, black curtains pulled back just so.

“My humble abode.” You both take off your shoes then.

“Humble!? Nothing about you is humble.”

“Sure I am. I like your place too, you know.”

“Mine looks so trash now.”

“Nah, your place is just very lived in.” Your eyes dart around, it’s stupidly clean, aside from papers scattered across the dining room table, his kitchen is huge and has the newest stainless steel appliances, making your old oven and fridge look like shit honestly. But, it’s gorgeous, just like Doctor Gojo.

You eye a large black piano, a baby grand then, you have one of those collecting dust in the attic, it was your dad’s and it hurts too much to look at. But you remember playing next to him as he taught you, you remember loving it so much until he was gone, you wonder if you remember it, how to tap on the keys like you used to.

You realize you’re in a deep memory when his hands on your shoulders jolt you. “Like the piano or something?” He asks, you look away then, and he sees a glimmer in your eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Just memories, sorry.” You brush your eyes, irritated at the emotions, looking away now.

“Why say sorry? What memories?”

“Just… I used to enjoy the piano. Do you play?” You ask, trying to keep your voice bright.

“A little, but it’s more for the aesthetic. Do you still play?”

“It’s been so long but, I was pretty good at it.” Your fingers run over the keys delicately.

“Would you play for me? I’ll make us that cocoa.” You feel your nerves as you nod, sitting down now.

“Let’s see if I remember anything.” The piano is well cared for, and the keys are smooth under your fingers as you start playing, the melody to a song you’ve had stuck in your head from a long time ago.

Satoru hears the melody then, and he watches you, enamored as he sees the way your fingers dance across the keys. You are clearly being modest because your level of experience seems ridiculous. Your brows go together in concentration, the soft lights overhead dancing across your pretty face, casting little shadows on your delicate features.

Fuck you’re pretty.

Your words earlier hurt him, to think he could lose you before he has even had a chance with you, somehow Satoru already misses you when he’s not in your presence, and it makes him ache. He knows he hurt you when he told you how he is, and that you could likely have anyone, just look at you, beautiful, smart, funny. Talented not just as an intern, but so much more.

He doesn’t know if he’s expressed just how much he cares, just how much he feels so quickly. You are smiling up at him, a little nervous he can tell, he should be making the cocoa but he’s frozen in place, as you don’t even look at the keys, fingers drifting across effortlessly. He’s seen your steady hands at work today, but now they glide perfectly, like you’re made to play.

You slow down then, finishing the melody, one he’s never heard, but it feels sweet and nostalgic somehow to him, it feels a bit like being with you. It was so easy to hold you in his arms, to watch that cute nose scrunch up when he taps it, it was easy to work with you. So easy it scares the fuck out of him.

But when he was inside of you? 

God that made it to where all he can think about is sinking inside your heat again, of burying his face between your thighs, lapping your juices up, and fuck there was so much, you get so wet for him. He’s never felt anything like his cock inside your perfect pussy, like your lips against his, there was nothing like when he’d cum inside you.

But you do want different things, and Satoru couldn’t give you that, could he? He couldn’t give you a ring and a wedding, and he’d never wanted kids. He’d want you to himself, he’d want you two to do anything and everything, and he wants these things insanely fast, a pace that terrifies him.

He gets jealous when men look at you already, and they all do, the beautiful intern with the sweet smile, even Nanami and Suguru had mentioned how pretty and sweet you were in passing. He had been angry before he even got with you, before he even felt you, before he even kissed you, even that day you had walked in for the first time.

He’d tried to ask you out, he honestly thought he’d love to fuck you, he didn’t date really, but you not were just hard to get, you intrigued him, your mind and how it works, the way you feel so passionately. You’re a little insane, you break the rules, you are competitive as fuck, he started admiring that all so much, along with your scent, your looks, your energy.

Satoru has it bad for you, in fact in his almost thirty four years he has never felt like this, he can’t think of anything but you. All the girls he’d messed with previously he’s had to firmly turn down, because just your kisses alone are better than anything they can do for him. You are something else, driving him to think of more, to question more, in the hospital and out of it.

But could you really handle all of him, the parts he has never shown anyone, aside from his best friends, the depression he hides behind jokes and smiles, the vices he has. Things he’d never share in a million fucking years with any woman, but he wants to share them with you, he wants you to know him, but when you really do, on top of your differences?

You’d probably leave him.

“You’re insanely good. How long has it been?” He asks then, your cheeks turn this cute shade, you’re biting your lower lip, hands falling off the keys nervously.

“Years, I guess the muscle memory is still there. Um… I played with my dad.” Satoru sits next to you on the bench then, his eyes on you are so intense it’s like he’s peering into your soul, you blush and look back down, continuing to play, feeling the emotions flow through your fingertips.

“Did he teach you?” Satoru asks softly.

“Yeah, he did. But I don’t think anyone was as good as him, he was a professional for sure. Now it’s gathering dust.” Satoru brushes a lock of your hair behind your ear as you finish and he’s quiet for a moment.

“That was beautiful, how you play.” He says, so softly you almost don’t hear it, but his words warm you up inside, making your heart flutter.

“Thank you, Satoru. Thank you.” You feel emotions hitting when he leans down, kissing you on the piano bench, so soft and sweet, not the hungry passionate kisses that you two have shared. It’s so gentle it breaks your heart, you pull back then, blinking tears back. “I shouldn’t have been so harsh on you, about your opinions. I respect them, I promise I don’t want to change you.”

He gulps then, thumb brushing over your lower lip. “I don’t want to change you either, I want to know you, know all of you.” His hands slip down to your waist now, pressing you against his side as he hugs you, resting his chin on your head. “Every bit, what makes you tick.”

“I want to know you.” You kiss up his throat now, earning a quiet little moan, pecking a trail up his sharp jaw, all the way to his ear. “I want to know what makes you tick, what makes you crazy.”

“You make me fucking crazy.” He lays you down then, right on the piano bench, kissing down your throat, your back arches, his hands slipping up your sweater. “You turn me on by suturing a spleen somehow.”

You giggle, breathless, he hovers over you, soft white hair falling just so, you brush it back as his swirling blue storms drink you in. “You’d turn me on more if I got to see you decannulate a heart.”

Satoru smirks, shaking his head. “You were a bad girl, maybe that will teach you, hmm?”

“Maybe it will. Maybe I need more lessons-ah!” Satoru snatches you up then, your legs are around his narrow hips, arms wrapping his neck, his hands gripping your ass over denim as he carries you through his stunning house, directly into his bedroom, spotless aside from rumpled sheets, he lays you down then, you hastily pull your top off, as he works your jeans.

He’s wiggling them down off your hips, leaving you in your bra and panties, you yank off his shirt, revealing his chiseled frame, the one that makes your pussy clench around nothing. Just looking at his hard body, when he’s down to just his black boxers, laying over you and yanking you by your hips, his hands press into your pelvis as his lips kiss down your tummy.

Satoru’s lapping at the lacy fabric covering your cunt now, tongue slathering the thin material, as he looks up at you, so sexy you can’t really explain, you can’t explain what it’s like to have Satoru Gojo between your thighs. He’s open mouth kissing you through your fabric, teasing you, as your wetness drools down, making your panties sticky and dewy.

“Please, Satoru…” He is looking up at you under his snowy lashes, lips turning up at one corner, toying with your panties now, a finger just barely brushing, your hips jerk, soaking him from a touch.

“Please what, baby?” Satoru asks, feigning innocence.

“Please take them off.” Your voice is hoarse, he kisses back up your tummy, now lavishing your nipples over the lace, your fingers grip his strong shoulders, head falling back in pleasure. “Take that off too.”

“So slutty for me, aren’t you? Desperate, whiny, almost pathetic for me, but not quite enough.” His words fuck you mentally then, you’re sputtering, trying to think of a damn thing to say when he’s biting your nipples over the lace.

“Please! Off, please, please off.” Soft cries echo in his quiet room, Satoru smirks then, leaning on one arm over you, the other rubbing your clit over your panties in little circles. “Satoru t-take em off.”

“Are you going to be a good girl for me?” He cooes, smacking your pussy then, you yelp at it, making you ache, you go to slide them off and he grabs your wrists with one big hand.

“I’ll be good, I’ll be good Satoru. Please.” You look up at him, tears of frustration in your eyes, he moans then, kissing you, slowly unsnapping your bra, tossing it on the floor, staring at your pretty titties hungrily.

“Look at you, fuck.” You’re pulling at him desperately, tugging him closer, until he’s got a thigh between yours, and you’re grinding your cunt on him. “So desperate you’ll hump my thigh?”

“Shh.” Is all you manage, cheeks flushed as you rub up and down, he’s kissing you, chuckling like the cocky asshole he is. “Need you, please.”

He pauses then at your words, leaning up and looking down at you, his expression going feral then, pupils shrunk to pinpoints. “Need me?”

“Need you now.” He groans, finally taking your panties off, but he rips the delicate fabric, shocking you as he reduces it to scraps.

You would complain about the expensive underwear, but he’s bent his head down between your thighs, diving his tongue deep into your tight little hole, spreading your lips wide as he drinks you. His hot wet muscle is fucking your walls, which convulse around it, his nose bumping your engorged clit, you’re jerking, hips rising up, his hands bruising your hips.

“Oh my God, oh my- ah!” Satoru moans against you, watching your every move, each way your body moves, pulling back and slipping two long fingers in you, crooking up just so. “F-fuck!”

“Your anatomy, it’s so perfect, so easy for me.” He whispers, lapping the tip of his tongue against your clit while his fingers curl, your juices flowing down his fingers, loud and sloppy in the room. “That’s it, you’re close aren’t you?”

You nod weakly, Satoru looks at you then, and you’re lost in him, how can he look at you that intensely, like you’re the only one he’s ever looked at. Your nails press into his shoulders when he works you so well, with his tongue, with his fingers, pressing you over and over the edge until you're falling.

You see white hot stars burst behind your eyes as your orgasm wrecks you, to the point you’re drooling while Satoru’s sucking and humming on your clit, body coated in a thin sheen of sweat when he leans up, kissing your tummy. You’re literally jerking as he exhales over your skin, sobbing out at how good every inch of you feels, he’s trailing fingertips up between your breasts, to your nipples.

“T-Toru…” You’re breathless when he’s leaning over you, hand under your chin, gripping it tightly.

“Toru?” His voice is soft, as he kisses your lower lip, teeth indentations from you biting it. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

“You’re messing my head up, don’t say things like that.” Your voice is hoarse and weak, he frowns then just a bit, eyes assessing your every feature.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean. Let me call you beautiful.” You blink back emotions when you try to gather yourself, he kisses your lips, taking you over now, you taste your honeyed arousal all over his plump lips. “You are.”

“Bet you say it to all the girls.” You tease softly, he shakes his head, leaning back up and tracing your face with his thumb.

“No, I use terms like hot, or pretty, or cute. Beautiful applies to my very annoying little intern in my bed.” You melt fully for him, dragging him down, sighing at how good he feels as you arch your hips.

“Thank you, Satoru.”

“There, was it so hard?”

“It is pretty hard.” You reach down, stroking his length then, he sucks in a breath, pink tingeing his cheeks when you slide down his boxers over his firm ass, hands gripping it as you grin. “You have a bubble butt, Toru.”

“A what now?” He glares, but it doesn’t last long, not when you’re stroking his length from the base to the tip, rolling his pearly precum along the slit, sliding it up to your mouth, kitten licking it. “Fuck.”

At that he’s got your thigh up high, filling you with his cock in one stroke, you scream out, the last two times you all had played, you stayed moderately quiet, but you were all alone, and your cries are echoing in the room as he thrusts his cock in deeper. In just a couple thrusts, he’s shoved all his inches in you, and fuck there are so many, you’re pulsing around his length, whimpering.

“Fucking feel her, gripping me s’tight…” He’s huffing, pulling back, shoving his cock to the hilt, tip smashing your cervix, you’re convulsing around him, cunt drooling all the way down until it’s pooling down your ass, down to the blankets. “Hear your slutty pussy huh?”

“Mmhmm!” Your brain is fucked right along with your body while he pumps his cock inside you, stretching you so deliciously, skin burning now, you’re clinging to him when he flips you suddenly, taking your breath away.

He pulls your hips up, smacking your ass, you gasp at the sensation, when he’s inching back inside you. “Look at you, gonna leave handprints all over your pretty little ass.”

“Please.” Is all you manage, he moans, smacking each cheek again, you’ve never done anything like this, but you’re cumming when he shoves in fully, rolling his hips just so, his drooly tip pressing on your cervix. Your eyes roll back as he smacks your ass again, the stinging making you wetter.

“That’s it, feel you tryna milk me.” Satoru is so fucked out right with you, viewing your ass covered in his hand prints now, he takes your hand, putting one behind your back, gripping your delicate wrist. “This okay?”

“Y-yes, god yes.” You’re moaning into the pillows when he shoves both of  your arms behind your back, big hand holding them, fucking into you harder, each movement making your ass jiggle. “Ah!”

Satoru groans, feeling you pulsate around him, you’ve never been fucked so good, even the first time by him he was just a little easy on you, you almost think you can’t take it but you’re arching your ass back for more. You earn his satisfied groan as he slams into you over and over, grip on your wrists binding you to him, the feeling of him taking you over so addictive.

“Know how crazy y-you drive me, in those little s-scrubs?” He’s stuttering, his rhythm faltering as he lets your hands go, gripping your hips instead, thumbs pressing into the dimples at your back. Your fingers are gripping the satin black sheets of his bed, whining pathetically, shaking your head. “No, ya don’t know, hmm?”

He yanks you up by your hair now, the pull painful but just making your pussy so wet, Satoru in two times has somehow figured out your entire body, things you have never tried or would ever think. You’re cumming on his cock when he’s bending over you, chest against your back, dripping sweat as he works you so good, cock wrecking every sweet spot you have.

“Drive me fucking insane.” His voice is in your ear now, he’s completely bent over you, back bowed, using the hair by the nape of your neck to turn your head toward him, and how he looks at you then?

You’re so fucked.

You desperately kiss him when he slows inside of you, feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm squeezing him relentlessly. You whine into his mouth, he drinks them up, pulling back and then pressing you down on your tummy, prone over you. You’ve never done it like this, the intimacy overtakes you, his fingers entwining with one of your hands as his other braces himself on the bed.

“I’ve w-wanted you since… I first saw you.” You’re blinking back tears, hiccuping when his tip drags on that spongy spot in your gooey walls.

“Wh-what?” You whisper, confusion addling your fucked out brain, he moans then, kissing you deeply, drool falling down between your lips as your body tenses, feeling him thicken in you now.

“Since I saw you, I didn't know you’d feel this good, gripping me like that.” You’re whimpering, mumbling, mouth wide open in a slutty O, as Satoru fucks you so slow, hand wrapped around your throat under your chin, thumb pressing on your pulse point, feeling it flutter. “You’re never fucking anyone else.”

“Y-you’re stupid.” You grumble, earning his chuckle, his white grin and insane blue eyes, taking on some psychotic look he seems to get when he’s close, you can hardly stand to look, eyes fluttering shut.

“Stupid, huh? You know you won’t ever… fuck feel you… ever…” He’s burying his head against the crook of your neck now, squeezing your throat as he starts slamming into you so deep, you feel him in your tummy, feel him everywhere. “Ever be with anyone.”

How can he talk like that?

How can he say shit like that?

You know he doesn’t mean it.

“D-don’t fuck up my head, please. C-can’t handle it. Hurts too much.” He pauses then, his movements halted.

“Open your eyes.” You do as he commands, it’s so easy to follow his every word. “It’ll only be me inside you, got it?”

“Why?”

“Why?” He laughs then, shaking his head, hips jerking just so, thrusting his cock to the hilt as one arm wraps around you, dragging you down his length. “I want you to myself, all to myself.”

You want to say yes, but you pause, lips parting as you struggle to keep eye contact. “M’not gonna f-fuck anyone else.”

“Just me.”

“Just you.” You whisper, and he moans now, moving again, you see the veins of his forearms bulging as he presses against the bed, fucking you once more.

“Gonna fill you up s’good, gonna drip me at work tomorrow.”

“You’re c-crazy- mnh! Cumming!” You’re gasping, head falling back against his strong chest as his tip presses your cervix, then you shatter, feeling his hot gooey cum coating your walls, filling you so much he’s pulsing. You’re both whimpering then, mumbling, kissing each other sloppy.

“F-fuck, perfect pussy, takin’ me so well.” He’s pushing his cum further and further inside you, cock coated in your slick and his white ropes, which are getting pushed out by your muscles as you’re riding out your climax. “Oh my god…”

“Oh my god…” You both say at the same time, he exhales then, breath tickling the nape of your neck, pecking kisses along your shoulder blades.

It’s perfect, too perfect.

And you know it then, what you don’t want to be true.

You’re falling in love with him.

With Doctor Gojo, with Doctor Hojo, with Satoru. Your boss, your mentor, your very new boyfriend you’ve slept with twice. There’s no other explanation for the way his kisses make tears fall from your eyes then, for the way your heart clutches in your chest, as you think to yourself…

This will hurt you.

“Are you okay baby? Too rough? You’re tiny down there… Did I get carried away?” Satoru leaned up, easing out of you and turning you then, concern written all over his beautiful features.

And he’s caring?

He’s perfect aside from…

What future could you have, getting kicked out after a couple nights here and there, no engagement or wedding ever, just a situationship and a perpetual girlfriend? You never wanted that to be your future, but right now you can’t even focus on it, you’re too sucked into his gravity, into the way he’s looking at you, holding you like you’re so precious.

 “No it was perfect, I’m sorry.” You take several breaths, and he watches your face, the tears trailing down your cheeks, clenching his heart.

“Don’t apologize, what is it?” You shake your head, he can tell you’re holding in something, his mind is still reeling from you, from how good you feel, from how beautiful you look, from the intensity of being inside of you. His hands trail down the nip of your waist, the jut of your hips carefully.

“I feel too much too fast.” Your words hit him like a punch to the gut. He doesn’t want to disappoint you, he doesn’t wanna drag you down when you’re so bright and perfect. But to know you feel things like he does, like he has since he first met you?

“What’s wrong with feeling things, intern?” He asks carefully, you sniffle then, while he brushes tears from the apple of your cheek.

“Scary how much I do. It’s overwhelming. I swear I’m not such a crybaby.” He brushed his hand against your cheek again, feeling the softness of your skin under his touch, wondering what goes on in that brain of yours.

“You think I’m not feeling things?” He asks, and you sigh, shaking your head then and burying your face against his chest. “You don’t know me yet, though, what if you don’t like what you find out?” He asks, so vulnerable then it breaks your heart, you lean up on an elbow, cupping his face.

“I want to know you, good or bad. Don’t hold back with me.” His jaw tenses under your delicate touch, you watch him gulp, opening his lips then closing them. “One thing at a time, though.”

“One thing at a time.” He kisses across your forehead gently. “Want a shower, pretty?”

“Yes please. You also owe me cocoa.” He stands up off the bed up then, picking you up in his arms bridal style, you giggle, clinging to him.

“Hot shower then hot cocoa.” He carries you into his bathroom, which is even more lavish than you can imagine, it’s huge with an insane tile and glass shower, bigger than your entire bathroom and then some.

“Holy shit.” You murmur, he sits you down then, heading over to start the hot water, which starts steaming in the bathroom, smiling at you and cupping your face with both hands, pressing you into the sink just a bit as he kisses you again.

“I’ll get towels.” You smile, turning and looking in the mirror, seeing your bright eyes and flushed cheeks, the marks on your throat and chest from Satoru’s fingers and teeth, your lips swollen from his kisses. Your eyes catch all of the orange prescription bottles decorating the sink, then.

It’s not your place to care what he takes, but your eyes dart on multiple anxiety medications, with pretty high doses. Xanax, you narrow your eyes just a bit, it’s 2 mg bars three times a day, next to them are Klonopin, 1 mg two times a day, two benzos you have never seen mixed. He has several other things, Ambien to sleep, 12.5mg at night, and Aderrall, 20 mg twice a day.

It’s a whole fucking cocktail, you don’t even know how he functions and with so much energy, he should be some drooling zombie with this. You touch them tentatively, there’s Zoloft as well, though of course that is something you’re on, but the mix of everything is too much. It’s as if he has something to wake up, to keep himself blissful all day, then something to sleep.

He walks back in with two fluffy towels, you back up, smiling up at him, he brings you against him, naked bodies pressed against each other, kissing you over and over, his lips devouring yours. You have never even seen Satoru have dilated eyes, you think then, did he not take these? Were they just… there?

It’s not your business, right?

“Ready for a shower? I’ll wash your hair and everything. I bet I have way better shampoo than you.” He teases with a big grin.

Satoru Gojo, the happiest dude you’ve ever met, needs a million medications to be that way. What darkness lies behind his blinding grin? You want to know him, all of him, all the facets that compose of him, of the man that you’ve fallen for so quickly, head over fucking heels.

Satoru knows you saw it, but you smile sweetly at him, not mentioning anything, not immediately judging him or saying something. You just lean up on your tiptoes, kissing him softly, he wraps his arms around your bare body, which feels perfect in his embrace, better than any drug could ever make him feel.

There’s not one time of the day or night he’s not on something to function, to alleviate the way his brain runs constantly, to try to keep it calm while also making it run. His own cocktail of perfection, he’s found it, and he knows you saw it, he can feel what you’re holding back, maybe you’re too enamored, as he is.

You’re both under the hot spray when he’s running his hands in your damp hair, lathering it up, it feels too good with you, he wonders how long until he fucks up, how long until you decide you could do better. He’s wanted you since before he officially met you, since he chose you to be his intern based off of stats and scores alone, so curious who this brilliant girl was.

Brilliant, beautiful, sweet.

He didn’t expect to feel this much, for the first time ever. Having had the arranged marriage so young with Utahime, he never got to feel, to be. And when he was done, Satoru has since slept with hundreds of women, easily, mind numbing sex with girls he couldn’t remember their damn name, but nothing has ever come close to how you feel wrapped around him.

You’re addictive, aren’t you? But you don’t seem to know, when you turn and slip your hands up his body, eyes drinking every bit of him in slowly, he gasps when you get on your knees, thinking he must be in some ambien wet dream of you. Your blunt nails press against his slick thighs, as your eyes look up at him and break him, your tongue lapping at his tip.

“Fuck…” He moans, as you look up at him, sucking him deeper into your throat, watching his every reaction, how his muscles flex and tense under your touch, feeling his cock hit your throat, then he shocks you, picking you up right against the tile of the shower wall. “Need you again, baby.”

“I need you again.” You whisper, gasping when he sinks inside of you, and that night you never get hot cocoa, you two can’t stop fucking each other, licking each other, devouring each other. It’s heady and insane.

Satoru is addictive, you’re sure he knows this too.

*****

The next day

“Rough night, babes?” Maki asks, as you wince, lifting off your shirt and throwing on your scrub top. “Holy fuck, hickies!”

“Shush!” You cover her mouth with your hand, she’s laughing against it, lifting your top back up.

“Damn, is he a vampire or some shit?”

“He thinks so.”

“So that’s why you weren’t home last night.” She says, as Toge walks in, glaring at you again. You sigh, walking up to him, sitting on the bench, holding your hand to tug him to sit next to you.

“Toge, I need you to be my friend, stop being so mad at me?” You say softly, he sighs then, looking at you with violet eyes.

“Serious?” He asks, you blink then.

“Serious about Gojo?” He nods. “Yes, I think I am, but it’s only as serious as he’ll get.”

“Not good enough.” Toge says, standing then and leaving, you cover your face and grimace, as Maki sits next to you, hand on your back.

“He just wants what’s best for you. The whole no marriage thing? Kind of opposite of your old fashioned ass. Plus… do we know how serious he is?”

You look at her then. “Thought you wanted me to go for it?”

“I do, but getting head over heels so fast, you worry me. You… babe you have a shit track record with men. Not just Mahito, remember Naoya?”

“Oh fuck don’t remind me. But Gojo is nothing like them.” She hums to herself a bit.

“True, he’s nothing like those two, but you suck at picking men, so be careful is all. I’m not saying get with Toge, I know you’re just friends, but he has a point.” Your mind goes to what you saw that night, what you don’t know just yet. “I’m not trying to kill your buzz, if you’re happy, I’m happy.”

“I love you.” You hug her tightly, when Satoru walks in, Toge and Yuta behind him, he smirks as he takes in your exhausted state, but Satoru looks fresh and bright, like you both hadn’t fucked all night.

“Morning, interns. Come on now, hop to it.” You yawn as you all line up behind him in the halls, he looks at you with a sadistic ass grin. “You tired, intern? Did you get no sleep?”

You just glare at him, Maki is snickering, Yuta is rolling his eyes, Toge is glaring at Satoru. “No sleep unfortunately, but I’ll go get lots of coffee.”

“That works. Maki, Yuta, you’re on Pit duty. Toge, you’re scrubbing in with me for surgery today.” Toge brightens up then. “And you, missy, you’re getting coffee, stat.”

“On it.” You walk by him, Satoru leans close against your ear, his hand just barely brushing your arm.

“Don’t slack on me intern, I won’t take it easy on you in bed or at work.” You scowl now, earning his laughter as you turn away, flicking him off before darting to the cafeteria.

Your pussy is throbbing, your body is sore like you worked out or something, arms like gelatin, and your eyes are trying to close on you. How the fuck even with Adderral can Satoru be that energetic? You try to not let Maki and Toge’s words get you, but you’re distracted when you’re getting coffee, and Suguru is there, saying your name and smiling at you.

“Rough night?” He asks.

“Do I look that bad!?” You peek at one of the windows to gauge your reflection.

“You’re still lovely, but your eye bags are rivalling Shoko’s.”

“Ugh but she can pull them off! Yes, a long night.”

“Uh huh.” You look at him then, as you both walk and sip on your hot cups of coffee.

“You’re Satoru’s best friend, right?”

“I am. He’s annoying as shit though.” You snort at that, he grabs two muffins, handing you one then. “You should eat after a fuck marathon.”

“Oh gosh, Suguru really!” You nibble the muffin though, chewing thoughtfully as you both walk out of the cafeteria and towards the elevators, he presses the buttons, leaving you both alone then. “How is he so energetic?”

Suguru frowns then, looking at his cup, his dark brows lowering over his eyes. “Satoru’s always been pretty annoyingly perky.”

“Yeah, I guess, but he got no sleep.”

“If you’re asking me something personal about him, he’s my best friend and I won’t share things like that. You’ll find out more in time if you’re serious.” You nod, biting your lip, eyes catching his dark violet ones.

“I get it, I don’t mean to pry. There’s a lot we have to learn, but… I already feel so much for him.”

Suguru smiles softly then. “That’s good, because he’s been borderline obsessed since you got here.”

“What!? No way. He’s a Hojo.”

Suguru chuckles once more, the sound warm and inviting, you just feel so comfortable with him all the time. He’s very much like Satoru in that way. “He is indeed a ‘Hojo’. But I’m glad maybe he’ll get someone good for him. He needs that.”

“Hmm. Mysterious, Suguru.”

“I have to keep a certain allure.” Suguru and you both step out now, he tilts his head to you. “So you know, wicked hickey your makeup isn’t covering.”

“Oh god!” He’s left you now with that information, you quickly shove your hair over your neck, as you see Satoru now, who jacks the rest of your muffin and chews on it.

“Tastes yummy.” He says, looking down at your body then.

“I have a hickey that’s not covered all the way!” You whisper.

“Multiple.”

“How are you so perky, hmm?” He blinks a bit then, tilting his head.

“I feel like you kind of know that answer, yeah?” You shake your head. “No clue at all?”

“Suguru says you’re annoyingly perky and hyper.”

“Hmm.”

You don’t want to ruin this, to burst this bubble of happiness, when you just don’t know anything yet, so you try to stop thinking of it, as he walks you further and further across the hospital.

“So, remember what I said yesterday?”

“Are you serious?” You ask later, as you’re standing next to the maternity ward, and Satoru places his hands on your shoulders.

“Give me a week with babies, tell me how you feel.”

“I don’t like you.”

“Mmm, well I really like you.” He tilts your chin up as Shoko comes, smiling at you.

“Ready to learn more than you will with this idiot?” She asks.

“Excuse me!?”

“Ready.” You agree, sticking your tongue out at Satoru.

“You’re both mean, mean women.” Before he leaves he captures your hand in his, kissing you so quick in the nearly empty hall.

“I’ll love it.” You assure him, a challenging look in your eyes.

“We’ll see. You should get sleep tonight by the way, your dark circles-”

“Fuck you, Satoru.” You can practically feel his stupid smirk and blue eyes burning a hole through your back.

“Pissed him off huh? He’s so petty. I hope you’ll love this though.” Shoko says later on, you smile at her.

“No I will love it, I’m eager to learn.”

The maternity ward, huh? You are eager to learn from her, you know she is the best in her field, and something else you want to figure out?

The mystery that is Dr. Gojo.Just who was the man you’re falling for?

A/N- this is OBVIOUSLY heavily inspired by Grey's lol! There is def some angst going on in the future, as hard as reader is falling Satoru and her have some INSANE differences, along with the overall exhaustion of being doctors and some issues they'll both have. I hope you enjoyed the long chap, sorry this one took a few weeks! can't wait to hear what you all think!

If you'd like to be added to the taglist please lmk

Taglist:

@lost-resonance @lostfracturess @unfortunately-tia @allofffmypeaches @chiyokoemilia @makingtimemine @antisocialinlw @meg3mis @miizuzu @nanasukii28 @zoeyflower @wstaley2 @bunheadusa @blue-musingss @ameliariddle @labelt-san @moncher-ire @jkslaugh97 @shadeowz @gojo1228 @nanasukii28 @jaeminaur @httpstoyosi @angel1of-death @seeing-stars-alt @bol0-de-morang0 @ghostskilledmyaddiction21 @trishiepo0 @inthedarkshadows000 @gina239 @san-it-is-i-guess @pelicanpizza @gojo1228 @ducky1232 @inthedarkshadows000 @eclecticmentalitypersona @burguhndy @levislug @addehehe @sluttyofgojo @msniks @ambiguouslady42

she won't go away— a sukuna fic

art creds to to_0fu (twitter/x)

pairing — college sukuna! x reader

synopsis — of all the people in your chemistry course, you get stuck with ryomen sukuna—the most insufferable, arrogant asshole on campus. he barely does any work, runs his mouth like it’s a sport, and somehow manages to make your life even more exhausting than it already is. if this project doesn’t kill you, he just might.

wc — 26k (ONLY 1K ABOVE THE EXPECTED WC YAAAY)

warnings — explicit sexual content (unprotected sex), sukuna is quite mean in the beginning, possibly incorrect depiction of frat culture (spare me i am not american), lots of sexual jokes, brief tiny smidge of angst, reader is a bad bitch, mentions of feeling insecure, choso and toji are gym himbos.

“Please, anyone but him, professor—” You try begging, hands gripping the edge of the desk like your life depends on it. You know it’s useless, but desperation makes a fool out of you.

Professor Shimizu sighs, sympathy flashing across her face, but it’s gone in an instant. She adjusts her glasses, pushing them up her nose, and gives you a rueful smile. “I understand your concerns,” she says, “and if it were up to me, I’d happily rearrange the groups, but the pairings were assigned by the department. Something about fostering academic cooperation.” She shakes her head like she, too, thinks it’s bullshit. “My hands are tied.”

Your stomach sinks. Fostering academic cooperation? With him? You’d have better luck reasoning with a brick wall—one that could talk back and insult you for fun. You turn back toward the class, eyes darting between the clusters of students already deep in discussion. Some of them look at you with poorly concealed amusement, others with pity. And then there’s him, sitting by the window, looking positively bored like this whole situation is an inconvenience. 

Ryomen Sukuna.

The campus heartthrob. The golden boy of the mechanical engineering department. A nightmare wrapped in a six-foot-something frame of smugness and muscle. A nightmare that you unfortunately have to share your CHEM10002 course with (why he’d picked a premed course as an elective was beyond you) You hate him. And not in the petty ugh, he’s annoying kind of way. It’s deeper than that. He’s insufferable. Arrogant. Egotistical. The type of guy who always has a girl in his bed but never the same one twice. He walks around campus like he owns the place, flashing that sharp grin, that lazy confidence that makes people—girls, especially—fawn over him despite his reputation. Cocky, rude, impossible to work with.

And now you’re stuck with him. Oh, hell no. Your body stiffens. No way. No fucking way. Like hell you’re going to spend the next few weeks working with him. You whip your head back to Professor Shimizu, grasping at anything—anything—to get out of this. “What if I did extra credit? A research paper? A presentation? Anything,” you plead, voice tight. “I’ll take a lower grade. Dock my participation. I don’t care—just not him.”

She sighs, but it’s not exasperated, just… tired. “I appreciate your enthusiasm,” she says, like you’re asking for more work because you love learning instead of trying to escape an actual nightmare. “But, again, I can’t change the pairings. And as much as I’d love to give you an alternative assignment, the department is very strict on this. It’s meant to ‘challenge students to collaborate beyond personal preference.’” She air-quotes it, which means she definitely thinks it’s bullshit. You slump, stomach twisting with something bitter. Collaboration? With Sukuna? The only thing he collaborates on is making everyone’s life harder.

You grit your teeth, hard. He’s lounging now, one hand shoved in his pocket, the other lazily spinning a pen between his fingers while he lazily eyes you from where he’s manspreading in his seat. He doesn’t even look like he’s trying, and that’s what pisses you off the most—he never tries. Not in class, not with people, not with anything. Everything just seems to work out for him anyway.

You hate that you know that. You really hate that you know that. But you’ve known him long enough. Long enough to remember—

Freshman Year

It was something small. Stupid, even. But you still remember the heat of humiliation crawling up your neck, the way people laughed under their breath, how he barely even looked at you afterward, like it hadn’t mattered.  You had been in a required first-year seminar, and the professor called on you to answer a question. It wasn’t hard, but the nerves got the best of you—you stumbled over your words, your voice wavered.

And then you heard it. A tsk, followed by a lazy, mocking lilt:

“Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.”

Heat flushed through you, the classroom suddenly too bright, too small. A few people chuckled—some outright laughed. You had swallowed thickly, willing yourself to focus, to get through the answer. When class ended, you stormed out, ignoring the lingering stares, the murmured that was brutal from some guy behind you. But Sukuna? He didn’t even glance your way. Because to him, it wasn’t anything. It wasn’t worth a second thought. And now, here you are, stuck working with the one person who had made you feel like an idiot before you even had the chance to prove yourself. 

You hadn’t even thought about it that much at the time—not really. But later, when you were alone, it festered. You were just a freshman. Barely out of high school, still figuring things out, still nervous about speaking up in a room full of people smarter, older, better than you. It wasn’t even like you got the answer wrong—you had just hesitated. That was all it took. And it was stupid, so stupid, but after that day, you started thinking twice before speaking in class. Before raising your hand. Before answering anything unless you were absolutely sure you wouldn’t trip over your words. And god, you hate that it got to you. It’s not like it was some big, scarring moment. It was one second of his life. A second he probably doesn’t even remember.

But it was yours. It wasn’t just that one time. There was another. Worse, somehow, because this time, he hadn’t even been speaking to you—just about you. It was late freshman year, after you’d spent the whole semester training yourself not to stutter, not to hesitate, not to embarrass yourself again. You were doing better. At least, you thought you were. Until one afternoon, outside the student center, when you walked past Sukuna and his group of friends—Toji, Choso, Mahito, and a couple of others, all leaned back on the benches like they owned the place.

You weren’t eavesdropping. You didn’t mean to hear it. But then—

“—was struggling so bad, I thought she was gonna pass out.”

A few chuckles. A low whistle from Toji. 

“Like, just say it, dumbass,” Sukuna scoffed, sharp, mocking. “Or at least commit. That shit was painful to listen to.”

Your stomach dropped. You don’t know who they were talking about. Maybe some other poor freshman who had choked on their words mid-discussion. Maybe a random classmate. Maybe—

Your face burned. You forced yourself to keep walking, head down, pretending like it wasn’t about you, like you weren’t suddenly back in that seminar with his voice in your ears and everyone’s quiet snickers pressing into your skin. He didn’t even look at you as you passed. Of course, he didn’t. He probably didn’t even remember it was the same person. And now, three years later, you have to sit across from Ryomen Sukuna, the campus asshole, the man who probably hasn’t stuttered a day in his goddamn life, and pretend you don’t want to walk out of this classroom and never come back.  You exhale sharply, pressing your fingers into your temples.

This is fine. You’ve dealt with annoying people before. You’ve had to work with partners who contributed nothing, who slacked off, who treated group projects like free rides. Sukuna is just another roadblock—one with a stupid face and a worse attitude.

And, honestly? It’s not even about the stuttering thing anymore. That was years ago, and you’d be damned if you let some insignificant moment from freshman year shake you now. Just because he made you insecure about one thing doesn’t mean you’re meek. You’ve worked too hard to let this get to you. So, with all the grace you can muster, you pull out the chair across from him, stiffly sit down, and say, “Hi, I’m—”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge you. Doesn’t even pretend to try. Instead, he leans back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head, and immediately starts talking to Toji, who’s standing nearby.

“So, dinner at that steak place tonight?”

“Yeah,” Toji mutters, tapping at his phone. “Gonna see if they’ve got space.”

Sukuna scoffs. “They always have space.”

“No, dumbass, last time we went, they were booked.”

“They let us in last time,” Sukuna corrects, smirking, and that smugness makes your eye twitch. Are you being fucking ignored? You glance between them, incredulous, and then say, “I’m literally talking to you.”

That finally gets his attention. Slowly, like you’re the inconvenience here, Sukuna turns his head toward you. His gaze flicks over you, slow, unimpressed, like he’s barely registering you exist. You square your shoulders. “This project is quite hefty. We need to split up the research so we’re not scrambling at the last minute.”

He stares at you for a moment, blank, and then—

He rolls his eyes.

“Jesus,” he mutters, leaning forward, elbows on the table. “You’re one of those, huh?”

You frown. “Excuse me?”

“The tryhard type. Gets assigned a little homework and suddenly thinks they’re running a Fortune 500 company.” He tilts his head, smirking. “Relax, woman. It’s just a project.”

Woman. Your jaw clenches so hard it hurts. 

“That ‘little homework’ is forty five percent of our grade,” you bite out.

“Don’t give a fuck,” he grunts, sounding bored.

You inhale deeply. “So, I was thinking—”

But he groans, dragging a tattooed hand down his face. “Are we seriously doing this now?”

“Yes, we’re seriously doing this now,” you snap. He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring. “God, you’re fucking annoying.”

You’re not sure whether you should be offended or hurt. On one hand, obviously as a normal human being, being spoken to like this from a person you’re quite literally talking to for the first time is bound to hurt your feelings. On the other hand, this guy’s dickhead personality is kind of well known through your university. Your grip on your pen tightens, but you keep your voice even.

 “I’m annoying because I want to pass?”

”You’re annoying because you talk way too fuckin’ much.”

 That stings more than you’d like to admit. You grit your teeth, ignoring the way your stomach tightens, and push forward anyway. “If we divide the research today, we won’t have to meet up as often,” you say, firmly. “I assume you’ll want to do as little work as possible, so let’s just—”

“Holy shit.” Sukuna pushes his chair back with a loud scrape, fixing you with an exasperated look. “Do you ever shut up?” You blink, stunned. Toji snickers.

“Oh, come on,” Sukuna scoffs, throwing up a hand. “You’re gonna sit there all wide-eyed like I just kicked your fuckin’ puppy? You started it.” Your fingers twitch against the table. “Started what?” you ask, voice dangerously calm. “This whole thing—acting like I’m some bum ass delinquent who needs a babysitter.” His eyes narrow. “If you wanna play boss, go find some other loser to be a bitch to.”

Your patience snaps. “Or you could just not be a lazy asshole. Do you lack brain cells? You’ve seriously told me to shut up like 5 times in the span of about ten minutes. Do you have a problem where you can’t focus?” The air between you shifts.

Sukuna’s jaw tics. His expression darkens, something sharp flashing through his eyes, but then his lips pull into something crueler than a smirk—something with edges, something dangerous.

“You think I’m lazy? Got somethin’ wrong with me because I can’t take your nerdy bitching?” he asks, voice low. You hesitate, but only for a second. “Glad you have the ability to comprehend what I said.” That makes him grin. “And you think I’m an asshole?”

“Yes.”

He hums, tilting his head. Then he leans forward, just slightly, elbows resting on the table. His voice drops into something smug, mocking—

“Then why the fuck are you still talking to me?”

Your blood boils.

What the fuck is his problem?

You lean forward too, matching him, refusing to shrink under his gaze. “Because I have to, dumbass,” you snap. “I tried to change my group. I begged. I offered to do extra credit. I would have written a whole goddamn thesis if it meant not sitting across from you—but guess what?” You gesture sharply between you. “I’m stuck with you.”

Sukuna raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Tragic.”

You let out a frustrated breath, gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles turn white. “So, as much as I’d love to pretend you don’t exist—”

“Then do it,” he interrupts, tone dry.

You blink. “What?”

“If you wanna pretend I don’t exist, go ahead,” he drawls, leaning back lazily. “Do the whole project yourself. You’ll probably enjoy it, since you’re clearly getting off on playing group leader.”

“Oh, my god.” You clench your fists, barely restraining yourself. “Why are you such a dickhead? Parents not teach you basic respect?”

“Because you don’t shut the fuck up,” he snaps, finally looking genuinely irritated.

Your lips part, incredulous. “I’m literally just trying to do the fucking project? Like any normal human being?”

“No, you’re trying to control shit,” Sukuna says flatly. “Like this is some big deal—like I haven’t passed a million of these useless classes already.”

You stare at him. “You think this is useless?”

He smirks. “Yeah.”

Oh, you hate him.

“Some of us actually give a shit about our grades, Sukuna.”

“You know my name? Cute.” You inhale sharply through your nose, trying to stay calm, trying not to launch your textbook at his stupid, perfect face. “I don’t care how many classes you’ve passed,” you say, voice taut. “You’re doing this one with me. I care about this project. And if I have to suffer through working with you, you can at least pretend to give a shit.” He tilts his head, mockingly thoughtful. “Mm. No.”

You exhale slowly, trying—failing—to stop your hands from curling into fists.

“I swear to god—”

“What, huh?” he cuts in, voice dripping with condescension. “You gonna whine to the professor again?” He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”

Your jaw tightens. He grins, like he’s won something. Like he’s getting exactly what he wants—like this is a game to him, something to toy with, something to waste his time on. And you refuse to let him win. So, you straighten your spine, lift your chin, and meet his gaze without flinching. “Fine,” you say, voice steely. “If you want to half-ass this, be my guest. Just don’t expect me to pick up your slack.”

Sukuna watches you, amused, as if he’s waiting for you to crack. When you don’t, he smirks.

“We’ll see.”

You inhale sharply, forcing yourself to keep your voice level.

“Well, unfortunately for you,” you say stiffly, “you actually have to do your share.”

Sukuna snorts. “Says who?”

“The professor.” You cross your arms. “Since apparently, students have been slacking on group projects, we have to submit proof of collaboration—meeting logs, progress updates, actual proof that we’re working together.” His expression darkens. You fight the urge to smirk. Suffer.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he mutters.

“Nope.” You press your lips together, trying to hold back your pure satisfaction. “So, congratulations, Sukuna. You have to meet up with me at least once a week.” He exhales sharply through his nose, glaring at you like you’re personally ruining his life. “You’re telling me I have to sit through this shit every week?”

“Yep.”

“You specifically?”

“Yep.”

Sukuna groans, dragging a hand through the unruly pink strands of his hair. Then, just as you’re about to remind him that this is literally his problem for being a shit student, he lifts his head—eyes raking over you in a slow, lazy once-over. And then, he smirks. You freeze.

“What?” you snap, immediately on edge.

His smirk widens.

“Nah, I was just thinking,” he drawls, tipping his head back against his chair. “If you were hotter, this would be way less painful.”

Your stomach drops. The words hit you like a slap, and for a second, all you can do is sit there, stunned, completely caught off guard by how casual—how easy—it is for him to say something like that. Like it’s just true. Like it’s a fact. Your fingers dig into your sleeve. And the worst part? It’s not even the insult itself that stings—it’s the sheer, blatant dismissal. The fact that he looks at you and immediately decides you’re not worth even pretending to be interested in. As if you were hoping for his attention. As if you were seeking his approval. 

“Yeah?” you say, voice flat, emotionless. “Well, if you were smarter, I wouldn’t have to carry your useless ass through this class.” His grin falters, just barely, but you see it—and for once, it’s your turn to smirk. You lean forward, matching his posture, tilting your head mockingly.

“Guess we’re both disappointed, huh?” 

For a moment, Sukuna just stares at you. And you don’t miss the way his jaw tightens, how his fingers twitch against the table like he’s fighting the urge to rip you apart. Good. Then—he exhales sharply through his nose, tipping his chair back slightly, acting unfazed even though you saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Damn,” he muses, voice slow, dragging. “Didn’t know you had a mouth on you.”

“Yeah?” You tilt your head. “Didn’t know you gave a shit.”

Sukuna scoffs. “I don’t.”

“Then shut the fuck up and do your assigned work.”

He lets out a low, mean laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today.”

“Generous?” You nearly choke. “You’ve been nothing but a dick since the moment I sat down.”

He shrugs, unbothered. “Could be worse.”

You want to strangle him. Instead, you inhale sharply through your nose, pressing your palms flat against the table before forcing yourself to stay on track. “Whatever,” you say, shaking your head. “Here’s the deal: we have to meet at least once a week. I don’t care where. I don’t care when. But we need to get the work done, and I need proof that you were actually present—because if we don’t, we both fail.”

Sukuna glares at you, as if the very concept of responsibility offends him.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, dragging a hand down his face again. “You’re really gonna be a hardass about this, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t care about failing?”

“Not really.”

Your eyes narrow. “Then why are you even in this class?”

At this, he finally drops his chair back down onto all four legs, leaning in slightly. “Let’s get one thing straight,” he says, voice lower, more serious. “I don’t need this shit. I’m here because my old man thinks I should at least pretend to give a fuck about college.” He smirks, sharp and taunting. “But don’t get it twisted—I don’t actually give a fuck.” You pause, studying him, trying to piece together the weight behind his words. Of course, you know he comes from money. Everyone does. The Ryomen family name carries weight, old money, power, prestige—so it makes sense that college, for him, is just some bullshit obligation rather than a means to a future. Still, something about the way he says it—how bitter it sounds—sticks with you. Not that you care.

You roll your eyes. “Right. Got it. Poor little rich boy.”

His smirk drops.

For a second, there’s silence.

Then—

“You know what?” Sukuna says, voice eerily calm. “Fine. I’ll meet up with you.”

You blink, a little thrown off by how easily he gives in.

“…Okay?”

“But.” His gaze darkens, and the corner of his mouth twitches, almost like he’s daring you to argue. “You work around my schedule.”

Your stomach twists with irritation. “That’s not—”

“Not my problem,” he cuts in smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t do morning meetups. I don’t do last-minute bullshit. And if you start bitching about how I ‘don’t take this seriously,’” he mocks, voice lilting high, “I will walk out and leave you with an automatic fail. Or whatever the fuck happens to your grade if the other person doesn’t do their part. Got it?” Your blood boils. But what can you do? You already tried to get reassigned. So, through gritted teeth, you say, “Fine.”

Sukuna smirks.

“Good girl.”

–

You should have known it was going to be hell the second he suggested meeting at the East Wing library. It’s the furthest damn library on campus—twenty minutes from the dorms, uphill, and completely out of the way. Not a single other student in your class would have chosen that location. And yet, when you tried suggesting the much closer, more convenient library, Sukuna had just shrugged, barely sparing you a glance as he packed up his bag.

“Aw, did you forget that I’m in charge of where we meet up?,” he drawled, voice dripping with fake sympathy. “That sounds like a you problem.”

And just like that, the decision was final. So now, here you are, twenty minutes later, climbing the last flight of stairs to the East Wing library, already in a foul mood before the study session has even started. And when you finally get there? You find Sukuna kicked back in his chair at one of the study tables, feet up, scrolling through his phone like he’s waiting on room service instead of his own damn groupmate.

No laptop. No notes No book. Just his phone. Un-fucking-believable. You drop your bag onto the chair across from him, loudly, but he doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge your presence at all.

“Seriously?” you deadpan, arms crossing. Sukuna exhales through his nose, still not looking at you. “Took you long enough.” You almost black out from rage.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you say, voice flat. “My dorm is on the opposite side of campus.” He hums, barely acknowledging your words, his focus glued to his phone. You take a deep breath, count to three, and pull out your laptop. “Okay. So, the project—”

Before you can even finish, his phone rings. And instead of silencing it, like a normal human being, Sukuna just smirks and answers it, right there in front of you. “Yo,” he says lazily, stretching his arms behind his head. Your eye twitches. The person on the other end—you recognise the voice as Choso—says something that makes Sukuna huff a laugh, shaking his head.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m at the library,” he mutters. “With that chick from class.” Your hand tightens around your pen. So he didn’t even know your name. Great. And you two were supposedly paired for the rest of this semester? You wanted to fucking die. Not even two minutes in, and he’s already testing your patience. Sukuna leans back, grinning as Choso says something else. “Nah, it’s just her,” Sukuna says, completely offhand. “No eye candy here, bro.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. Did this dumbass seriously just say that out loud? In a library? In the middle of your study session? You drop your pen onto the table with a sharp thud, but the sting in your chest lingers. It’s not like you expected anything different from him. It’s not like you cared.

…Except you do. Just a little. Not because you want him to think you’re pretty—fuck no—but because there’s something uniquely humiliating about being dismissed like that. Like your presence is some minor inconvenience he has to tolerate. Your jaw locks, and you square your shoulders, forcing the feeling down. Screw him. You’re not here to impress him. You’re here to get your damn work done. Sukuna finally glances up, raising a brow like he just now realized you’re sitting there. You stare at him, completely done. He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. You look like someone stuck a stick up your ass.”

“Genuinely do you have a mental illness or some shit?,” you shoot back, your irritation reaching an all-time high. “We have a chemistry project that’s 45% of our grade, and you’re sitting here talking about—”

“Bro, hold on,” Sukuna suddenly says into the receiver, cutting you off mid-rant. He holds his hand up like he’s physically silencing you, turning his head away. “Choso, you hear this? Shorty’s about to pop a blood vessel over some homework. All ‘cause I said she isn’t some eye candy. Women, right?”

Your mouth falls open.

Did he just—

“I— You—”

Your brain short-circuits for a second, tripping over the sheer audacity of him. Sukuna leans back in his chair, grinning up at you like a complete bastard. “You need to get laid or something?” A beat of silence. Your entire body stills. And then, without hesitation, you lean forwards and rip his phone out of his hand and slam it face-down in front of you.

“The fuck?” Sukuna scoffs, finally looking genuinely surprised for the first time all day. Then, his smirk returns, and he props his chin on his hand, clearly amused. “You got some nerve,” he muses. 

“And you have the IQ of a fucking vegetable, but we’re still here.”

Sukuna huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Damn. What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“My panties in a twist?” you scoff, staring at him in pure disbelief. “You refuse to work, you talk shit about the way I look while I’m sitting right here, and you—”

“You are sitting right there, and you’re not really hot enough for me to notice.” he interrupts smoothly. “What, you want me to lie?” 

Your eye twitches. “You could at least pretend to have an ounce of human decency—”

“Pfft,” Sukuna snorts. “For you?” Your nostrils flare. Sukuna just grins. “Oh, come on,” he drawls, waving a hand. “You’re taking this way too personally.”

“How—” You press your fingers to your temples, inhaling sharply. “How else am I supposed to take it when you—”

“And you,” Sukuna counters casually, “are a fucking headache.” You slam your hand against the table, startling the people sitting nearby. “At least I’m a headache with a work ethic. You’re a pain in the ass and can’t focus for like what? 2 seconds? Without spacing out.”

“Congrats,” he deadpans. “You want a gold star?”

You want him to get hit by a bus. 

Sukuna shakes his head, leaning back again, still looking far too entertained. “Look, we both know you’re gonna do most of the work anyway,” he says lazily. “So why not just save yourself the stress and accept it?”

“Because this is a group project—”

“Yeah, and I’m in the group. So technically, that counts.” You inhale sharply, barely keeping yourself from lunging across the table.

“Swear to god, bro,” Sukuna snorts, having picked up his phone from where you’d slammed it down, resuming his call with Choso, “I got this chick sending me, like, three nudes back-to-back last night. Shit was insane.”

“You are,” you say, voice flat, “fucking disgusting.” Sukuna smirks, clearly thriving off your irritation. “Oh? Why, ‘cause I get pussy?”

“No,” you snap, willing for your cheeks not to redden with the way he speaks so crudely. “Because we’re supposed to be working.”

He hums, completely unbothered, before turning his focus back to his phone. “Relax. I got time.” You scoff. “Oh, so you do know how deadlines work?”

“Damn,” Sukuna mutters, shaking his head, lips curling into an annoyed frown. “You’re really pressed over this, huh?”

“This is not happening,” you mutter under your breath. “I am not about to let some oversized thug skate his way through a semester while I—”

“Thug?” Sukuna repeats, laughing. “You mean scholar? You hear that, Choso?” He puts his phone on speaker. “She just called me a thug.”

“Yeah, I heard,” Choso’s voice comes through the speaker, lazy and unbothered. “She’s right.” Sukuna snaps his head down at his phone. “The fuck?” 

You bark out a sharp laugh, your first real one of the evening. Sukuna rolls his eyes and hangs up, tossing his phone onto the table with an annoyed click of his tongue. “Choso’s a bitch,” he mutters.

“And you’re a waste of oxygen.” Sukuna grins at you. “You’re a piece of shit.” You snatch your textbook off the table and throw it at him, eye twitching when he easily manages to catch it.

“Oh my god, please kill yourself and do us all a favour” Sukuna laughs at that, tilting his head like he’s genuinely entertained by how close you are to losing your shit. “C’mon,” he drawls, placing his phone face-down on the table—finally giving you some attention. “Let’s hear it, then. What’s our big, bad, super important assignment?”

You exhale sharply, flipping open your notes. “It’s a research-based chemistry project. We’re supposed to choose a topic related to reaction mechanisms and provide a full breakdown of the process. That includes—”

Sukuna leans back. “Boring.” You snap your notebook shut again. “Oh my god.” He grins. “This is really your shit, huh?”

“What?”

“The nerdy little projects,” he teases, resting his chin on his hand. “Bet you’re thriving right now.” You glare. “I am thriving off the idea of you getting hit by a bus.” Sukuna just chuckles, shaking his head. “Violent,” he muses. “Didn’t think you had it in you.” You press your fingers against your temples. “I hate you.”

“Yeah?” He smirks. “That’s cute.” You inhale sharply. Exhale. Inhale again. This is fine. This is totally fine. He is just a guy. This is just a project. And you are not going to let him get under your skin. You open your notebook again, forcing yourself to focus. “Our topic is—”

Sukuna clicks his tongue. “Ooooor,” he interrupts, leaning forward with a lazy smirk, “you can just shut up and do it yourself.”

You pause. You blink at him, barely processing what he just said. He shrugs. “You’re good at this shit. I’m not. Seems fair.” Your jaw clenches. “Haven’t you gotten it through your thick skull? Even if I wanted to, we have to constantly update all the meeting logs, and–.”

Sukuna just smirks wider, cutting you off in true Sukuna fashion. “But it’d be so much easier if you did all of it, wouldn’t it? And those fucking collaboration logs can be faked.” You stare at him. You are going to lose your mind. You are actually going to lose your fucking mind. You inhale one last time, roll your shoulders back, and meet his gaze with renewed determination. “Let’s get one thing straight,” you say, voice sharp. “If you refuse to contribute, I will tell our professor. And you know that they take the reported behaviour for consideration the next time they mark a group assignment from literally any other class, yeah? ”

Sukuna snorts. “Snitch.” You glare harder. “I don’t care.” He clicks his tongue, shaking his head like you’re just so exhausting to deal with.

“Such a pain in the ass,” he mutters, stretching his arms above his head. “But whatever. We’ll see.” 

You stare him down. You know what that means. It means he has no intention of doing shit. You exhale slowly, clenching your jaw. This is going to be the longest semester of your life.

–

You try to keep your composure. You really, really do. But after a week of dealing with Ryomen fucking Sukuna, you’re already at your breaking point. It’s bad enough that he refuses to contribute anything to the project. Bad enough that every time you try to get him to focus, he leans back in his chair like some smug, insufferable prince, making a point to not listen.

“Oh, come on,” he drawls one day in class, stretching lazily in his seat while you sit next to him, barely keeping yourself from strangling him. His shirt rides up just a bit, flashing a sliver of tattooed skin– and a happy trail– and you look away on instinct. He deserves no admiration. “You love this shit. It’s kind of sweet, honestly. Doing all the work for me like this?”

Your grip tightens on your pen, knuckles going white. “I wouldn’t have to if you actually did your part, dumbass.”

Unfortunately, the guy was worse than you had anticipated, so begrudgingly, only once or twice you had taken up his slack, deeming that he wouldn’t get into too much trouble even if you complained to the professor. It wasn’t too bad considering it was just the introductory part of the project, but you would probably complain if he pulled this shit in the middle of the semester when things got serious. Sukuna just smirks. That smirk. The kind that makes you want to throw something at his face. “Do I, though?”

Your eye twitches. “Yes.”

“Because, from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve already taken care of most of it.” He gestures lazily to your open notes—your notes, where half the research under his name is written in your own handwriting because you were sick of waiting for him to do it. “Appreciate the help, baby.” Your jaw clenches. “You—”

You exhale sharply, fingers flexing against your notebook. You swear, if murder wasn’t illegal—

Across the table, Choso (They had been lounging here with him even before you had arrived, and you were sleep deprived and tired from the venture to the East wing from your dorm, so you kept your mouth shut about their presence) chuckles. “Damn, Sukuna,” he muses, lips quirking as he glances between the two of you. “She’s really out here doing your degree for you.” Toji snorts. “Shit, at this point, just put her name on your diploma.”

You snap your head toward them, scowling. “I’m not—”

“Oh, but you kinda are,” Sukuna interjects smoothly, smirking. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’ll make sure to give you a nice lil’ thank you when I graduate.” You glare. “I don’t want your fucking thanks. I want you to do your damn work.” Sukuna just clicks his tongue and leans back, propping his feet up on the chair next to him like he has not a single care in the world. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, so fucking dismissive. “We’ll see.”

—

It gets worse. Because apparently, refusing to do work and making you look like an idiot in front of his friends isn’t enough. No, of course not. Sukuna has to make sure you suffer. So, during one of your scheduled study sessions (during the most odd times of the day), while you’re actively trying to go over the research, Sukuna—in all his dickhead glory—leans back in his chair, tilts his head toward the nearest girl, and flashes that cocky, stupid toothy smile of his.

“Hey,” he purrs, voice dropping into that low, slow tone that has half the campus wrapped around his fucking finger. “You got a pencil?” The girl blinks—clearly flustered—before fumbling through her bag. “Uh—yeah! Yeah, here.” Sukuna smirks, taking it from her fingers way too slowly, thumb brushing against hers. The poor girl sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening like she’s just touched a live wire. He leans in just slightly, voice dropping to something just for her. “Thanks, cutie. Real lifesaver.”

The girl giggles, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. “You’re welcome, Sukuna.” You knew he was an asshole. You knew that his stupid, irritating grin made girls fall over themselves. But this? This was just blatant disrespect. You were right there. He was doing this on purpose. And sure enough, when you glance up, Sukuna’s already watching you—mouth twitching, eyes glinting with amusement. You slam your book shut. “Are you done?” Sukuna raises an eyebrow, playing dumb. “What?” You gesture vaguely toward the poor girl, who’s still blushing and dazed from his attention. “With your little… whatever this is?”

His smirk stretches wider. “Jealous?” 

Your nostrils flare. “I’m annoyed.” He hums, twirling the pencil between his fingers. “Could’ve fooled me.” You clench your fists under the table, swallowing the very real urge to dump your coffee on his head. You refuse—refuse—to let him get under your skin. So, instead, you take a breath, roll your shoulders back, and force your voice to stay level. “Are you actually going to contribute today, or should I just log that you didn’t show up?”

Sukuna laughs—loud and unbothered. “Damn,” he drawls, leaning forward on his elbows. “You’re kinda a hardass, huh?” You stare him down, unwavering. “And you’re a waste of fucking time.” His grin widens, something sharper, meaner curling at the edges of it.

“Now, that’s just mean,” he muses, tapping the pencil against the table. “What happened, sweetheart? You just pissed off, or do you just need to get fucked? Seriously with the way you act so fuckin’ bitchy all the time, I swear you act like you haven’t had dick in ages.”

You still for half a second. Then your jaw locks. Your entire body runs hot, blood boiling, because what the fuck? You’re already on edge, and now he’s going there? You let out a short, sharp laugh, shaking your head. “You speak so disgustingly, you know that? So weird and perverted...” Sukuna leans back again, sprawled out, totally relaxed. “What? I’m just saying.” He gestures vaguely in your direction. “Maybe that’s why you’re so uptight all the time.” Across the room, the girl from earlier glances over, eyes flicking between you and Sukuna like she’s witnessing something amusing. You refuse to give her—or him—the satisfaction. You inhale sharply, steadying yourself. And then, voice cold and clipped, you meet his gaze dead-on.

“Do your fucking work, Sukuna.” He grins. And then, of course, he doesn’t.

–

The lecture hall is freezing, the air-conditioning cranked too high like the university is trying to keep students awake through sheer environmental hostility. It doesn’t work. You’re exhausted. After back-to-back shifts at work, an avalanche of coursework, and the black hole of stress that is your chem project with Sukuna, you’re running on fumes. The moment you step into the lecture hall, your eyes instinctively scan for the back row. If—when—you inevitably start nodding off, you don’t want the professor clocking it. You sink into a chair near the corner, stretching your legs out with a sigh. Heavy-lidded eyes drift toward the front, barely focusing on the professor setting up slides. You could close your eyes just for a second—

The seat next to you creaks. A familiar presence drops beside you, and you know who it is before you even turn your head. Sukuna. Of course. You don’t acknowledge him. Maybe if you ignore him, he’ll take the hint and—

His knee knocks against yours, jostling you just as your head dips forward. Your body tenses, and you snap a glare in his direction. He’s manspreading like he owns the place, legs sprawled wide, one arm slung over the back of your chair like this is his personal space and not a public lecture hall. He’s wearing one of those long-sleeve compression shirts that clings to his frame, every inked line of muscle pressing against the fabric. Not that you care. But the sheer arrogance of it is annoying. You scowl, shifting as far away from him as possible. “Why are you here?”

“Dunno,” he drawls, voice low and amused. “Felt like it.”  You roll your eyes and turn back toward the front, trying to focus on the professor’s voice. Your brain is barely keeping up with the lecture, exhaustion pressing against your skull like a weight. Sukuna doesn’t let up. He leans in just enough to make his presence known. “Damn,” he muses, eyes dragging over your face with something unreadable. “You look rough. Didn’t get the chance to put on concealer or whatever you women use to cover up that?” The words land heavier than they should. It’s the way he says it. Careless. Blunt. No humor to soften the edge.  And you know you’re not ugly– the opposite in fact, but–

Your face drops before you can stop it. You don’t have the energy to fight back today. You just swallow whatever sharp retort you could say, fix your gaze on the front of the lecture hall, and pretend like he doesn’t exist.  Sukuna notices. For the first time in ever, he doesn’t get the reaction he expects. No snark, no glare, no half-assed insult thrown back at him. Just… silence. You don’t even look at him. Something weird stirs in his chest, something unfamiliar and fucking irritating. It sits in the back of his throat, in the pit of his stomach, but he ignores it—brushes it off like it’s nothing. He doesn’t say another word for the rest of class.

–

By the time the second week of working with Sukuna rolls around, you’re wrecked. Sleep-deprived, overworked, running purely on caffeine and sheer spite. Between your job, your other classes, and this hellish project, there isn’t a single moment to breathe. You’ve been taking shifts at work to make rent, pulling late nights cramming for exams, and somehow, despite your best efforts, Sukuna is still making your life miserable. The last thing you need is another study session with him. You drag yourself into the East Wing Library, exhausted and bitter about it. The East Wing is so far from your usual haunts, practically on the other side of campus, and the walk here in the late afternoon heat is hellish. You mumble complaints under your breath the entire way—something about how your feet hurt, how this library is ugly anyway, how he should’ve come to your spot instead—but you know Sukuna won’t care. He probably won’t even listen.

Sure enough, he’s already lounging at one of the study tables when you arrive, acting like he’s been here for hours when in reality, he probably sat down two minutes ago. He’s slouched in his chair, all sprawled out and insufferable, wearing that same damn compression shirt that makes him look more like a gym rat than a student. His legs are spread so wide he’s practically taking up half the table. In fact, the table looks small compared to how long his legs are. You resist the urge to drop your bag onto his lap just to make him move. Instead, you sink into the chair across from him and immediately rest your forehead against your palm. “Kill me,” you mutter.

Sukuna barely acknowledges you. “You look like you’re already halfway there.”

You sigh heavily. You don’t even have the energy to glare at him. “Gee, thanks.” He’s watching you. You can feel it. That lazy, assessing stare, like he’s about to say something that’ll make you want to slap him. Something that’ll make that weird, uncomfortable feeling go down your spine.

And then—

Nothing. You brace yourself for the insult, for the inevitable Damn, you look fucked up but it never comes. He just clicks his tongue, looking back at his laptop screen, eyebrows furrowed. You squint at him. Weird. But whatever. You don’t have the time or patience to dissect the mysteries of Ryomen Sukuna’s behavior. You flip open your notes, rubbing at your eyes. “Okay, let’s just get this over with,” you mumble. “I still have an essay to write after this.”

Sukuna stretches, the fabric of his compression shirt shifting as he raises his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, revealing a sliver of inked skin carved just above his hip. You don’t mean to notice, but you do—because of course, he’s the type of asshole who shows off his tattoos like they’re a personality trait. You snap your eyes away before he catches you looking. “Relax, woman,” he drawls, voice dripping with lazy amusement. “No need to be so fucking tense.”

Your grip tightens around your pen. Woman? Again? You level him with an exasperated glare. “Tense? I’ve been doing our project by myself while you sit on your ass, and I’m the one who’s tense?” You scoff. “And stop calling me woman, you sound like you get life advice from Andrew Tate.” That earns you a sharp, wolfish grin. “Are you not a woman?” he counters smoothly, tilting his head. Before you can answer, his eyes deliberately drop—slow, pointed—trailing down to your chest. He doesn’t even try to be subtle about it, and the sheer audacity of this man has you gaping at him, heat rushing to your face in a mixture of anger and secondhand embarrassment. Your jaw clenches, your hands curling into fists beneath the table. “Are you fucking serious?” you grit out, voice low and sharp.

Sukuna just smirks, lazy and unbothered, flicking his eyes back up to yours with a knowing look. “What? Just checking.”

You resist the urge to lunge across the table and strangle him on the spot. Just breathe. Don’t get expelled for homicide. 

“Also, Andrew Tate? Seriously, woman? What, you think I’d listen to a broke, bald bitch like him?” Sukuna leans forward, arms resting on the table, shoulders broad and imposing. “You’ve got some real shitty assumptions about me.”

“I’ve got accurate assumptions about you,” you correct.

He just smirks. “You say that like I’ve done nothing.”

You glare harder. “You have done nothing.”

“Have I?” he challenges, cocking a brow. He tilts his laptop screen toward you, and there, staring back at you, is a shockingly filled-out document. Your eyes flicker across the paragraphs—coherent, formatted, and even cited.

You blink. Pause. Stare at him like he’s just grown another head. Because for the past week, this man has contributed exactly two sentences to the project. “…And?” you say, deadpan. “What do you want? A gold star? A participation trophy?” Sukuna leans back, manspreading like the chair was custom-built just for him. “Don’t need validation from you, sweetheart.”

“Good,” you shoot back. “Because you’re not getting any.” He lets out an exaggerated sigh, rubbing a hand down his face like you’re the exhausting one here. “Look, I don’t see what the big deal is. The project’s coming along fine.” You inhale sharply. Count to five. Resist the urge to fling your notebook at his fat head. “It’s coming along fine because I’ve been doing all the work.”

Sukuna shrugs, unconcerned. “Teamwork makes the dream work.” You stare at him. A long, silent, murderous stare. 

“You make me wanna end my life,” you finally say, voice utterly devoid of emotion. He grins, teeth sharp and infuriating. “I know.” You exhale slowly through your nose, willing yourself not to commit homicide. Instead, you rub your temples and look back at your notes. “Let’s just finish this. I don’t want to be here all night.” Sukuna hums, tapping at his laptop. “You sound so eager to spend time with me. Desperate?”

“Oh, absolutely,” you deadpan. “It’s the highlight of my week.”

“I knew it.” He smirks. “You wanna spend the night with me, hmm? Naughty.”

You actually throw a pen at him this time. He dodges effortlessly, laughing under his breath. “Fucking finally,” you mutter. “Maybe now you’ll shut—”

“Shhh!”

You both freeze. The librarian—an older woman with a stern face and sharp eyes—is glaring at you from the front desk. You and Sukuna exchange glances. “You’re the one being loud,” you whisper harshly. Sukuna raises an eyebrow. “I’m the one being loud?”

“Yes, you—”

“Out.” The librarian’s voice cuts through the air like a blade. You and Sukuna both go silent.  And then—

“…Shit,” Sukuna mutters, closing his laptop. You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “You are such a waste of time.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He stands, stretching. “Let’s go, dumbass. You can yell at me somewhere else.” You glare at him as you gather your things. “I will be yelling at you somewhere else.” Sukuna smirks, shoving his hands into his pockets as he saunters toward the exit. “Can’t wait.” You storm out of the library with Sukuna trailing behind you, still looking disgustingly relaxed for someone who just got thrown out of a public study space. You wish she had thrown him out alone. “Dick,” you mutter under your breath, shoving your laptop into your bag as you walk. Your head throbs with exhaustion, and the last thing you need is him making this night even worse.

Behind you, Sukuna hums, amused. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Your steps falter for half a second before you pick up the pace again. He, of course, notices. "You're so fucking touchy today," he drawls, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he strolls beside you, the very picture of unbothered arrogance. "On your period?" Your eye twitches. You suck in a sharp breath through your nose, gripping the strap of your bag so hard it might snap. "Okay, we're going to the study lounge near my dorm," you say, tone clipped.

Sukuna groans. Loudly. Like you're torturing him. 

"The hell? Why?"

"Because you got us kicked out," you snap. "And we haven’t even done half of what we were supposed to get through today." Sukuna clicks his tongue in irritation but doesn’t argue further, shoving his hands into his pockets as he follows behind you. His pace is slower than yours, like this entire walk is beneath him, like he’s graciously putting up with it. You can practically feel his annoyance radiating off of him, thick and palpable in the evening air.

The east wing is far. Too far. You’re used to it by now—your classes are scattered across campus, your dorm inconveniently placed, and your schedule an absolute disaster. Between balancing coursework, shifts at your part-time job, and somehow squeezing in study sessions, your days bleed into each other in a never-ending cycle of exhaustion. And because Sukuna’s the most infuriating person alive, he’s been forcing you to make this trek every damn day, dragging you out to the main library just so he can half-ass his way through this project in a space that he prefers. You’ve followed along because you refuse to let this assignment tank, but every second spent with him is another test of patience you’re not sure you’ll pass. So when, predictably, about ten minutes into the walk, he lets out an exaggerated, loud huff of irritation, you already know something stupid is about to leave his mouth.

"Are we still walking?" he grumbles, scowling at the path ahead. "This is taking so fucking long." Your eye twitches. You keep walking, fists clenched at your sides, trying—trying—to ignore him. But he doesn’t stop. Because of course he doesn’t.

"This is stupid," he mutters. "Should've just stayed at the fucking library. Or better yet, we could’ve just worked at my place—"

And that’s it. That’s the last straw. You snap.

"I do this every day because of you!"

The words come out harsher, sharper than you intended, but you don’t care. You whirl around to glare at him, eyes blazing, voice rising louder than it should, this late at night. "You think this is taking too fucking long? You made me do this every night. You insisted on working at the damn library. You refuse to meet anywhere else because apparently, my dorm study lounge isn’t good enough for you!" You huff out a breath, heart pounding in your chest. "So yeah, Sukuna, it is a long walk. And guess what? I do this every single day while you sit on your ass and complain!" Sukuna stops mid-step. His mouth is half-open, clearly ready to throw some cocky remark back at you—except nothing comes out. For once, he’s quiet. That, more than anything, unnerves you. But you don’t stick around to decipher the look on his face. You turn back around and keep walking, jaw clenched, shoulders tense, because if you don’t, you might actually lose your mind. And this project isn’t worth a murder charge.

Sukuna watches as you keep walking, your back rigid with frustration, your fingers curled so tightly around the strap of your bag it looks like the only thing anchoring you upright. It’s only now, in the dim glow of the overhead lights of the university hallways, that he actually sees you. The exhaustion carved deep into the lines of your face, etched into the tight pull of your brows and the faint downturn of your lips. The way your steps drag just slightly, like your body is moments away from giving in but you refuse to let it. The dark circles beneath your eyes, barely concealed by whatever concealer you must’ve swiped on this morning. 

(Yes, you ended up feeling the tiniest bit hurt and put some on the next time you saw him)

You look tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a late night or an early morning. No, this is the exhaustion that settles deep in your bones, that lingers even after you’ve slept, the kind that never really leaves. And then there’s something else—something off. It’s not like you to get this quiet after snapping at him. Normally, you’d keep going, pushing, throwing words at him like knives, sharp and ruthless, waiting for him to hurl them right back. That’s how it’s always been between you two. You say something snarky, he says something worse. You get pissed off, he laughs. It’s a cycle. A game.

But right now? Right now, you don’t fight. You don’t even look at him. Sukuna exhales sharply through his nose, irritation flickering beneath his skin—but it’s not directed at you. Not this time. He shoves his hands in his pockets, jaw clenching, his usual smirk nowhere to be seen. And for the rest of the walk, he doesn’t say a word. No complaints. No grumbling. No sarcastic remarks. Just silence.

–

The place is smaller than the library, tucked into the corner of your dorm building, but at least it’s quiet. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, and only a few other students are scattered around, focused on their own work. You drop into a chair unceremoniously, opening your laptop with a sigh. Sukuna takes the seat across from you, stretching his legs out obnoxiously under the table until they almost bump into yours. You kick him. He smirks. “Feisty.”

"Shut up."

For the next half hour, you work in silence. Sukuna pretends to read something on his screen, but you can feel his eyes flicking to you every so often, assessing. You try not to think about it. It’s quiet for a moment, and then—

"You formatted this wrong," he says.  Your head snaps up. "What?" Sukuna tilts his screen toward you, pointing lazily at a section of your document. "The citation. APA, not MLA, genius."  You stare at him, brows knitting together. "Why the hell do you know that?" Sukuna shrugs, leaning back in his chair. "What, you think you're the only one with a functioning brain?"

"Functioning is a strong word," you mutter, fixing the citation. He snorts, but then, because he’s him, he adds, “I mean, makes sense you’d fuck that up. You look half-dead.” Your eye twitches. "And you look like a walking midlife crisis, but you don't hear me pointing it out every two seconds." Sukuna grins, sharp and unrepentant. “Liar. You know I look good.”

“Ugly.”

“Sexy.”

"Say that again and I'll stab you with my pen." 

It’s late by the time you finally close your laptop, rubbing at your temples. The day has dragged on forever, and the last thing you want is to keep dealing with him. You shove your things into your bag, ready to leave, when Sukuna—still leaned back in his chair, still looking infuriatingly relaxed—says, "Tch. Whatever. We’ll just meet here next time." You pause. Blink at him. "Huh?" He doesn’t look at you when he says it, like this entire conversation is so beneath him. "The hell, are you deaf? I said we’ll just meet here next time. Less walking." You stare, uncertain of what to make of that. Of him saying anything at all.

Then—

"Uh. Okay," you mumble. Sukuna snorts, pushing himself up from his chair, rolling his shoulders like this entire night has been a mild inconvenience to him and nothing more. “Try not to die of exhaustion before then.”

You flip him off.

He grins.

–

The dorm study lounge in your building isn’t anything special—just a couple of couches, a cluster of wobbly desks, and chairs that groan when anyone shifts. But it’s quiet, it’s close, and more importantly, it’s not the goddamn East Wing library. You’re already seated with your laptop open when Sukuna strolls in like he owns the place, hoodie thrown over his shoulder, compression shirt clinging to him in that casually smug way that makes you want to set your notebook on fire.

“Damn. You live like this?” he says instead of greeting, glancing around at the peeling posters and flickering overhead light.

“You’ve been here three times now,” you mutter, not looking up. “Get over it.” To your surprise, he actually sits down and opens his laptop. No dramatic sighs, no drawn-out complaints. Just pulls up the shared doc and starts typing. You side-eye him suspiciously. “Wait. You’re actually doing work?”

Sukuna doesn’t even look at you. “Told you I’m not completely useless.”

“You literally did none of the intro. Or the background research. Or the—”

He turns slightly, eyes narrowed. “Jesus. You want me to write your acknowledgements too?”

You roll your eyes and keep typing, but you can’t help the way your gaze flicks back to his screen every so often. He’s doing it. Slowly, a little messily, but he’s actually doing the work. You hate how that’s kind of impressive. The door creaks open an hour in and Toji saunters in with a protein bar in one hand and Choso trailing behind him, hoodie half-on like he got distracted putting it on. “Yo,” Toji says, tossing himself onto the arm of your chair like there’s no concept of personal space. “This where the grind’s happening?” 

Choso raises a brow at Sukuna. “Didn’t think you actually meant it when you said you were working on your project.” Sukuna scoffs, not even looking up from the screen. “Don’t start.” They pull up chairs, half-invited, half-ignored. Somehow, you end up the only person who seems to be actually working while the other three devolve into semi-productive chaos. Eventually, the conversation drifts—like it always does when boys are left alone with too much time and not enough supervision.

“Yo, did you see that blonde on the cheer squad last game?” Toji starts, popping open a protein bar like it’s part of the ritual. “The one with the ribbon thing in her hair. Face card was solid.” Choso smirks, still half-focused on his phone. “I think she followed me on Insta. Or her friend did. Can’t tell—cheer girls got that same face filter thing going on.”

You hum under your breath, noncommittal. You’ve learned how to tune this out. Let the background noise of testosterone and ego bounce off while you focus on your screen. But then—

Choso glances up, flicking his gaze between you and Sukuna like he’s just had a thought worth sharing. “Actually… Sukuna’s got the best deal out of all of us.” You pause your typing. Slightly. Toji quirks a brow. “How you figure?”

“He gets to sit across from her every day,” Choso says casually, jerking his chin in your direction. “Dude’s been staring at that face for what, like a week straight?” Your head snaps up. “Excuse me?”

Choso lifts both hands in mock surrender. “Just saying. When you’re not chewing him out, you’re actually kinda—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Just gives a slow, meaningfully raised brow like the conclusion is obvious. Toji lets out a low whistle, the corner of his mouth twitching. “No, wait—he’s right. You’ve got that whole mean girl, academic weapon, doesn’t-look-up-in-lectures thing going on.” You just blink at them, caught somewhere between wanting to melt into your chair or hurl your laptop at both their heads. Sukuna, up until now half-listening while scrolling on his screen, exhales like this whole conversation is beneath him. “Shut the fuck up.” His voice is flat. Lazy. Like he's bored with their entire existence. But his eyes flick up—and linger on you just a beat too long. There’s no smirk. No wink. Just that unreadable look again. Heavy-lidded. Slightly narrowed.

Toji raises a brow. “Struck a nerve?” Choso glances between you and Sukuna, curious now. “Damn. Didn’t know you were the territorial type.” Sukuna doesn’t even rise to it. Just drags a hand through his hair and mutters, “You idiots hear yourselves talk?” That seems to be enough. Toji snorts and mutters a half-apology under his breath. “Alright, alright. Chill.”

Choso shrugs. “She’s still bad though. No take-backs.” You clear your throat and mutter, “Thanks… I guess?”

No one hears it except Sukuna, whose gaze shifts back to his laptop—but his ears are slightly pink now. Not that he’d admit it. And just like that, the boys forget they ever had a filter. They’re back to talking about the football coach and some frat party coming up next weekend. You, meanwhile, keep your eyes glued to your screen—but your skin feels hotter, like that look Sukuna gave you never quite left. You try to refocus on your screen, but your heart’s still thudding in your chest in a way you hate. You don’t want to be flustered. Especially not over Sukuna, who has the emotional depth of a spoon. Still, when the session winds down and Toji and Choso finally get bored and wander off, Sukuna leans back and says, with the same bored tone he uses when talking about the weather, “I’ll see you here again next week. I’ll finish up some of the work at my place before I come, so we don’t hafta sit here on our asses long enough for these idiots to show up again.”

You blink. “Uh… okay.” He doesn’t wait for a response. Just slings his bag over his shoulder, walks off like he hasn’t just stunned you into silence with the barest sliver of consideration, and mutters under his breath on the way out:

“Better chairs anyway.” You stare after him. Annoyed. Confused. Unsettled. Slightly amused. And a little less sure about how much of a dick he really is.

–

It’s been three weeks since you started meeting in the dorm building’s study lounge. The sessions are no less exhausting, but they’ve become… bearable. You still argue. He’s still insufferable. But Sukuna actually does the work now. Not without the occasional passive-aggressive comment or that maddening little smirk when he catches you getting flustered. But he contributes. Sometimes he even takes initiative—like today, when you arrived and found he’d already opened the shared doc and annotated the latest journal article. Miracles, apparently, do happen.

You're both seated on opposite sides of the same table, a precarious peace holding between the clack of your keys and the scratch of his pen against paper. Sukuna's in a black hoodie—which really emphasises how broad his shoulders are–paired with some low-slung sweatpants. He’s got one leg up on the chair, knee almost brushing the table’s underside, completely manspreaded in a way that takes up far more space than necessary. Typical. You’ve tuned it all out. Almost. The only sound in the lounge is the soft hum of the vending machine and the low rustle of paper. That is, until your phone buzzes.

You glance down.

[8:37 PM] Yuna:

pls tell me ur free next friday night frat party at Theta house i need a plus one u owe meee

You pause. Theta house. The name sparks something in your brain—a half-formed association, faint and unimportant until now. You’ve heard it muttered in passing, caught glimpses of its parties plastered all over people’s Instagram stories. Flashy. Loud. Too many red solo cups and too little self-respect. But more importantly: it rings a specific bell. Something familiar. Your eyes flicker back to the message on your screen, rereading Yuna’s plea. Your brows furrow. You bite the inside of your cheek, lips tugging downward as you try to decide if this is worth the impending social fatigue, or if you can just ghost her and fake a fever. Maybe a paper cut. Across the table, the scratch of pen on paper falters. You don’t even notice until Sukuna’s voice cuts in, sharp and dry. 

“What’re you making that face for?” he asks without looking up. Flat, disinterested, like your expression is an inconvenience. You blink, mildly startled. “...What face?”

“That weird one.” He finally lifts his head, narrowing his eyes at you with vague irritation. “Like you just found out you forgot to pay your car registration or somethin’.” Your mouth opens, closes. “It’s just a text,” you say eventually, letting out a quiet sigh as you flip your phone facedown. “My friend’s dragging me to a frat party next week. She needs a plus-one.” At that, Sukuna stills. Not dramatically. Just... a subtle pause. His elbow stops bouncing. His pen hovers above the page.

“What frat?” he asks. The question is casual, but his gaze sharpens ever so slightly. You hesitate. “…Theta house. I think.”

He snorts. Loud and unmistakable. “That’s mine.” 

Your head snaps up. “What?”

He leans back lazily, one arm thrown over the back of the chair, looking maddeningly relaxed. “Theta. That’s my frat. Toji, mine and Cho’s. Didn’t ya know? They were talkin’ about it before.” You blink, momentarily at a loss. The realization hits with a muted thud—of course. It all makes sense now. The flashy parties, the obnoxiously loud music every other weekend, the guys who walk around campus with too much cologne and too few responsibilities. Of course he lives there.

“Oh,” you say finally. It hangs there—awkward, brittle, like a glass ornament someone forgot to put away after Christmas. You both look back down at your notes, pretending the moment never happened. You reread the same sentence in your textbook three times and still can’t register what it says. The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it isn’t comfortable either. Just... weird. Like there’s something in the air that neither of you wants to acknowledge. Then, after a minute, Sukuna exhales slowly and leans further back in his seat.

“You should swing by,” he says offhandedly. So casual it sounds like a throwaway line.

You glance up. “Huh?”

“The party,” he says, eyes flicking briefly toward you, then back to the ceiling. “Your friend’s already going. Might as well.” You study him. His expression is unreadable—calm, indifferent. No trace of smugness, no expectation behind the offer. It’s almost too nonchalant. Like he wouldn’t care either way. You narrow your eyes a little. “Are you… inviting me?”

He shrugs. “You’re not special. I’m inviting everyone.” Your lips twitch at that, but you don’t call him out. “Right. Of course.”

Still, you hear your voice soften slightly. 

“I’ll think about it.”

Sukuna hums in response, eyes drifting downward—right to your hoodie, baggy enough to cover you from neck to knee, sleeves tugged over your hands. You can practically see the judgment forming. “Just don’t show up dressed like this,” he mutters, the corner of his mouth twitching. You snort before you can stop yourself. A short, surprised laugh bursts out of you. “Seriously?”

He gives you a deadpan look. “It’s a party, not a cult meeting.” You raise your brows, amused. “Clearly, you don’t know me at all if you think I dress like this everywhere.” Sukuna tilts his head, studying you like you just issued a challenge. “So you do have real clothes.”

“I’m a woman of mystery,” you say smugly, folding your arms. “You don’t get to know.” A rare smirk twitches onto his face—brief, dry, almost like he’s trying not to be amused. “That sounds like a yes.” You roll your eyes, grabbing your highlighter again. “Focus on organic chemistry, casanova.”

He chuckles under his breath but doesn’t argue, returning to his notes. The mood shifts again—easy now, fluid in a way you didn’t expect. The banter lingers, like a residue in the air, and for once, you don’t feel like you’re dodging landmines when you speak. You work in silence for a while longer, but it’s not the same brittle quiet from before. It’s something softer. Settled. And maybe—for just a second—it doesn’t feel like you’re enemies anymore. Not friends, either. But not enemies. When you finally pack up for the night, Sukuna doesn’t say anything. He just slings his bag over his shoulder, glances at you once, then jerks his chin toward the door like let’s go. You fall into step beside him, not speaking, the click of the lounge door swinging shut behind you.  You don’t even know how it happened. How somehow he waited for you by the staircase that led up to your dorms before departing back to where he lived. The hallway is quiet. The air, cool and crisp, smells faintly of late-night ramen and floor cleaner. You say nothing. But somehow, that moment stretches longer than it should. And it stays with you. All the way back to your dorm.

–

“Yu— I don’t know,” you say, pulling at one of the spaghetti straps of your top and glancing at your reflection in her full-length mirror, “I like wearing shit like this but… don’t you think it’s too much for a frat party?” Your voice comes out unsure, tinged with that all-too-familiar pre-party doubt that creeps in five minutes before you’re supposed to leave. You’re still adjusting the fabric over your chest—this stupid, tiny top that clings a little too perfectly to your figure, exposing just enough skin to make you question if you’ll even make it through the front door without second-guessing everything. The bra underneath? Completely unintentional. You didn’t even mean to match it—had just grabbed something clean and vaguely push-up-ish from the drawer, but of course, it had to be your most expensive set. Lacy, pink, and not remotely subtle. Victoria’s Secret, you realize with mild betrayal, had made your boobs look criminally good. Like, pause-a-man’s-conversation good.

The top itself wasn’t the issue—it was cropped, sure, but cute. Flimsy fabric and soft color, something you could probably dress down if you were pairing it with anything other than this damn skirt. The skirt was what had you feeling like you were in over your head. And it wasn’t even yours. It was Yuna’s. A distressed, light-wash denim mini that was practically a belt. It hugged every curve, curved a little more than you were used to, and sat low enough on your hips to make you feel a tiny bit scandalous with every breath. If you shifted too fast, it felt like it’d ride up and expose everything. And with the panties that came with your VS set—thin, lacy, and technically classified as lingerie—you felt dangerously close to flashing someone if the wind so much as thought about picking up.

“I look like I’m trying to seduce someone’s dad,” you mutter.

“Oh my god,” Yuna gasps from behind you, eyes wide as she stops in her tracks. “You look so fucking hot. I’m not hearing any complaints about this.” She spins you around, hands on your shoulders as she takes in the full outfit like she’s styling you for a Vogue shoot. Her perfectly manicured fingers trail to the hem of your skirt, and with a gleam in her eye, she gives your butt a dramatic, playful slap.

You glare at her. “Can you not grope me right now?”

“Sorry,” she says, completely unapologetic. “You just look so good. Like, painfully good. Like—‘oops, I just made that guy trip over a keg because I walked by’ good.” You attempt to give her your best unimpressed stare, but it’s hard to hold when she looks that excited—and especially when she’s standing there in a sparkly, strapless top that’s practically glued to her skin and a skirt shorter than yours. Not to mention the rhinestone eyeliner and lip gloss she reapplied twice already. You sigh, defeated, because if she looked hot, and you looked hot, maybe it wasn’t the worst idea to just embrace it.

“Ugh, okay, fine,” you mutter. “You look sexy too.”

“So do you,” she grins, squeezing your wrist before spinning toward the mirror to grab her purse. “We’re gonna be the baddest bitches there.”

You snort. “That’s not exactly a high bar. I saw someone show up to one of these in a Pikachu onesie.”

“Exactly,” she says, throwing a jacket over her shoulder. “We’ll be legends by comparison.” Despite yourself, you laugh—and when you turn back to the mirror, something about the reflection feels less terrifying than it did five minutes ago. The outfit was bold, sure. But with Yuna beside you, her energy electric and effortless, you could feel yourself slipping into that mindset, too. The one where you were allowed to be hot without apologizing for it. You slip on your shoes, grab your phone, and follow Yuna out of the dorm. The hallway’s quiet, dimly lit with that weird yellow lighting all college buildings have after 10 PM. You both walk down to the street where your Uber is already waiting, music faintly thumping from the frat row just a few blocks away. And for once, you’re not dreading it. You’re a little nervous, maybe. But with your favorite person beside you, in outfits that could start wars, heading into a night with no plans other than chaos—you’re ready.

The Uber ride is a blur of Yuna’s makeup touch-ups, last-minute accessory debates, and Spotify blaring a throwback remix that has both of you scream-singing the chorus. The nerves in your stomach ease up a little more with each passing minute. Maybe it’s the way Yuna keeps hyping you up or how good the outfit actually looks under the glow of the passing streetlights—but by the time the car pulls up in front of Theta house, you’re no longer on the verge of changing outfits or ghosting the night entirely. The frat house looms ahead like every other frat house you’ve ever seen—loud music already spilling out from the open door, string lights tangled across the porch, people clustered out front with red cups in hand like it’s a high school movie come to life. You can hear someone whoop as a beer pong shot lands across the front lawn, and someone else yells “Take it off!” from an upstairs window. 

Yuna’s eyes sparkle. “Home sweet home,” she says, linking her arm through yours. Inside, it’s chaotic—but weirdly cozy. Warm. The air smells like cheap beer, cologne, and weed, the floors already sticky under your heels. There’s a crowd around the living room-turned-dance-floor, another bottlenecking at the kitchen where a keg is set up beside a counter full of jungle juice and liquor. You spot a couple of people you vaguely know from class or mutuals through Yuna—most of them already tipsy, greeting her with hugs and loud compliments. Someone hands you a drink you don’t ask for, and you take it anyway, sipping something vaguely fruity and deceptively strong. The thrum of music settles in your chest, rattling the floorboards beneath your feet, and for the first time in weeks—maybe even months—you feel something close to relaxed. You’re halfway to the kitchen to grab a chaser when it happens.

You turn a corner and bump into someone—shoulder to chest. Solid. Firm. Tall enough that you instinctively glance up before you even register who it is.

Sukuna. He looks down at you, expression unreadable for a moment—until his eyes very obviously drop from your face to the low neckline of your top. And linger. There’s the barest flicker of something—surprise? amusement?—in his eyes, but it’s gone too fast to confirm. You step back, blinking. “Oh my god. You are so weird.”

He lifts a brow. “Excuse me?”

“You’re literally checking me out like I’m a Victoria’s Secret window display,” you deadpan, tugging your top slightly higher—not that it helps much.

“You wore that and expected no one to look?” he says, voice dry and annoyingly smooth. His eyes flick lazily down again. “Also, hate to break it to you, but your bra’s doing a lot of heavy lifting right now.”

You scoff. “You’re actually such a freak.” He shrugs, tilting the water bottle in his hand toward you. “Not denying it.” You’re about to roll your eyes and walk away, but then he says it—so nonchalantly it barely registers at first.

“You look nice, though.”

You freeze mid-step.

“…What?”

His mouth quirks up slightly, like he didn’t just toss a grenade into the conversation. “You heard me.” 

You stare at him, trying to gauge if he’s mocking you. But there’s no smug grin, no teasing lilt. Just that lazy drawl, that unreadable expression that always keeps you guessing. You fold your arms, shifting your weight to one hip. “Well,” you say slowly, “clearly you don’t know what to do when I’m not wearing my usual two layers of oversized fabric.”

Sukuna snorts. “Thought you were gonna roll up in your campus hoodie again. Kind of a shame, actually. I miss how it swallowed your whole body. You looked like a walking laundry pile.”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“I try.”

You take a slow sip from your drink, hiding the small grin tugging at your lips. “So this is what you’re like when you’re not being the biggest dick on the planet.”

“I’m not the biggest dick, although I’d say I have the biggest dick” he retorts with a snicker. “You’re just distracting now.”

You blink. “Distracting?”

He shrugs again, way too casual about the whole thing. “You look good. I’m not blind.” You glance around to make sure no one’s listening, then mutter, “You’re way more tolerable when there’s alcohol involved.”

“Yeah?” He raises an eyebrow. “You’re way more tolerable when you’re not scowling at me for breathing too loud.” You glare. “That happened once.”

“It happened twice.”

“Once,” you insist.

He just smirks and takes a sip from the water bottle in his hands. His gaze flicks past you, toward the hallway, and he jerks his chin slightly. “Come on. I’ll introduce you to some people who won’t talk about your bra.” You narrow your eyes. “Is that your idea of an apology?”

He smirks again, already walking off. “Take it or leave it.” You roll your eyes and follow—only because your drink’s almost empty and the kitchen’s in that direction anyway. Obviously. And maybe—just maybe—because being around him like this, when he’s not being a complete jackass, isn’t the worst thing in the world. At least not tonight. Sukuna leads you through the crowd like he’s done this a million times before—which he probably has. You catch a couple of people eyeing him as he walks by, and you wonder if it’s because he’s hot or because he radiates that unapproachable energy like it’s cologne.

“This is…?” someone asks when you both approach a small group gathered around a tall keg table. He jerks a thumb toward you lazily. “My chem partner.” You resist the urge to roll your eyes at the title. “Hi,” you say instead, a little wave as you flash a quick grin.

“Yo, you’re in Shimizu’s class too? That woman’s a menace.”

“Tell me about it,” you groan. “I swear she adds extra steps to procedures just for fun.” Someone laughs. “You actually talk to her? I just fake nod through half of her lectures.” You slip into conversation easily after that, bouncing off the group's energy. You’ve always been extroverted when you’re comfortable, and it’s oddly easy here, surrounded by strangers who are just buzzed enough to be nice. It’s even easier when you catch Sukuna watching the group banter from a short distance, sipping from his water bottle again, his expression unreadable.  You break away to get another drink, winding toward the makeshift bar on the patio. The music's loud, the air sticky with alcohol and cologne, and just as you reach for a clean cup, a shoulder brushes into yours.

“Shit—”

You turn, and there he is again. Ryomen Sukuna. Up close this time. “Jesus, what is your problem?” you mutter, looking up at him. “Do you teleport?” He looks unfazed. “You walked into me.”

You snort. “You walked into me.”

He doesn’t argue. Just leans slightly back and lets his eyes flick down, over your outfit, and—yep. Not subtle. Not even trying to be. Your eyes narrow. 

“You’re such a creep. I don’t care if I’m slightly drunk, I can definitely tell you’re staring at my boobs.” He scoffs, openly amused. “Well, sorry. I’m a man. And those are practically fighting for their lives in that top.” You gasp, smacking his arm. “You’re disgusting.”

He shrugs. “And you’re the one who wore it. Don’t act surprised people are looking.” You roll your eyes but the corner of your mouth twitches. “Whatever. At least I can pull it off.”

“Who said you couldn’t?”

You pause for half a second too long. Then you glare. “You’re pissing me off.”

“And you’re drunk,” he retorts, smirking.

“I’m not drunk yet. You’d know if I was drunk.”

“Oh?” He raises a brow. “What, do you start crying or something?”

“No,” you scoff. “I just get… more honest.”

“Terrifying.” You give him a sweet smile that’s anything but. “What, afraid I’ll hurt your little ego?” He looks down at you—really looks. Like he's taking in the pink flush in your cheeks, the glint in your eye, the way you don't back down even when he’s standing so damn close.

“Nah,” he says. “My ego’s huge.”

You blink. “...That’s not as reassuring as you think it is.”

He laughs, low and dry, then tilts his bottle at you in mock cheers before walking off again. You stand there for a moment, a little dazed, before grabbing another drink. Eventually, a while later, you find your way back to Yuna, who’s already three sips away from shouting compliments at strangers. She gasps when she sees you. “Babe. Baby girl. My precious. Did I just see you with Sukuna?”

You blink. “Yeah, why?”

“You know him?”

“We’re in the same chem class,” you mutter, sipping your drink. “Group project.” Yuna grabs your arm. “And you didn’t say anything?” You eye her suspiciously. “Say what?”

“That he’s literally the hottest man on this campus?!” You make a face. “He’s not that hot.” Yuna gives you a look like she’s been personally offended. “You’re lying to yourself. Also, you two have like, that weird tension. It’s kind of hot.”

You groan. “Yuna—”

“Just fuck him.”

“What is wrong with you?”

She only cackles in response before she gets whisked away by a guy who’s clearly her on-again-off-again situationship. She doesn’t even look guilty as she leans in to whisper something to him. A few minutes later, you get the text.

sorry i love u but i’m gonna go with him ok i’ll send u money for an uber ily don’t die xx

You stare at the message, swaying slightly on your stool. The room blurs a little when you blink. You swipe over to the Uber app. Try to log in. Error. Try again. Error. The third time your phone crashes entirely and you groan, bracing your elbow on the edge of the bar counter and burying your face in your hand. Your heels are starting to hurt and you can already feel tomorrow’s hangover tap dancing in your brain.

“You good?”

You lift your head slowly. And of course. Of course. It’s Sukuna again. Leaning one arm against the edge of the bar like he’s been summoned by your suffering. “You’re like a cockroach,” you mutter. “You just keep showing up.”

He grins lazily. “Still here?”

“Yeah, unfortunately. My friend ditched me and my Uber app’s being a little bitch.” He hums, gaze flicking over your glazed expression, your flushed cheeks. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I might,” you admit. “If I don’t cry first.” 

There’s a beat of silence before he says, “I’ll drop you off.” You blink. “What? No. You’ve been drinking.”

“I haven’t. Can’t have everyone in the frat house drunk. Someone’s gotta babysit these idiots.” You blink again, the lag in your brain buffering like bad Wi-Fi. “...You?”

“Yeah, me. Shocking.”

“You know where I live?”

“You told me. Last week. After lab.”

You squint at him. “I don’t remember that.”

“Yeah, well, I remember everything.”

“Ew.”

He just stares at you, expectant, one brow cocked like he’s got all the time in the world.

You exhale dramatically. “Fine. But if you kill me I’m haunting your frat house.”

“I welcome it. It’s been boring lately.”

“Freak.” 

He smirks and plucks your phone straight from your hands to toss it into your purse, ignoring the half-hearted slap you aim at his wrist.

“Come on.” You groan, dragging yourself off the barstool, your legs not cooperating in the slightest. Your heels were cute in theory—silver with a tiny bow on the back and barely any support. Very much not made for trudging across dark college lawns and cracked sidewalks. You follow him out, still kind of mad at the universe for letting your Uber app crash. He opens the door like it's nothing, like he’s a gentleman or something—gross—and the cold night air wraps around your skin instantly. As it does, you swear you hear him mutter something. You turn, squinting through the haze. “What?”

“Nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing. It was something. And you're drunk, but not that drunk. It sounded suspiciously like you look pretty tonight. But you don’t say anything, just frown and follow him out into the night. Until you realize he’s not heading toward the street. He’s heading toward the back lot. Behind the frat house. 

You pause. “Wait—where the hell is your car?”

“Other side,” he says, without slowing.

“What do you mean other side?”

“I live here, dumbass. The resident lot is across the quad.”

“Are you kidding me?” You groan. “My feet are going to fall off.”

“Shouldn’t’ve worn stripper heels.”

“Shouldn’t’ve been born with a stick up your ass.” He snorts, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie as he walks ahead of you, like he's not dealing with a barely coherent girl in a miniskirt and heels struggling to walk in a straight line. You try to keep up, but the lawn dips, uneven and soft, and your ankle rolls slightly to the side. Your foot catches. Your knee gives out. And suddenly you’re stumbling, arms flailing, balance gone—You land hard on your ass with a sharp oof.

“FUCK,” you hiss, grabbing your ankle, already feeling the sting. You stay there a second, stewing, overwhelmed and overstimulated—the lights from the party still flickering behind your eyelids, your chest heaving from the sudden jolt, your mouth dry and head spinning. “You good?” Sukuna’s voice comes from somewhere above you, way too calm for someone whose lab partner just ate shit in front of him. “No, I’m not fucking good,” you snap, scowling up at him. “My feet are bleeding, my brain is melting, and your car is apparently in Narnia.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“You’re such a dick!”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, suddenly stepping closer. “Just—fuck it.” You barely register him moving before there’s a sudden shift in gravity and your world tips sideways.

He scoops you up like it’s nothing.

Bridal style.

Your arms instinctively hook around his neck as you squeak, instinctively clinging to his hoodie as your legs leave the ground. “What the fuck are you doing?!” you yell, even though your voice comes out way too breathless to be convincing.

“Carrying you. Because you’re useless.”

“Put me down!”

“No.”

Your mouth opens to protest again, but your brain short-circuits because—

His hand. One of them—large, warm, calloused—is curled under your thighs, gripping firmly but not rough, fingers splayed slightly against the bare skin between your skirt and where your panties ride up your ass. But it’s the other hand that breaks your brain. It’s pressed right beneath your chest, right where the thin fabric of your top clings to your ribs. His knuckles graze the underside of your boob with each step. Not on purpose. Probably. Hopefully. But your body registers every tiny movement, every bounce and shift. Your breath stutters, nipples tightening under the lace, and—

God, you need to shut your brain off. He smells like expensive cologne and weed and something darker—musk and leather and sweat. The hoodie under your palm is worn soft, like he's had it for years, and his chest is so warm against your arm it’s making you feel dizzy. You go quiet. Not because you want to, but because your mouth won’t work right. He notices. “What, no snarky comment? Are you dying?”

“Just… conserving energy,” you mumble, trying to ignore the way your head is now resting against his shoulder, half from exhaustion, half because it feels nice there. 

“Shame. I was enjoying the sound of you bitching.” He makes it to his car—a black ‘09 Civic parked in the furthest back row—and sets you down gently, like you're glass. Which somehow feels even more ridiculous than being carried. You try to get your balance again, but before you can even reach down, he crouches and grabs your ankle.

“Hey—what are you—”

He’s already unbuckling your heel. “Your feet are bleeding,” he mutters, slipping it off carefully. Then the other. “Why are girls like this?”

“Because we suffer for fashion,” you reply, watching as he sets them neatly in the footwell of the passenger side. “Idiots,” he mutters, straightening and helping you into the seat. The door is still open as he leans in and buckles you up, the seatbelt snapping into place just under your chest.

“Don’t look at my tits,” you mumble, half-asleep, half-defensive.

“I’m not looking.”

“You are. You’ve been staring all night, you absolute perv. I might be drunk but I’m not blind.” He sighs, shuts the door, walks around to the driver’s side, and slides in beside you. The car’s interior is cool and clean and smells like the same cologne that’s still clinging to him. Once the engine’s on and the headlights glow, he glances over at you.

“Sorry I’m a man. My bad.”

“You are bad. And that’s not an excuse.”

“And yet here you are,” he drawls, pulling out of the lot, his hand casual on the wheel, the other resting lazily on the gear shift. His thighs spread slightly as he adjusts, and you don’t mean to look but—

Yeah. No. You’re drunk. Because there’s no way you’re checking out his hands or his stupid muscular legs or the way his jaw clenches every time he shifts gears. Absolutely no way. You fold your arms and press your forehead against the window, trying to cool your cheeks down, but it doesn’t work. The drive is short. He doesn’t play music. Just lets the silence sit, and somehow it’s not awkward. Just… quiet. Kinda warm. When he pulls up in front of your dorm, he doesn’t speak right away. Just sits there for a second. You turn to him slowly. “Thanks… for not letting me pass out in a bush or get murdered.”

He shrugs. “Would’ve ruined my grade if you died.” 

You scoff. “So romantic.”

A pause. His eyes flick to yours, and his voice drops just a bit.

“You’re welcome.” 

And you don’t know why, but that makes your stomach flip a little. You nod, mumble something incoherent, and go to open the door. But he stops you, reaching across you suddenly to grab your purse from the floor. His arm brushes your chest again and you freeze. He pretends not to notice. But the corner of his mouth twitches. He hands you your bag without a word, and you climb out, the night air immediately biting your skin. As you shut the door and start toward your building, you hear his voice behind you—low, amused, maybe even a little genuine.

“Get home safe, dumbass.”

You turn over your shoulder.

“Night, perv.” Then you're gone. And his car stays parked for a few more seconds than it needs to.

–

It starts slow. Just like always, you two keep meeting up for study sessions, mostly in the same tucked-away campus library room. And technically you’re still working on your project. There's still the usual back-and-forth, the occasional threat of flinging a pen at his head, and your ever-reliable "God, you're so annoying" whenever he pushes too far. But something's changed. Some invisible shift. Like the night of the frat party cracked something open. You still bicker, still throw jabs like it's oxygen, but now—

There’s laughter. Actual laughter. From you. And snickering from him, like he’s low-key delighted when you call him a dickhead with that little smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. Now he leans closer than necessary when you’re reading. His arm brushes yours and he doesn’t move. His eyes linger on your mouth when you talk and when you call him on it, he just shrugs and says, “Sorry, your lip gloss is distracting.” You throw your pen at his forehead. He catches it without looking. You start referring to the group project as our child, and he calls himself the hot absentee father. You start keeping a tally of how many times he sighs dramatically when he doesn't get the answer before you. He keeps a separate one of how many times you chew your pen cap when you’re stressed and says it’s “borderline erotic.”

“I will murder you,” you say sweetly.

"That's what makes it erotic," he replies. But it’s not just that. There’s more. Quieter things. One time, he walks in late with two iced coffees and just drops one in front of you without a word, like it’s normal now. (It becomes normal. He starts bringing snacks too. Sometimes even the weird granola bars you said once in passing that you liked.) When you’re tired, he starts reading sections aloud to you in a voice that's somehow both mocking and comforting. When you're scribbling notes and your pen runs out, he's already tossing you a spare. And eventually—

You exchange numbers.

It’s just for “convenience,” you both claim. So you can update each other on meeting times. So he can send you stupid memes related to your topic. So you can text him "you forgot the rubric again, dumbass" when he shows up with nothing but a Monster and the same black hoodie he’s worn four sessions in a row. You never call each other, of course. Not yet. But the texts get more frequent. More casual. Sometimes you’re not even talking about the project. Sometimes it’s just:

You: tell toji to stop calling me your lil nerd wife Sukuna: don’t flatter urself. he called u my leashYou: even worse?? Sukuna: not to me 😏

And one day, you're the first to arrive. You’re early, even. Kinda excited to see him, which you don't interrogate too hard because you're a busy girl with academic priorities and definitely not thinking about his stupid shoulders lately. So you sit. And wait. Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Finally, you send a text.

You: where u at bruh wtf im already here

There’s a delay. Then your phone buzzes. It’s a photo. A mirror selfie. Gym bathroom. Fluorescent lighting. He’s shirtless—no, wait, technically his shirt is in his mouth, bitten between his teeth. His abs are cut like they were designed in a lab. There’s a sheen of sweat on his chest, and the pinkest hint of a happy trail disappearing into black shorts. And god– the tattoos that intricately line his hips, and you’re ashamed that you’re zooming in to see them a bit more clearly. Toji’s in the background throwing up a peace sign and smirking like a menace. And the caption?

Sukuna: gym

You stare at your screen like it personally offended you. Because okay. Fine. You tolerate him now. You maybe even like him a little. Like, as a person. As in, you don’t fantasize about choking him out every time he opens his mouth. That’s progress. But nothing—nothing—could have prepared you for the way your stomach plummets at that photo.

It’s shameful, really. You’re sitting alone in the study room, already annoyed that he’s late, your phone clenched in one hand and your cold coffee sweating on the table. You only texted him out of impatience, fully expecting some lame excuse. And instead, you get that. His abs are right there. Cut. Sharp. Obscene. His happy trail is a faint pink stripe leading down, dusted just enough to make your thighs clench, and you hate yourself for it. Your face heats so fast you think you might spontaneously combust. You look around the room like someone else might have seen it, like that would somehow make this a shared crime and not just your own private downfall. You blink at the photo. Then again. Then you lock your phone. Then unlock it.

You type.

Delete.

Type again.

Backspace halfway. Then finally give in and hit send.

You: keep those freaky selfies to urself bro Sukuna: u sure? u stared at that one a little too long You: YOU CANT SEE ME Sukuna: can feel it tho You: ew Sukuna: ur welcome

You throw your phone face down on the table like it just slapped you. He shows up twenty minutes later. Hair still damp, gym bag slung over one shoulder, hoodie half on, clinging to the edge of his frame like it was trying to slide off. There’s still that smug grin curling on his lips like he knows exactly what he’s doing. You don’t even say hi. You just cross your arms and raise your brows as he strolls in like he owns the place.

“I said keep the thirst traps to yourself, gym rat.”

He collapses into the chair next to you, legs spread way too wide, stretching his arms back behind his head with a low groan like he’s been working so hard—and the motion tugs his hoodie just enough for you to catch a flash of skin. A line of muscle. That stupid V again. “Thirst trap?” he echoes, voice low and lazy. “Nah. That was community service.”

You make a show of rolling your eyes, flipping a page in your notes. “You’re disgusting.” He leans over, chin propped in his hand, eyes glittering with something sharp and amused. “C’mon,” he says, his voice dropping, thick and playful, “you’re telling me you didn’t like it?” You don’t answer. He grins like that’s an answer. Then, slow and deliberate, he leans back again—slouches down in the chair like he owns it, hands behind his head, and lets his hoodie inch up. Not a lot. Just enough. Enough to show the ridges of his abs. The line of his hipbones. The tattoos. The happy trail, pink and soft and infuriating, peeking above the waistband of his shorts like he planned this entire thing. Like this is a setup and you walked into it willingly. “Sure about that?” he murmurs, eyes heavy-lidded and watching you now. You make a strangled sound in your throat and smack a folder in front of your face.

“You are so weird,” you mutter from behind it. He laughs. Real, deep, warm. And you hate the way it makes something loosen in your chest. And it keeps happening—these strange, flirty little moments you don’t know how to explain. He starts texting you just to annoy you. You start sending him selfies of your weird coffee orders with captions like for our child (the project). He calls you baby mama when you least expect it and winks every time you make eye contact. And maybe the worst part?

You start dressing better. Not for him, obviously. That’d be dumb. It’s just… you’re a girl. Sometimes you want to look cute. Sometimes you want to wear something other than an oversized hoodie and leggings. So you start showing up in cropped tops. In fitted shirts. In actual shorts when it's warm out. Sometimes you even—God forbid—do your hair. Not for him, of course. Except... he notices. You’re bent over your laptop one afternoon when you catch him staring again. Not like he’s trying to be subtle. He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smirking lazily.

“What?” you say, defensive.

“You look good,” he says, so bluntly it makes you blink. Then, almost offhand: “But I liked when you wore those weird baggy clothes, too.” You snort.  And suddenly the words tumble from your mouth, words you didn’t expect to say at all.

“Yeah? Didn’t you say the project would be easier if I was hot?”

His smirk falters for the first time. He pauses. Then—quietly, sincerely, and in that very Sukuna way—he says, “Yeah, well. I lied about that to piss you off. Obviously.” 

A beat.

“You’re touched in the head if you don’t think you’re hot.” You go quiet. The air goes weird again—thick and strange and soft around the edges. You blink down at your notes, unsure what to say. Then, like it’s nothing, he shrugs. “Also… sorry. About that. And all the other comments. Shouldn’t’ve said that shit.”

You glance at him. He’s not looking at you. Just fiddling with the ring on his finger like he’s not even sure if he meant to say it out loud. You swallow. Your stomach flips. Something tender and unfamiliar blooms in your chest. Then, because you can’t handle the softness, you bump his foot under the table and mumble, “You’re still annoying.” He grins like he’s won something. You work in silence after that—your legs stretched out, your ankles resting comfortably on his lap. He doesn’t move them. Just shifts to make space. At one point he starts absently tracing circles on your sock with one finger. And you don’t move either. You just let it happen. Because whatever this is—it’s not nothing anymore. It’s weird and slow and unfolding. It’s not sharp like it used to be. It’s soft. It’s warm.

And you don’t know what this thing is. Not yet. But it’s something. It’s teasing and warm and slow and building. It’s softer around the edges now. His glances linger longer. His jokes don’t always have a bite. He starts giving you the better chair. He moves his laptop so you can stretch your legs out and rest your ankles on his lap like it’s no big deal. He taps your water bottle when you forget to drink. He waits for you after class sometimes now. He starts noticing things. When you’re tired. When you’ve skipped lunch. When your leg’s bouncing under the table and you’re clearly spiraling about a deadline. He just reaches over and taps your water bottle. “Drink something. You look like you’re about to combust.”

And one day you realize—

You’re not dressing better because you feel like it. You’re dressing better because something inside you wants him to look at you. Want him to notice. Wants him to sit across from you with his dumb jawline and his pretty mouth and his stupid gaze and look. Like he sees you. And he does. It’s horrifying. And kind of thrilling. You don’t say anything. You just keep showing up. You let your shirts fit a little tighter. Your hair falls a little smoother. You wear that one necklace that always rests right at the tops of your chest. You tell yourself it’s fine. It’s nothing.

–

The last few weeks of the semester come fast and loud. Finals hang heavy in the air, coffee-fueled library sessions and group study chaos around every corner, but somehow, Sukuna still finds a way to plant himself next to you in every single lecture. Literally. He doesn’t even ask anymore—just drops into the seat beside you like it’s his birthright. Kicks his legs out wide under the desk, slumps dramatically back in the seat, leans over with that lazy, smug-ass voice to ask if you did the pre-lecture reading (you did, obviously; he did not, obviously). Sometimes he brings snacks. One time, it was gummy worms. Another time, chips he smuggled in the sleeve of his hoodie like a middle schooler. He offered you one and you made a face but still took it. He grinned. 

Your chem project is basically wrapped up. You’re in editing and final-presentation mode now, which somehow translates to even more time together. Study sessions have blurred into hangouts, your text convos half-project, half weird jokes and chaotic memes. He still calls you names—airhead, goblin, menace—but sometimes his voice gets soft when he does. He still teases you, but the silences in between stretch warm and easy. So when you’re walking out of a bookstore downtown one Saturday afternoon and spot him across the street, it’s almost normal. He’s with Toji and Choso, the three of them leaning against a car like they’re posing for some kind of delinquent calendar. Sukuna clocks you first. His eyes catch on you, and he lifts his hand in a lazy, beckoning wave.

You cross the street.

He smirks. "Didn’t know you had business on this side of town. What, you stalking me now?" You roll your eyes. "Relax. I was running errands. There’s a stationery shop over there that sells the pens I like."

"Nerd," Choso says, but he sounds kind of fond. Toji just nods like, fair. Sukuna tilts his head. "You taking the bus back?"

"Yeah, why?"

"It’s getting dark," he says like it’s a passing observation. Then, in that dry, effortless way: "You look like a perfect kidnapping target. All spaced out and clueless. C’mere, little lamb."

You gape. "Okay well you’re the type of person to be the one doing the kidnapping."

"Uh-huh. Get in. I’ll drive you."

You’re protesting before he even finishes the sentence. But Toji just shrugs, opens the passenger door for you like this is something he’s used to, and Choso’s already climbing into the back. You sigh and slide in, heart pounding for reasons you refuse to name.  The drive starts off easy. After a while, he drops off both Choso and Toji to the gym– where they were apparently headed for an evening grind session. Spending time with these three makes you think that the gym might be their second home besides the frat house where they live. You lean your head against the window, watching the city pass by in a blur of dusk and brake lights. But traffic hits near campus—an accident or something up ahead—and the car slows to a crawl.

You sigh, long and dramatic, throwing your head back against the seat. “Well. Looks like we’re stuck.” Sukuna shoots you a flat look, one hand tapping the wheel while the other lazily rests across his lap. “Incredible deduction, Sherlock. What gave it away? The line of cars stretching into the abyss?”

You flip him off without looking. “I’m putting on music.”

He sits up a little straighter. “Don’t you dare play weird indie-girl shit.” You’re already unlocking your phone, smug. “Too late.” And then it begins—those soft, dreamy guitar chords of She Won’t Go Away, spilling out through the car speakers like a bubble bath in audio form. Sukuna visibly flinches.

“What the fuck is this?” he groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This sounds like it belongs in a movie montage of someone getting dumped in the rain.” You grin, curling your legs up into the seat and pressing your temple against the cool glass of the window. “It’s art. It’s emotion. It’s currently the only thing keeping me alive during finals.” 

You’re already humming under your breath, voice quiet but matching the lilt of the lyrics like you’ve done this a hundred times alone in your room. You don’t even notice you’re doing it at first—just this soft, distracted singing, like muscle memory. Like breathing. Sukuna groans again, leaning back against his seat like he’s physically in pain. “Put on Playboi Carti like a normal human being.”

“No,” you reply sweetly, already queuing the song again. “I’m hyper fixated. That means I’m playing it at least three more times.”

“Jesus,” he mutters, but doesn’t reach for the aux. Instead, he leans his head back against the headrest and shuts his eyes, as if surrendering to the inevitable. His tattooed arm is draped lazily along the console between you. The setting sun outside paints soft orange lines across the curve of his throat, the ridges of his knuckles, the cut of his jaw. You glance over. Just for a second. His damp pink hair is curling a little where it rests against his forehead, the collar of his shirt a little stretched from where he tugged it off earlier. His hands are relaxed, but you’ve seen them clenched around a pen, a steering wheel, a can—so often that it’s weird to see them soft like this. 

When the chorus hits again, you can’t help it—you clutch your water bottle like it’s a microphone and sing along, full volume, completely tone-deaf. Your voice cracks on a high note. You don’t care. The car is stuck, the sun is bleeding out across the horizon, and for once your brain is quiet enough to let you just be. Sukuna cracks an eye open to stare at you. There’s an expression hovering on his face—part judgment, part amusement, all exasperated affection. “You’re fucking insane,” he murmurs, but doesn’t tell you to stop. You play the song two more times. The last time, he even taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the beat. By the time the traffic thins and he pulls up in front of your dorm, it’s fully dark out. The streets are quiet. A light breeze rustles the trees overhead, and your building glows warm from the windows.

The car idles for a moment. Neither of you moves. You fiddle with your bag strap. “Thanks. For the ride.”  Sukuna shrugs like it’s no big deal, hand still resting casually on the steering wheel. “Didn’t want you to get kidnapped. I’ll be pissed if I have to deal with a new project partner this late in the semester.”

You snort. “So heartwarming. Hallmark should hire you.” But still, your smile softens. You open the door, start to slide out—

“Hey,” his voice cuts in, low. You turn back. He’s watching you, one elbow propped against the window, his mouth tugged into something just barely resembling seriousness.

“You’ve got a nice voice,” he says, slow. “When you sing.”

You blink. Then: “I mean—it’s not good,” he adds quickly, defensive. “Just—nice. Like. You know. Tolerable. Shut the fuck up.” You’re already laughing, your whole face warm, stomach fluttering for a reason that makes you want to scream into your pillow later. You shake your head, half-dizzy, and wave him off.

“Freak.”

He grins. “Obviously.” And then he’s pulling away, the soft glow of his taillights disappearing around the corner as you stand there on the curb, heart doing something you really wish it wouldn’t.

–

The dorm lounge is dark. A sad, crooked little sign is taped to the door, flapping slightly from the draft in the hallway: CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE. You stare at it in disbelief.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” you mutter. Sukuna makes a noise behind you—something between a groan and a sigh that says of course this would happen now.

“We walked all the way here,” you grumble, adjusting your bag on your shoulder. “And East Wing Library’s still under construction as well.” You sigh, then shove your phone back in your pocket. “Whatever. Guess we’re not studying tonight.” Sukuna scratches at his jaw, eyeing you sideways. “We could go to my place.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“My frat house,” he clarifies, as if that helps. You squint at him. 

“Yeah, no offense, but the last thing I wanna do is walk into a testosterone-infested lair filled with Axe body spray and half-naked dudes playing Call of Duty.”

Sukuna smirks. “What do you think a frat house is, Animal House?” You raise a brow. “Is it not?”

“It’s…marginally cleaner.”

“Uh-huh.” 

He grins, lazy and wolfish. “What, you scared you’ll get corrupted?”

“Oh please. I’m scared I’ll catch a fungal infection from your couch.”

“Wow.” He mock clutches his chest. “That’s the same couch Toji had sex on junior year.” You wrinkle your nose. “You’re not helping your case.”

–

But you’re already walking beside him as he pulls his keys out of his pocket, smug as ever. The house is surprisingly... not awful. It’s big, for one. Tall windows, wide wraparound porch. Someone’s put effort into decorating the front room—there are actual plants. A couple are plastic, sure, but still. Progress.

“Don’t touch anything,” Sukuna says as he unlocks the door. “You might set off a trap.” You snort and follow him inside. Almost instantly, voices erupt from the kitchen.

“Yo!” someone calls. “Sukuna brought a girl? What the fuck?” You round the corner and find a man with gauges, hair tied back into a bun, leaning back in a chair with his feet propped on the table. Choso’s there too, hair also tied up in a low bun, sipping some horrifying green drink out of a mason jar.

“Holy shit,” Suguru grins, “she real?”

“She’s not my date,” Sukuna says, already annoyed. “She’s my lab partner.”

“Uh-huh, he’s actually not making up bullshit this time, Sugu,” Choso says, nodding solemnly between Sukuna and you. “Suguru, you shoulda seen the way he talks about h–.”

“Shut up, bitch.”

“She’s cute though,” Suguru adds, eyeing you with an arched brow. “You sure this isn’t, like, your redemption arc?”

You just raise a brow. “This what you call hospitality?” Suguru snorts. “She talks back. I like her.”

“Bye,” Sukuna says sharply, grabbing your wrist. “Upstairs. Now.”

You’re still laughing as he drags you past the second floor landing. “Damn. Didn’t know you hadn’t brought anyone home in months.”

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“What’s wrong, celibate king? Losing your edge?” He stops in front of a door, turns to face you with that cocky smirk curling up again. “You wishing I haven’t gotten laid recently?”

You blink at him innocently. “Just surprised you haven’t. With how obsessed you are with yourself.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, pushing the door open, “standards.” You snort.  But his room is… not what you expected. It’s neat. Cleaner than yours, probably. Dark wooden desk against the wall, books stacked haphazardly but intentionally. An unmade bed with black sheets and a dark grey hoodie tossed over the pillow. There’s a little lamp glowing low in the corner and a record player next to a speaker. You hate how nice it smells in here. You set your bag down on the floor. “Why does it smell like... sage and expensive soap?”

“Because I’m not disgusting?”

“Debatable.” You both settle on the floor, laptops out, papers scattered. He brings over a half-full bag of spicy chips and a water bottle, which he throws at you without looking. It hits you square in the chest.

“Dickhead.”

“You’re welcome.”

The first twenty minutes are actually productive—notes reviewed, graphs tweaked, last-minute slides double-checked. But inevitably, the banter creeps in. His foot nudges yours under the desk. You nudge back. He leans over to steal a gummy from your bag and you slap his hand away.

“Stop stealing my candy.”

“You ate my gummy worms last week.”

“I didn’t steal them. I accepted them.”

“Wow. You’re so full of shit.”

“Eat dirt.” He laughs—low, under his breath—and it shouldn’t affect you the way it does, but it sinks into your skin like heat, lingers in your bloodstream. It’s not the usual cocky bark of a laugh he throws at you when he’s being a menace. This one is quieter. Throatier. Less sharp edges, more velvet. Like he’s amused with you, not at you. It wrecks your focus. He’s leaned back against the edge of his bed now, legs splayed carelessly, one knee bent, the other stretching toward you like it owns the space. His shirt rides up a little at the waist, just enough to flash the hard lines of his stomach, the deep cut of his hipbones disappearing under black sweats. One of his arms hangs lazy over his knee, veins taut beneath inked skin, fingers playing absently with a red pen. And his hair—fuck. It's a mess, falling over his forehead in soft waves, a few strands catching on his lashes when he looks down. You want to brush it back. You want to tug on it.

You shift slightly, trying to re-cross your legs, trying to re-engage your brain with the paper in front of you. But your sweater dips with the movement—a soft, oversized thing you threw on without much thought. It hangs loose over your collarbones, dips just enough to expose a hint of skin and the swell of your chest where the neckline falls low. You feel his gaze before you see it. A flicker—subtle, but deliberate. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s staring.

“You're staring.”

Sukuna doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t pretend to be caught, doesn’t have the decency to look embarrassed. He just meets your eyes, unashamed, and shrugs one shoulder in a way that’s all smooth arrogance. “Can you blame me?” You snort, but it comes out quieter than intended. Your throat’s a little dry. “You’re gross.”

“Yeah?” He shifts a bit, elbow sliding behind him so he’s leaning fully back now, neck tipped against the wall, gaze still locked on you. “Don’t act like you didn’t wear that on purpose.”

You scoff. “Excuse me?”

He lifts a brow, lazy. “The sweater. The whole off-duty art girl thing. You knew what you were doing.”

“I didn’t,” you protest, but your voice slips a bit, too defensive. “I just… liked the color.” Sukuna hums like he doesn’t believe you. His eyes stay exactly where they were—lingering, slow, blatantly appreciating. You glare at him. “You're an asshole.”

He grins. “True.” But then, softer. Less teasing. “You look cute.”

It lands differently. The words settle between you like something solid, something heavy. Not a joke. Not just banter. You’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything—how warm it is in the room, how quiet. The hum of the old radiator. The scent of whatever he uses in his laundry detergent—something clean and citrusy and a little intoxicating. You don’t respond. Your heart is thudding against your ribs, a little too loud, a little too fast. He watches you. Waits. Then, finally, you manage: “Stop being weird.” But your voice isn’t sharp anymore. It’s soft. Uncertain. He smirks, but his eyes stay serious. “You love it.”

You roll your eyes, trying to drag your gaze back to your notes, to anything other than the way his gaze is dragging over your skin like a physical touch. You pretend to read, pretend to write, but you feel it—the tension, thick as syrup in the air. He’s close. Closer than before. You can feel the heat of him next to you, the way his thigh shifts slightly, brushing yours. Your eyes lift slowly. He’s already watching you. His expression is unreadable—equal parts amusement and hunger. He’s studying you like he’s memorizing. Like he’s waiting for the exact right moment to pounce.

And then he moves. No warning. No smart remark. Just a slow lean forward, one hand braced near your thigh as he closes the distance—eyes flicking from your lips to your eyes and back again, like he’s giving you a chance to pull away.

You don’t.

And before you know it, his lips are melding against yours. The kiss is slow. Careful. Not tentative, but measured, like he’s savoring the first taste. His lips are soft, warm, coaxing yours open. His hand comes up, rough fingers brushing your jaw before settling lightly at the base of your neck, thumb against your pulse. You inhale sharply when his mouth deepens against yours, tongue sliding over your bottom lip, teasing, asking—and when you give in, he groans, low and satisfied in the back of his throat. The sound goes straight to your stomach. He tastes like cinnamon gum and spice, something dark and smoky underneath. His teeth scrape lightly against your lip and you gasp into him, fingers fisting in the hem of his shirt without even realizing. When he finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His breath brushes against your mouth. His eyes are lidded, lashes low, lips parted and slightly swollen. He looks fucking wrecked. And somehow still manages to smirk. “Still think I’m gross?”

You blink at him, dazed. “Yes.” He laughs, that soft velvet-laced one again. You don’t even hesitate this time. You kiss him again—harder, needier, something unspoken unraveling fast between you. Your fingers curl tighter into his shirt, pulling him closer, and he doesn't resist—in fact, he deepens it like he's been waiting for this, like every smartass comment and every prolonged look was just him biding time. His hand drifts, slow, from your jaw to your throat—not pressing, just resting, thumb stroking just under your jawline, grounding you. The contrast of his rough fingers against your softer skin sends heat spiraling straight down your spine. Not just that– The hand on your throat sends a wave of heat right between your legs. Like he’s showing you who’s in control.

He pulls away just slightly, breath ragged, forehead grazing yours. "You kiss like you’ve been thinking about this.” You giggle against his mouth. “What if I have?”

That makes him groan—low, deep in his chest—and then he’s kissing you again, more urgent this time, less slow-burn and more fuck, finally. His hand slides into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he tilts your mouth open wider, tongue sliding against yours with a filthy kind of rhythm. You shift instinctively into his space, knees brushing his thighs, your body angling toward his like gravity made the call for you. His hands trail from the length of your back to your ass, squeezing it in his large, calloused palms. It gets hazy, fast. The taste of him, the weight of his palm as it trails from your throat to the dip of your collarbone, fingers catching on the edge of your sweater. He breaks the kiss just long enough to look down—his hand still on you—and you see the shift in his expression the second he remembers your neckline. He hooks a finger into the v-line of the neckline, exposing the swells of your pretty tits to his hungry gaze.

“See,” he murmurs, voice rough now, barely-there smile curling the corners of his mouth. “You did wear this shit on purpose. Look at the way it just falls down so easily– ‘S like you wanted me to stare at your tits.” You breathe out a laugh—shaky. “You’re so full of yourself.” He ducks his head, mouth grazing your collarbone now, slow and deliberate, hands palming your breasts. “You’re not denying it, though.”

Your response gets swallowed by the way his lips brush the base of your neck, warm and soft, and then he bites—not hard, just enough to make your breath catch. 

“Fuck—Sukuna—”

“Say that again,” he mutters, voice vibrating against your skin. “Say it like that.” You yank at his shirt in response, pulling him closer until he's practically between your legs, notebooks shoved aside and forgotten. He lets you, smiling against your neck, one hand situated on your breast, the other settling on your thigh now, fingers pressing just enough through the fabric of your leggings that it sends your heart into a tailspin.

“You’re—I don’t even like you like that,” you breathe, even as your hips shift slightly forward, even as your body clearly wants him, your heat pressed directly on the very evident bulge in his sweatpants. He drags his mouth back up to yours. “So stop kissing me.” You kiss him harder.

His hand slides up your thigh, slow but sure, fingers skating over your hip, his palm pressing warm through the fabric. You gasp into his mouth when his thumb brushes just below your waistband, teasing, testing. Still not rushing. Sukuna’s the kind of guy who knows exactly how to draw something out until it burns. His kiss slows again—like he’s dialing it back, testing your limits. “Tell me to stop,” he says, voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “If you want me to.” You shake your head before the words even leave his mouth. 

“Don’t.” He exhales, almost like relief. “Good.”

Because now his fingers are slipping under your sweater, not even pretending to be shy, tracing the warm skin of your stomach, the skin above your waistband. When he feels the way your breath stutters, he pauses—lifts his head to look at you.

“You good?” His voice is soft. Different. You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. I’m good.” His lips twitch like he’s amused with how breathless you sound, but he doesn’t say anything cocky this time. He just kisses you again, slower now, more methodical, hands exploring like he’s cataloguing every inch of you. You’re vaguely aware that you're still in his room, that the door’s closed but the walls are thin, that you’re half-on, half-off his bed surrounded by a mess of notes and highlighters and open laptops. And none of that matters. Because the way he’s looking at you now—eyes dark, mouth kiss-swollen, hair a mess from your fingers—it’s not just heat. It’s hunger. Craving. Like he’s been waiting for this since the day he sat next to you in chem lab with that annoying smirk.

And now that he has you? He’s going to take his time. You're not sure when studying officially got left behind. Somewhere between the first kiss and the way his hands slid under your sweater, books became background noise. The project became irrelevant. Now, he’s laying you back on his bed—slowly, carefully, like he’s trying not to make you overthink it. The room is dim, golden light spilling in from the desk lamp. Your legs are tangled with his, your sweater halfway off your shoulder, and he’s hovering over you, kissing you like it’s something he needs to do, like he’s been trying not to all semester and finally gave up. You feel his hand slide under your sweater again, this time pushing it up your ribs, warm palm skating over your skin like he’s memorizing it. He doesn’t even rush—he just looks down at you like you’re something to unravel, slowly.

“You sure?” he says again, quieter this time. His thumb brushes just under your bra, like he’s offering you a way out, even now. You nod, heart stuttering. “Yeah.” That’s all it takes. Because after that, Sukuna moves like a switch flips. His hands are suddenly everywhere—sliding your sweater off completely, tossing it somewhere behind him, and then he’s kissing you again, this time lower, trailing his mouth down your neck, down the line of your collarbone, licking into the dip between your breasts like he’s been thinking about doing it forever. 

His hand tugs off your bra roughly, making you squeak– you’re not sure if it’s from the surprise from having the material ripped off of you so roughly, or the fact his long fingers are pinching at your nipples. He takes one in his mouth, sucking and rolling the sensitive bud around, before doing the same to the other one. With each action, you feel yourself getting wetter and wetter, to the point you’re half wishing he’d just take your leggings and panties off, and just get on with it.

“Fuck,” he mutters, half against your skin. “You’re—god, you’re driving me fucking crazy.” He pulls off your nipple with a resounding pop, eyes darkened by the sight of the sheen of his saliva on your breasts. You laugh, breathless. “You’re literally the one climbing on top of me right now.”

He looks up at you, hair falling in his face, mouth wet and swollen. “Yeah, because you look like this. Wearing that stupid little sweater. Coming to my room. Being all—” He cuts himself off with a groan. “You knew what you were doing. You expected me not to do all this?” He punctuates this with a light pinch to your nipple, making you squeal.

“I came here to study!”

“Yeah, and now you’re in my bed. About to get your little pussy wrecked until you can’t walk. Real tragic how that worked out.” You feel yourself heat up– like your entire body aflame at his vulgar words, mouth opening to retort something back at him. He kisses you again before you can reply, this time rougher—his hands slipping under the waistband of your leggings, tugging slow and deliberate. You lift your hips to help him, cheeks flushed as he pulls them down and off in one fluid motion, leaving you in just your underwear. His eyes darken.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re unreal. And wet. Fuck, I can practically see your pussy because of how wet you are.” 

You reach for the hem of his shirt, tugging it up. “Take this off. It's unfair I’m the only one half-naked.” 

He grins—sharp, pleased—and yanks it over his head in one smooth move. Suddenly you’re staring at the body that you’ve been unconsciously (consciously) staring at everytime he wears something even slightly form fitted. Defined, lean muscle, broad chest, ink curling along his side. Do you even need to mention the pink smattering of hair below his navel? It makes your thighs clench uncomfortably, making your eyes darken. He catches your look and smirks. “Like what you see, huh?”

“Shut up and get back here.” And he does. He presses his body flush against yours, warm and solid, one hand braced beside your head, the other cupping your waist. You can feel how hard he is through his sweatpants now, the heat of it making your breath catch. His hand trails down, teasing the edge of your underwear. “Still good?” You nod, hips shifting toward him. “Sukuna, please.” He growls, soft and low in his throat, and hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down. He kisses your neck as he does it, slow and hot, and you shudder. He gets them off and then leans back, just for a second, to look at you spread out in his bed, wet and inviting. His eyes are practically black now, jaw tight like he’s holding something back.

“Holy fuck,” he mutters. “You’re actually gonna kill me.” You tug at the waistband of his sweats. “Then die faster.” He laughs, breathless, and strips them off, boxers too. Holy fuck. It’s impressive. Thick and girthy, leaking from the pink tip. You try not to stare—try being the operative word—and he notices.

“Cute,” he says, climbing back over you. “You’ve been a nuisance to me all semester and now you’re blushing over my dick?”

“You’re literally about to be inside me. Give me a break.” That shuts him up real quick. He leans in, kisses you slow, hand sliding between your thighs. He teases you with his fingers first, dipping the long digits in and out of your wetness, making sure you’re ready, whispering things against your neck—“You’re so wet already,” and “Fuck, this tight for me?”—until you’re shaking, seeing stars just from two, thick fingers of his, clinging to his muscled arms. Once he’s deemed that you’re pleasantly even more wet than you were pre-orgasm, he strokes his shaft, the tip pink and angry as he stares with a half lidded gaze at the glistening area between your legs.

And then he’s there, lined up, pushing in slow. You gasp at the stretch, the pressure, your hands grabbing onto his biceps as he sinks into you inch by inch. “God,” he grits out, forehead pressed against yours. “You feel—fuck—you feel insane. Oh my– Shit, I’m never letting this pussy outta my sight.” You can’t speak. You just hold onto him, breathing through it, until he’s all the way in and stills. Gives you a second. Kisses you again. When you finally nod, his hips start to move—slow, deep strokes that make your whole body arch into him. It’s hot and messy and intense, but there’s something else in it too—something careful. He watches you like he wants to memorize every expression you make, every sound you let out.

It builds fast—frustration and release and months of tension finally cracking open. His name falls from your lips more than once, and he groans each time like it’s doing something to him.

“S-Sukuna—fuck—I’m—”

“I got you,” he mutters, kissing your shoulder. “I got you. Come on, baby. Make a mess on my dick. Yeah, mhm. Fuck.” And when you come, it hits like a wave—sharp and overwhelming, your whole body curling into him, his name leaving your mouth in breathy moans. He follows not long after, hips stuttering as he barely manages to pull out, his warm seed splattering on your stomach, head buried in your neck, cursing softly against your skin. He kisses you briefly, heading quickly to his bathroom to grab a warm washcloth to wipe your stomach clean, tossing the balled up cloth into the hamper in some corner of the room.

Afterward, there’s just heavy breathing and tangled limbs. His hand finds yours under the sheets, fingers interlacing. You’re the first to speak, voice still shaky.  “That was–That was not studying.”

Sukuna laughs—hoarse, wrecked. “Yeah, no shit.” You glance at him. “So… do we pick the project back up tomorrow?” He rolls over, smirking at the ceiling. “Maybe if you let me come inside next time.” You throw a pillow at his face. He catches it without flinching. “Worth it.”

And you laugh, falling back into the sheets beside him, skin still buzzing, body still flushed. For once, everything’s quiet.

–

You stretch, groaning into the pillow, body aching in a way that’s half delicious and half criminal. Your thighs hurt. Your back hurts. Your soul might hurt a little. From across the room, you hear the sound of Sukuna's shower turning on. “No,” you croak, face still buried in the pillow. “I am not moving. I live here now. This is my bed.”

“You’re literally lying on my hoodie.”

“Then it’s mine now too.” 

He snorts. “Get your ass up. We should shower before everyone in the frat wakes up and thinks I killed someone in here.” You peek out with one eye. “You can go first.”

“I wasn’t offering,” he says, walking out of the bathroom with just a towel slung low around his hips. Drops of water are still clinging to his chest, and the tattoos on his ribs look somehow worse in the daylight. In the best way. “Come on.” You blink at him. “You want to shower… together?”

He raises a brow. “Yeah?”

“No.” He squints. “Why not?”

“That’s intimate.”

He stares. “My dick was inside you last night.” You wave a hand. “That’s physical. This is emotional.” He laughs—actually laughs—and crosses the room in two strides. “You're such a weirdo.”

“I’m serious! Showering together is, like, emotionally naked. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s so vulnerable. That’s like… domestic. That’s, like, soft.”

He rolls his eyes, completely unfazed. “You’re such a freak.” Then, before you can protest further, he grabs you—still very naked, still very sore—and throws you over his shoulder like a caveman. His hand slaps across your ass lightly, snickering to himself.

“SUKUNA—”

“I’m not listening to you spiral about emotional nudity,” he says, totally calm, carrying you into the bathroom like you weigh nothing. “You moaned my name like a porn star last night. You can handle a shower.”

“I can’t walk!”

“Which is why I’m being a gentleman and carrying you.”

“You are the opposite of a gentleman.” He kicks the bathroom door shut behind him and sets you down on the edge of the counter. Steam curls around both of you, hot and fragrant—his shampoo smells stupidly good, which is somehow infuriating.

You stare at the water, then at him. “This doesn’t mean anything.”

Sukuna grins, dimples flashing. “Obviously.” You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips a little anyway. The second you step under the spray, your muscles sigh. Hot water hits your back, and you slump forward with a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a prayer. Sukuna slides in behind you, and his hands immediately land on your hips, holding you steady like he knew you were about to collapse.

“I told you I couldn’t stand,” you mumble, leaning back against his chest.

“I didn’t realize you meant it literally,” he says, smirking into the curve of your neck. “You should work on your stamina.”

“You should get bent.”

“Hm, I think I bent you. Very successfully, actually.”

You try to elbow him, but he catches your wrist easily, still grinning. “Want me to wash your hair?” You eye him warily. “What are you gonna do? Douse me in Axe body wash?”

“Hey. That’s slander.” He grabs a bottle from the ledge and starts working it into your scalp before you can protest. His hands are warm, gentle, and surprisingly careful. He’s quiet for a second, and so are you. Then he murmurs, “You smell good.”

“It’s your shampoo. That’s like self cest. You’re saying I only smell good because I smell like you?”

“Yeah, but now it’s on you. It’s different. Not self cest. You just… Shut up and lemme wash your hair.” You glance up, heart doing something stupid in your chest. “You’re being weird again.”

“Yeah?” He ducks down slightly, voice lower now, breath ghosting against your ear. “And what if I said I like being weird with you?” You freeze. Then you shove a palm into his chest. “Shut up. That’s so corny.” He laughs, but his grip on your waist doesn’t falter. You stay under the water a little longer, letting the heat and his hands and the way his chest feels against your back melt the rest of the tension out of you. When he reaches for the soap again, you catch his wrist. “Do not start anything. I physically can’t take another round.” Sukuna leans in, kisses the side of your jaw with a smirk. “Don’t worry, baby doll. I’ll be good.” He’s not. Safe to say you ended up begging for it too.

–

The hallway’s cold. Way colder than your dignity can handle when you’re limping barefoot behind a shirtless Sukuna in his frat house, wearing his hoodie and a pair of his shorts that might as well be pants. Your hair’s damp, your thighs are wrecked, and your pride? That’s somewhere on the floor of his room with your underwear.

“You didn’t have to break me in half,” you mutter under your breath, wincing with each step. Sukuna snorts, completely unbothered. “You seemed fine last night. And in the shower.”

“I was faking it.”

He glances over his shoulder, smug. “You were screaming.”

“Faking it loudly, then,” you snap. He just chuckles, steps into the kitchen like he’s not Satan incarnate. Toji’s already there—standing shirtless in front of the stove, flipping protein pancakes in a pan that looks like it’s seen war. He glances up the moment you hobble in behind Sukuna, eyes trailing from your flushed face to the unmistakable fact that you are wearing Sukuna’s hoodie and walking like you’ve been in a car crash.

Toji freezes. Then grins. Slow. Evil.

“Oh shit.”

You want to die. You want the linoleum floor to open up and swallow you whole. You press the sleeves of Sukuna’s hoodie over your face. “I knew I heard something last night,” Toji says, flipping a pancake like this is the best morning of his life. “Told Choso it wasn’t the pipes. That’s gotta be why he slept on the couch.”

“I hate this house,” you mumble. Sukuna yawns. “Shut the fuck up, Toji.” Toji just cackles. “She’s limping, bro. You broke her.” Your head snaps up. “Shut up! Don’t say it like that—”

“Toji,” Sukuna says again, voice dropping low now. “If you say one more thing, I’m banning you from ever speaking in the kitchen again.” Toji raises both hands, innocent. “Damn. Y’all are sensitive this morning.” Sukuna grabs a water bottle off the counter and throws it—nails Toji square in the chest. Water explodes. Toji wheezes laughing.

“I’m putting a ban on the entire house,” Sukuna mutters, turning toward the hallway. “Nobody comes out of their fucking rooms for the next twelve hours.”  Toji wipes water off his chest with a paper towel. “That’s not how a frat works.”

“It is now.” 

You, meanwhile, are dying silently in the corner of the kitchen, gripping the counter for dear life like Bambi on ice. Your legs genuinely might give out. You pull the hoodie lower and try to disappear into it. Toji eyes you, smirking. “You want a protein pancake, champ? You’ve earned it.”

“I swear to God—”

Sukuna slams a mug down on the counter. “TOJI.”

“Okay, okay! Damn. Sensitive and possessive.”

Sukuna grabs two mugs, fills them with coffee, then turns to you like nothing happened. “C’mere.” You shuffle over, still avoiding eye contact with the man who just witnessed your walk of shame, and accept the mug gratefully. Your fingers brush Sukuna’s as you take it, and he glances at you. That look again. The one that’s always a little cocky, a little smug. But softer now. Like he hasn’t quite recovered either. You sip the coffee to avoid saying something dumb.

Toji, of course, ruins the moment by smacking the spatula on the counter. “So when’s the wedding?” Sukuna chucks a pancake at him. And despite the embarrassment, despite the ache in your thighs and the fact that your ego might never recover… when Sukuna leans against the counter next to you, shoulder brushing yours, and murmurs, “Still think showering’s more intimate than sex?”—you don’t argue. You just bump his hip with yours and whisper, “Next time, you’re the one limping.” He barks out a laugh at that, looking down at you.

“You sound like you’re gonna peg me.”

“Keep embarrassing me like this and I might just peg you.”

–

It keeps happening. Somehow, even after you swore you weren’t gonna end up tangled with a smug frat boy who wears rings like armor and calls you “menace” every time you breathe wrong—here you are. The project is basically done, but that doesn’t change much. You still see each other constantly, like it’s built into your week now. Study sessions, late-night editing, grabbing food on the way back from the library. He still comes over unannounced and flops onto your bed like it’s his, still kicks his shoes off and demands snacks and calls you bossy for forcing him to fix his citations.

And okay, yeah. You keep hooking up. It’s not even subtle anymore. Sometimes he’ll press you into your mattress before your laptop’s even warmed up, muttering something like “five minutes” that always turns into an hour. You fall asleep tangled in his limbs more often than you’d like to admit, his hand wrapped around your waist like it belongs there. And it’s not just sex—it’s everything. The way he orders your coffee without asking. The way he instinctively tilts his head down when you talk so he hears every word. The way he looks at you, like he’s memorizing you. Toji and Choso have basically stopped pretending it’s casual. Every time you come over to the frat house, someone whistles or yells, “Yo, Sukuna’s girl’s here!” 

You always roll your eyes, but your cheeks warm anyway. Sukuna usually throws a middle finger over his shoulder and drags you inside like he doesn’t care—but you’ve caught the smirk on his face more than once. But then. One Wednesday, you walk into class a couple minutes late. You’re digging for a pen in your bag, not paying attention, until you hear it—his laugh. You glance up. He’s already in your usual seat. But he’s not alone. There’s a girl next to him—cute, brunette, sparkly earrings. Laughing with her hand on his arm like they’re in the middle of a joke. And Sukuna? He’s laughing too. That low, easy laugh he uses when he’s genuinely amused. His whole body turned toward her. His eyes crinkled at the corners. Familiar.

Too familiar. It shouldn’t matter. He’s not your boyfriend. You never asked him to be. But something curdles in your stomach, this horrible bitter twist of heat and nausea. Because he’s never laughed like that with anyone else—not that you’ve seen. That was yours. You sit on the other side of the lecture hall. You don’t text him back that night. Or the next. You’re not cold. Just… distant. Muted. Detached. You don’t flirt. You don’t roll your eyes when he calls you names. You don’t even rise to the bait when he eats the last of your chips and says, “You snooze, you lose.” You just nod, distracted. Quiet. The first time he tries to pull you into his lap during a break, you shrug him off.

The third time it happens, he snaps. “The fuck is going on with you?” You glance up from your notebook, eyebrows raised. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit,” he says, jaw tense. “You’ve been acting weird all week.” You look at him flatly. “I’ve been busy.”

“With what? Avoiding me?” The words hang heavy in the air. He stares at you across the room, breathing hard, the project open on your laptop but completely forgotten. Your throat is tight.

“Forget it,” you mutter, pushing back your chair. He grabs your wrist. Not hard. Just enough to make you stop.

“Tell me what’s wrong.” You inhale, shaky. “I saw you. In class. With that girl.”

His expression shifts, confusion tightening into something sharper. “What girl?”

“The one you were laughing with,” you say, voice brittle. “It’s not a big deal. I just—forgot who you are, I guess. You can talk to whoever you want.” He stares at you. Like he doesn’t know whether to scream or laugh. “Are you serious right now?”

You rip your arm from his grip. “Yeah, actually.”

“That was my cousin, you idiot.” You freeze. “What?”

“My cousin. From Osaka. She was visiting campus and sat in for class,” he says, exasperated. “Jesus, you thought I was flirting?”

“You were laughing with her!”

“I laugh with you more than anyone! Does that mean I’m flirting with you too?”

“Yes!” you blurt, and then immediately regret it. His eyes narrow. “So you do see it.” You open your mouth. Close it. Your face burns. He steps forward, close enough to make your pulse jump. “You’re jealous.” You look away. “No, I’m—”

He cuts you off. “You are. And you know what? Good. ’Cause I’ve been going fucking insane pretending we’re just study buddies who coincidentally spend every second together and coincidentally fuck and coincidentally sleep in the same bed, but can’t call each other anything real.” You stare at him, breathless.

“I like you,” he says, low and hoarse. “I like you so much it’s driving me nuts. And if you don’t feel the same—fine. But don’t act like I haven’t been making it obvious.” You swallow hard. “You have a fucked-up way of showing it.”

He snorts. “You’re one to talk. Giving me the silent treatment because I laughed once?”

“You laughed like you do with me,” you whisper. “That’s what hurt.”

Something flickers in his expression—something soft and real. He cups your jaw.

“I only laugh like that with you,” he says, voice thick. “I only want to laugh like that with you.” Your heart stumbles. “Now shut up,” he mutters, “so I can kiss you.” You do. And he does—hard, hungry, like he’s been waiting for years. Hands are in your hair, yours are on his shoulders, and everything finally clicks into place. When you pull back, flushed and breathless, he grins. “Well. You’re my girlfriend now.” You blink. “That’s not romantic at all.” He kisses your cheek. “Didn’t say it was. But it’s the truth.” You shove his chest. “You suck.” He just grins harder, tugging you back in. “Not what you were saying last week. In fact, you were sucking it.” You groan. But you don’t argue. Because yeah—you’re his now. And he's yours. Officially.

–

Sukuna’s room is warmer than usual. The window’s cracked, the scent of pine air freshener battling the distinct smell of boy—clean laundry, leftover cologne, something vaguely woodsy. You’re cross-legged on his bed, surrounded by notebooks and crumpled printouts, while he’s sitting in his desk chair with one foot up on the edge, tapping away at the final slides of your presentation. Toji passed by the door earlier and shouted, “Yo, project couple!” before Sukuna flipped him off and slammed the door shut with his heel. You’re both halfway through your second coffees, the last dregs sloshing around your cups. The project’s done for real now—just tweaks now. Alignment stuff. Graph polish. The usual shit that seems small until it’s 2 a.m. and your brain starts melting.

“You typed ‘photochemistray,’” you murmur, leaning forward to peer at his screen. He doesn’t even look up. “No I didn’t.”

“Yes you did.”

“I don’t make typos.” You snort. “You make so many typos.”

“I make sexy typos.”

“‘Photochemistray’ sounds like a bootleg brand of nerd lingerie.” He finally glances over, one brow raised. “You say that like it’s not a market I could corner.”

You throw a pillow at him. He laughs, full and low and so familiar it warms your stomach. That sound’s become muscle memory at this point. Embedded into your damn soul. The moment settles. Quiet for a beat. His keyboard clacks, and you start flipping through your notes, eyes skimming blankly. Then, out of nowhere, your voice slips into the silence. “Y’know… we’ve technically talked before this semester.” 

He glances up. “What?”

“Like, you and me. Before we got partnered.” He blinks. “When?” You hesitate. “That freshman welcome thing. In the orientation lecture hall. They made people from different majors introduce themselves. I stood up and said something about being interested in environmental science.” He frowns, clearly digging through his brain.

“And I stuttered,” you add, dryly. “And you—very loudly—mocked me from the back row.” There’s a beat. His face changes. Just slightly. Jaw tightening.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. You said something like, ‘Damn. Spit it out, dumbass.’”

He winces. “Shit.” You shrug, trying to brush it off. “I mean, whatever. It wasn’t a big deal.”

“Yeah, it was,” he says immediately, looking at you now with that intense, unreadable stare. “I was an asshole. I didn’t even remember that was you.” You shrug again, but it feels a little thinner this time. “You weren’t wrong. I was stuttering.”

“Doesn’t fucking matter,” he says. “I was a piece of shit. I’m sorry.” The quiet that follows isn’t awkward—it’s just… charged. The way he says it, that gravel in his voice. The way he’s leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, rings glinting under the dim desk lamp. It does something to you.

“Didn’t think the Ryomen Sukuna apologized,” you say lightly. He lifts a brow. “Only when I mean it.” You nod slowly. Then: “Guess I’m honored.” His eyes narrow—playfully, but there’s heat there now. “You should be.” Your heart skips. You stretch your legs out, feigning boredom. But the hem of your shorts rides up, and his gaze flickers down—lingers. You see the change in his posture. The way his foot drops from the desk, his chair creaking as he shifts.

“I wasn’t gonna say anything,” he says, voice lower now. “But you’ve been sitting there looking like that for the past hour and it’s getting hard to think.” You blink. “Like what?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching. “All pretty and smug. Like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to me.” You raise a brow. “I’m literally in a hoodie and gym shorts.”

“And yet,” he says, slowly standing. “Here I am. In physical pain.”

You scoff. “Maybe focus on the final slide instead of your dick.”

“Maybe stop sitting there looking like a fucking sin,” he mutters, now crossing the space between you. You don’t move. You can’t. Your breath is caught somewhere in your chest as he stops right in front of the bed, towering over you, eyes hooded. “Can I?” he asks, voice quieter. Rougher. You nod. The shift is immediate. His hands slide up your thighs, slow and deliberate, as he kneels onto the bed, caging you in. His mouth brushes the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Didn’t like that I hurt your feelings.” 

You swallow. “You didn’t. Not really.”

“I did,” he murmurs, kissing the side of your neck. “And now I’m gonna make it up to you.” Your breath stutters. He pulls back just enough to look at you—his thumb grazing your jaw, eyes dark and locked on yours. “You good?” he asks, tone shifting just slightly—checking in. You nod. “Yeah.”

“Say it.”

“I’m good.”

That’s all it takes. His mouth crashes into yours, all heat and teeth and months of tension bleeding out between your lips. His hand finds your waist, gripping you like he’s been starving. You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan. The laptop slides off the bed with a thunk, forgotten. You pull him down with you, and he goes easily, one knee slipping between your thighs, his weight bracing over you. He kisses like he studies—focused, intense, overwhelming. His tongue licks into your mouth and your brain just short-circuits. He looks at you for a long second. Then, suddenly, grabs your waist and pulls you into his lap.

“Also,” he murmurs, breath hot against your neck, “for the record, if I’d known the hot chem girl from freshman year would end up riding me like five times a week, I would’ve introduced myself sooner. And not have been such an asshole to you.” You slap his chest. “That’s your way of apologizing?”

“Yeah, but you like it.” You kiss him to shut him up, and somehow, that turns into another hour of not reviewing the presentation.

–

it’s the final day, and your name’s being called. You head to the front of the class with your laptop while Sukuna follows, looking every bit the cocky, casually dressed bastard he’s always been—except now he’s your cocky, casually dressed bastard. He nods at the front row like he’s about to win a Grammy, and you nudge his ribs. A significant portion of the project requires an overview accompanied with an oral presentation, so here you are.

“Behave.”

“I’m always well-behaved,” he mutters, grabbing the clicker. You start the intro. He takes over halfway through. You can’t help but grin a little—because he’s good. Actually good. Clear, confident, no stuttering, and he even makes Professor Shimizu laugh with a sarcastic quip about the data trend in one of the chemical reactions. And then, without thinking, he leans down and kisses your cheek. Like it’s second nature. The room doesn’t even react that much—probably because no one’s shocked anymore—but when the class ends and people start packing up, Professor Shimizu catches your arm. She grins. “Isn’t that the same boy you were begging me not to pair you with at the start of the semester?”

Your face burns. “We had…a rocky beginning.”

“Mmm,” she says, amused. “Well, you turned it around. Solid work. And the chemistry was palpable.” You groan. “Please don’t say chemistry.” But she’s already walking away, still smiling to herself. After class, Sukuna drives you back to your dorm like always. One hand on the wheel, one resting over your thigh like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it. Halfway through the drive, he queues something on his phone. And the soft strum of Faye Webster's She Won’t Go Away fills the car. You whip your head toward him. “No fucking way.” 

He doesn’t look at you. “Don’t start.”

“You said this was depression music for people who get dumped in the rain.” He clicks his tongue. 

“Yeah, well. Maybe I like that kinda concept now.” You cover your mouth with a gasp. “You’re evolving.”

“I’m gonna shove you out of this moving car.” 

You’re already singing by the chorus, and even though he groans, you catch him mouthing the words beside you. He tries to act like he’s just being ironic, but his fingers tap the rhythm on your leg, and he keeps the song on repeat the whole ride. By the time he pulls up to your dorm, the sun’s setting. You lean in, eyes soft, smile lazy. “That was kinda romantic,” you murmur. 

He scoffs. “Don’t get used to it.” You kiss him anyway. And when you pull back, he’s watching you with that grin. The one that’s half smug, half stupidly, hopelessly fond. “You know,” he says, “if you weren’t so annoying, I might’ve asked you to be my girlfriend sooner.” You blink. “That was the least romantic thing I’ve ever heard. Like, worse when we had that little argument and you just told me that I was your girlfriend now.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “You didn’t fall for me because I’m romantic.” 

You narrow your eyes. “Why did I fall for you, actually?”

He leans in close. “Probably the dick.” You shove him away, laughing. “God, you’re disgusting.”

“And yet,” he says, as you open the car door, “you’re still letting me hit. Also, this song, I actually really like it–”

You squint. “Are you saying this to get laid?”

“No,” he mutters. “But if it works, I won’t complain.” You slam the door in his face, but you’re grinning. And he’s still smiling when you look back through the window.

a/n: i had way too much fun writing this lollll now i need sukuna!!!

also, honourable tag for @writesvani bc of whom i actually had the motivation of writing this because she sent the most beautiful words of support 2 me after whisper of the heart. thank u so much and ily immensely <3

tags: @tracysdemise @perqbeth @fushiguroooozzz @bowlware @yuunice @xxstormyprincessxx @bnbaochauuu @beabamboo @erintaro @altgojo @sugurulefttesticle @minascasket @rinofcike @captainquake42 @pinkpookiebear @hellowoolf @clp-84 @yit-tk @nessca153 @domainofmarie @crunchyholo @emochosoluvr @sukubusss @being-blue-is-better @nikilig @syubseokie

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-two —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.1k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. SA and implication of child SA (very subtle). summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: clearly I am bad at estimating how long this story will take lol

The tray of food crashes to the floor at her feet. Salome gasps. Her hand shoots back, fumbling for the doorknob, and her lips part, ready to call the guard you know is just outside.

"If you call for the guard," you stop her, "I’ll cut deeper."

She clamps a hand over her mouth. "Please—stop! Hurting yourselves is a sin, a great dishonor to the body God gave you—"

“It is,” you agree calmly. You press the shard deeper into the cephalic vein, ignoring the bite of pain. Blood spills in a fresh, startling curtain down your arm, the wound mimicking the severity of an arterial cut. “And she’ll blame you for it. You’re the one she entrusted to watch over us, and you didn't notice we broke one of the mugs."

"I did not think you would—"

"What happens to you,” you cut her off, pointing the bloody shard at her stomach, “—and your baby when the two new child-bearers die because of your failure? Because I will die, if I cut any deeper. This artery,” you lie, tapping the wound for emphasis, “is important. If I finish slicing through it, I’ll bleed out in less than a minute. Not enough time for you to get help. Not even enough to try saving me yourself.”

Her lashes flutter rapidly through a swell of tears. "You could have a good life here—"

"Answer me. What happens to you if I die?"

She swallows hard. "She’ll punish me," she whispers frightfully. "I have seen what happens to those who fail her. She might take my child and I will... never see them. Please, don’t do this—”

"Why should we care about you and your child when you are okay with them killing an eleven-year-old girl tomorrow?"

A flash of shame crosses her face. "I'm sorry. I-I didn't know Maman would want the girl. The offering has never been so young before. But it is God's will, there is nothing I can do to—"

"What you can do is open the cell. Open it and we will kill Maman, then you won't have to worry about anyone taking your baby. But if you don't open it, then we die in here and you will face her punishment."

Her lips part, but nothing comes out. She looks between you and Nereida, eyes darting wildly, fingers twitching against her stomach. 

"Decide before I bleed out!"

"I... I can't," she says pitifully.

With a glance at Nereida, she takes her cue, digging into her vein.

"Open the cell," Nereida urges far more soothingly than you can, blood dripping to her elbow. "We won't hurt you. We want Maman gone, not you."

Salome whimpers under her breath, but her fingers move before her mind catches up, reaching inside her robe to retrieve the key, gripping it like it might burn her. She shuffles closer but pauses, inhaling deeply before finally reaching the door. Her hands shake so violently that the key rattles against the lock. It slips against the metal, failing to match the hole, and your finger twitches when she nearly drops it.

"Mais si elles ne parviennent pas à la tuer..." The whisper leaves quietly, lost beneath the veil. "Sa punition pour moi sera pire."

Then, her hand curls back around the key.

She swallows hard—and steps back.

No. 

You see red.

A growl curls at your mouth and you snap forward, grabbing onto her dress through the bars before she can retreat too far, and pulling her flush against them, her forehead banging into the metal. Before she can scream, you clamp a bloody hand over her mouth and then press the piece of broken mug to her neck with just enough pressure to make her panic. She gasps into your palm, struggling. You dig it harder, forcing her body to turn still and rigid.

"Twix—"

"I tried doing things the nicer way," you speak in a low snarl, veering off the script you and Nereida conjured. Round, glossy eyes stare into yours. "You should have made up your mind before getting within my reach. Now give her the key. I’d hate for my hand to slip."

Another sharp press into her skin wrings a squeak from her, her breath coming out jagged and uneven against your palm. Trembling, she extends an arm through the bars, offering the key to Nereida.

The moment Nereida takes it, she fumbles to find the lock from the outside, her fingers searching blindly. The key scrapes against the metal—once, twice—before a soft click finally reaches your ears.

The door swings open.

You don’t hesitate. Keeping your grip firm over Salome’s mouth, you shove through the opening and swing around to the other side. Before she can react, you force her back into the cell, driving her onto the bed. The veil tears free from her head as you pin her down, your weight pressing her into the mattress, the sharp fragment still poised at her throat. When her legs begin to flail helplessly, you order Nereida to grab them. She clasps Salome's ankles to keep her from bucking you off.

"You were afraid of the wrong person," you hiss, your nose nearly brushing hers. "Maman may have spared your life because she values her baby makers—but I don’t. Answer everything I ask, or I’ll show you just how merciless I can be."

The dishonest threat rolls off your tongue with enough force to make her nod frantically, fear widening her eyes. But what she doesn’t need to know—what you won’t let her see—is the part of you still holding back. Because even now, even as you pin her down and press the shard to a vital piece of her throat, you’re careful. You don’t dig hard enough to damage. You don’t let your weight bear down on the swell of her stomach.

"I'm glad we understand each other. I am going to lift my hand, and you're not going to scream. You're going to tell me everything we need to know about the guards out there."

Her lips are puffy and raw when you set them free. 

"There is only one outside the d-door," she sputters in a whisper. "B-but there are more... more by the... h-homes and the keep."

"The keep?"

"Where they keep the new m-males," she chokes out, snot dripping from her nose.

"That's in the old slaughterhouse, right?"

She nods.

"How many guards are over there exactly?"

"I do not know." At your glare, she rushes out, "B-but there are less after d-dinner ends. Many go to sleep, and switch shifts at sunrise."

You mull over the information, eyes darting across her face. “And the child—the offering? Where is Maman keeping her?”

A terrible look of fear ripples through her eyes. "Only few are allowed near the offering b-before her ascension. 

"So you're telling me you don't know?" you seethe in her face.

She sobs. "I know they... they will offer her to the démons right before the sun rises. The night is when God’s wrath is strongest, but it’s in the morning—when hope ascends—that we seek atonement."

Despite further pressing, that seems to be the extent of what she knows—or she's still withholding. Either way, you're satisfied enough. You rip strips of the sheet, using one to gag her and two more to bind her wrists and ankles. You and Nereida wrap your wounded wrists tightly to stop the flow. Then, you remove her white gown. You’ll need something to wear that doesn't easily mark you as an escapee, but there’s only the one white dress and veil. You hurriedly slip into them, making sure all of your hair and face is hidden, leaving Nereida still in the thin slip. The shoes Salome wears are thin and made of unsupported leather, but they are all you have to tuck your bare feet into.

Salome said there will be fewer guards after dinner. You and Nereida listen carefully to every sound that bleeds through the window. When you hear a few exchanges of bonne nuit, you figure people are starting to retire for the night. You take this as your cue to grip your makeshift weapon. The guard outside the door is expecting Salome to leave at some point, giving you the perfect opportunity to catch him off-guard while dressed as her.

You quietly open the door to the warm summer night, the long gown ghosting around your ankles. As expected, a well-built man leans against the side of the building, arms crossed languidly. No one else is in sight, which brings you some relief. When his gaze shifts to you, he raises a brow.

"Tout va bien, mademoiselle? Vous êtes restée là-dedans un moment."

The last word barely makes it out of his mouth. Within a heartbeat, you spring at him like the head of a snake, one hand over his mouth and the other stabbing his neck with the shard, then sweeping it through the thick of his trachea. A gush of blood oozes out in one thick stream, before he gargles out a strangled choke and turns to dead weight against the wall. 

With Nereida's help, you quickly push his body inside the building to keep anyone from spotting it. 

"Wear this," you usher, already starting to undress him. Like the man who visited you, he's wearing a grey cloak. Though it's too big for her, and bloodied, it will be enough to keep her discreet in the dark, her long hair safely tucked beneath the hood.

Two things race through your mind: the ticking time toward sunrise and the fact that you still don’t know how many more men you’ll have to take out to reach Ghost, Price, and Kyle. The knife you find on the guard adds a small weapon to your shitty arsenal. You have no idea where they could’ve stored the guns and ammo they took from you, or your bow. How you'll manage to fight through a community of cultists without those is a worry you can’t afford to dwell on right now—one step at a time.

After a few minutes of collecting yourselves, urgency pulls the two of you outside, free from the barred enclosure for the first time in almost four days. In the blanket of night, you quickly scan the area, taking in what you’re up against. The community appears fairly spread out, with only six small farmhouses like the one you just escaped from, along with a few larger structures in the near distance—likely where they house the men. You catch a glimpse of a fenced pasture’s perimeter and the unmistakable stench of cattle fills the air. Despite the faint shuffle of hooves and grey plumes of smoke from a few of the chimneys, everything is eerily still, leaving an unnerving amount of quiet for your heart to shatter through.

From what you can see, there aren’t many places to hide Blue, but there could be more to this place beyond what’s visible, especially since the chapel you first saw is nowhere in sight. But none of that matters right now; you need to find the others first if you’re going to have any real chance of saving her and getting out of here.

The next male you encounter spots you first as you make your way up the gravel road towards the barn, the sound of his boots making your hand tighten on the knife's handle. He greets you unassumingly in French, causing Nereida to startle beside you as his shadow approaches. Then he stops in front of her, his shoulders tensing and his hand hovering near a knife at his waist.

"Que fais-tu avec la femelle? C’est interdit!"

Again, you go for the throat, desperate to silence any screams that could cause alarm. You get a good swipe at the base of it, but he is at least a head taller than you, making it difficult to stab fully. He grabs you by the waist, clearly in shock that a veiled female just sprung on him with a knife, but swipes a fist at your face nonetheless. The force spreads through your temple, thrusting your head to the side. 

"Take the knife from him," you hiss at Nereida through the pain, who until now was effectively frozen. She finally moves, using the distraction you've caused as he clutches his bleeding neck, and snatches the knife still hanging at his waist. Once she has it, you leap at the disarmed man again, this time stabbing his liver. With a muffled grown, he face-plants into the gravel, quickly soaking it with blood. 

"The body," she stutters worriedly. "We need to hide it."

You look around, spotting stacks of chopped wood.

"Over there. Help me drag him."

Once the body is heaved behind the logs, you pat him down in search for anything else, but there's nothing.

"Keep that on you," you tell her, and she gives a quick nod, hiding the knife under her sleeve.

You keep following the road up to the fence, your white dress splattered with crimson, resembling the dotted stars overhead. The 'keep' is somewhere by the barn that man said, but you notice smaller buildings to the right and to the left of it. Which one looks like an old slaughterhouse? It's too difficult to tell even when you squint, so you grab Nereida's arm and quickly lower by a bush.

"Watch that one, and I'll keep an eye on this one. Whichever building has more guards patrolling is probably where they're holding them."

"Okay," she whispers, peering around the bush.

Minutes pass. The building on the right has more shadows skirting around it—three guards total. You take a moment to study their movements. One is stationed near the back, the other two at the front.

"I want you to take the one at the back and wait for me. I'll handle the other two."

"How do I take him?" she whispers uncertainly. "He’ll see me coming."

"You’ll come at it from an angle." You point toward a stack of hay. "Sneak over there, quietly. Once you're behind it, circle around and approach where he can't see."

She hesitates, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead. "I’ve never—"

"Never killed anyone?" 

The way she grips the knife, her fingers white on the handle, confirms it.

"These people deserve it, Nereida," you say, forcing her to meet your gaze. "John is in there."

She closes her eyes, and for a moment, the weight of it all presses down on her. When she opens them again, her jaw is set, and her grip on the knife tightens.

After reminding her where to strike, you pause for a moment, watching as she sneaks over to the hay. Then, you move toward the other two, slipping behind a tree for cover, but your foot catches on something and you almost trip, catching yourself against the bark. Your breath hitches and you steal a peek at them to make sure they didn't hear you. No—they are too busy murmuring to each other, laughing in a low exchange.

When you glance down, you spot a shovel half-buried into the ground, its handle sticking out. Carefully, you wriggle it free, having to grit your teeth to fully remove it. This will let you stun one while you deal with the other. Inhaling deeply to center yourself, palm tight over the splintered wood handle, you close in on the two guards.

The shorter one with curly hair spots you just before you take a swing, his eyes widening. The shovel slams into his skull, effectively making him stumble to the ground, but slips from your grip from the force. The other guard whirls around, hand slapping for the pistol at his belt. You deliver three consecutive stabs to his stomach, heart, and cheek. The gun never leaves his waist before he falls dead.

You suck in a gulp of air just as the curly-haired one regains his footing. His head is still heavy from the blow, and before he can draw his knife, you shove him in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground. You pin him easily beneath you, his movements sluggish and weak. The two of you wrestle in the grass, jagged breaths mixing with frantic, scraping nails, until, with a snarl, your knife finds purchase in his neck, stealing the life from his eyes in an instant. You stab him again and again, shaking, until the ticking urgency pulls you back into control. With a deep breath, you steady yourself and wiggle the knife lodged in his trachea, your hands slippery with blood.

"You got death," you spit in a whisper, thumbing his lids shut.

You lift up.

Now you have a single gun.

It is an old thing. Outdated and far from the military-grade weapons Ghost has. It takes a moment to figure out the parts—your fingers fumble for the small magazine, which is stocked with three bullets. You pull the slide to chamber a round with a click and keep it ready in your hand as you circle the building toward the back, praying that Nereida managed. When you find her, she is stood over the man's body, a deep cut oozing on her cheek.

"He saw me," she says, swallowing. "But I did it."

You nod. "We need to hide them before we go in."

All three bodies are hidden behind the hay stacks. You cover them with manure to mask the smell, not wanting a horde of Greys to materialize. You'd spotted a door at the back and hope it may be more discreet then blazing in through the front, given that you don't know who all is in there. Finger ready on the trigger, you hold your breath as you lead Nereida into the old building, instantly met with the rich smell of pennies. The space quickly unfolds into an old butcher house, rusted hooks hanging from the stone ceiling, the air cramped and cold. 

"Une femme? Maman ne voudrait pas de toi—"

The voice echoes in your ear as you round the corner, and then a fiery bullet rips into the owner's chest. Nereida flinches. Another guard comes barreling over, shouting, but you slide the chamber and shoot him in the head.

You don't linger by the bodies, itching to check the first steel door you see. You lower the gun only to pull at the handle, but it won't budge.

"Check him for keys," you motion to the dead guard.

Nereida crouches, hands rifling through his pockets until she yanks free a ring of keys. Her fingers shake as she tries them one by one, the lock stubborn—until, at last, it gives. With a sharp tug, the door groans open, revealing a windowless chamber. In the center, a lone captive hangs from chains.

It’s Price. Shackles bite into his wrists, his bare chest mapped with deep bruises against pale skin. Beaten, but unbroken—his gaze sharp as it lifts to meet yours. Nereida chokes on a sob, ripping the hood off her head and sinking to her knees before him, cupping his jaw.

A weighted baritone manages: "Duchess."

"There is nowhere I will not find you," she croaks. Teary kisses find the corner of his mouth. "I'm here, I'm here."

"How did you—"

"We got out. Where are the others?" you ask.

His jaw grits. "I haven't seen them since they knocked us out."

"They must be here somewhere. We need to move quick before someone notices the bodies."

After finding the small key to undo the manacles, you leave them to each other for the moment, continuing down the hall until the next door. An undeniable pull rises in your chest, something that has nothing to do with the adrenaline rushing through you—something you can’t quite name. But when you open the door, your heart falters with unwelcome disappointment at the sight of Kyle. He looks equally battered, but still aware enough to lift his head as you step in.

"Who are you?" 

You lift the veil.

"It's me," you answer, the words almost lost in the rush of emotions. Only when you fully take in the room do you notice Ari, curled in the corner. They’ve put them in here together. While there are no obvious injuries on the boy, the sight of the open Bible on his lap, and the empty dinner plate beside him, sends a cold shiver down your spine. You touch his cheek, feeling warmth, and reassure him he’s safe.

You release both of them. "Price and Nereida are through the door down the left. I need to find Ghost. I’ll be back."

Kyle rubs his wrists and manages to stand despite his black eye and shaky legs. "I’ll come with you."

"No. I’ll get him." The words come out sharper than you mean to, but you turn away before he can question them.

You are pulled further through the tight, cold hallway, movements turning more hurried as you look around. There are a few more half-opened doors, but they only lead to supply closets filled with whips and metal batons and empty chambers where old blood stains the floors. Something sharp tugs at your heart, and for the first time since initiating your escape, your fingertips succumb to a tremor of fear. 

Where is he?

The hall spits out into a room where dried animal carcasses hang from the walls.

One final door sits on the far end.

The rusted lock resists, swears hissing from your lips—until a sharp kick forces it open.

The smell thickens with fresh blood, and a cold pit sinks into your stomach at the sight of him—bound in chains, his body slumped haphazardly. Unlike the others, he doesn’t lift his head. You rush forward, a shaky breath catching in your throat as you take in the blood caked on his shoulder blades, deep welts splitting through the inked skin. His back, too, is covered in wounds. He looks worse—so much worse—that a bite of anger swells moisture in your eyes.

"Simon, you idiot. What did you do?" The words slip out on a sharp inhale as you lower yourself in front of him. "Simon," you whisper again, silent tears hot against your lips. You thread a hand through his hair, tilting his jaw up with careful fingers. His eyes are heavy, but relief finds you when they flutter open. He’s alive. The reddened whites flicker over your face, unfocused—until something strange sharpens the haze. A flicker of fear.

"It's me, Simon. We're getting out of here."

The brief fear shifts into shock when he recognizes your face, and only after you fumble with the key ring does understanding click into place, causing his jaw to flex. "Where... where is she?"

"I don't know, but we need to hurry. They have her." You undo the manacles, and his body rolls heavily into you, face falling onto your collarbone. You struggle to hold him up, gripping his shoulders without touching the wounds. A low groan bleeds through his teeth, and his eyes flutter shut again. No, no, no. "Please, you have to... you have to get up, Simon. I can't—she's going to fucking die!"

His upper chest rapidly expands with a breath, and he musters the strength to lift his weight off you and slap a hand against the wall. As he leverages his weight up, you help by grabbing beneath his other arm, until a final rush of adrenaline gets him on his feet. Urgency snaps tension into his limp shoulders, and he growls out another, more steady, breath.

"Price," he says.

"He's alive. Come on."

It takes some effort to help him walk at first, but eventually, he manages on his own. You guide him to the first room, where the others are pacing, murmuring in low voices.

"Simon, Jesus," Price mutters when he sees him.

Ghost brushes it off, his eyes narrowing. "They're going to kill her."

"At sunrise," you add, your voice tight. You pull out the pistol and show it to them. "I have one bullet left. I don't know how many more men are in this cult, but we've killed six so far."

"We have one shitty old gun." Kyle growls in frustration. "They took all our shit. How are we going to—"

"We find the weapons. They must have stored them somewhere," Price says.

"We can't just go searching through every building here. We don't have the time," you press. "And how are we supposed to get it back without everyone noticing we're gone?"

"I don't give a fuck about the guns. We find her first," Ghost grits, nostrils flaring. 

"We can't help her if we don't think things through. We can't just start a war with these people empty-handed, Simon," Price says.

"We find her first!"

"Simon," you say, reaching for his arm, but he pulls it away, clenching his bloody fist. The energy radiating from him would scare you if you didn't feel the same way.

Just then, there is the faint sound of a door opening and footsteps clanging through the hall. You tense up, two male voices shouting in echoes, one of them vaguely familiar.

"Quelqu'un les a tués ! On doit régler cette merde avant que Maman découvre quoi que ce soit."

"Les putains de prisonniers!"

Before you can react, Ghost snatches the pistol from your grip. The second they rush toward the open door, he launches at them—an elbow to one’s face, the butt of the gun breaking the nose of the other. Price uses Nereida's knife to stab the fallen guard, while Kyle helps Ghost subdue the second one. You only recognize him as the man who made you strip when they forcibly drag him toward the manacles, the sight of his blonde hair making your nails curl into your palms.

"You stupid fucking Brits!"

Ghost strikes the gun into his left eye, making him jerk within the constraints, howling as the socket turns into bloody pulp. 

Kyle grips the man's scalp from behind to hold his head up, while Ghost presses the gun into his cheek, where you notice a wound shaped like a bite mark.

"Tell us where she is," he roars. "Or I'll take the other eye."

Nereida cowers into the corner, holding onto Ari's arm. 

"I don't know!" the man spits blood, and Ghost digs the gun into his cheek, ripping it open further until the bitten flesh hangs as a torn flap, exposed all the way to his eye. The scream that follows feels inhuman. "I swear, I don't—I don't fucking know!"

Fresh blood drips to the floor. Price, much more calm, lowers at the man's side. "How many people live here?"

The man grits his teeth, struggling to answer, "T-thirty males, and six females. Plus the infants."

Twenty-two now, you count in your head.

"And the weapons we had. What about those?" Price questions further.

When only staggered, pained breaths fills the room, Ghost tosses the bloody gun and grabs the knife from Price, stabbing the man's kneecap without hesitation. Another scream ensues, and there is the small itch to cover your ears, but you steel yourself against the wall to keep watching.

"Answer the fucking question." Ghost twists the knife in his knee.

He cries out, more bloody spittle flying from his mouth. "All of the ammo is hidden. Only A-Alexandre knows!"

"Who is Alexandre?"

“Maman's son, he enforces her commands and oversees the males.”

"Where is he?" Price asks, voice hard.

“He… he resides in the work shed, while the rest of us sleep in the quarters within the barn.”

You step forward. "We saw another building outside with just one guard, that must be it."

There is a beat of silence as Price processes the information, giving Ghost a satisfied nod. With pain still contorting his face, the man's eye drifts past Ghost's shoulder toward you. His lips twitch into a faint, bloody smirk that makes your skin crawl. Ghost follows his gaze, snarls, and abruptly slashes the man's throat from ear to ear.

B

It is still dark when Eloise comes to awaken her, though Blue's eyes never once fell shut with sleep. She spent the short-lived night alternating between staring at the crescent moon outside the window, and fiddling with the knitting needles left on the table. There is a new dress in the woman's clutch, beautiful white fabric embroidered with flowers, and a pair of beautiful leather shoes in the other hand.

"See? I told you the dress would be nicer." She smiles and hands it over, as if to offer something to be thrilled for. "You must change quickly. There is a lovely breakfast of framboises and milk waiting for you. Put these on as well." She sets the shoes on the floor.

Blue thinks it strange, to bother feeding her just before her death. Blankly, she asks, "How many people will be there? To watch me die."

Eloise's smile quivers slightly, a slight crack in her composure. "Not too many, I assure you. Only a few of us women, and one or two worthy men. Most are still sleeping." After a pause, she adds even quieter, almost ashamed, "Be thankful you don’t suffer through childbirth instead. It is... a painful thing. Long, too. At least this pain will be honorable and swift."

Blue's fingers tighten around the dress. "Okay. Do you mind if I change alone, please?"

Eloise bows her head. "Of course."

She casts one last gentle glance her way before shuffling out of the room, locking the door behind her and leaving Blue with only the dress and shoes. Once the door is closed, Blue quickly slips the dress on, shuddering as the cold fabric caresses her limbs. It’s more beautiful than anything she can remember ever wearing, and that disgusts her. Swallowing the churn in her stomach, she grabs the needles and sits back on the bed.

The wounds on her feet are shallow, her fingernails only able to pierce the thick skin slightly. Using the needles, she digs into them deeper, trembling from the pain that throbs as fresh blood begins to seep from the soles. She cuts and cuts furiously, teeth gritted, praying it’s enough to soak through the shoes she slips on over the new wounds. She covers the blood stains on the sheet with the blanket, then stands, almost crying out from the agony of walking on her torn feet.

"Please dad," she whispers, closing her eyes briefly, before calling to Eloise that she is ready.

"Is everything alright, miss? You've been in there for a while." "What are you doing with the female? It’s forbidden!" "A woman? Maman wouldn’t want you—" "Someone killed them! We need to fix this shit before Maman finds out anything." "The fucking prisoners!"

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part twenty-nine —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.4k tags: death. blood. cannibalism mention. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. there will be sex!!! SEX. 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.

You trip over a tree root, catching yourself against the rough bark. You don’t stop. You scream for him again, your legs propelling you toward the road, boots sliding over loose gravel.

He pushes past the others and closes the distance.

You slam into him, nearly falling, and grab his shirt, using him to steady yourself. “Simon, we have to go. Now. We need to leave.”

“What’s going on?” Someone asks—Price?—but it barely registers.

"We need to fucking leave!" you urge.

Ghost clamps onto your shoulders. “Twix, breathe. What did you see?”

“There is a body—and blood, on the wall—I don’t know what it says, but it's fresh—” You shake your head, heart erratic. The words won’t come out right. You can’t explain the wrongness crawling under your skin, the terrible dread in your stomach. You thrust a finger in the direction of the chapel as if they will understand. The quiet air rolls through the flowers. You feel it now. It's too quiet. Too calm. You can only manage a whisper. “Someone had to have written the words. We’re not alone.”

You barely catch the unfurling of his eyes before the world erupts into black smoke, and then you can't see him at all.

They already knew you were here.

He grabs you, shouting something you can’t make out.

Your first thought is Blue, and your second is the bow.

Your hands fumble as you blindly slap an arrow onto the string, but someone's body slams into yours, and it falls. You can’t even see where it landed.

The cloud of smoke burns your lungs, and a string of coughs spasm up your throat.

Ghost’s grip slips from you.

"Blue!" you choke out. 

You stumble forward, reaching aimlessly, even though you don’t know what you’ll do when you find her. Your vision blurs with painful tears, and then you feel it—a sharp prick at your neck.

The pain is a numb, searing sensation down your spine.

Your muscles seize, then convulse.

"Ghost," you think you say. The soft ringing in your ears drowns everything. You try to take a step, but your leg won't move. You succumb to the numbness. The ground rushes to meet you, though darkness steals you first.

You swim between disjointed visions. Viewing them from behind plexiglass. At first, you are talking to Paul. It's a sunny day. The birds are chirping through canopies of oaks. Then, you are in a room bathed in white. Fingers prod at you. You can't react to them. A soft voice hums sweetly, almost soothing, but it twists and warps back into Paul’s voice.

"The world kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry."

You bite a smile. "You know I have those words memorized."

"Good. Don't forget them," he says, not looking up from the wooden bird he whittles between leathery hands. It is a raven, you think. Though, you're no expert like he is. 

"You missed the first part, though."

His brow lifts. "Remind me."

"The world breaks every one and afterward many are strong at the broken places," you recite. 

A weathered mouth stretches at the corners. "Which one will you be, then? Broken or killed?"

You look down at the knife in your hand, the one you've been using to carve the arrow for the bow he's made you. The blade is dulled. You drag a thumb over it, shrugging. "I guess only time will tell."

"I suggest deciding for yourself, Twix."

You look back at him. "What did you call me?"

He responds, but his voice slurs into something unintelligible. 

White sunlight catches on his knife’s blade, almost blinding you. You close your eyes against the glare, but the light doesn’t fade when you reopen them—it grows, washing out the blue sky until it shifts into a stark white ceiling. Paul is gone. The birds have been silenced. The crisp scent of fresh linen reaches you. Is this a new dream, or the kaleidoscope rolling before the surrender to death? Your body feels like a borrowed shell, your mind straining to instruct your fingertips to move. They manage a weak press into the soft sheets below, rubbing against the fabric as if to convince yourself it’s truly there.

You are alive, then. Or the brain is incredible at tricking you into thinking so. 

Moving your neck feels like a daunting task, as if the vertebrae in your spine have been rewired, so you shift your eyes, searching for clues, but your memory is faulty at best. The walls are all white and bare. There is a dark wood table at the far corner, and a single shut door to your right. Then, there are...bars. Metal bars stripe the view, and you realize with a sudden jolt in your chest that you are enclosed by them, kept in a confined rectangle at one part of the room. 

Awareness strikes as you realize you're nearly naked, clad only in a thin, white shift. Someone has changed you. You ignore the lingering ache as you crane your neck upward and steal leverage from your elbows. The small bed below you creaks with the shift in your muscles. 

There are two other cots in the enclosure, and in them lay two unconscious figures. One lays flat, limbs spread in an unnatural way, while her black hair curtains over the white linen like splats of ink. The other is a smaller girl, her body curled into a haphazard fetal position.

There is no one else in the room.

Only you, Nereida, and Blue.

Audibly dry breaths stagger up your throat. Your mouth feels like painful sandpaper no matter how much spit you try to gather. You try to sit up more, but your legs won't move the way you tell them to, and you end up almost crumpling onto your back again. 

"F...uck."

They are still asleep, or knocked out, or whatever it is that has been done to you. They are alive, though. This much you know, based on the steady movement in their chests. Still, you want to reach them. You try to lift up once more, managing to lean your back against the wall for support, but just when you are ready to throw your weight into swinging a leg over, a gentle creak comes from the door.

"Tu es réveillée!"

Your gaze snaps to a young woman—a stranger—dressed in a long white cloak with a hood and veil. She might look like a ghost if not for the faint shimmer of her features on the other side of the veil: soft cheeks, a slightly crooked nose, but still pretty. She can't be older than you. In her hands is a tray with three mugs of what appears to be a porridge. Nothing about her emits a threat except for the fact she is on the other side of the metal bars. A sharp intake floods your lungs, a scream caught in your throat as she approaches, tilting her head in a look that feigns concern.

"Forgive me, I forget you speak anglaise. Please, do not be afraid. My name is Salome." The accent is thick but ignorable. She glances at the other two with a gentle smile. "I am happy you are awake. Your friends will be awake soon, as well. Are you hurting?"

When you say nothing, frozen, she reaches a mug through the bars and sets it on the floor. "Here. For you. Eat it slowly. Your body is still recovering."

A stretch of silence hangs between you, broken only by your uneven breathing. The understanding sinks in with full force as you glance between her, the other two, and the mug. It’s an understanding spliced with confusion—missing pieces. All you know is that your nostrils twitch, and you have no desire to move an inch toward the offering of food.

You observe her in more detail. The cloak hangs loosely on her frame, but she isn't boney, in fact a distinguishable swell shifts under it when she adjusts the tray in her hands. She is pregnant. A pregnant woman is your kidnapper. No, that's not right. She couldn't have carried the three of you, nor could she have done whatever the hell has been done to the four males who are clearly not present. There has to be others. The thought digs your nails into the soft mattress. 

She looks ready to say something again when her eyes dart to the side. You follow her gaze to see that Blue is moving her leg, eyes still closed, but she is moving.

The sight gives the rush of adrenaline needed to rip the sheet off your body and bring your feet to the floor. On wobbly legs, you rush to her cot, ignoring the woman's presence in favor of cupping Blue's cheeks, checking her pulse. Her skin is warm and the artery is beating steadily. You give her a little shake, but her eyes won't flutter. 

"She might not wake for longer than you. Do not be worried. The dosage has a stronger effect on children."

You stiffen.

A snarl cuts through you as anger surges, ripping free from the pit in your chest.

"Dosage?" 

You whirl around, careening toward the bars, gripping them when you almost lose your balance. "Do not be worried? You drugged a fucking child and shoved us in a cage." Your hands tighten, the metal biting into your skin. You don't care that your voice hurts from disuse. "Where are the others? Why aren't they here?" She startles back a step, her soft eyes downcast.

"I see you are upset," she says, her tone soft and careful. "I know this is... much for you. Sometimes God works in ways we do not understand right away, but I promise, He has blessed you. You are safe here." A light touch to her belly. Whispering now, she adds, "You are coveted." 

Then, she lowers the other two mugs through the bars and slips out of the room, cloak silently brushing her feet. 

Breathing hard, the energy deflates.

You half-crawl back to Blue's bed.

Staring at her pink cheeks.

Head pounding.

She claims you are safe. The lack of hostility might suggest that, but the enclosure and fact that she could not answer your question about the others say different. 

You spend a strange amount of time sifting through the recesses in your brain, plucking the memories out, from the bloody chapel to the smoke to this, before Nereida shifts in her bed. Her eyes actually open, and then she is gazing around, the same process of understanding contorting on her face. 

"Twix," she breathes. "What is—where are we?"

You tell her about Salome and everything you know, which is next to nothing. 

"But the guys—"

"I don't know where they are. She wouldn't tell me anything."

The mugs of porridge go cold. 

You hear movement outside in the distance—someone stepping through the grass, a passing exchange between French-speaking men—but the window is on the other side of the bars.

"Maybe if we try to just..."

Nereida attempts to poke half of her face through the bars to look out, but by the way she claws at her hairline in frustration, you don't need to ask to know she can't see a thing. 

Your muscles feel mostly in control now, and despite the howl in your stomach, you refuse to eat.

Nereida does, too. She does some silent prayer—if that's what you could call closing her eyes and humming hypnotically to herself—and when she is done, she reopens them and says, "John will come soon. He will."

"They could be dead."

"We would know if they were."

"No, we wouldn't."

"I would know," she whispers, and circles her arms around her knees, thumbing the scar on her shoulder. "He isn't dead."

Neither of you speak for some time. 

You watch Blue, her pulse steadying you, even if by a little. Absently, you stroke her hair. The pieces of the puzzle fall together with grim clarity. No weapons. Ghost, Price, Kyle, and Ari could be dead. The thought is a weight you can barely carry. You shove it away, refusing to let it consume you. If you let yourself linger too long on the possibility, you'll break down. You can't—merely for Blue's sake, not when you're holding onto the fragile thread keeping you together.

As the sunlight through the window starts to fade, you try to determine whether it's been a day or more since you were knocked out, and when exactly Salome will return. That's when Blue finally wakes up.

"Twix?"

Her lashes flicker.

"Blue. Blue, I'm here." You carefully scoop her in a tight hug, breathing her in closely. 

"What... what happened?" She lamely pulls away, shoulders sagging, and trembles in confusion. "I can't—I don't remember anything."

"We were drugged. Someone—I don't know who or why—but someone is keeping us in here."

"Are they going to kill us?" she whispers.

"I think they would have by now if they wanted to."

Her breath staggers. "But where is—why isn't Ghost here?"

You swallow. "I don't know if he... I don't know where he is."

Her eyes dart around.

"You mean my dad—he could be..."

She clutches at the shift on her chest.

At first, when you see her eyes begin to gloss over, you fear she is in pain. But then the panic becomes palpable, tearing through her ability to breathe, and she starts clawing at her own skin. 

"My dad is dead! My dad is fucking dead! He's not here. Why isn't he here!"

Her screams pierce the room.

You grab her wrists to stop the damage from her nails, welts already beating red on her neck.

"Blue, stop! Stop it!"

But she won't stop. She grabs the pillow and stuffs it in her mouth, howling into it, her face red and wet.

She begins to rock violently.

"I can't survive without him."

You watch helplessly, trying to hold her. 

"Please, just—breathe. We don't know if he's—"

The door opens. Salome rushes in beside an older woman similarly dressed in white. 

"Le pauvre enfant a peur! Dieu montre ta grâce." The other woman carries the tray this time, with what looks to be more food along with a syringe. She hands it to Salome. "Dites-leur que cela aidera."

Salome offers the needle through the bars as you glare at her, tightening your arms around Blue. "This will help her calm down."

"I am not giving her that. Stay the fuck away."

Blue is shaking so hard she bumps her skull into your jaw. Nereida touches your arm. "Twix, it could help her."

"You don't know what the fuck they put in that thing," you hiss at her. "I'm not drugging her even more."

"I will leave it here for your choosing. Your dinner will not be hot for long. Please, all of you, eat." Salome bows her head as she places the syringe and tray on the floor in front of the cell, and leaves with the other woman before you can demand more from them. 

It is only after minutes of listening to Blue scream, unable to stop her from scratching herself any longer, that you concede and ask Nereida to bring it to you. Carefully, you sweep the hair from her face, steadying the tremble in your hand as you sink the needle into a vein in her arm, with Nereida helping to keep it extended.

"There. Please, Blue, please calm down. We cannot think the worst. Not yet, okay?" Your eyes threaten moisture but you blink hard to keep it at bay.

Whatever it was acts the moment it seeps into her bloodstream. She sags into you, face turning sticky as the tears are given time to dry, and her wailing dies down to silence. 

"Are you hungry?" 

She shakes her head.

That first night is spent without sleeping. 

You entangle yourself with Blue in the cot, watching the evening turn to a sliver of moonlight across the floor. She doesn't fall asleep, either, oscillating between silent tears and a void stare at the ceiling. Nereida stays in her own bed, humming here and there in that way that she does. At one point, you hear her whisper into the pillow: "John, give me strength. You always do."

You keep your emotions steady by counting the notches in Blue's spine, one by one, then starting back at the top. As you do, you think about what Salome said. You are not just safe, you are coveted. They want you to eat. They are not trying to harm you. Coveted. She's touched her stomach when she said it. The connection between it all grows starker in your mind. 

You share this with Nereida at the break of dawn when Blue seems to finally have succumbed to fatigue.

"They want us because we are women. That's why the others aren't here."

She nods, whispering. "I was thinking the same."

"Then we use that to our advantage."

"How?"

You palm your temple. "I don't know. I mean, we have some standing here. They value us in some way, right?"

"But we don't even know who 'they' includes," she murmurs, leaning her forehead briefly against the wall, then sitting straighter. "There are men here, too. That much we know. And if they were able to take out all of us at once, then there could be many."

"But none have come to see us," you point out. "Why is that?"

"Because they aren't allowed to." She places a finger on the wall, drawing it around, as if it helps her think. "Why would they be? We are coveted, remember? Something to be protected. Why else would they bother feeding us and keeping us tucked away in here."

"So maybe the guys aren't dead yet," you exhale, wishfully. "Maybe they are just in separate... housing or something. Another cell of their own. Kept away from the women, that's all."

Based on the interior of the room, this feels it was once a small, detached home. Maybe on a farm. The walls are painted stone; cold to the touch. All of the buildings you recall seeing on your way here were old, little farmhouses. Perhaps they have an established settlement. 

Mewling it over, you finally touch the cold food, taking a small bite of the cut-up meat to confirm it's something you haven't tasted in years: beef. They have cattle. What else do they have? Drugs, apparently. Or at least some type of sedatives extracted from plants. They are well-versed in the land. They are religious. And women are coveted for reproduction. 

"But then what was the shit in that chapel for?" you whisper to yourself, the image of the mangled body staining the backs of your lids when you close them.

When they reopen, Salome is at the doorway.

"Bonjour, mesdames. I have some oatmeal—" she frowns at the tray on the floor. "Oh... my. You have not eaten for two days. This is not the Lord's wishes. Your bodies are chosen, and they are in need of—"

"Tell us where they are, and we’ll eat," you cut her off, rising to your feet. You grip the bars tightly. "Tell us if they're still alive. One of them is her father. If you don't want her screaming again, you will tell us if he's okay."

She stares at you, then nods. "Eat first. All of you."

The oatmeal is sweetened with ripe blackberries that burst on your tongue. Blue awakens just when you and Nereida finish scarfing the last bite. You hand her the last bowl of oatmeal and urge her to eat, knowing that Salome won't cooperate if she doesn't. Blue takes minuscule bites. She hacks some of it back up, but with a sip of water passed through the cage, she is able to finish the rest.

She wipes a hand over her mouth and looks at Salome. "My dad. Where is he?" Her voice is low.

"He is alive. Of course, he is. They all are." A tremendous sense of relief washed over you. She cups her belly, her fingers tracing the shape. "Life is sacred... and so is death. We must be careful not to let more death come than is needed. The world... it has already seen too much of it."

Your brow scrunches. "Bullshit. I saw that corpse you guys left in the—"

Nereida gives your wrist a light squeeze, a reminder to hold back. You bite your tongue, knowing this woman is the only one who might give you any answers.

Salome tilts her head slightly, her expression unreadable. "I do not mean the world does not deserve the plague it bears. Men... they grew too sinful. Strayed far from God's will. It was His plan for them to atone for it." Her lips stretch into a faint smile, a thin, almost sad expression. "Your friends—they cannot come closer to God until they make amends. They must atone before they can be worthy of the future we will bring."

You blanch. "What the hell does that mean? 'They must atone?'"

Her gaze drifts to the left, and she mutters something under her breath in French, her words faint, then lowers her head to collect the tray, her back to you. You can’t hold yourself back any longer, pushing your face between the bars. "Don’t you fucking dare. You’ve hardly told us anything!"

"I... I fear I cannot say more." She pauses, glancing over her shoulder. "You are in a delicate state, and Maman will see to you today. Please... trust me, this is the way it must be."

Maman?

The door quietly clicks shut and you growl at it.

A hand cups your shoulder. 

"She told us they're alive. That's what matters, right?'

You face Blue, leaning your spine into the metal. "Yeah. But we still have no way of getting to them."

The red rim around her eyes has faded to the same flush as her lips. She takes a slow breath through her chest, clenching and unclenching her hands, before asking, "What do you think they are doing to them?"

"I don't know," you say with a heavy exhale, your tongue pressing between your cheek and teeth.

G

Pennies.

When Ghost swims to the surface of semiconsciousness, the smell of pennies wafts up his nose first, then the feel of icy, hard restraints around his wrists hits him second. It is the kind of smell that is deeply woven into the floors and walls. Old blood calling for new. He could remember smelling it for the first time in Mexico when he'd awoken in a cell, stripped. The flush of air against his chest suggests this time is now different, but upon forcing his lids apart, a glance downward reveals he still has jeans on.

Ghost thinks he hears someone scream his name—Simon!—but it is merely a memory from right before the world went dark. He'd fought against it all he could, keeping the tail of Twix's shirt in one hand, and trying to seek Blue with the other, but then he had to choose one to let go of to grab his gun. The memory swims up to the forefront; the fumbling of his fingers at his belt loop, seeking the pistol, the loss of motor function as something pricked his neck. The pistol slipped from his grasp, and so did they.

He forces the reel of Twix's screams to the back of his mind where they play in a distant loop. Through hazy vision, he looks around, taking in the lack of light. No windows. It is a small room, with grey stone walls, and only one door at the far end. None of the others are here. Not the girls or Price or Gaz. There wouldn't even be space for all of them to fit in here. The shackles on his wrists are rusty, nicking his skin when he tries to shift around. His heart thumps steady and slow between his ears. Whatever they drugged him with is fading with each shake of his head and forced blink of his eyes.

He tugs on the manacles once more in vain when there is a voice from the other side of the wall.

It is muffled through stone, but grows crisper as booted footsteps close in.

Then they stop.

The door creaks open.

The man who steps in is cloaked in grey.

He waves a metal bar, whistling lowly, and kicking the door shut behind him. 

"You must be an early riser." His chuckle is wry. "Up before your friends. Tell me, Brit. What brings you all the way to l'Hexagone? Not a fun trip over the water, is it?"

The man circles him. A light tap of the bar on his bare shoulder blade. 

"No? Not much of a sharer?" The end of the bar presses in, just slightly, but the pain doesn't register. Only the cold wetness of a trickle of blood on his back when it pulls away. A hand fists his hair, and yanks his head back. "Nous allons régler ça, sale racaille. Je me ferai un plaisir de t'aider à retrouver la lumière."

His head is thrown forward with force. Ghost blinks down at the floor, teeth grinding. Through them, he breathes hard—

"Where are they?"

"Which ones? The pretty ones?" The accented voice lowers to the shell of his ear. "I would not get your hopes up of seeing them again. They will be saved for the most worthy of us."

- Nous devons expier nos péchés...We must atone for our sins. - Tu es réveillée!...You're awake! - Le pauvre enfant a peur! Dieu montre ta grâce....The poor child is afraid. God show your grace. - Dites-leur que cela aidera...Tell them it will help. - Nous allons régler ça, sale racaille. Je me ferai un plaisir de t'aider à retrouver la lumière...We'll sort this out, you dirty scum. I'll be happy to help you get back to the light.

I don’t usually post up here 😅 but I’m having trouble finding a fanfic that I was reading. It was a Sukuna x reader and reader got into a car accident and lost her memory and Sukuna is helping her remember day by day. It was on Ao3, if anyone can find it thank you so much🙏

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Houndtooth | ⇦ Chapter 9 / 10

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut

18+ mdni - cw: physical violence, references to SA - 7.2k words

𝐈𝐗. 𝐂𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐭 / 𝐗. 𝐓𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬

an: I combined chaps 9/10 as 9 was only 2k-ish words long. Want to get all the Ao3 chaps up here quickly :)

You smell that sour iron, metallic and hot, miasma oozing from the pool of blood on the floor before you. Or is it your own blood you can scent? Coating your teeth, sticky on your lips? 

It doesn’t ache, though, the split in your gums, nor the chip in your tooth. Roaring adrenaline still floods every nerve ending. Too many abhorrent sensations overwhelm you. Too many storming thoughts torment you. 

You can still see the sneering grin of that American commander, his cocksure laughter and cloying drawl that convinced you he thought he was charming you. And how quickly that smile sunk into a cruel satisfaction when you spat a hunk of acrid saliva onto his cheek. You had given him an excuse. Fuelled his retaliation. 

You can still feel the wrenching of your babydoll’s silk seams, cutting into your flesh as it was yanked from you. Can still hear the shrill zip of the satin being torn into shards. Still feel the shiver down your spine at your exposure, at the rapacious sneering of your tormentors.

Still feel the fingertips on your skin. Their dents in your flesh. Their intentions in their wake. 

Still feel the searing agony in your scalp. Your skin being separated from skull as you were hung by your hair, the sound of it crackling as its connecting tissues began to split. 

Still feel the knuckles on your cheekbone. Your tongue between your teeth. Can hear the ringing in your ears, the throbbing of your shaken brain.

You ruminate on the cold hard edges of that gun, the weight of its possibilities in your palms - the possibilities you had quickly forsaken, handing off your last resort to your only hope. You can still hear the thunder of that gunshot, the two times it had been unloaded into your worse aggressors by your reticent captor. Was he protecting you as a person or as a possession? 

You reminisce on the sickly sweet satisfaction that doused you as you watched, in awestruck, shock-ridden silence, your hunter hurling fist after hurling first into the smug head of your torturer. 

You can still see his face. The skin beneath the skull. It had inexplicably surprised you that he had a face at all, that he was a man and not some hideous beast. You had imagined him with fangs, you imagined those honey-brown eyes peered through a coat of slick fur, that his tongue was forked behind those pointed teeth. But now you know for certain that he is human, his face lingering behind your eyelids as plainly and brightly as it was first revealed to you. 

He had softer eyes than you had expected, than the slit in his mask exposed; they were weary and heavy, dark with both greasepaint and a potently resentful exhaustion. His nose was sturdy, thick at the bridge, perhaps once broken by a fist and healed slightly crooked. His lips were full and pale, marred by a pink scar from a split lip. And other scars littered his pale freckled skin, slices and welts, carving through a tawny shadow of overgrown stubble that coated his jaw, through thick but fair brows that permanently furrowed above his eyes. 

He may have been once a good looking man, in his youth, before whatever hatred he’s laden with began to seep through and stain him. You saw his face and thus suddenly a glimpse of his distant humanity, however cryptic and transient it may be. You saw his face and now fabricate a past, a reason - there must be a reason, that he has become such a laconic, violent creature. He must have been entirely human, once. 

You wonder if he thinks the same thing of you. That you’ve been just as stained by the pessimistic hatred that pumps through your thinning vessels, dark and coagulated. Made ugly by it. Made into a creature much the same, running on base instinct alone. Maybe that’s why he seems to hold such visceral disdain for you. Why his eyes are always so heavy with contempt when they stick to you for too long. 

But his unmasked expression was novel. As if the bitterness in his eyes gained a new, a different meaning in the context of the rest of his features. Told a different story, when you could see the curl of his vaguely concerned brows, the jutting of his angered jaw, sour and furious after beating the sadistic American cunt to near-death. 

No, instead, he looked… sorry. Sorry that you had to bear witness to his face, his behaviour, had to see him at all. Sorry that you seemed to draw hope from it. 

But you did, anyway. You hope that if he looks human, he might act human. That it was sympathy in his poignant glare and not pity. 

You know you’re concussed. You know the feeling well; the throbbing, the ache, the vertigo. So you fight the dragging urge to sleep, so heavy on your shoulders that you couldn’t bring yourself to stand even if you tried. You haven’t left your spot on the floor, back gritting against the cold wall, knees against your chest. The blood on the floor can’t reach you, here. 

You fear your nudity. You fear exposing yourself any further than you are already by moving from your cocoon. Might there be cameras in here? Who could unlock your door and step in to leer at you? You’re not foolish enough to forget that no amount of clothing deters a predator with his sights on you. But you know how they use your bareness as an excuse. 

So when shadows of boots peer through the crack under your cell door, and precede the heavy clatter of keys in the lock, you only tighten the knot your body is in. 

It’s your hunter. 

Riley, you remind yourself.

His mask is still on. He locks the door behind him, his back to you still. 

You take a short breath, bracing to speak - but you spot his arm full, with what you’re not yet sure, and bite your tongue. He turns finally, hesitantly, squinting eyes almost fighting their immediate focus on you.

Seems he bears gifts. In one vascular hand he holds an unbranded plastic water bottle, almost dwarfed in his straining grip, in the other a large chunk of black cloth. 

You tilt your head back to follow him apprehensively as he approaches you, as he wordlessly hands you the fabric item first. 

You mustn’t respond in time, because with a frustrated shake he jabs it at you. “Fuck’s sake, take it.” 

Snatching it from him petulantly, you unravel it to reveal a hooded sweatshirt. Thick, black, vastly too big for you. Which is likely on purpose, given he hasn’t brought you trousers to pair with it. Still, you find yourself grateful. Only reminded of the bitter cold in your cell when an alternative warmth is presented to you. 

You do your best to stay tucked-in as you pull it over your head; though you don’t doubt some amount of nipple slipped out from behind your knees, as you struggled to find the neckhole in the tent of black fleece. You grit your teeth, suppose he’s already seen it all. 

The hoodie smells of dust and tobacco, like it might have sat in storage for months without a wash since the last person wore it. Once you adjust it over yourself, long enough to cover everything, you feel the tight snarl in the pit of your stomach loosen, if only slightly. Concealed, finally.

“Thanks,” you mutter, as he then hands you the bottle of water. You take it with fury and tear off the royal blue cap, swilling it with sincere desperation, teeth clamping into the ridges of the screw top. The water is stale, tainted with the ghosts of ammonia and salt - but it could be toilet water, for all you care, you’d been completely unaware of your thirst until the first drop touched your tongue. 

He crosses his arms, again, the disgruntled mammoth, ever impatient with you. 

“You know what’s going to happen next, don’t you.” 

Whatever threat he may have been trying to convey was lost in his tone, hoarse and bizarrely sincere. A solemn reminder. 

“If I don’t spy for you?” 

He curtly nods. 

“You told me already,” you murmur, surprising yourself with the defeat in your voice. “You’ll kill me.” 

His chest swells with a laboured sigh, near a grunt. 

“If you’ve got a deathwish, you should’ve put that gun in your mouth and pulled the trigger,” he retorts, monotonous yet severe. “Because it’ll be a long time before you get the bullet you want.” 

You pull the sleeves of your hoodie over your wrists, tucking in your palms, a nervous habit. Your hands are cold. Fingers are blue. “What do you mean.” 

“You had a go of it already. You don’t need me to remind you.” 

Your stare drifts through him, blurred and dizzy. You still taste the blood.

Exhaustion trumps your better judgement, obfuscates your ability to consider your words too carefully. “Then why don’t you just shoot me. You keep saying you will. You haven’t yet.” 

“I don’t like wasting bullets,” he grouses, “and I don’t like being wrong.” 

“Wrong about what?” 

He seems to hesitate before he speaks. Breathes irefully, like you’re the one pestering him. “I was certain you’d be useful. And I convinced my boss to take you instead of assassinating you in your bathroom.” 

“Sorry to disappoint you,” you grumble. 

He chuffs. “You don’t want to die, Mia. You’d have fuckin’ shot yourself. And you didn’t.” 

He was right. 

You had only briefly considered it, in reality; imagined the cold tip of its mouth on your temple, imagined your fingertip caressing the stiff trigger. You considered the torment that might have lay ahead of you, the dogs that might salivate at the sight of you, might chase you, might catch you in their teeth. 

You even envisioned holding the gun outward, pointing it at your masked captor, tugging that trigger as many times as the weapon would allow you to. Firing holes through his thick, heaving body, watching how many it took to bring him down. 

But even as that pistol sat heavy in your hands, you couldn’t help but fantasise about the faint chance of  going home. A possibility that would be quashed no matter where you sent the bullet. 

You couldn’t help but daydream about walking down the cobbles of your hometown even though you had no great fondness for it, about sitting on a café chair in the morning sunlight on one of three days a year it didn’t rain, about wearing your old wellies and trudging through the grass, petting old ewes.

And you weren’t going to die for your fucking husband, nor his sadistic coconspirators. 

Spotting your silence, perhaps sniffing out your lapse in conviction, he once again makes his offer. “Like I said, quid pro quo,” he repeats, voice low and dry, you can hear his confidence in his chest. “You help me, I help you.” 

“How,” you spit. “How will you help me.” 

“You get the intel we need, and we’ll get you on a plane home. You’d have a clean slate. New name, new address. Mia Zakhaev will’ve never existed.”

You snort at that. She never did. 

“You’d be sending a corpse home,” you growl, feeling the terror creeping up the back of your throat. “If there’s one left. There probably won’t be once they find me out. And that’s only assuming your fucking men don’t get to me first.”  

“My men won’t touch you,” he says coarsely. “You’d have protections as an informant.”  

“Yeah? Well I don’t have many fucking protections from the men that you want me to spy on,” you bark, voice breaking, your sudden loudness makes you dizzy. Your sore eyes swell, their supply of tears seemingly replenished by the water he had provided you. 

“You wouldn’t-” he starts, but your tired, terrified anger lurches from your throat and viciously interrupts him. 

“You have - you have no idea what these animals do. What I’ve seen them do.”

You hear him spitefully suck his teeth. “I know exactly what they do.” 

Taking a moment to breathe, to gather yourself, your eyes finally shudder up to meet his. “Then you know I won’t last an hour with them.” 

“You wouldn’t be sent in alone,” he rumbles, taking an irate pause. “You’d have protection.” 

“Can’t say I feel any safer around your men,” you retort through a croak. 

“Not them,” he grits amidst a reluctant sigh. “Me.” 

Despite what Ghost believed to be an inborn skill in reading people, your expression continues to elude him. Is it disappointment in your glistening eyes? Terror? Or is it relief? Hope? 

You swiftly look at the floor again, perhaps at the pool of blood Ghost nonchalantly stands in. Not the first time he’d trail red footprints. Not even the first time within the walls of this very compound.

It must be confusing for you, having him condemn you and then help you. Harbouring a hatred for him almost as potent as your awareness that he’s your only option. But it won’t be as confusing for you, as it is for him. He felt sick and bitter as he handed you that sweatshirt, one he had quietly dug from an empty storage room, had carried to you in the dark so that he wouldn’t be seen doing you a favour. 

Earlier this very night he would have left you naked and bloody. He wouldn’t have intervened whatever creative technique Graves had to make a spy of you. Graves wouldn’t have needed to touch you at all - he would have done it himself. 

That’s how disgusted by you he was. When he knew you as a conniving, vapid sadist. As a warlord’s avaricious consort. As a slithery creature complicit in the suffering inflicted by your kind. 

But at every step, you seem to have confuted him. 

Perhaps you’re that good of a liar. A talented actress. You would have to have been quite the thespian, to fulfil the role of Victor Zakhaev’s loving wife. And Ghost can see your attempts to decipher him, to write a script based on your readings so that you might have him play the part that would serve you. 

It’s what he’d expect. From you, and from anybody. Honesty has been a rarity in his sordid life, something so elusive he struggles to believe that anyone truly has the capacity for it. Even himself. 

“If I do this,” you breathe, hesitating. You glare directly downward, sucking on your words as you fail to spill them out. “If I do it, and they catch me, will you - will you get me out?” 

He sucks in a wary gulp of air. “I can try.” 

Your glower shifts to him, dark and tired, peered up from under your stiff brows. “And if they don’t, when can I go home?” 

“Once you get the intel we need.” 

Quiet, reluctant, you seem to despair every word you release. “And you promise I can go home? I can just - disappear? Like none of this ever happened?” 

He nods stiffly. “Like I said. Clean slate.” 

You shiver. 

“Okay,” you murmur, “I’ll… I’ll do it.” 

~

The lieutenant had decided to let you sleep. 

He hadn’t said such a thing, of course, it wasn’t a favour that he had offered you. After you had obligated yourself to their scheme, he nodded curtly and left without another word. You weren’t sure, at the time, whether he had let you be out of some charitable sympathy. But, despite the effort, you hadn’t carefully deconstructed his actions nor his words, like you would have in a more alert, more conscious state. 

After every physical and psychological torment that had been inflicted on you in the ten hours since your abduction, your mind had atrophied into grey milk. Runny, formless, utterly incapable of amassing a single thought or sensible decision. And despite your wounds, visible and otherwise, you fell into a hollow, dreamless sleep the second your feeble body made its way to the deteriorated mattress. You lay as close to the wall as possible, facing it in the hopes you could cast away the savagery that stained the floor behind you. 

Your sleep had functioned more as a system failure than a recuperation, and so, as you wake up, you feel as though you had not slept at all. Despite being damp with sweat and panic, your skin pricks in the dry cold of your cell. You have no indication of how much time had passed, how long you had slept, what time it is - your cell has no windows, after all. The sun might have risen and set already, or it might still be the same unending night. With a painful, irrepressible yawn, grinding your bruised jawbone against your skull, you wonder if only a single hour had gone by in your slumber. 

There’s a throbbing in your head, radiating and sharp; the forceful ache thumps out from the swollen bruise on your temple and bounces off the back of your skull. You feel your heart racing behind your ribs, pathetic little beats, it seems as if it barely pumps your blood an inch at each twitch. Anxiety, you’re sure, instant panic at the reminder of your imprisonment once you open your eyes; but you know that fluttering as a different omen, one foretelling a self-inflicted sickness. 

You hadn’t taken an oxycontin since the evening of your abduction. Four hours before your hunter had broken into your home, sadistically assassinated each of your sentries, and stolen you from your sanctuary. Unable to know for sure how long it had been since then, you suppose at least twenty hours. Perhaps more, perhaps less. 

Your oxycodone, though not prescribed, is controlled-release, long-acting - which has spared you, at least, a quick descent into withdrawal immediately after your abduction. But its arrival is inevitable, however prolonged it may be. They must have something in the compound, you think, you pray. If they’re soldiers, like they say - there must be analgesics, maybe some codeine, or surely some vicodin. You could ask the Lieutenant, maybe, you are in pain, after all. Or you could ask, beg, the Captain, the one who pretends to be so caring and so noble - an injured, beaten woman, surely he would not stand to see you in such agony? 

But just as the flustered panic sets in, there’s a loud, pounding knock on your cell door. Thud, thud, thud. You jump, shooting upright from where you lay flat on your creaking bed, and before you are given the opportunity to speak or dispute, the door is unlocked and thrown open. Three men file in, you dread, three of them - soldiers, in grey and black. You spot the union jack patches on their bulky vests, and find yourself feeling some inkling of relief - not the Americans that had brutalised you - though you recognise none of them. 

They waste no time, organised and hasty, two of them march towards you and the other stands guard by the door. You squeak in terror, backing up to the wall on instinct - they offer no comfort, no patience as they take you by your arms and pull you uncaringly from the bed. You’re tossed and spun, hands tugged behind your back and cuffed with another cable tie as if you present any danger to them. 

“C’mon,” one grunts, the only word spoken to you. His tone just barely encouraging, like he is instructing lumbering livestock to file obediently through his gate. 

Hyperventilating, you try to look over your shoulder - before, once again, a black cotton bag is pulled over your head. Blinded and incapacitated, they are swift to twist you and yank you, dragging you by your arms; you stumble over bare feet and feel the stickiness of undried blood on your soles. 

“Where are you taking me,” you whimper, not expecting an answer but disputing all the same. They won’t hurt you now, right? You are doing what they wanted. You agreed to their terms. What more can they take from you? 

“A meeting,” one says stiffly, the one on your right. Your feet do their best to take steps as they cart you out of the cell, presumably down the maze of hallways. You hear the echoes of their boots in the labyrinthine cement tunnels. 

Your instinct is to ask, with who? But, you can guess, can’t you. If not the Lieutenant, then the Captain, who you suppose had orchestrated the scheme in the first place. Though you begrudge their needless brutality, you follow their physical instruction without further complaint. 

They’re not the American soldiers in black, you remind yourself - so surely, you pray, they aren’t taking you to the Commander for some form of comeuppance. His business with you was unfinished, you suspect, there is no way he is done with you. 

But your violent escorts come to a halt, and you hear them knock on a door right in front of you. There’s murmuring emanating from behind it, the dull thuds of boots approach before the sound of it opening.

A grunt, a sigh, you hear the ire in the man’s breath, whoever it is. “Right. Bring ‘er in.” 

The Scotsman. You don’t have much of a read on this one, you recall, besides the salivating, dog-like hunger that oozes from him. Though it is less potent, now, you suppose you must appear far less appealing in a dusty, poorly fitting sweatshirt, than in your priceless silk lingerie. 

You’re shoved unceremoniously into the room, almost tripping over your feet before a firm hand lands on your shoulder. Far from a gentlemanly gesture, he then pulls you by your bicep, pushing you downwards until your ass lands in a cold, seemingly plastic, chair. You hear the door shut behind you. 

Before you can speak, the sack is pulled roughly from your head, yanking a few of your hairs with it, and the stark brightness of the room forces you to squint. 

“Jesus,” the Scotsman scoffs, as he sees you, before going to sit in another chair. “Graves is a fucken’ animal.” 

As your eyes adjust to the light, your glare shoots around the room - there are four of them, around a table, you have been seated at the head. You recognise three, the Captain, the Scotsman, and unsurprisingly, the Lieutenant. The fourth, you guess, must be the sergeant - the one you had heard on the helicopter, but who you have not yet seen. He looks somewhat less jaded than the others, and disturbed by the sight of you. A grimace of shame dents in his brow when you meet his eye, and he turns his head to look at some paper on the table. 

There’s a window in the room, and while you had just earlier been wishing for one, you now scorn the daylight that glows from behind it. A reminder of the outside world, you feel it glaring in at you, taunting you with freedom. You wonder how many storeys high the building is. You can’t see any trees. The grey sky obfuscates the time of day - it could be morning, or afternoon, for all you can tell. 

“How the fuck is this gunna work if she looks like that?” The Scotsman gripes, gesturing at you with his thumb.

Leaning back cavalierly in his seat, with his arms crossed, Lieutenant Riley snorts spitefully. “Ask the Cap.” 

The Captain stands, then, at the other end of the table, he leans on his knuckles against the synthetic wooden surface. “D’ya sleep alright, Mia?” He asks suddenly, directly to you, as though casting silence on the others. 

There’s an itch under your left ear, it makes your eye twitch, and you cannot scratch it. Vexed, tired, you simply scowl. “No.” 

He seems to find humour in that, huffing as if quietly laughing. “Of course not,” he admits with a sigh, “you poor thing. I’m sorry about all of this, I truly am.” 

You spot the Lieutenant scowling at him, eyes lidded darkly, he radiates a fury that you can taste from where you sit. You decide not to answer, not yet, you wait in uncomfortable silence for the Captain to get to the point. 

“I was told you’ve considered helping us,” he says, a cautiousness in his throat. “S’that right?” 

You swallow. “I was told I could go home,” you answer quietly.

“And you will,” he nods sincerely, “if you do what we tell you to do. If you get us what we need.” 

“What do you need,” you ask, shuffling in your seat, doing your best to only subtly stretch your shoulders - they ache from where they are pulled behind your back, you feel your cold fingertips swell. 

He laughs, then, a self-deprecating chortle, as he sits himself back in his seat and tugs himself forward. “Ah, well - of course, that would be helpful to know, wouldn’t it?” 

His casual amusement unsettles you deeply, you glare at him in anxious anticipation. “It would,” you croak. 

“We’ve asked you about Makarov, haven’t we,” he explains. “I don’t think you were honest with me about how well you know him, eh? Not according to Riley, here. Sounds like you’ve had a few run-ins with him, have you?” 

You say nothing. 

“Well, love, he’s who we’re after - if you hadn’t guessed already. Your husband was, let’s say, one on a long list. We would like to apprehend him, definitely, but you see - he’s like a virus, this man. He has infected plenty of other men with his ideas. If we take him out, well, it’ll be hard for us to figure out who else his plans may have spread to. He wouldn’t be as lovely and cooperative as you have been.” 

You feel the knit form in your brow, viciously upset by his comment. Cooperative? As if you had a fucking choice in any of it. As if you could have defied them any more than you had already tried to. As if you’d be gifted the option of a swift execution if you failed to comply. 

“So,” he continues nonchalantly, “ideally, we’d like to get as much information from him as we can while he’s in his natural habitat, so to speak. We want to know what he is planning, and who else is involved, so we can intercept it this time.” 

This time. You find yourself stuck on that. How many other times have there been? What else have they done? What else had your husband helped commit? You suck deep a careful breath in the subsequent silence, he evidently waits for you to offer some input. 

“You think he would tell me anything?” You mutter doubtfully,  “that he’d tell me anything about this plan?” 

“Well, love,” he grunts, “for your sake, I hope he does.” 

“You won’t ask him directly,” the Scotsman suddenly speaks. You didn’t expect him to participate much in the scheming, he seems to you as thick as a plank. “That’d be a bit obvious.” 

“Couldn’t we bug the place?” The Sergeant asks, speaking up for the first time since you had entered the room. 

“They’ll have RF detectors,” Riley remarks bluntly, shaking his head. “At least.”

“So, you…” you hesitate, thinking aloud, “you want me to eavesdrop?”

“Assuming they talk about anything of value,” the Captain agrees. “But you’ll prompt them where necessary, won’t you?” 

“You know them, Mia,” the Scotsman interjects, again, and you begin to question your first assumption about his stupidity. “So, if you think there is a better way, a… safer way to get the intel we want, then say so. We want to help you, help us.” 

You stare at him, doubt on your tongue. You know, in the pit of you, that if your cover is blown, they will leave you to die - simply another failed scheme, and they will move on to the next one. But he is right, in that, of course, you want to find the safest way to fulfil their ploy and guarantee your freedom. Desperately. Your eyes flit between the four men before you, who shoot glances at each other before looking at you expectantly, as if you might have some suggestion. 

And in the silence it dawns on you quickly the fact that you will soon have to face them again. Have to be seen by, have to walk amongst, have to talk to the very men you had denied your fear of for as long as you had known them. Then, when you were a wife, they feigned respect, they kept their tasteful distance. Now, you’d be a widow, a ripe fruit hanging from a low branch. That in itself sends painful pricks down the nape of your neck, but the thought of having to question them about their clandestine crimes, even daring to speak to them - you know, with conviction, that it will be your death sentence. 

“I can’t ask him,” you utter, shaking your head twitchily. “There’s no- they will know, straight away, if I ask them anything about it. Even if I just - even if I express interest in what they are talking about, they will know. And if they don’t think I’m a rat, they will still think I’m sticking my nose where it doesn’t belong. As a wife - a widow. They’ll say it’s not my place.” 

“I’m sure it’s not abnormal for their wives to ask innocent questions,” The Captain shrugs, artificial support in his tone, as if he is providing you some reassurance. “They’ll be more receptive after a few drinks.” 

“Are you stupid?” You anxiously blurt, immediately regretting your sudden insult, but quietly relishing in the minor outburst of long-craved aggression. He simply looks surprised, almost amused, like he thinks it was cute. “You’ve been spying on these men for - for so long, and you don’t know anything about them, do you?” 

“That’s what we’ve got you for,” the Scotsman retorts.

“They won’t just give me a scolding, a slap on the wrist, if I displease them - if I disobey them - do you think they are forgiving?” You assert eagerly, angrily. “My friend Sasha, she raised her voice at her husband in front of the rest, and so he poured boiling water on her face. I went to her funeral two months ago. One of them beat his nineteen-year-old girlfriend to death for denting his car. They held Alena’s hand to a stove after she smacked her husband, they had to cut her hand off. She was lucky. And Vladimir-”

You stop yourself, stumbling on your tongue. You sweat with stress and hot terror as you remember each horror you had to witness or hear of, each of them long buried and desperately ignored so that you could bear to live in your bubble of fragile safety among the monsters that had enacted them.

“Vladimir what?” Riley queries rigidly. 

Glaring at him, you shift uneasily in your seat, your brow knots in worry as you struggle to let loose the words. “He’s the… he’s the worst of them.” 

“What’d he do?” 

“He-” you bite off with a groan, frustrated with your frightened inability to even describe what kind of a man, what kind of a beast, he is; you feel your heart shrivel at the thought of him. “He hurts, he kills, anyone. Anyone. If he wants, if he decides to.” 

They remain silent. Expectant. You involuntarily elaborate, as your sore eyes begin to well. 

“I - I saw him murder one of my maids, in my home. He was a guest, in my home, and he pulled her by the hair into the kitchen and slit her throat - and he never explained why, he just left her body there and went back to dinner. Nobody even asked him why… God forbid I asked him, or even showed that I was upset by it, he would’ve… he… I couldn’t ask. I couldn’t. I knew what, I knew what he’d do. Because, h-he - there’s nobody he won’t hurt. Even, last year, he tried to sleep with Vasiliev’s wife, and s-she rebuffed him - so he had her put in acid. He put her in acid. He put her in while she was awake and then left her in the barrel on her driveway.”

A disturbed quiet settles in the room, as you suck down a wet and quivering breath. You contort your shoulder to wipe the errant tears that had dribbled down your cheek. The four of them seem to take the moment to consider, a thick air of disgust and guilt seeps from each of them. The Scotsman rubs his eyebrow, the Sergeant holds his hands to his forehead, the Captain drums his knuckles against the table in disquieted thought. 

The Lieutenant, though, had not turned his eyes from you. He keeps his thick arms crossed, glower low and sharp through the hole in his mask. 

“Did he ever threaten you?” He asks severely, voice hoarse. Despite emphasising you, evidently asking about you specifically, no concern for you could be gleaned from his tone. If any concern, at all, merely a worry that such a thing might in some way affect his mission. You wonder if he had deduced from your terror that Vladimir might have turned his sights on you. Clever man. 

Worriedly biting your tongue, you sniff back the frightened tears that threaten their persistence. “Not explicitly,” you mumble. “But he - he would remind me of her. He’d remind me of what he did to her, if I didn’t do what he wanted.” 

“What did he want?” The Captain questions, leaning on his elbows, interlocking his fingers as though still plotting something unspoken. 

You scowl at him, red eyes laser in his direction. “If you’re asking whether he wanted to fuck me too, then no - he didn’t.” 

“No?” He queries gently, frowning in apparent doubt. 

“No,” you spit, tearful, “he didn’t. And he wouldn’t have tried. Victor was protective.” 

“I bet,” the Scotsman chuffs, and your lips curl in disgust. 

“So he didn’t hurt you, then, I take it?” Asks the Captain. 

Your eyes shoot briefly to Riley, the man still scowling behind his mask, he bounces his leg as though irritated. “Why does it matter,” you bite. 

“Because if he’s going to throw you in acid the second we send you back, then it won’t be a very successful mission, will it?” The Captain explains, condescension dripping from his tone. 

You shut your eyes for a short moment, frustration and fear thundering in your temples, you take the second to breathe deeply. “No, he didn’t hurt me.” 

“He must have liked you then.” 

You weakly shake your head. “He doesn’t like anyone who isn’t useful to him.” 

The Captain again drums the wooden surface with the tips of his fingers. “Well, you could make yourself useful to him,” he suggests wryly, “couldn’t you.” 

You grimace, sniff, glaring at him like he had smacked you. Another fucking use - such an apparently short list of uses you serve, and yet all of these dogs seem find you useful for one thing or another. You know what he is implying. 

“I just told you what he did to the last woman he thought might be useful.” You snap with sore venom. 

“Then what do you suggest, Mia,” the Scotsman asks bluntly. 

You inhale deeply, warily, staring at the centre of the table as you do your best to separate your terror from the reality of your situation. 

“I can eavesdrop,” you hesitantly insist, “they think I don’t speak Russian very well, so I can listen. I’m - I’m sure that they’ll have a lot to talk about after… after Victor’s death. But - they’re going to have questions. They’ll ask where I have been, where I was. Where his body is. They’ll ask about, about everything. I’ll n-need a story.” 

“Don’t you worry about that,” the Captain asserts, “we’ll sort one out.”  

You swallow, you wonder if they can see you shaking, now that your tentative future encroaches on you so violently. “How?” 

He seems to mull over his words before he replies, perhaps deciding whether you are even allowed to be privy to his plan.

“We’ll plant you back at your estate. Zakhaev, too. It’ll look like a botched assassination.” 

The tears threaten their swell, at his mention - at the thought of having to lay eyes on your husband’s cold body. You see his face erupting from the inside out, then, in an instant; you see the crater left by the bullet that tore through from the back of his skull, the pieces of brain and bone and meat that hung in strands from the hole, having turned black and dry in the hours since his murder. You wonder if they had left his corpse there, buckled over and dripping, still tied to that seat, festering under the fluorescent light. 

And you imagine having to step around the frigid bodies of your guards, the pools of blood that will stain every floor, of every room in your home - having to avoid getting it on your feet, and further staining the carpet with your footprints. Nausea churns in your fragile stomach, your skin shivers as you sip in quick and shallow breaths.

“Mia,” he grits, as though getting sick of your panic. 

He grounds you though, somehow, bitterly reminding you of your circumstances, of the deal you made, of the things you will need to do to go home. 

So you nod, hastily, once again using your shoulder to try and wipe off the stream of salty tears that dripped from your chin. “Okay,” you relent, shaking, “Okay. I can - there’s someone I can call to, to make it believable. But it… it’ll take time to clean out the house, for the, for the funeral, so-”

“We won’t have time for that,” Riley interjects, tone dull and irate. “Was he Orthodox? Is there a church? Cathedral? A place to hold it instead of the mansion?” 

Your husband was not a religious man. Not outwardly so, anyway. You suppose you can’t fathom committing the crimes that he had while still worshipping a supposedly benevolent God. 

“They wouldn’t - I don’t think they’d expect to hold the funeral at a church.” 

“Why’s that.” 

“When - when someone like Victor, someone important dies… it’s more of a business meeting, than a funeral. When his father was killed, they didn’t even have someone there to give a sermon.”  

The Lieutenant grunts in frustration, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his thumb. 

“I could have them come to the estate in Kastovia,” you suggest sheepishly, now so surreally disconnected from your situation that it has begun to feel to you like you’re discussing the plot to a film. 

He scoffs at that, Riley, with an air of spiteful disgust. “Another one?” 

“It was - it was a gift, from Victor. He’d send me there when h-he had business I wasn’t allowed to be home for,” you ponder, barely murmuring. “It would make sense for me to go there after, after everything.” 

“Fine.” He retorts flatly. “Kastovia it is.” 

“Right, then,” the Captain muses, evidently enthused, satisfied with how the strategy has so far unfolded. “The Lieutenant will act as one of your hired guards. He’ll keep a close eye on you. And he speaks plenty of Russian, don’t you Riley, so he’ll fit right on in.” 

“No, he-” you interject dryly, but insistently, “...his Russian is bad. If he talks, they’ll know.” 

The Scotsman snorts at that, chuckling and shooting a mocking glance in the Lieutenant’s direction. Riley falls briefly silent, and it leaves you fretting viciously - had you angered him? Will he take that out on you later? You’ll be stuck with him. Only him. Nobody to hold him accountable, and nowhere to run. 

“She’s right,” he instead dismisses, through a grumble, and you let out a small breath of relief. “They’ll pick up on my accent. She’s not even Russian, and she did.” 

The Captain grunts in irritation, rocking his head back with a sigh. “Then, Christ, make up a story about your tongue being cut out. Fuck’s sake. It doesn’t matter, they won’t ask about it. I’m sure you’ve gone through plenty of bodyguards in your day, eh, Mia?” 

You nod restlessly. 

“Good,” the Captain barks, smacking the table with a satisfied hand. “Perfect. Let’s get you ready to go then, eh?” 

You feel your chest close on your ribs, your blood floods to your feet and renders you sick and dizzy. “Now?” You croak, barely, staring vacantly in his direction. 

“Not backing out, are you, love?” He questions, the casual friendliness in his tone belying a clear threat, you can see it in his piercing stare. 

You shake your head desperately, hyperventilating, you swallow dry. “No, no I’m - I’m just, I don’t think I’m ready-”

“‘Course you are,” he encourages you, and you watch as the Scotsman stands, black sack in his fist, he steps uncaringly towards you. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll get you home. You just need to be brave, yeah?” 

You whimper, let loose a wet sob, as the sack is crudely tugged over your head, and you are plunged into the violent unknown once more. 

Ghost stays seated, leaning back deep in his chair, sourly thankful that Price had brought the ‘meeting’, as he called it, to a hasty end. He couldn’t stand to see the man feign charity and empathy for a moment longer, watching him leer at you while pretending to be a voice of comfort. Asking how you slept - who the fuck does he think he is? He was the one that had endorsed your beating, after all, he seemed to have no qualms about it then. The fucking hypocrite.  

He watches in resentful silence as Soap grabs you by your arms, his thick hands gripping you wrenchingly tight as he shuffles you through the door. He listens to you whine and cry quietly, to yourself, looks at your bruised and trembling legs as they stumble over each other on your way out of the room. In the lull, he rocks his head back in exasperated fury, glaring at the panelled ceiling and releasing a loud and hoarse sigh from this throat. 

“Not gonna lie,” Gaz grunts, reaching into the pocket of his trousers and plucking out a crumpled box of Richmond cigarettes, “I’m starting to feel bad for her.” 

Ghost scoffs. “Want a cookie, sergeant?” 

“Piss off,” comes Gaz’s quick retort, as he lights the cigarette he holds in the corner of his lips. “Just ‘cause you’re a sociopath doesn’t mean we all are.” 

“Remember what she is, yeah?” Price remarks dully, scooping up the folders and sat phone he had previously left spread across the table. 

“Yeah, yeah, Cap, she’s just a hooker,” Gaz mocked, groaning, “you’re not as chivalrous as you think you are, eh?” 

“God’s sake, Gaz,” Price grouses, lips twisting in a disapproving curl under his dense moustache. “Nothing to do with that. She’s a fuckin’ oligarch and she’s a terrorist. Don’t forget that.”

“Don’t you get the vibe she had nothing to do with any of it?” Gaz asks, cynicism in his tone. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Ghost cuts in, flat and hostile. “She married a warlord. Whatever happens to her now is her own fault.” 

Gaz snorts, shooting a scornful glance at Ghost before turning to the Captain. “You really gonna let this guy take the mission alone with her?” He asks derisively. 

“Ghost has the right attitude,” Price dismisses. “You feel guilty, you get attached, the whole fuckin’ mission shits the bed.” 

“If you think she’s a terrorist, why’d you offer to send her back to England, eh?” Gaz interrogates, punctuating his doubt with a drag of his cigarette. 

Ghost looks down at his hands as they knot into a single fist, and Price releases an awkward huff; an indignant silence between them seems to answer Gaz’s question. 

“You’re not serious,” he spits, agog at the realisation, “are you fucking serious?” 

“She’s a war criminal, as far as we know,” Price says, close to a murmur. “It’d be a threat to national security.” 

“Jesus,” Gaz vents, rubbing his jaw with tense fingers. “You’re both sick.” 

Ghost involuntarily clenches his jaw, gritting teeth. He didn’t consider himself as lying when he told you that they could get you a passport and send you home. If you succeed, if you prove your loyalty - he is sure that would convince Price that you are worthy of rescue. 

Rescue, he curses at himself - as if you need rescue. As he said, he reminds himself, you made your bed and now you are lying in it. You’re so good at it, clever girl, at twisting their impressions of you, at wringing pity from them by fluttering your eyes and letting loose your sparkling tears. Your bruises must hurt, he’s sure, but they must only help you, now - you can brandish them and whimper like a beaten puppy, you can whine and beg for comfort and protection. 

He tells himself, demands himself, not to fall for it. You had already swindled him once, tricking him into bringing you water and clothes by sitting naked and shaking on the floor of your cell. You just looked so wounded, so defeated, so desperate… 

“You keep her hopes up, won’t you, Simon?” Price orders apathetically. 

Ghost nods silently, running his tongue along his teeth. 

“And if she gets herself caught - leave her with ‘em. Get yourself out of there, they’ll take care of her.” 

There’s a sordid silence as Ghost glowers jadedly out of the window, watching the dark clouds of an encroaching snowstorm roll closer across the low-lying sky. 

He huffs. “Yes sir.” 

Seeing Double - Chapter 3

Pairings - Simon “Ghost” Riley x MacTavish!Reader, Platonic! John “Soap” MacTavish x MacTavish Reader, Platonic! Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader

Summary - You are sent with Ghost and Soap to Mexico on your first team mission. But was it really your first?

Warnings - consumption of alcohol, mentions of past trauma, discussions of past trauma, jealousy, suggestive content, discussions of violence, adults cursing, angst but comfort I swear.

Author's Notes- Spanish is used bc reader, as a translator, is a #billingual queen but there is an immediate translation right after spanish is used and it is marked by only italicizing, if it's italicized and has 'these' then that's a direct inner thought. To my Spanish speaking readers or bilingual readers, I apologize if I fucked up anything. Im using the Spanish I learned growing up on my dad’s side of the family in Texas and almost 2.5 years of learning Spanish in highschool and college. My Spanish is more South Texas based but I still learned northern Mexican slang from my tíos. Anyways I hope you enjoy. Bear with me because some of the gender wasn’t translating pero es todo bien.

Word Count - 8k.. yeah ik. I’m shocked too.

Masterlist / Pt.1 , Pt.2 (this is a series but ig you can treat it as a stand alone)

“In how long?” John spoke, briefly peeking at the mission file.

“A week. I’m giving you time to prepare Banshee for using her translating skills as you’ll be working with Los Vaqueros again.” Laswell nodded to them.

“What for?” You piped up. Everyone turned to look at you, not because you spoke out of turn but because you usually waited for someone to speak to you.

“We have intel that Hassan might be in the mountains nearby Las Almas. You’ll find out more when you arrive. ” Kate responded, respecting your piqued curiosity.

You nodded to yourself. You did need to scrub up on your Spanish even if you were fluent.

The week passed by quick as you hit the books and the range. You had taken the time to bond with Gaz as the man tried to pick up a few languages from you. Price keeps you far from the mats after your blood bath with Ghost. Speaking of him, the masked man was oddly never around. Only there for meal times and maybe a glimpse at him before bed.

You didn’t see him again until the night before you were to be sent out with them to Mexico. You had been so focused on working through your knife throwing that you didn’t realize the time had passed until it was midnight. Six hours until you were to be on an aircraft headed to Las Almas.

Dull thuds filled the room as you sunk your knife again and again into the target. A masked figure passing by the door before stopping.

“Can’t sleep?” Ghost spoke as you retrieved your knives. You nearly jumped out of your skin at his voice, noticing him in the shadows of the entryway.

“Never been able to on the night before a mission.” You omitted as you took your stance again. Anything was better than looking at him. Quiet fell over the both of you as he watched. You could feel him studying you as you ran your drills.

Eager to break the silence, you remembered from Johnny that Ghost was quite the fan of dad jokes so you decided to try them out, “Sir, Do you know what sprinters eat before their race?” You spoke.

He spoke nothing but you got the feeling he was waiting for the punchline.

“Nothing, they fast.” You spoke. He froze for a moment before a sigh of air left his mouth almost similar to a chuckle but not quite. Relief flooded your body at breaking some of the tension. What you were not expecting was for him to give you one of his own.

“What do you call a pig that practices karate?” Ghost’s voice came out low as if he too had been starving himself of sleep.

A beat passed as you gave him a hum of interest.

“Pork chop.”

Ghost froze as the sound of a giggle slipped from your lips. Your shoulders sluggish as you threw the final knife but it still fell in line with the others. You gathered your knives and put them away slowly. You turned to face him only to find the doorway empty.

You didn’t see the lieutenant again until you made your way to the tarmac early the next morning. You had all your gear on from head to toe including a new pair of black shades to cover your eyes. Your hair was pulled up as you adjusted your vest. It weighed heavy on you almost as if the weight of your last team mission was still suffocating you.

Ghost stood off to the side with Price as they spoke with your pilot and Gaz. The masked man nodded to Price, listening but his eyes traced you as you walked up to the aircraft confidently. Something Gaz nor Price failed to catch upon but dismissed it under the idea that the man didn’t trust you yet.

Johnny had already made his way onto the aircraft as he turned around to extend a hand to you. Almost as if he had sensed that you would need a helping hand. You clasped his hand tightly as he pulled you up with a grunt.

Both of you exchanged a smile as the engine of the aircraft roared to life. Wind suddenly pushing through the entryway, sending a chill down your spine.

“Just like old times aye?” Johnny said as he held up a fist bump.

“Aye, just like old times.” You replied as you knocked knuckles, ignoring the growing bubble of worry in your gut. Oh how you hoped it would be different this time. You settled in next to your brother and got ready for the ride.

Ghost noticed how you never fully relaxed even as your twin, your supposed mirror image, Soap fell dead asleep on the flight over to Mexico. You had avoided his eye contact again for the whole plane ride, letting it fall to the floor or rise to the ceiling above.

You constantly adjusted everything even as the three of you left the aircraft. Something was bothering you and your commanding officer itched to know why. What was making you twitch. He felt his curiosity blooming in his chest before letting it die as a gruff voice cut through the air.

“Alejandro!” Soap cheered, a loud clap sounded through the air as their hands met in a firm shake and a quick nod.

“Glad to see you made it over in one piece, Jabón” Alejandro said as his gaze peered over to Soap’s teammate, not failing to notice the third set of feet hidden behind the two men.

Alejandro scanned over Ghost quickly as he spoke, “Lieutenant. Laswell says they call you Ghost.”

Soap practically lunged at the opportunity to interject, “Colonel, he actually he prefers to be called-”

“That’ll do.” Ghost cut him off quickly.

“And who is this behind you?” Alejandro said as Soap and Ghost stepped aside to reveal you standing there.

“Aye this is my twin sister-” Soap stopped short as the Colonel pulled you in for a tight embrace. Silencing both the lieutenant and Sergeant completely because you didn’t frown or even flinch at the sudden invasion of your personal space, something completely out of the norm for you.

“Chiqui! Aye qué bueno verte de nuevo!” Little girl (affectionately)! How good to see you again! The spanish slipped free from his tongue as you both separated. His hands lingered on yours as you step back. A small blush on your cheeks.

“Y a ti también. Pero creo que te dije que ya no me llamaras chiqui, no?” And you as well. But I believe I told you not to call me little girl anymore, no? Your eyebrow cocked up at him. A deep rumble leaving his throat as Soap cleared his own to cut through the conversation.

“Alright, Alright. Let us join the others back at the base hermanos!” Alejandro spoke to the group as you all began walking to the vehicle. Out of the corner of the lieutenant’s eyes, he saw the way you and Soap geared up to fight for the front seat, only to be disappointed when Alejandro climbed into the shotgun.

“Welcome to the city of souls, hermanos! A Bienvenidos de nuevo, Chiqui” Welcome back, Chiqui. Alejandro cheered as you all piled into the jeep. Soap took the seat behind the driver, and you slid in the middle, leaving Ghost to take the seat behind Alejandro. For once, you didn’t bristle at being so close to the lieutenant. A soft gasp left the driver as brown eyes met your own through the mirror, even if your eyes were shielded by the dark sunglasses.

“No mames, güey.” No way, dude. The driver interjected as he peered around the seat to see you. Your soft gaze meeting his own shocked one. A gruff noise left Ghost’s mouth to interject the moment and cut it off. This whole thing was starting to get on his nerves.

“Hola Rudy” you smiled. “Lieutenant, this is Sergeant Major Roldofo, everyone calls him Rudy. Rudy, este es mi teniente. Estoy seguro de que no necesitas presentación a Jabón.” Rudy, this is my lieutenant. I am sure that you need no introduction to Soap. Your hand pointing to each man as you introduced them. Your brain easily slid into place as you slipped between the languages.

“Tengo miedo de los fantasmas” Rudy shuddered slightly. Ghost’s head barely turned towards you, waiting for the translation.

“He said he has a fear of Ghosts.” You smiled playfully, shoving Rudy to turn around as you waited for the jeep to go.

“¡Vamos hermanos!” Let’s go brothers! Alejandro said as Rudy’s foot roughly slammed into the gas pedal as the jeep took off. A smile slowly creeped onto your face as you suddenly felt the wind in your hair again. Your shades protect you from the harsh glare of the sun. Maybe it wasn’t so bad to be back.

Soap peered out the window as they made their way into Las Almas. Outskirts of the sandy town were covered in graffiti as the houses came into view. Soap suddenly gripped his rifle as Ghost tensed up, both of them spotting a vehicle in the distance and strange men in masks covering the town.

“One black vehicle, about three men armed along the entrance” Soap called forward to Alejandro and Rudy. For half a second Ghost almost cursed at your poor reaction time until he heard Alejandro interject

“Cálmate, hermano. Es todo bien.” Calm yourself brother. Everything is fine. He spoke up, and then followed up with an explanation. “Las Almas is dangerous and the cartel here plays dirty. But I promise you those who are here to ‘uphold the law’ never succeed for long. Not until Narcos slips money into their pockets and women into their laps.”

“What about the military?” Ghost spoke out. His confusion masked behind a voice of concern.

“Es lo mismo. We’re even more likely to be corrupted and turned into working for the narcos because of our combat skills.” It’s the same. Alejandro nodded to the men ahead as he spoke.

“So why haven’t you been corrupted yet?” Ghost responded almost immediately. Just because you and Soap trusted these men doesn’t mean he has to. He only trusts you through an association of Johnny.

Alejandro knew why he asked but it didn’t stop his tongue from clicking as he responded. Pride swelled in his chest as he spoke. The honesty of his voice silenced any doubt. “We grew up here. The locals call us Los Vaqueros, the cowboys, for a reason. Anyone who calls himself or herself such a name and fights beside me is willing to die for the sake of saving even an inch of this city.”

Soap could see the love the man had for his community as they passed by women and children on the street. He silently wondered why they looked so happy in such a dangerous town. Did they not know what was going on?

“Be weary of the civilians. Yes we are welcoming of strangers but just remember that anyone can be turned into a piece of intel for Narcos. They can be quite.. charismatic.” Rudy spoke to the men.

“Even the children and women?”

“Especialmente las mujeres y los niños.” Especially the women and children, Rudy responded almost immediately.

Ghost nodded as Rudy hummed in agreement as they pulled up closer to the base. You were oddly silent as you took in how the base has evolved. Rudy pulled up to the gate and only had to look at the officer before being let in. You noticed how the sun was beginning to turn the sky orange. You missed how beautiful it was here. The heat not even bothering you as the open windows of the jeep gave your baby hairs around your face a beautiful framing. For just a mere moment you could forget why you left.

The sound of a car door opening pulled you out of your thoughts as Ghost and Soap quickly exited the vehicle. Everyone grabbing their respective bags. Rudy quickly matched your pace and stood to the left of you as Soap walked on your right.

“Veo que sigues siendo la boca de tu escuadrón, Chiqui” I see you’re still the mouth of your squadron. Rudy smiled before slipping into spanglish, “Do either of los güeros speak spanish, or sola tú?” Either of the white boys (like fair-skinned) speak spanish or just you? You could tell why he wanted to know but kept your mouth shut as you nodded to your brother.

“Mi hermano puede placticar un poco, pero solo lo sabe las palabras malas.” My brother can conversate a little, but he only knows the bad words. You responded as you glanced at Johnny. Noticing how he looked a little down.

Johnny’s heart sunk a little in his chest. Just how much of your new life had he missed? How did he not know that you had already met them and formed these close ties. You pulled him out of his thoughts as you ruffled his hair.

“So Jabón, why didn’t you tell me that you were related to Chiqui here, hm?” Rudy spoke, “we could’ve traded stories about her”

“I didn’t keen ye knew ‘er like tha.” Johnny said, suddenly meeting the Sergeant Major’s eyes, “How do ye know ‘er?”

Memories flashed across your eyes as you remember how you met the Mexican task force. How you came here stumbling around like a lost child when you were first assigned. The sounds of music flooding your ears as images of you dancing with a certain brown eyed man flashed across your eyes. The late night steak outs and the embarrassing moments of learning how Spanish is truly spoken and used. The images stopped and memories turned sour as you then remembered why you left, or why you were dismissed.

“She was assigned as our translator and infiltration specialist,” Rudy nodded, then he smiled as he jested a little, “Colonel over there thought it might be hard for military men to lure secrets from men as we are not their usual type. So we decided we needed someone more.. convincing. But we couldn’t trust any woman in this country so Alejandro sent a request to the Americans, and your sister showed up.”

“They were my first team after I stopped requesting solo missions.” You added on. Soap sighed at the notion that you were used to be bait for the corrupt men of this town to slip their secrets into. A silence fell over the group until you three walked into the living quarters of the base.

“Why do you and the colonel call her Chiqui?” Soap then turned to ask. His accent loosely stumbled around the nickname even if he said it confidently but he didn’t care. His curiosity bugged him. Sure, you’d let superiors walk over you but giving you a nickname was entirely different. It was intimate. Something he didn’t know you could do with others outside of the family or your small circle of friends.

Rudy’s eyes met yours, asking for permission to tell. You blinked slowly, even unsure of the action yourself.

“She didn’t have a callsign by then and kept on speaking Spanish like a little kid. Mumbling over her words, speaking quickly, and using basic phrases, too scared to be more complex. It was cute and Chiqui is short for Chiquita. Chiquita means little girl, but it’s friendly.”

“The name stuck even after I improved my spanish during my stay here.” You added ruffling up Rudy’s hair.

“You’d always be the kid on the team, Chiqui.” Rudy smirked. “Let’s get you settled into your quarters and then maybe you three would like to join us at the bar?” He was inviting you two but specifically met your eyes first then glanced at Johnny.

Ghost had disappeared off somewhere with Alejandro, probably forming a plan for tomorrow.

“Jabón, you’ll be down the hall with El Fantasma” Ghost. Rudy said as he walked the man down to the room and Soap walked through the entrance, dropping his bags quickly.

“Johnny ye coming tonight?” You looked at him and waited for him to say something

“Ye ever known me to be a lad who turned down a good time?” Johnny shot back at you.

“Never.” You nodded

“Then ye have your answer. I’m going to shower.” He said and closed his door but not before smiling at Rudy.

Rudy nodded as the door closed and he turned to you, walked you to your room, a few doors down the hallway.

“Dormirás en esta habitación” You’ll be sleeping in this room. Rudy nodded. You sighed as you opened it and recognized it as your old room. You saw how it had been scrubbed clean and bare for newer members but you knew it was yours as Rudy’s room was just across from it. Your doors mirror each other. You turned around to meet his gaze and sighed.

“Rudy..” the low whine left your lips as you frowned at him, your eyes tightening to form a glare at the man.

“Chiquita, Te prometo que estaba fuera de mi control. El coronel insistió en que durmieras aquí.” Chiquita, I promise you that it was out of my control. The Colonel insisted you sleep here. His hands flailing to his defense even with that small, guilty smile plastered onto his lips. Your firm mask slipping at the weight of your full nickname.

“Pero Johnny-” but Johnny-

“Jabón estaré bien.” Soap will be fine. Rudy finished the sentence off. His eyes scanning yours. Your name, your real name, fell from his lips as he looked at you. You finally dropped your mask as he enveloped you in a hug.

Over the course of your two years with the team, Rudy had been your best friend, your safe haven. Even if you blurred the lines at some moments you could always count on him to be there for you. Whether that was a lover in a moment of need or a listening ear when the world weighed too heavy to bear alone. He was your best friend, no matter how blurred that line became towards the end.

His warm muscular arms dug into your sides as he held you. A moment between you passed as your arms found his neck.

“Pensé que te habías ido para siempre. El coronel pensó lo mismo. He estado tan preocupada por ti, Chiqui. Lamento no haber ido contigo ese día. Pensé que no querías estar cerca de nosotros después de lo que sucedió.” I thought you were gone forever. The colonel thought the same thing. I've been so worried about you, Chiqui. I'm sorry I didn't go with you that day. I thought you didn't want to be around us after what happened. His words came out softly, the pain evident in his voice.

You pulled back to look him in the eye, a deep sigh passing through you.

“Nunca podría odiarte, eres mi mejor amigo. Nada cambiará eso. Lo que pasó no fue tu culpa, Rudy.” I could never hate you, you are my best friend. Nothing will change that. What happened wasn't your fault, Rudy. He knew that deep down but hearing it from you helped ease some of the weight still burdening him even now.

“Do they know?” He whispered as he pulled back. The man watching you as your brows furrowed.

“About what”

“Lo que pasó, contigo, con nosotros, con esos malvados bastardos.” What happened, with you, with us, with those evil bastards. Your body froze a little at it all, the memories rushing back to your head.

“No. Se lo diré a los chicos y a Johnny cuando esté listo.” I will tell the boys and Johnny when I am ready. Rudy sighed and sat on your bed while you grabbed your bags, and then a thought crossed his mind.

“So you have a callsign?” Rudy said in English as he watched you unpack. His eyebrow quirked up at you.

“Me llaman Banshee, como la mujer” They call me Banshee, like the woman. The name made him tense up. The realization of the legend hit him, the symbolism, and his expression changed

“Hijole” Fuck/Jeez. He grumbled as the shock washed over his face. “Pinche cabrón” fucking asshole. The man didn’t have to do rocket science to know exactly who gave you that callsign.

His eyes flashed over in anger as he too remembered it all. His memories of your spine-curling screams suddenly whisper into his ear as his brain flashed the images of how scared you looked. How much fucking blood you were covered in-

“Rudy. I am fine, I actually like it, it’s..” your eyes searched for the word but he beat you to it first.

“Chingón,” he murmured as he stood up, "Badass.”

You nodded as he smiled at you, the man heading for the door. “¿Sálvame un baile, Chiquita?” Save me a dance? He questioned you with a knowing look, already predicting your answer.

You nodded as you shot back, “si el coronel no los roba todos primero” if the colonel doesn’t steal them all. You smiled knowing deep down that you’d give him a dance anyway.

“Si todavía puedes bailar, eso es, Chiqui” if you can still dance, that is. He shot back, trying to goad you like he used to do. Only to be met with your door closing in his face and a muffled giggle coming from behind it.

Rudy’s hair stood on the end of his neck, the chuckle dying in his throat, as he peered down the hall to see a certain blue-eyed Lieutenant watching him closely.

“Pinche Fantasmas” fucking ghost. The man muttering a curse under his breath as he turned in and walked into his own room.

As the sun laid low in the sky, the four men were waiting next to the jeep. Everyone was in civilian clothes to various degrees but all men were cautiously armed.

Ghost looked the most out of place out of all of them as he was in all black from his combat boots, to his pants and his top, his balaclava stuck to his face like a second skin. All of them had obvious hand guns in various places on their body.

Soap was in combat boots as well but more dressed for the sandy weather. He was in some jeans, a nice cool t-shirt, the chain of his dog tags peeking out at his neckline.

Alejandro and Rudy were both respectively dressed in a distinct style with square toed cowboy boots, and slightly baggy jeans that fluffed out at the bottom in a boot-cut manner. Their boots looked worn down over time. Both men were ready for a good time before the hell of a mission tomorrow.

“So why are ye dressed up like it’s a party tonight?” Soap questioned the two men curiously.

“Because everywhere there’s a bar, there’s music and where there’s music-” Alejandro was cut off suddenly but your voice.

“There’s dancing” you finished the sentence as you stepped into view of the four men. This was the first time Ghost had seen you in civilian clothes and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t letting his eyes rake over you a little slower than normal. You had obviously packed with suspicion of the boys dragging you out.

You had black square toed cowgirl boots tucked underneath a beautiful pair of boot-cut blue jeans. A black belt held it up at your waist and a tight black tee pulled at your chest. Your hair was cascading down your back in it’s usual manner, you had obviously styled after your shower. You were covered in your usual assortment of jewelry, your sunglasses long gone. Glittering up at him like a jewel just barely out of his reach.

“Jeez, Sis, did ye even have a place to hide your weapons?” Johnny teased as watched his fellow men admiring you in silence.

“A woman doesn’t strap and tell” You said with a wink, your own heart pounding a little under all the attention.

“Vamos!” Let’s go! Alejandro called out as everyone got in the car. Everyone returned to the spots they took on the ride over. Rudy roared the jeep to life as he pulled out. Purposely putting a hand on the back of Alejandro’s seat to peer around to look at you and give you a grin.

Now that Ghost was closer to you, he noticed a jagged scar over your right eye, stopping just short of reaching your eyelids. It was violent and looked like it caused permanent damage and yet that only intrigued him more. He never noticed it before as he assumed you wore contact on that eye around base to hide it since sunglasses were not allowed in every room unlike Ghost’s facial coverings.

“Chiqui, blocking my view-”

“Yo sé.” I know. You clipped as you suddenly bent over. Your belt keeps your jeans down as your shirt rides up. You made your back horizontal as your hips slightly arched to make it comfortable as you completely moved out his rear window.

Ghost swears he tried to look away but his eyes were glued to your back, noticing the way your hips wiggled a little to get comfortable. Your tight black tee riding up your back as your hair fell forward a little to reveal the delicate skin underneath the cloth. Just under the hem of your tee he spotted two identical scars.

However, Rudy finally finished backing out and turning around the jeep. So your back snapped back up into place and met the back of your seat. Your shoulders gently brushing his own and Johnny’s.

.

Speaking of proximity, when Ghost took a deep breath to remind himself of his own boundary with you, the scent of your perfume invaded his senses. He swears he could smell every step of your routine from your shampoo to your lotion to that intoxicating perfume.

“Fuck yer stinking up the damn car. How am I supposed to bring home any ladies tonight if yer stink is rubbed all over me.” Soap whined softly.

“You can’t bring back women to the base anyway, Jabón.” Rudy said with a laugh at the Scotsman's dismay.

Soap was curiously looking at you for an answer so you decided to explain, “it’s the night before our mission so you shouldn’t be sleeping around, and any woman you sleep with here could be an informant for Narcos.”

A frown fell on his face as Alejandro spoke up in an attempt to console his fellow man, “You can still dance and flirt with them all you want. Just remember Jabón, anyone can work for the cartel.”

Ghost nearly rolled his eyes as he peered out the window at the setting sun in the horizon. The last thing they needed was a tipsy sergeant.

His wishes fell on deaf ears as they arrived, you and Rudy hitting the bar to order rounds. The masked giant suddenly took in the entire bar as they entered. Loud norteño music filled the air as did the laughter and the roaring conversations. People stared at him but not before failing to meet his gaze leaving him alone. He also scanned over to see the groups of men and women dancing in pairs.

The couples were so close, especially to him, embracing in a hold on their left side as their right hands interlaced and the men led their partners in dance. Chest to chest and heads right next to each other. Pairs of women being spun around in rhythm to the faster-paced music. Their legs intertwined as the knee of one man’s leg went in-between the woman’s own two. He also didn’t miss how occasionally the women were lifted up and then grinded down onto the thigh of the partner quickly before being put back down and spinning again.

“Do you know how to dance, Fantasma?” Alejandro asked the man, trying to make conversation. The three men piling into a corner booth with a full view of the dance floor.

The man shook his head as Soap answered for him.

“L.T. here has two left feet when it comes to dancing.” Johnny grinned as he said that. Johnny himself also noticed the dancing, the proximity, the rhythm.

“And what about you, Jabón?”

“I can dance but not like that.” Johnny responded, gesturing casually to the couples. Alejandro chuckled for a moment at his honesty.

“Your sister thought the same, you know, then we taught her and by the end of her stay, she would be the one dragging us to dance instead of the other way around.”

“What caused her to leave? I understand that she was pretty close with you after two years.” Johnny said curiously. Alejandro paused, trying to find a way to avoid answering, taking notice of how her own twin brother didn’t even know the circumstances.

Luckily, he didn’t have to avoid answering as you came back to the table victoriously. You and Rudy are holding ice cold bottles of beer with limes stuck in the rim to cover the opening. He also noticed the shot glasses of tequila on a platter.

You passed Ghost and Johnny each a beer, both thanking you as you handed out shots as well. Ghost gently pushed his shot back, to which you cocked an eyebrow but didn’t bother. Gleefully taking the extra shot before your brother could snag it.

“Salud!” Cheers! You, Rudy, and Alejandro said as the beer bottles held by the boys and your tequila glasses clinked together. The lieutenant’s hand shooting up to lift his mask just above his lips, the top one still slightly swollen from your move on the mat a week ago. Ghost’s eyes held your own for a mere second as he sipped his beer before you broke his gaze to take the shot. Everyone began consuming their drinks, and taking their own shot of tequila. Except for Ghost, he was watching you take his shot.

Your wet, pink tongue flickered out to wrap around the rim of the glass and lick the salt off, before shooting the clear liquor past your lips, then your glistening lips enveloped the lime and sucked out its juices. You repeated the process for the second shot as well, failing to meet his gaze. Ghost felt his pants grow just a little tighter as he watched the entire routine.

He quickly tensed up realizing what he had done before glancing to everyone around the table. The man was eternally grateful for the mask as he felt his cheeks dust. Rudy and Soap deep in conversation about different beers around the world as he breathed a short sigh of relief. Your gaze on two men arguing over something as silly as piss water.

‘Idiot. You’re lucky nobody noticed.’ The man internally chastised himself again.

Alejandro then stood up and looked at you, “quieres bailar, Chiqui?” Want to dance? Alejandro’s hand shooting out to take your own.

“Can ye manage without a translator for a while?” You said, your gaze directly pointed at Soap.

“Aye, ye have fun, sis. But not too much.” Soap said with a wink as he pushed you and subsequently Alejandro away from the table. Sure he didn’t want to see his sister grind on a comrade’s thigh or any person’s thigh for that matter but you were a grown woman, and obviously you trusted the Colonel.

“Vamos a bailar, Ale” Let’s go dance. You said as the man joined you on the floor. His strong hand embraced your own gently as you wrapped an arm around his shoulder. His arm quickly found your lower back. He smiled at you as you both began spinning. The liquor made your skin buzz just barely as the music practically thrummed through your veins. You ignored the feeling of eyes on you as you assumed it was just the locals watching you dance with an infamous vaquero. Some of the older locals recognized your face from your time here before.

However they weren’t the only pair of eyes on you as you danced. Ghost slowly sipped his beer as the sounds of your giggles cut through the crowd. Your lips moved as did Alejandro’s as you murmured to each other while dancing. The man is unable to decipher any of it due to limited vision of your lips, lack of knowledge for the language, and the distance. He couldn’t help but wish things were different.

‘What the hell were you doing to him.’ He thought as he focused on Soap and Rudy. The two grown men laughed and caused a commotion as they shifted to battle stories.

The night continued on as more beers were ordered. You finally sauntered back over with Alejandro in tow.

“Rudy, agh. Ayudame.” Help me. Alejandro groaned as he made it to the table, playfully teasing you. You held two more shots in hand as well as fresh beer for the boys.

Soap recognized the command and looked worried for a moment until your quip came back as you pushed him into the booth just as Rudy rose to the occasion.

“Me invitaste a bailar. No es mi culpa que seas un viejo.” You invited me to dance. It’s not my fault you’re an old man. You rolled your eyes before translating. “Ale here forgets that his knees are getting rusty and he wants to blame me.”

“Ale?” Soap said with an eyebrow quirk which you answered with a look alone.

“Te respado, Ale.” I got your back, Ale. Rudy said as he bumped your hips with your own. “Chiqui, tú sabes que no es agradable pegar a un viejo.” Chiqui, you know it's not nice to bully an old man.

You shot the Sergeant Major a look as Soap, Alejandro, and Ghost took the fresh beer bottles from your hand. Your cheeks thrumming with a slight flush of warmth from the liquor coursing through your body.

“You sure you don’t want to take a break?” Soap looked up with concern.

“Oh she’s just getting started unfortunately.” Alejandro chuckled at you as you shared a shot with Rudy. The two of you walked off together, laughing as you shoved each other.

Ghost was suddenly washed over a feeling of jealousy as he watched you dance with your old teammate. Your hips grinding downward onto his thigh in perfect rhythm each time he lifted you up. A laugh leaves your lips as the man whispers things in your ear, his hand resting low on your back. In truth, Rudy was just constantly pulling down the back of your shirt to avoid your scars being revealed. A warmth blooms in your chest as you recognize the habit. But Ghost didn’t see it as that, how could he?

Why was it that you were so comfortable taking the mask off with these men when he had to force it out of you in a spar. Johnny even had to take a moment with you for you to soften up with him again and he is your own family.. What was so trustworthy about these men? Sure you spent two years with these men, bled with them, drank with them, you did it all. But you were his teammate, a member of his task force, not theirs, not anymore. All of these thoughts flooded his brain as he unknowingly gripped his beer tighter, his brows furrowing. Is Rudy the reason why you looked so stressed to come here? You just couldn’t bear the idea of your new team seeing how good you had it with your old one?

Johnny knocked his shoulders against Ghost to snap him back to reality.

“So how did you two manage to get so close to my sister? I haven’t seen her this carefree in a while.” Soap questioned. He hadn’t seen you this carefree since before you started being sent on missions abroad. That’s what he meant to say, but bit his tongue carefully.

“She learned to trust us just as she did you” Alejandro answered calmly as he sipped his beer. The cold beer easing the fiery ache in the older man’s body. Alejandro’s answer irked Ghost but he didn’t show it.

That’s the problem. You didn’t trust him. Sure you trusted Johnny but that’s your family. He’s your commanding officer, your superior, you’re in his care and yet you act like he’s going to suddenly snap whenever he’s around. You can barely hold his gaze or be close to him, meanwhile you can grind on your old teammate without any care and practically share the same breaths of air like it was the only oxygen left.

“And Rudy is the same?” Soap quirked up an eyebrow. Ghost listened closely and watched the Colonel. Alejandro let out a deep chuckle at the question as if a joke was said.

“Rudy and Chiqui are different from Rudy and I. I mean they’re different. Sure, Rudy is my right hand man but Chiqui spent a lot of time with him. They always had each other's back. I mean they used to leave base just to go dance alone at the bar after every mission. He taught her everything. I used to catch them staying up late practicing her Spanish as she taught Rudy how to throw knives. Then I would have to send them to bed and make sure they didn’t follow each other back to the same room.”

“How is that different?” Soap said, “I assume you also taught her something.”

“There’s a phrase we use to describe friends like them. Un amigo es el que intenta levantarte cuando te has caído. Si no logra levantarte, se acuesta a tu lado para escucharte” Alejandro paused. He translated first, having momentarily forgotten the Mactavish twins weren’t completely the same, and then continued his train of thought.

“A friend will try to get you on your feet when you fall. If he fails, then he will lay down on your side and listen to you. Chiqui went through a lot here, especially with this being her first team. She should’ve been sent to somewhere that could ease her into the fire. Instead she was thrown in like a rag doll. Rudy helped her adjust and they became close. I can confidently say they were best friends through and through.”

“Ye dinnae ken me Colonel. I’m asking if my twin has had any history with yer man.” Soap finally said, his look getting serious. Alejandro nodded, finally understanding what the shorter man was getting at.

“Jabón. Under the hot desert sun that plagues Las Almas, even the most clearly drawn lines in the sand can become easily brushed over. Now what your hermana tells you is her business, not mine. She may not be my soldier anymore or under my care, but I will still respect her boundaries. So if you want to know so badly, ask her.” Alejandro said, a serious look appearing on his face as well. The sergeant loosened up on his questioning. Soap could understand why everyone respects the man so much. Soap let out a deep sigh as he peeked at you and Rudy still dancing together. He turned his head back to the table and took notice of the grip Ghost had on his beer. Alejandro following the Scotsman's gaze.

“Todo bien, Fantasma?” All good, Ghost? Alejandro murmured, the two men looking up at him.

“Yeah, I just need a smoke break. Johnny could you scootch-”

“Yeah I got ye.” Johnny said as he let the older man out. Even the nosy sergeant knew not to push his lieutenant when he was this bothered. As Ghost walked out, quickly popping a cigarette and a light into his hands right as he passed through the entryway, exiting into the night.

You noticed Ghost leaving and faltered a step. Rudy noticed and gave you a look. His hand momentarily tightening on your back then relaxing.

“¿Qué pasó Chiqui?” What’s wrong? He whispered into your ear before noticing the way you faltered. The man silently prayed that you were finally done, but a realization passed over his face as he noticed the absence of the lieutenant.

“No pasa nada.” Nothing You responded quickly.

“Ah. El Fantasma.” he chuckled in your ear, a knowing tone to his voice.

“Cállate Rudy. No te metas en algo que no está ahí” Shut up, Rudy. Don’t interfere in something that isn’t there.

“Pero es la problema. No?” But that’s the problem, no? He shot back.

“Rudy.” You spoke roughly, your tone clearly drawing a line.

“Bien, como dijiste que no pasó nada” Fine, just like you said nothing happened. He said, dropping the subject just as fast as it came up. “Pero siempre puedes hablar conmigo, como en los viejos tiempos” But you can always talk to me, like old times.

“Ya no podemos ser como en los viejos tiempos. Solo somos amigos. Ambos estuvimos de acuerdo con eso antes de que sucediera.” We can't be like old times anymore. We're just friends. We both agreed to that before it happened. You whispered in his ear, a saddening note was attached to how you spoke.

Suddenly the liquor turned sour into your stomach and the ache of being on your feet for so long finally got to you. You slowly pulled back from the man with a look, both of you knowing that you were done for the night.

The man nodded, immediately understanding but a part of him ached at your allusion to the incident. He knew what incident you were referring to. That incident when they let you slip through their fingers like the sand that blows through Los Almas. The one time they couldn’t fail and they did anyway.

“Chiqui, siempre estaré aquí para ti” I’ll always be here for you. He said as you both removed yourselves from each other and walked back to the table.

“Yo sé, Rudy. Y siempre estaré aquí para ti” I know, and I will always be here for you. You nodded back.

“Finally done?” Soap smiled at you, knowing that tired look you had on your face. “I hope it was worth it.” He teased you.

“Oh it was worth it.” You nodded, “¿Estamos listos para salir?” Are we ready to leave? You questioned the men with a sigh.

“Finally. I was praying you’d let up soon.” Alejandro said as you all made your way out the door. Even as the moon was high in the sky, everyone could feel the fatigue ache into their bones.

Your eyes immediately scanned for Simon. The man illuminated in the moonlight as he stood next to the jeep. His cigarette long squished out into the ground below.

The ride back to base was silent. Ghost peered down at you as you held his gaze. Neither of you spoke as you took a moment to stare into his glaring blue eyes. You couldn’t understand what ruffled the man’s feathers but you wouldn’t press him.

A soft whine escaped your lips as you walked back to your room. Johnny followed in suit as he went into the room. Ghost stood outside the door, allowing his sergeant time to change and decompress. Ghost knew that Johnny was worried about you and his conversation with Alejandro eased some of his worries while heightening others. Just as he was about to turn in, he noticed a light was on in the room across from yours. He slowly stalked over to the door, standing right beside it and focusing in on the two voices.

“Estoy preocupado por ella, Ale. Ella se niega a abrirse a su teniente. Incluso su hermano no conoce la historia completa..” I'm worried about her, Ale. She refuses to open up to her lieutenant. Even her brother doesn't know the full events.

“Lo sé, Rudy. Pero lo que ellos saben es asunto suya. Quiero decir, si estuvieras en su posición, ¿serías diferente? Le tomó semanas abrirle a ti y luego, justo cuando mejoró, le fallamos. Ella estuvo atrapada aquí durante una semana con esos malvados bastardos. ¿Sabes las cosas que le hicieron? ¿lo que la hicieron hacer?” I know, Rudy. But what they know is their business. I mean if you were in her position, would you be any different? It took her weeks to open up to you and then just when it got better, we failed her. She was stuck here for a week with those evil bastards. You know the things they did to her? What they made her do?

“Sé exactamente lo hicieron. Yo estuve allí! ¿O has olvidado quién entró primero en esa habitación? Quién escuchó su gritos durante horas hasta que nos dieron permiso para entrar? ¿Quién llevó su cuerpo ensangrentado de vuelta a la enfermería? ¿Quién se quedaba junto a su cama todas las malditas noches porque se despertaba gritando como si nunca saliera de esa habitación? ¡Lo hice! ¡Lo hice todo! Yo estaba allí para ella cuando nadie más estaba. ¡Ni siquiera podías mirarla o estar en la misma habitación que ella! Tú eres el que dejó que ese General la robara de vuelta. ¡Sabías exactamente ese General que haría con Chiqui y sin embargo dejaste que sucediera.”

I know exactly what they did to her. I was there! Or have you forgotten who entered that room first? Who listened to her screams for hours until we were given permission to enter. Who carried her bloody body back to the infirmary? Who stayed by her bed every damn night because she would wake up screaming as if she never left that room? I did it. I did it all! I was there for her when no one else was. You couldn't even look at her or be in the same room as her! You're the one who let that General steal her back. You knew exactly what that General would do with Chiqui and yet you let it happen.

“Baja el tono, sargento mayor. No me viste detenerlo. Lo intenté. Pero él fue por encima de mí, a nuestros superiores.” Lower your tone, Sergeant Major. You didn't see me stop him. I tried. But he went above me, to our superiors.

“¿y qué hubiera pasado si hubiera sido Valeria en lugar de Chiqui? ¿te habrías esforzado más?” And what if it had been Valeria instead of Chiqui? Would you have tried harder?

He recognized the voices as Rudy and Alejandro but he couldn’t decipher it. All he knew was that they were talking about you. There was a long pause, something was said lower but Ghost couldn’t pick it up.

“Su hermano me interrogó sobre ti, mientras ustedes dos bailaban.” Her brother interrogated me about you, while you two danced.

“¿Jabón? ¿Qué quería saber?” Soap? What did he want to know?

“Tú relación con su hermana.” Your relationship to his sister.

“¿qué le dijiste?” What did you tell him?

“La verdad.” The truth.

“¿Todo?” All of it?

“No todo, pero algunas cosas están muy claras.” Not all of it, but some things are very clear.

“¿Como lo que?” Like what?

“Le dije que algunas líneas se difuminaron, pero sobre todo que eras su mejor amigo. También le dije que lo preguntara a ella porque el necesitaba escucharlo de ella, no de mí.” I told him that some lines were blurred, but mostly that you were her best friend. I also told him to ask her because he needed to hear it from her, not from me.

A deep sigh was heard as Ghost got closer to the door.

“¿Es por eso que Fantasma se fue?” Is that why Ghost left? The masked lieutenant tensed up at the mention of his name in spanish.

“Sí.” Yes.

“¿Quién está siendo metiche en mi puerta?” Who is being nosy at my door? Suddenly a pair approached the door. And it swung open, but Ghost was already gone.

“Rudy?” Alejandro spoke as he walked past the shorter man, standing in front of the entryway as Rudy stepped back into his own room.

“¿Mande?” yes/come again?

“Creo que ahora tienes una razón para temer a los fantasmas” I think you have a reason to fear ghosts now.

Author’s note - The girls are fiiiighting. I know I know. Lots of questions, and all will be answered in the upcoming chapters. I’m sorry I couldn’t resist reader being close with Los Vaqueros AND me getting an excuse to practice my Spanish. As always - I hope you enjoyed it! Reblogs, comments, and likes are all welcome!

My requests are open! Feel free to drop by and ask questions!

Masterlist / Pt. 1 , Pt. 2.

Seeing Double - Chapter 4

Pairings - Simon “Ghost” Riley x MacTavish!Reader, Platonic! John “Soap” MacTavish x MacTavish Reader, Platonic! Kyle “Gaz” Garrick x Reader

Summary - it was time to infiltrate, so why did you feel so nervous about something that was your talent

Warnings - flashbacks, mention of torture, blood, nausea, vomit, canon-typical violence, idk reader looking sexy for a mission?

Author’s Note - there is an allusion of rape but it will not happen, I will never write rape or sexual assault for any character. Anyways, part 4, enjoy!

Word Count - 5.1K

Masterlist - Pt.1, Pt.2, Pt.3, pt.5

Your eyes shifted around the dark room. Squinting softly as you studied its walls. A feeling of uneasiness washed over you as you realized where you were. As you stood up to run, rope bids held your ankles and hands back. Your skin tearing as you tried to move.

As you peered down at yourself, bile began to rise in your throat. You were covered in your own blood from head to toe. You could feel the welts and the cuts as they dig into your skin. You were stripped down to your base level of undergarments. 

A man stood over you. His eyes were concealed by the shadows but his body wasn’t. He held something that you couldn’t see, but you heard his voice speak. 

“Solo te voy a preguntar una vez más, Cariña.” I’m only going to ask you one more time sweetheart. He paused to let your eyes meet his. “¿Por qué estás aquí?” Why are you here?

“¿Y si no respondo?” and if I do not answer? You shot back. Glaring at the sick man. 

“Entonces mis hombre te harán responder.” A slimy grin ran over his face “y no les importa tocar tu cara bonita.” then my men will make you respond, and they don’t mind touching your pretty face. 

“Ya te lo dije. Soy periodista y escribo sobre la mala calidad del aqua-” I already told you. I am a journalist here and I write about the poor water quality-

“Mentirosa!” Liar! The man cried as he slapped you. Your face stung but not as much as the rest of your body did so you could ignore it. 

“Es la verdad!” It’s the truth

“Tenemos fotos que sabes.” We have photos you know. The man spoke as he pulled out zoomed in photos of you. You with Los Vaqueros at the bar. You and Rudy together in your room as he- 

You couldn’t bare to look any longer. Bile rising in your throat, coming up to your mouth. 

“¿Cómo se sentiría tu precioso Rodolfo hm? ¿Seguiría queriéndote así? ¿Seguiría queriéndote después de que dejara que mis perros se salieran con tu cuerpo?” How would your precious Rodolfo feel hm? Would he still want you like this? Would he still want you after I let my dogs have their way with your body? He was so close you could smell the beer on his breath. 

“Vete a la chingada” Go fuck yourself. You said right as the vomit left your mouth. The vomit landing right on his face and all over his clothes. The man cried out as he grabbed his own face. Growls being heard around you. Even in your beat up state, a small smile creeped it’s way up. 

“Puta madre!” The man cursed out, suddenly grabbed a knife. “Agárrala” Grab her. Suddenly multiple hands were on your body. Holding you completely still as the knife suddenly came going for your eyes. 

You woke up with a shock as somebody banged on your door. Your jaw loosened as if you were ready to scream as you shot up. Slowly you touch your surroundings as you gather yourself. 

“Yeah?” You called out, slowly making your way to open the door. Ghost’s talk brooding figure looking down at you. Back straightening as you sniffled up your tears. 

“Alejandro says we have help arriving for the mission later. Johnny’s in the shower.” he grunted, you nodded. His lips quivered under his mask as if he wanted to say something but he didn’t. 

“Is that all?” you hummed. The man nodded, maintaining eye contact so as to not look at your body. Noticing how you quickly moved to cover it even though you were in minimal sleep attire. He turned and started walking down the hallway. Your meek voice shooting out, “Ghost?” you said softly. 

“Mm?” the man murmured back. 

“Thank you.” You said. Confusion wiped over his features but you couldn’t see that. He didn’t know what you were thanking him for but he nodded and then turned to walk off. 

Ghost could hear your laughter as you walked behind him with Soap. The three of you made your way to the conference room. He had noticed your distinct change of clothes. You now wore full tactical gear from combat boots, to black pants, and a black tee with a slight turtleneck to hide your claw marks. Ghost stopped just short of the conference room seeing Alejandro and Rudy outside, both of them looking unhappy. 

You walked out from behind Ghost and Johnny. Concern written on your features seeing the anger in Rudy and Alejandro.

“¿Qué pasó?” What’s wrong? You spoke. Before either men could respond a certain texan spoke up.

“Nice to see you again, Banshee.” Graves smirked, “glad to see you found your way back to Las Almas.” 

Ghost took immediate notice of how your body tensed up, it was a full body reaction hidden carefully by your clothes. The lieutenant recognized your body tense as the same one you had when they talked about coming here in the first place. Suddenly the mask slipped over your face again as you turned around, 

“Pleasure to see you again, Graves.” you smiled, taking his hand in a firm shake. The texan’s smirk only deepened as the group filed into the conference room to discuss the mission. You sat on the right side of the table, Rudy snagging a chair to your right and Johnny took one to your left. Alejandro was at the head of the table as Graves sat down and even leaned back in his chair. The texan awfully comfortable for all the tension heating up the room. 

“Tonight we are going to capture El Sin Nombre.” Alejandro spoke. You blinked processing it. “There is a meeting going on tonight where we may also be able to capture the rest of Hassan’s missiles.” 

“I thought we were here for Hassan?” You spoke up.

“El Sin Nombre will lead us to Hassan.” Rudy spoke knowingly.  

“Well Ghost will be playing look out as he is the most experienced sniper, Rudy will also be working on comms.” Alejandro continued and then took a deep breath before he spoke, “Chiqui, we need you to infiltrate with Soap and I”

You nodded, you could understand why it would look good if you came. Women had no problem coming and going from the narcos houses, you wouldn’t be questioned harshly. 

“Ale will be working as a guard, you and Soap will waltz right through the front gates. Soap is posing as a member of The Shadows here to give up Graves’ team since The Shadows have been thwarting Las Almas Cartel’s attempt to get the missiles out of the country. You will be posing as…” 

“Una prostituta?” a prostitute? You questioned, cutting off Rudy but he didn’t mind. A deep feeling settled over you, something you couldn’t quite pin. 

“Sí, we’ve already set up plans so they should be expecting you. They will also be expecting Soap. But we will be there every step of the way.” Alejandro said. 

A wave of nausea rushed over you, this is exactly how it worked last time and you slipped right through their fingers and straight into the hands of the cartel. You swallowed a big lump as you zoned out. Not needing to pay attention to what everyone else was doing as your role weighed heavy on you. Rudy’s knee barely knocked your own to bring you back into focus. 

“Las Almas Cartel has undergone new management so you shouldn’t be recognized.” Rudy whispered to you. The room fell silent as you stared at Graves. 

“So why are you here?” you stated, to everyone else it was a simple curiosity, but Rudy and Alejandro internally tensed at the venom you laced within your look at Graves. 

“Just here on behalf of representing the great states.” he smiled back, “now why are you here? Least I can see the colonel and his sergeant major can speak English just fine, without you.” 

If Rudy and Alejandro were lesser men, without military patience and control, they would have taken turns at tearing Graves apart. Instead, Rudy let his fists clench under the table and Alejandro let out a deep sigh.

“Yes they can, but also I’ve been assigned to the 141, they were sent here, and so I was tasked with joining.” you responded cooly as if you had just told Graves the weather. 

Alejandro dismissed everyone from the meeting with a nod. You were aware of how a certain lieutenant’s eyes studied you as you left. 

Ghost didn’t see you again until that night. Rudy, Graves, Alejandro, and the lieutenant all stood on the roof of the building talking as you and Johnny set up comms in the car. 

You slipped on your heels with a whine as the 4 inch death shoes were pushing your arch up. 

“What happened here two years ago?” Johnny said randomly as you worked to put in the wire on your ear. 

“Nothing Johnny.” you passed it off as you applied lip liner and some gloss. 

“Don’t bullshit me. I’m yer damn brother and yet you’re closer with Ale and Rudy than with me. For Christ's sake I see how you sleep. You claw at your neck and wake up in cold sweats. Something happened here and I have a right to know!” He said, his voice raising a little. You took a deep breath and stared at the ceiling. He extended a hand towards you, his big eyes staring into yours, as he whispered, “Please.”

“I’ll tell you when this is over okay?” You smiled back, tears in your eyes. A knowing look passed between you both as you interlocked pinkies. He was right, you should have told him by now and you never understood why you hadn’t yet. 

“Clock’s ticking.” Ghost chimed in. The man stood next to Rudy as he set up his scope. The lieutenant was itching to ask Rodolfo about you but he just decided to fix his scope. 

“Showtime, Chiqui” Rudy’s voice came through the comms. Alejandro had already disappeared into the night and Graves had left to go scout. Simon grabs a pair of binoculars to look at the entrance. 

Soap was dressed from head to toe in shadow gear as he entered the building first. Suddenly he was grabbed by a man dressed in a cartel uniform with a mask. Soap got ready to fight when Alejandro’s voice whispered “Cálmate.” calm yourself. 

“¿Quién es este cabrón?” Who is this fucker? Came the gruff voice of a guard as Alejandro pushed Soap forward, into the cartel house. The Scotsman allowed himself to be pushed around by the colonel. 

“Está aquí para hablarle al Sin Nombre” He's here to speak to El Sin Nombre. Alejandro nodded and there was a tense moment as Soap was being watched by the cartel men. Until the sound of your heels hit the pavement. Ghost quickly found you within his binoculars and for a mere moment he forgot the circumstances of the occasion. The street lamps illuminating your curves as you walk with the confidence of Aphrodite.

Each step echoed as your four-inch black stilettos hit the ground, your tits bouncing a little with the power of each step. Your hair was styled down and jewelry sparkled in the light. You were dressed in a sleek black cowl-neck mini dress, one with a deep cut in the front, with a sparkling necklace. It was a beautiful lariat necklace with a diamond at the intersection of the y and a small knife dangled at the bottom of the chain. You pulled your hair to the side to show off the back of the dress, or the lack thereof. Your whole back was on display as the fabric barely wrapped around the back of your neck and the bottom barely covered your rear. The bottom of the dress rode up to the tops of your thighs as you gently pulled it down. You were covered in dangly jewelry so you clinked as you walked. You had on a thin layer of sultry make-up, including eyeliner and a deep colored lip gloss. You practically dripped with sex to every man in proximity, including Simon. 

The lieutenant, for the first time ever, regretted being so far from the scene. He also found himself wondering if you smelled just as intoxicating as the night before when he was near you.

“Quite the seductress she is, mm?” Rudy murmured to Ghost, as he noticed the lieutenant tense. He was trying to break the silence by the common thread between the two of you. Sure you and Rudy had a past but he could see that your future lies elsewhere, even if you ignored it so blatantly. 

“I can see why she specializes in infiltration and undercover ops.” Ghost murmured back, passing off the compliment, as you easily passed by the guards, whispering sweet nothings into their ear. You came to the rescue of Ale and Soap quickly. 

“This is her element, her natural habitat” Rudy responded, he had seen this bit before. 

“Hay una problema muchachos?” Is there a problem here, boys? You spoke, your tone sultry as you slowly looked up and down the guards. Your every word being replayed in the comms, including the way you purred to the men. Silence fell over the groups as you held the guards attention, saving your teammates but at the cost of yourself. 

“Solo hay problema si estás aquí por otra persona en lugar de por mí” There 's only a problem if you're here for someone else instead of me. The bodyguard said as he slid over to you, his hand sliding up your inner thigh, the man’s hand sliding dangerously close to your core. You swallowed the feeling of nausea. You smoothly took the man's hand and moved it to your rear instead as you purred to him. Rudy and Ghost watch the scene unfold through the windows.

“Estoy aquí por El Sin Nombre. Pero puedo ahorrarte un beso o dos” I'm here for El Sin Nombre. But I can spare you a kiss or two. You hummed, your hands moving up the man's chest, almost as if you were stroking his ego with your bare hands. Winking at the last bit. None of your english-speaking counterparts were able to tell what was being said, but considering the man wasn’t tense, they all considered you to be doing your job well. 

The man led you to the elevator, letting Alejandro and Soap follow. 

“Tendré que revisarte en busca de armas, por supuesto.” I'll have to check you for weapons, of course. The guard had a slimy tone as he spoke that even Soap and Ghost could pick up on. Rudy suddenly bristled at the words, but sighed in relief seeing you cooly respond without missing a beat.

“Adelante, guapo” Go ahead, handsome. You spread your legs slightly as the man’s hands traveled up and down, over every curve before stopping at your face. The man moving to kiss you as you politely moved to let him kiss your cheek as he kissed your own. 

Ghost felt his left hand tighten over the trigger as he watched the man’s hands trail over your body through his scope. The guard finally relinquished as he let the three of you enter the elevator alone, swiping his key card, giving you access to the second floor. The second the elevator closed you breathed a sigh of relief. 

“Are you armed?” Alejandro questioned. 

“Yeah, wearing two knives on a strap on my thigh” you said as you lifted your dress to adjust the strap where you had sneakily pushed it up earlier right before greeting the guard. 

Ghost had to take a deep breath as the image played in his mind, ‘Get your shit together, Simon’ he growled to himself. The poor man wondered where all these feelings came from. 

You entered the second floor confidently as you were met with the second lieutenant of the cartel and the sicario.

“Finalmente, llega la perra. Me ha estado doliendo la verga toda la noche.” Finally the bitch arrives. My cock has been aching all night. The man groans, adjusting himself, and wastes no time rushing over to you, roughly grabbing your wrist, his intentions clear. 

“Oh, cállate Diego y dale un poco de espacio a la pobre mujer. El hecho de que sea su trabajo no significa que se lo deba.” Oh shut up Diego and give the poor woman some space. Just because it is her job does not mean she owes you it. A voice suddenly spoke. You assumed it was Sicario until you noticed how feminine it was. That was when Valeria stepped forward.

“No mames.” No way. Rudy muttered. Alejandro stiffened but didn’t say a word. If Valeria recognized you, she did not show it in any manner. You never met the woman but Alejandro had mentioned her in passing at times. 

“Yo estoy aquí por El Sin Nombre, no por ti.” I am here for El Sin Nombre, not you. You spoke as you stepped out of his grasp. Valeria smiled as she looked at you.

“Entonces estarías aquí para mí, princesa” Then you would be here for me, princess. Valeria smirked as she stepped forward. Valeria looked at her lieutenant and smirked, a hand waving off to dismiss him, the man only leaving

“¿Tú eres El Sin Nombre?” You're El Sin Nombre? You clarified. The woman nodded. The two of you forgot about the men surrounding you as Alejandro cleared his throat.

“¿Y para qué está aquí?” and why is he here? Valeria pointed to Soap, her hand trailed up your back as her hands found your scars. She turned and finally recognized you. She froze for just for a moment but that was all you needed. That’s when all hell broke loose. You swiped out your right leg and brought the woman to her knees, your arms quickly pinning her wrists. 

“Ale, ahora!” Ale, now! You yelled as she thrashed. Alejandro quickly came to put the cloth against her face as her eyes frantically looked between the both of you. A knowing look of recognition glazed over her eyes right before her eyelids fluttered shut. The woman going limp in your arms. 

“We got her, let’s go.” Soap reported over the coms. Rudy quickly packed up his gear as Graves spoke over the radio. 

“Shadows are coming any minute now. I’m around the corner waiting. Get over to us, quickly!” 

Johnny slid you his spare gun as Diego quickly came out of his room at the commotion. So much for stealth you said as you quickly grabbed a knife from your garter and nailed it between the mans eyes, His body crumbling quickly as you walked over to collect your knife. Alejandro binded Valeria’s hands and feet and then threw her over your shoulder. 

“Que haces?” What are you doing? Alejandro barked as you bent over to rip off your heels. 

“My heels will give away our position.” You seethed back. 

“Too late for that.” Soap said as more guards came from the elevator. You and your brother quickly picking them off.  You all easily slipped out of the back way, your heels in your left and your gun in your right. The street lamps were dimmer at the back of the house but still laid a clear path through the city. 

You ignored how the ground began to pain your feet as you ran barefoot, the three of you ran in a line. You were at the front, Alejandro in the middle, Johnny in the back

A van suddenly drove in front of you and you held up a gun as the back doors flung open. Ghost suddenly grabs you as Rudy helps Alejandro. His strong arms around your waist disappearing just as quickly as they were there. You turned around just in time to help Johnny up as the doors slammed closed. You quickly found a spot beside Ghost, Johnny sitting on your other side. A soft silence took over the group. Small conversation between Rudy and Alejandro brought some relief. 

“Ye turn into Cinderella?” Soap smiled as he referred to your shoes. 

“Maybe.” You smiled back. You bent over again to put them back on, a quiet whine passed your lips as the arch of your foot was stretched out again.

Ghost was silent as he finally saw the outline of scars on your back. He didn’t say a word as he recognized the soft lines as previously healed lacerations from an object striking your skin. 

Johnny noticed them too but had a different reaction. A quick breath in was taken but he didn’t say a word as he exchanged a glance with his lieutenant. 

You leaned back and took a deep sigh as you moved your garter down and took out the two knives. Even as the van turned you still flipped one of the throwing knives between your fingers. Your brain still recounting the events as it played through your head. 

“Why’s Cinderella so bad at football?” Ghost murmured to you. You peered up at him, a curious look as you responded. 

“Beats me.” 

“She always runs away from the ball.” 

A quiet chuckle passed through your lips as you leaned back fully. A sleepy feeling overcoming your body as you let it take you, a little nap couldn’t hurt right? 

Ghost was tense for the rest of the ride as your head lay on his shoulder. He wasn’t going to move an inch even as the three men stared at you and him. You were completely relaxed as if you were in a queen bed and not resting your head on the massive boulder of muscle that Ghost called his right shoulder. The softness of your features juxtaposed your outfit and the demeanor it was supposed to give you.

While Johnny was shocked to see you sleeping on his lieutenant, he wasn’t going to complain. For once, you weren’t clawing at your skin or sweating like you had a fever. Even if you found comfort in a man who scared the shit out of everyone, maybe that was what you needed. To feel safe, guarded. 

The lurch of the van suddenly stopping woke you up. Your body whipped up and tensed again as you woke. Your hand gripping the gun like you were ready to snap. 

Everyone quietly walked into the safe house as a chair was set up to put Valeria on in the interrogation room. 

Graves was watching you like a hawk as Rudy handed you a change of clothes when you made your way to the bathroom. 

By the time you had gotten back the interrogation had started. 

“Alright. How do you know eachother?” Graves barked out as you stood by the door. You wouldn’t enter, not just yet. 

“Know is a strong word.” Came Alejandro’s response 

“Las palabras fuertes son importantes. Nuestra palabra es nuestro valor, ¿no?” Strong words are important. Our word is our worth, right?

“Vete a la verga, hija de puta. Que te voy a matar!” Go to hell, you son of a bitch. I’m going to kill you! Alejandro suddenly lunged and you saw Rudy and Soap grab him. Rudy slowly got him to calm down 

“Hola Chiqui.” Valeria's clipped response, ignoring the rage of her old comrade. The woman quickly noticing you even though you had changed out of your clothes, jewels, and taken off your makeup. 

“Hola Valeria, are you going to tell them how you know Ale or am I going to have to?” You said as you slowly approached her.

“Vamos, tell them.” Alejandro growled.

“I don’t take orders anymore. Even the dogs at Las Almas know not to bark at me.” Valeria quipped back before you slowly approached her. 

“Bueno, entonces, ¿podría decirles a mí? Me lo debes a mí, teniendo en cuenta a quién sirves ahora” Well then could you tell them, for me? You owe it to me considering who you serve now. You said as you met her gaze. A look passed between you, the woman knew exactly what you were referring to and sympathy passed over her gaze. 

“Sabes que yo no te hice” You know that I didn’t do that to you.

“Pero aún así dejas que sus perros te laman la palma de la mano” But yet you let his dogs lick your palm. You growled to her, your gaze was harsh on her. 

“Different squads, same unit. You were the wild ones, huh “los vaqueros”.” Valeria spoke to Graves and then she peered to you, “and you were there little translator hm?” A silence passed over the group as the woman continued.

“My squad was clean cut, seńoras y señores, everyone respected each other and nobody crossed any lines-” 

“Until the raid on the son of La Araña. ¿Te acuerdas?” Do you remember? Alejandro spoke, cutting off the woman abruptly. 

“Why’re you doin’ this?” Graves spoke, cutting off the interaction. 

“You tell me... you're the contractor, no? What you don't do, your competitors will.” Valeria spoke. Ghost’s deep voice cut through the conversation as he spoke. 

“You're a narco, harboring a terrorist…” 

“Terrorism is good for business. It's insurance.” 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Alejandro spit out, anger evident in his tone. 

“¿Puedes sacar la puta cabeza del culo por un segundo? Puta madre, Alejandro.” Can you get your fucking head out of your ass for a second? For fuck's sake, Alejandro. Valeria sneered, the room heating up just before Graves moved a hand over Valeria’s shoulder, calming her.

“As long as there is a war on terror, there will be no real war on drugs. To find your so-called terrorist, and your missiles, you need me. To prevent bloodshed.” Valeria said, her tone indicating exactly what she wanted. 

“No, I'm not doing this…” Alejandro growled. Alejandro picked up his weapon and started to leave, Rudy’s hand catching his arm to stop him. 

“Doesn't change anything.” Johnny said. Alejandro whipped around to your brother, his face seething anger.

“It changes everything! Fuck! Don't make a deal with her, it never ends well. Just ask your sister.” Alejandro said, his gaze shifting to you as he stormed out. Johnny froze before approaching you in front of Valeria. 

“Looks like it's your turn to tell the truth.” You spoke, ignoring the comment. 

“I want the missiles, I want the target, and I want Hassan. And you've got ten seconds or I'm gonna show you the difference between the military and me.” Graves spoke, looking down at the woman. 

“I don't know the targets. I'm a courier. I move things. I can tell you where to find the missiles. When you return, I'll tell you where Hassan is. In exchange, you will let me go. And get the fuck out of Las Almas. Se me largan ya- “ Now leave. 

Soap looks at Ghost and Rodolfo, before nodding at Graves. Everyone left the room and as the door closed you heard Graves spoke. 

“Deal. Until then... you're stayin' right here.” 

Johnny immediately grabbed you as you walked out.

“What the hell happened, huh?” Johnny said, following you as you walked towards the van. In a moment of anger, and possibly catharsis, you told him the truth. 

“Valeria made a deal with the narcos behind our backs. I was kidnapped and tortured for a week before Rudy and Alejandro found me and saved me. I was transferred back to the US the second I recovered, that’s all.” You said. All of the men froze as you said it. Johnny’s gaze softened as he let you go.

You entered the van with a sigh. Taking a moment to breathe deeply. Your hands coming up to hold your face as you felt hot tears pool in your eyes. You knew it would be hard telling him but you wished you had told him when you were calmer, not in the heat of the moment when tensions were high.

Ghost lit a cigarette outside as he pulled his mask up to his lips, deeply inhaling the tobacco. He knew it was hard for you here, he glanced at your file but that part was conveniently left out. Your file said you left on the reason of pure reassignment. He watched Johnny slowly enter the van.

“I dinnae know.” Johnny said as he slid beside you. 

“I know Johnny.”

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” 

“How the hell was I supposed to? Should I have just waltzed up and said Hey Johnny sorry I’ve been gone for two years but now I’m back after being tortured and nearly raped by a cartel in Mexico but I missed you!” You shot back.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. 

“I know you are.” 

“I’m here now.” Johnny spoke, his hand reached out to take one of yours. 

“Took ya long enough.” You shot back. The man chuckling as everyone else joined you in the vehicle.

You lost track of everything going on and before you knew it, you were in a car with Ghost, Johnny, and Alejandro driving back to base. The car in front of you, containing Graves and his shadows, stopped at the entrance of the base. The rain poured hard onto the car as you got an uneasy feeling. Everyone got out of the car. You stood next to Alejandro. Ghost and Johnny behind you

“What's this?” Alejandro barked out. The rain is coming down harder now. 

“This is the immediate future. Step away from the gate.” Graves said, the look he gave you made you uneasy. 

“What?” Johnny said, confusion surrounding your face. 

“You heard me.” Graves spoke again. 

“You're crazy, this is my base.” Alejandro said, the disbelief evident. 

It's not a base. This is a sizable covert facility and I admire it- So, I'm taking it. You boys have been relieved. Thank you for your service.” Graves said, the uneasy feeling quelling over as you realized what was happening.

“No, no, no, I don't take orders from you.” Alejandro growled.

“Didn't Valeria say that? Now that makes me wonder what else I don't know about your affiliation with a drug lord?” Graves spoke again, taunting the man. Alejandro stepped forward..

“What the fuck did you just say to me, pendejo…” Alejandro said, you came out from behind him, and put your hand on the Mexican’s chest, putting yourself in the middle to make space. 

“You're out of line, Graves.” came your voice, calm and easy. 

“Don't do that. Don't... do that. No one needs to get hurt here, sweetheart.” Graves responded to you. 

“Are you threatening us?” Ghost spoke up, feeling how nasty this was about to get. 

“Soldier, I don't make threats. I make guarantees. So let's not do this.” The texan spoke, looking across the group. 

“I’m calling Shepard.” Soap said, turning around and walking back to the car. 

“General Shepard sends his regards.” Graves spoke, a chill running down your spine, “He told me y’all wouldn’t take this well, especially you, sweetheart.” 

“He knows about this?” Ghost spoke up, gripping his gun as he turned sideways to Johnny. The Scotsman now looked worriedly at how close you were to the texan. 

“He's put me in command of this operation from here on out. So, y'all need to stand down. It's time to let the pros finish this.” Graves said, stepping forward.

“Graves you don’t have to do this.” You spoke out, pleading with your eyes.

“And why the hell are we talking like this is some kind of a negotiation? It's not. I've got my orders and now you have yours.” He shot back. 

“And who the fuck do you think you are, cabrón? My men are inside!” Alejandro yelled. 

“I'm afraid not. Your men have been... detained.” Graves said, smirking. Just as Alejandro lunged forward, you pushed him out of the way. A shadow pushed you against the vehicle and you felt zip ties quickly enclosing your wrists. 

“Get your fucking hands off of me!” You shouted, thrashing against the vehicle. Alejandro was slammed beside you, a soldier detained him as well. The sound of gunfire filling the night air. The last thing you heard was Johnny shouting your hand and Graves whispering as the world went black. 

“Too bad you couldn’t save them with your screams this time, Banshee.”

Author’s Note - uh-oh…

houndtooth [18]

[masterlist]

Ghost x f!Reader tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut 18+ mdni - cw: see masterlist - 7.4k words thank you to the divine and talented @theorist-fox for helping me figure out this chapter <3

You steep in the bathwater like tea. 

Loose leaves, dispersing and unfurling in the heat, essences osmosing out through your skin and evaporating in tongues of silver steam. You trace lines into the surface of the aquamarine water, watching the ripples dance away from your touch and ricochet off the walls of the tub. 

There’s an ache somewhere in the back of your head, dull, thumping. A dread that lingers, black and sticky like a tumour, feeding on the liquid fear that courses through every blood vessel in your skull. One that continues to grow, even as its presence has eluded you, if only for the time being. 

You’re warm. Skin lacquered in ephemeral honey, blanketing and sweet — it placates you, for now. Mollified by a false peace, the comfort of quiet and the gloaming of soft touch. 

You should regret what you did. 

Begging for him like a degenerate — the memory should be sour to reflect on. Should taste like bile in your mouth as you reminisce on kissing him, on biting him, on coming on his tongue. 

It doesn’t. 

It was what you needed. 

Needed, not wanted, you needed it with the same exigency as a starving animal in need of food, of a wilting flower in need of water. That’s the only way you could begin to explain it. Overwhelmed by such a dearth of comfort that you acted on the impulse to sate it because it was needed to survive. 

You hear the flick of a lighter, where Simon sits against the wall beside the tub. Knee propped up, he hangs an arm over it as he pinches a cigarette with the other, sucks down a deep drag. 

He looks at you with lidded eyes as the smoke flows from his nostrils in curls, before he reaches over to hand you the roll. 

You lean against the side of the tub, forearms propped up on the edge, chin resting on the back of your hands. You free one to take it from him, sip a short puff, and give it back.

In the dim light of the bathroom, he looks like a different man. 

His cheeks are pinker, eyes a little brighter. Softer lips. Gentler stare. Perhaps you’re making it up, to make yourself feel better for using him so brazenly.  

His familiar mask is still downstairs, tossed somewhere to oblivion. Jersey in a pile on the kitchen floor. His bare chest is bruised, scratched, bitten — blood-red weals where you had abused him with your teeth and your claws, spotted bruises on his neck and shoulders where you suckled on him like a leech. 

Your eyes scour the marks that weren’t left by you; white cords of poorly healed gashes, craters left by bullets, knurled and pink where he had been burned. He is covered in them. 

“I hope I didn’t hurt you,” you say, as mild as a whisper, a pang of embarrassment at the tip of your tongue. 

“Hurt me?” He asks, a low rumble, through a bemused smirk. 

You extend a hand over the edge of the tub, trace the tip of your finger against a throbbing red imprint of your teeth in his pectoral, a bite mark so deep it lingers even an hour after its infliction. 

He looks down his nose at where you touch him, releasing a pent breath in a huff of laughter. 

“Mh,” he grunts, as though only now noticing how you had maimed him. “You’re a little animal.”

“Sorry,” you puff, tucking your hand back under the other. 

“Didn’t hurt,” he says simply, poking his cigarette in his lips to punctuate it. “Felt good.” 

You smile wryly at that, before you sheepishly glance at the floor. 

“More worried that I hurt you,” he says, after a languid pause. Cigarette smoke in a mist around his head, he hands it to you again.

You keep it for a bit, sucking in two consecutive puffs to slow your heart down before giving it back. 

“You didn’t,” you reply. 

He rocks his head back, leaning it against the dark tiles of the wall. His eyes turn sombre, and he rubs his brow with a tense thumb. 

“What,” you ask edgily. 

He exhales out a cloud of smoke. “Nothing.” he mutters, under breath, as though to himself. 

You shift uneasily in the water and the waves splash quietly against the ceramic walls of the tub. “Do you regret it?” 

His stare is heavy. Pointed. Rust-brown eyes laden with quiet guilt and an anger you can’t place — at you, or at somebody else, you cannot be certain. 

“Fucking you?” 

Your brows twitch into a frown, but soften quickly. You aren’t sure why you’re taken aback by his bluntness — fucking you — given he hasn’t shown much in the way of subtlety in the short time you have known him. 

What you don’t like, though, is that he believes himself to have done something to you. He fucked you. A one-way act. 

You’re used to being fucked in such a way. A man fucks you, a sire fucks a bitch. In either case, you’re the receptacle. The sleeve for a cock. A passive recipient of fucking, your contribution irrelevant, or worse, unnecessary. 

This was different. 

“Yeah,” is all you say, resting your chin on the back of your hands. 

He lets out a ragged sigh. “No,” he says brusquely, “I’m glad I did.” 

Strawberry red stains your cheeks, sugary heat suffusing under your skin. Your tongue is heavy and uncooperative and you have nothing to say. 

“I’m glad I made you feel good,” he adds, a murmur. “I’m glad I took you from that fuckin’ mansion. I’m glad I shot your husband. And I’m glad I hit Makarov. I only wish I’d shot him as well.” 

He ends his tirade with a final puff of his short cigarette, sucking it down to the filter, before squishing the butt into the marble and adding it to the pile of the last three he already finished. 

Your chest is tight, ribs enclosing, lungs sipping shallow. Heart tumescent at the base of your throat and thumping between your collarbones. 

“I’m glad too,” you breathe, not quite able to let the words slip out confidently, because you can’t believe you’re saying them. You’re not even sure uttering them aloud makes the sentiment true, but it feels that way.

The silence that follows is as tepid as your bathwater. He shuts his eyes, head leaning against the black tile behind him. 

“Will you get in with me?” You surprise yourself when you ask it, and he cracks open an eye to look at you. 

“I’ll dirty up your water,” he says frankly. 

“I don’t care,” you whisper. 

His lips curl as he decides whether or not to entertain you. It was an admittedly uncouth request, and you begin to mourn asking — until he reaches forward and pulls loose the laces of his boots, kicking them off with his socks, they bounce and thud on the tile. 

With a grunt he pushes himself up to stand. His pants are already unbuckled, left that way after your tryst in the kitchen, so he simply shucks them down and unabashedly tugs his boxers with them. 

You sit upright in the water, and you feel like a little lecher for watching so raptly. You didn’t get to see much when he had you on the kitchen counter — only his torso, which you weren’t upset about. But you did not expect that he’d bare himself so willingly, a man whose face you had barely become accustomed to, previously hidden by a permanent mask.  

His legs are long, they look as tall as you — just as wide, too, thighs like hocks of pork and hirsute with straw curls. Tattoos bedizen a single leg, his left; a large gun on his shin, a nautical star on the side of his thigh, other engravings you can’t make out in the dim light of the orange sconce by the mirror. 

Your prurient eyes latch to something else, though, as it swings heavy between his legs on his way towards the tub. Even soft, you cannot fathom that you had fit it inside you. Uncircumcised, unlike Victor’s. A hearty mauve at the thick head, sheathed in ruddy foreskin. Pale at the base, corded with veins, and pendulous under its own weight. 

It makes you swallow as he lifts a colossal leg over the edge of the tub, settling immediately into the water and forcing waves to splash up the sides and dribble onto the floor. With his added mass the water’s surface brushes your nipples, they stiffen when it tickles. 

He sinks into the water with a strained sigh, head hanging back over the rounded edge of the tub. The water laps just below his sternum, and his legs overlap with yours — great big knees jutting out of the glossy surface on either side of you, you tuck your knees together, but wedge a foot at either side of his waist. Takes up the entire fucking tub, titanic as he is. 

“Nice, isn’t it?” You say quietly, amused. 

“Mh,” he hums. 

“Bet you haven’t had a bath in a while.”

“You saying’ I smell?”

You snort. “No, I just mean, you know, like, specifically—”

He cracks a wide smile, eyes shut. “I know,” he says. “It has been a while.”

In the quiet you hang your arms over your knees, silently observing every scar on his freckled body, each more grisly than the last. Your eyes fix to a burl of keloid under his ribs, thick and purple, scarred skin shiny where it healed wrong.

“You have a lot of scars,” you quietly muse. 

He only grunts. 

“Are they all from — fighting, and stuff?”

His eyes open and cut across the tub, as if to check why you’d ask such a thing. You feel a bit guilty having asked it, but you know so little about him; the man himself is a mystery, enigmatic as he is reclusive, and you’ve let him inside you. Some part of you feels owed a glimpse of who he is. 

“Some of them,” he says. 

“Not all of them?”

“No.”

“What else are they from?”

His stare is forlorn. He seems to take a moment to decide whether or not to answer you. 

“Couple from when I was a kid,” he says mutedly, swiping the pink slit in his top lip. You don’t want to know how he got that as a little boy. “The rest are from Mexico.” 

“What happened in Mexico,” you ask, near a whisper, curiosity getting the better of you. 

He sucks deep a breath, drumming on the edge of the tub with the pads of his fingers. You haven’t yet seen him so uneasy, so patently upset. His eyes are black with it, pools of tar that swirl and bubble, plainly haunted by something you don’t need to see to understand. 

“Sorry,” you say abruptly. “Don’t tell me. You don’t need to tell me.” 

He drops a hand from where it rests on the lip of the tub, and plants it on your calf. Grazes your skin with his thumb. He gives you a faint nod, and he doesn’t elaborate. You wonder if he would have felt obligated to tell you if you hadn’t relented. 

“What happens next?” You ask, if only to fill the silence. 

He licks his teeth. “That depends on what we got tonight.” 

“Oh, shit!—” you suddenly blurt, jolting up, and he looks taken aback. “I heard some things when they were in the dining room.” 

He straightens himself, sitting upright and watching you keenly. “What.”

“Um — they said something about a vault. At the house in Russia, I think, after I lied and said I heard the assassins talking about a USB drive. Sergei said, um, Victor’s digital assets hadn’t been compromised, and that you hadn’t touched the vault. So maybe there’s something important in there.” 

“Did they say where the vault was?” 

“No — only that you didn’t find it, so I guess… somewhere you didn’t look,” you explain. “They’re getting someone else to sweep the mansion again. Vladimir said — he said Konni, I think, are inept, so must have missed something. Then Sergei said he’d talk to someone called Arkady.”

He chews on that for a moment, glaring into the surface of the water. 

“You know him?” You ask. 

“I do,” he says. “Anything else?”

You take a second to think, to comb through the weeds of everything else that had happened in the last few hours. 

“Well, when… when you interrogated me, you asked about a factory, so I told them I overheard the people who killed Victor talking about a factory.” You say, suddenly feeling like the only information you had gleaned was vague and useless, and you pick at your fingernails. “But I was vague about it, I didn’t want them to think — you know, that I knew too much. So I told them I thought it meant warehouse. Then one of them said, ‘they know about Mialstor’.”

He cocks his head at that. “What?” 

“Mialstor, is what he said,” you repeat. “I guess that’s the name of the factory.”

He suddenly grins, eyes wide with a vigour you had not yet seen at all in him. He reaches forward with both hands, and your instinct is to recoil — but he grabs you by the cheeks and tugs you towards him. 

“Fuckin’ brilliant,” he hails, pressing his forehead to yours and almost shaking you in exuberance. “You’re brilliant, Mia.”

A rush of blood rises up from your chest, turning you pink, and you’re not yet sure what you did right. “Do you know it?”

“Yeah, I know it,” he says, reeling back from you slightly. “Just can’t fuckin’ believe we hadn’t thought of it already.”

“So — so, that’s good?” You ask anxiously, “I got something?” 

He chuckles dryly, grin wide; tilts your head downward to plant his lips on your forehead, and your blood turns to syrup. 

“Yeah, you fuckin’ did,” he croons. 

His praise sends a tickling warmth down your spine, gooseflesh pricking up on the surface of your flushed skin. Turns you to pudding. Not just the assurance that you had done something right, that you were inching closer to your freedom — but an expression of genuine pride, of unburdened affection, truly alien to you. Surreal. Much like most of the last several days, tonight especially. 

You rest a wet hand on his knee, unsure where else to put it, his skin is cold in your palm. 

You have always had little control over what your body chooses to do, proven further as you tilt your head upward, until your mouth meets his chin, his stubble prickly on your lips. 

And as though hearing the thoughts even you could not, he takes the burden from you — his lips find yours, and his mouth opens to take you. You draw in a shuddering breath, his tongue glides against yours, and he breathes your air from its source. 

There is no reluctance left in him, seems you have bled him dry of any remaining reservations. No longer wastes his energy questioning the morality of how he touches you. His hands jump from your cheeks to your hips, and he hoists you up and between his knees — plants you astride his pelvis, his thighs a backrest, a seat made for you. 

His lips take no pause, lavishing from your neck to your collarbone, taking your soft breast in his mouth as you straighten your spine. His tongue feathers over your nipple and a whine escapes your throat, hands firm in the hollows of your waist, holding you in place as he indulges himself. 

He bucks his hips to tip you forward as he leans back against the reclined wall of the tub, wide hand fixes to the back of your neck, under your hair. 

You kiss him without haste but no less eager, tobacco on your tongue, hunger in your teeth. He smooths a free hand down your spine and it makes your hairs stand on end, grazing until it reaches your ass, and he burrows his fingers unabashedly into the pillow of your flesh. 

The silence of the room is peppered with quiet splashes of water and breathing turning heavier, then the whimper that escapes you as you feel his cock growing harder underneath you. Wedged in the petals of your pussy, suddenly taking up more space as it steels in the cleft of you. 

You arch your spine to glide your cunt down his shaft, gripping in the soapy wetness of the bathwater — curl forward as you grind upward, releasing a puff of wanton air as your clit rubs against the bulb of his head, where it lies flat against his stomach. 

He hisses as you knead against him with your full weight, gluttonous hands boring into your hips to compel you even further downwards; but you persist unfettered, rocking your pelvis back and forth along his shaft until you can feel your slick between his skin and yours, not yet dissolved in the bathwater. 

You can feel him growing frustrated. He tries his hardest not to burrow his fingernails into your skin, masseters jutting out as he grits his jaw, temples divoting in the strain. 

You straighten your back, looking down your nose at him; cheeks calescent red and lids heavy, luxuriating in his desperation, panting through your open mouth. 

“What do you want,” you ask, voice low, resting a hand flat on his rigid pectoral to balance yourself. 

He glowers at you, panting, hopelessly grinding his hips up into you to chase the friction. 

“You know what I want,” he grits, enormous hands briefly loosening to slide to your waist, before they dig in there instead. 

“Say it,” you hum, stilling with the blunt head of his cock nestled between your folds. 

He cracks a grin, jaw slack, he laughs at you incredulously. At a loss for words, for a beat, as he futilely rolls his hips. 

But his eyes are dark, and they do not leave you. Through a smirk, he says; “I want you.” 

You liquefy when he says it. Insides turn as gummy and bittersweet as jam. 

You know he means your body, your cunt; you, the parts of you that matter. You can’t help but burden his hungry words with a weight they were not intended to carry. 

Still, you raise yourself just enough to reach beneath you, taking his cock in your kittenish fingers — your tongue wettens when you touch it, hard as titanium and hot as molten iron. Girth dizzying now that it is tangible in your hand, when you wrap your fingers around it and hold it upright. 

His eyes go glassy when you slot the head of his cock between your labia, nudging it at your entrance — you gasp through wet lips as you sink back down, lancing yourself on the length of him until you sit flush with his hips, impaled to the helve. 

It’s harder to breathe around the size of him in this position. It ached delightfully the first time, when his head mashed into your cervix, when he buried deep — now he takes up all the space inside you, bullying your womb out of the way to fit, and he hadn’t even moved yet. 

He keeps his hips still, in fact. Busies himself with his hands, they graze over your thighs, up your waist, around your breasts, along your collarbones.

“Say it again,” you breathe, voice broken.

He smooths a flat hand down your sternum, between your breasts, over your belly as if just to feel the warmth of your skin. 

“I want you,” he murmurs, no longer smiling. 

A heat blooms in the hollows of your eyes, tumid with unspent tears, and you keel forward to taste him again; with an open mouth you seal your lips to his, and exhale all of yourself into him. A wide hand weaves into the hair at the back of your head, the other sweeps from your waist and around your ribs, settling in the divot of your spine.

Still, he does not move. Doesn’t rut himself deeper, doesn’t reel back his hips to indulge himself with the slightest friction. Instead, he moves his lips to your cheek, curling his hand to the top of your head, before nestling your face into the crook of his neck. 

You wonder what thoughts of yours he can hear, can feel through your skin, can taste in your mouth, that you yourself are not privy to. Because with a free hand he scoops underneath you, lifting you like you’re weightless in the water, and unsheathing his cock from inside you. Sits you back down on your side against him, with your knees tucked in. 

You’ve resolved not to cry, but quiet tears drip from your eyes regardless of your attempt to subdue them. Their origin eludes you, they roll anyway. 

“I’m sorry,” you croak, into the balmy skin of his neck.

He draws in a slow breath, your head rises with his chest, lets it out just as languidly. His hand knots a little firmer against your scalp, his lips press into your hair. 

“Don’t be.” 

He can’t explain it. 

Whatever it is, palpitating behind his sternum, aching like cardiac failure. 

He’d have called it guilt, perhaps, in the days leading up to now, while he has you purring on his chest like a cat. He pets you like one, a listless hand stroking your damp hair from your forehead to the back of your neck. Keeps still like you’re as skittish as one, liable to jump off his lap and scurry away into the shadow if he moves too quickly. 

He’s not sure what he’d call it, now.  

It was hatred, first, bubbling and acerbic in his chest at the sight of you. That hadn’t lasted long, though. Then, it was pity, when he watched you cower away from himself and others who hurt or threatened you, or when he had to listen to your husband unjustly berate you. Then, it was shame, for salivating over you like an animal despite how he exploited you. Next was guilt, for exploiting you at all. 

Whatever it is now, he doesn’t have a name for it. 

He would have indulged you, if you wanted him to. He’d have fucked you to sleep in the bathwater, or simply coaxed another orgasm out of you with his fingers, or his tongue, if you asked. He could never be unwilling to surfeit you if that were what you needed from him. 

He could tell, though, read it on your lips, see it in your eyes, that it wasn’t what you needed. That you were acting out of routine, out of habit, a machine on autopilot. He’s sure that you know well how potently magnetising you are. That any man would lust over you, would fuck you in a heartbeat, and would tell you so. You don’t need him to attest to that. 

He’s certain you’d be expectant of it. Certain that sex is the only affection you are accustomed to receiving, and that anything else has been a means to an end. 

He has always had a similar attitude. 

He doesn’t dole out affection freely, nor does he willingly receive it. A fuck was once all he needed, and he decided himself uninterested in, or unworthy of, anything more than that. He has always prided himself on it, in fact, that he never needs anything else. Doesn’t need reassurance, or care, or sympathy. Doesn’t need touch beyond the kind that gets his cock hard. 

Can’t explain why he doesn’t want to be that for you. 

He doesn’t want to be another dog, so you called them; an animal that mauls, that bites, that scratches and grabs, hits and breaks. He doesn’t want to be a creature of hunger and hatred, destined only to consume, to masticate then swallow. 

He doesn’t want to prove you right. He has already been that creature, that dog, for all of his life. Sharp-toothed and brutal, permanently apoplectic with a rage that never dissipates, turbid in his blood like silt. Antipathy aimed indiscriminately, at everybody, himself no exception. 

That sediment that terminally thunders through him has settled, temporarily. A momentary taste of amity, while you lie curled up on his stomach, gently breathing against the skin of his neck. 

Pride beats through him, too. He’s bright with it. He’s fucking proud of you — not a sentiment he would ever have expected to hold. 

Clever girl, using what little knowledge you had gleaned from him to fish out intel he would never have found himself. Clever girl, feigning uncertainty about the very language you’re fluent in to milk them of even more. Staggered by your courage, brave girl, maintaining strength within arm’s reach of those wolves who so deeply terrify you. Brave girl, standing up to the warmongering sadist even as he had his hands around your throat.

He wants to tell you so, but it’s not in his nature, would go against his grain — regardless, it seems you have fallen asleep, judging by the shift in your breathing. Slow, deep, in a torpor that leaves you limp against him.  

The water isn’t hot anymore. Not quite lukewarm, either; the exact temperature of the surface of his skin, so it feels as though he isn’t submerged at all. 

He’d leave you sleeping, if he could, but he can’t have you spend the night in cold water. If he had another set of arms, he could gracefully get out of the tub and carry you to bed without needing to wake you. Alas.

He adjusts himself, skin squeaking against the ceramic walls of the tub, and that seems to be enough to disturb your slumber. 

You quickly push yourself upright with your hands on his chest, and he releases you. Your stare jumps around as though you had forgotten where you were, until his hand falls to the small of your back, and you catch his eye in the dim yellow light. 

A pent breath escapes you, and you rub an eye with the heel of your palm. “Sorry,” you croak. 

“For what,” he says torpidly. 

“For — for falling asleep on you.” 

He lets out a puff of laughter. “Seems like you needed it.” 

You smile sheepishly, and his stomach tightens up. “Guess so.” 

You stare at him, for a beat, and he swears you tilt your head in thought — lids heavy, eyes shadowed by exhaustion but laden with a quiet comfort. Not once would he ever have thought he’d see such an expression in them, so used to them being wide and frightened, or wet and ruddy with tears. 

“What do we do now?” You ask quietly, and he wonders how metaphorical you’re being. “Have we — is there more to do, still?” 

Not metaphorical at all, evidently. “There’s more to do,” he replies, remorseful. 

Your expression sinks, and he feels guilty again. “Right,” you breathe. “Do I have to see him again?” 

Him, he needn’t ask. The way you say it, thick with hate, speaks his name for you. 

He reaches for you, brushes your jaw with his thumb, sweeps a damp curl of hair behind your ear. “No.” 

You all but deflate with relief once he says it. 

“I need to check in with my team,” he adds, with a huff. “C.O. will figure out what happens next.” 

“The Captain?” You ask, a grumble. 

He nods. 

You chew on something to say, a divot between your brows. “I don’t like him.” 

He smirks at that. Hopes he gets to tell him that, one day. Bird says she doesn’t like you. “He’s not everyone’s cup o’ tea.” 

“No, I mean, I don’t trust him.” 

“No?” 

He doesn’t blame you, he’d never vouch for the man. He just wants to know if the Captain had done something to you to make you feel that way, while he wasn’t around to see it. 

“If he had his way I’d be dead already,” you say sombrely. 

He grimaces. You’re probably right. 

“I wouldn’t let that happen,” he grunts, hand smoothing over the curve of your shoulder, brushing down your arm. He can’t stop touching you. 

You adjust your position on his lap, not quite getting comfortable, but turning to face him better. “How can you guarantee that if he’s your commander?” You ask, tone interrogative. “What if he orders you to kill me?” 

“I wouldn’t,” he says, more forcefully, anger bubbling in the back of his throat at the thought. 

He hasn’t considered it, going against direct command, breaking the chain of authority that he has been beholden to since birth. His eyes go dark as he thinks about it. Such an order an immovable object, his newborn compulsion to safeguard you an unstoppable force. 

He doesn’t know what would happen. Only that you’d be alive at the end of it. 

Concern bleeds into your features, but it seems you elect to believe him, answering only with a faint nod. “Okay.” 

“You should get some sleep,” he says. 

“Do we have time to?” You ask dubiously, dread in your throat. 

He huffs. “You do.” 

A look of pity cracks through your features, but you relent with a nod. “Okay.”

With some maneuvering, you push yourself up and step a leg out of the tub, standing on the tufted bathmat. Your skin prickles up in the cold, tiny bumps of gooseflesh feather your skin, faint hairs standing on end. 

There’s no caution in your nakedness, no lingering reluctance in having his eyes soak you in. You stand unblushing, and he watches as you float to the towel rail; the way your calves tighten, lush thighs bounce with each small step. The way the faint light catches in the valley of your spine, shimmers on your soft skin embellished with drops of water, carves out the nectarine contours of your ass.

He’s not ignorant of his lechery. Acknowledges that simply having sex with you should not embolden him to abandon all shame as he relishes in the sight of you, he can’t quite justify it — but there’s more to it than that. 

Not anything he can articulate nor make sense of. But you let him admire you, so he admires you. 

You’ve already collected a towel for him by the time he gets out to follow you, handing it to him as you drape your own around your own shoulders. He’s not shy about spectating you as you dry yourself off, running the plush towel down your torso, arms, legs, before wrapping it around your hair and wringing out your locks. 

You dump your towel on the floor by the vanity once you deem yourself dry enough, leaving your hair damp down your back. He puts his boxers back on, slightly less comfortable with his nudity than you. He’s not sure why, perhaps just habit. He’s used to staying hidden. 

Seems you get stuck in the mirror. 

He watches, quietly, as you glower into it like you can see somebody on the other side. Eyes penetrating like you hate her. White-knuckled hands clutch the edge of the vanity, as you let out a frayed sigh. 

He shuffles over until he stands behind you. More than a head above you in the reflection, the shadow you cast. 

Even with your brows curled in worry, lips in a caustic line, you’re pretty. So pretty. He wants to tell you so. His mouth won’t let him utter the words. 

“Do you ever look in a mirror, and—” you hesitate, “and think, ‘who the fuck is that’?” 

He bites down on nothing, but nods in response. “Most of the time.”

You blink at yourself, a slender finger lifting to graze the yellowing bruise under your eye. 

“I used to look so normal,” you say quietly, musing to yourself. 

He exhales as if to laugh — can’t imagine that you ever looked normal. You’re abnormal, by nature. He’s sure it would come across as an insult if he were to say so, but he doesn’t mean it as one. Even as he imagines you in a hoodie and jeans, crossing the street, buying cigarettes from the corner shop — you’d glow.

He lacks the eloquence to say such a thing, so he says nothing. Instead cranes his head and presses his lips into the swell of your shoulder. Fleeting, a simple kiss, he doesn’t linger. 

“Go to bed,” he tells you. 

“What will you do?” You ask quietly, pretty eyes fluttering shut as his lips graze your skin, before he steps back. 

“Got some calls to make,” he answers. 

“You’ll stay in the house, right?” 

“I’m not going anywhere.” 

Yet would have been accurate to disclaim, but he doesn’t want to frighten you. He knows you’d hardly sleep. 

You nod, finally acquiescing, and he follows a few paces behind you as you wander out of the bathroom towards your bedroom. Leans against the jamb of the doorframe and watches as you pull a comically oversized t-shirt over your head, brush out your hair in front of your mirror, tug open the drawer of your nightstand. 

Grits his teeth as you toss two oxycodone tablets into your open mouth, and swallow them with a placated sigh. Comforts himself with the promise that you’ll break your habit when you’re free from the hell you’re imprisoned in. 

When you’re free, he thinks — ruminates on the prospect. He was ambivalent about your liberation when he first took you on, considered you deserving of whatever fate befell you. Let the Captain believe that you were unlikely to make it out of the arrangement alive, so no additional measures needed to be taken to ensure your emancipation. 

He’ll make it right. 

Observes silently as you settle yourself into bed on your side, tugging your thick covers up until they brush your cheeks, shimmying yourself deeper into the mattress. Thanks to him, it has been several nights since you have slept in a bed, and the relief is visible in the softening of your eyes and the pleased curl in your lips. 

Sweet thing. He’ll get you out, or die trying. 

“Night,” he grumbles, and your eyes blink open before landing on him. 

“You’ll wake me up, won’t you?” You ask, “when it’s time to go?” 

“Course.” 

You nod. “Okay. G’night.”

He flicks off the light switch on the wall with the back of his finger. Remains in the door for far longer than necessary. Attentive as your breathing settles, as your eyes grow heavier, as your lips part slightly in your slumber. The shadow of his silhouette drapes over your body under the covers, haunting you, he’s sure. Only once you roll over to your other side, does he step away from the frame, and carefully shut the door behind him.

He pulls out his satellite phone as he meanders down the hallway away from your bedroom, dialing up the Captain and holding it to his ear. 

He picks up on the first beep. 

“Jesus, I’ve been waiting for you to check in for fuckin’ hours. Thought you’d gone AWOL.” 

“Not quite,” he murmurs. 

“Why’re you so quiet? S’the weather dirty?” 

“It’s clear,” he says, as he makes his way down the staircase, out of earshot. Dithers for a moment about whether he’ll disclose why. “Didn’t want to wake the bird.” 

“She’s still kicking?”

“Affirmative.” 

Price chortles on the end of the line. “You’re a bloody good guard dog, I’ll give you that. How’d she do?” 

“She did good.”

“Go on then, we don’t have time to piss around here.” 

He makes his way to the kitchen. Eyes catch on the counter. On the glitter of the broken glass that sprinkles over its surface. 

“We need to get ‘er out, sir,” he says rigidly. 

“What?” 

“Mia,” he grits. “I’m not leaving her in this fuckin’ shithole.” 

An uneasy pause cuts through the line, as Price considers his response. 

“What’s changed? Has she ended the damn war?” 

“She’s not a war criminal. They’ve kept her prisoner for years, captain, they fuckin’ torture her.” 

“She’s gotten in your head, then, has she?” 

“If you’d spoken to her, John, you’d see the same.” 

“See what, exactly.” 

“An innocent girl.” 

Price lets out a beleaguered sigh. “Christ,” he grumbles. “What’ve you gotten yourself into?” 

A mess. 

“Just get her the damn passport,” he demands, patience wearing thin. “She’s earned it.”

“Has she? You haven’t even told me if she found anything of any value.” 

“Guarantee it.” 

“Guarantee what?” 

Ghost rolls his eyes. “That she’ll be sent home, for fuck’s sake.” 

“When she’s done her job, I’ll see what I can do.” 

“She has.” 

“Not while we’ve got no missiles, she hasn’t.” 

“Mialstor Munitions Factory,” he grunts, finally revealing the intel he called to share. “That’s where they’re making the missiles.” 

“She found that out?”

“Affirmative.” 

“That’s only a few clicks north of you.” 

“Just under one-fifty.” 

“D’she get anything else?”

“Sounds like we missed a few spots at the first estate,” he answers reluctantly. “Digital assets in a vault we weren’t aware of.” 

“Right,” Price says urgently, a familiar rigidity that portends a plan. “I’ll call you back in a minute.” 

The call ends with a click, and Ghost busies himself by collecting the gear that is scattered around the mansion. Finds his jersey and t-shirt on the floor of the kitchen, and his mask hanging from a cupboard handle, where it had fortuitously landed when you tossed it away. Gets himself dressed again, returning the balaclava to its rightful place. Grabs his tac vest from floor by in the foyer, handgun still tucked into the holster on its side. Returns to the bathroom and puts his trousers back on, boots to follow. 

He knows what Price will inevitably ask of him. He just hopes he can get you out before he is ferried off to fulfil his next mission. Knows how dangerously distracted he’ll be if you’re stuck here without him. 

His sat phone rings as he does up his belt. He picks it up immediately. 

“Yep,” he answers quickly. 

“Zero-seven, we’re sending a bird to you at 0400 hours. Bravo and Delta teams will meet you two clicks south of the factory.” 

He checks his watch. Just before two. 

“We’re storming it?” 

“Affirmative, lieutenant. No time to waste.” 

“Seems a little rash for you, captain.” 

“You trust your bird, don’t you?”

His jaw tightens. “I do.”

“Then there’s no use sitting on our hands, is there?” Price barks. “MacTavish will be joining you at Mialstor. Garrick and I will be heading back to the estate to find what you missed.” 

“They’ll be sweeping the mansion again,” he says. “It’ll be swarming.” 

“Counting on it.” 

Not unlike the Captain to dive right into the hornet's nest. 

“You sorted exfil for the bird, then, I take it?” 

“Jesus, lieutenant, get your bloody priorities straight. There are lives on the line.” 

“So is hers,” he spits. “If they get to her they’ll fuckin’ kill her. Worse than that.” 

“She should’ve thought about that before she married one o’ them.” 

Ghost swallows his simmering insubordination before allowing himself to speak. 

“Do you hear yourself?” 

The silence that follows is ugly. He can hear the Captain gritting his teeth through the phone, can see the line that forms in his ever-severe lips. The man has always been callous, dangerously pragmatic — but this level of cold apathy is out of character. Pure desperation. 

They’ve been hunting the same organisation for the better part of a decade. Makarov has never been so within reach, so close to being ensnared in their maws — seems the Captain has lost sight of his own humanity in the pursuit of his heroism. 

Far be it from Ghost to be the one to discern it. Until now, their roles have been reversed. Ghost the cur, Price the muzzle. 

A perturbed grunt crackles through the phone speaker. “Look, If her intel was good, if we find those missiles — I’ll get her out.”

“I don’t give a shit what we find there,” he growls. “I don’t care if we get there and it’s a fucking empty field. We’re getting that girl home.” 

“What’s she done to you, Simon?” Price asks, earnestly, and Ghost’s knuckles turn white. “Alright. We can’t get another bird out before the operation. But afterwards, I’ll try.”

“You’ll try?” He grits. “Or you will?” 

“I’ll do my best,” the Captain replies. “Just — don’t let her distract you, eh? Remember what’s at stake.” 

“Haven’t forgotten, sir.” 

“Good. I’ll check in with you when you’re on the helo. Get a few zees in while you can, yeah? Need you sharp.” 

“Copy that.” 

Price closes the call with over and out and Ghost fights the urge to throw the chunk of plastic into the vanity mirror. 

The thought makes him sick. Leaving you here. Alone, unguarded, in a mansion with no defenses, no bulwark to shield you from the men who wrestle to maim you. 

Abandoning you, just as he said he wouldn’t. 

He doesn’t have a choice. 

Guilt swelters within him as he makes his way down the same corridor, hovering outside your bedroom door, hand yet unwilling to touch the handle. The thought of telling you makes his tongue swell up. Having to utter the words aloud, having to see your face when you learn he has no choice but to leave you here. 

How could you believe him when he says he’ll be back? What stock remains in his promises? 

He loathes confessing to it, but he reminds himself that the Ultranationalist scum have no reason to return to your summer house, yourself notwithstanding. Makarov’s sadism is unearthly, but he would not jeopardise a decades-long scheme just to have his fun with you. He’ll come back for you eventually, no doubting that. The creature oozes such repulsive lust for you that it lingers in the air even after he was forced to leave the estate. 

Simon will return to you before he even gets the chance. He’ll come back to guarantee it. To ensure your safety. 

He twists the door knob, and it opens quietly, hinges fresh and well-maintained. A crack of light slices into the room through the opening door, cloaking where you lie on your back, a single forearm jutting out of the duvet and resting softly on the pillow. Deep in slumber. 

You don’t stir as he makes his way into your room, feet heavy on the carpeted floor. Gentle face doesn’t twitch as he sweeps a tuft of your hair with a thick finger, from where it had draped over your nose, scooping it behind your ear, off of your neck. Eyes fix to the beating of your carotid artery beneath the velvet skin of your throat. The divots that carve beneath your collarbones as you breathe deeply. 

Makes his chest sink to imagine that you’d sleep so tranquilly in his presence. That you could ever let your guard down in his proximity. He wonders how long it will take for the other shoe to drop.

Still, he leaves his tac vest leaning against the foot of the bed. Dumps his boots off beside it, upright and neat, as he was trained to leave them.

He looks at his watch again; 02:01. Gives him just under two hours to get some sleep. He could sleep anywhere — decades in the military have inured him to sleeping on raw dirt, hung over the back of a truck, upright in a plane. 

Doesn’t want to, though. 

He drops into the bed beside you, atop the covers, flat on his back. Heavy head sinks into the thick down pillow beneath his head. Luxury, all of it — not only the dizzyingly opulent bedding, but the body lying next to him. 

You shuffle slightly before rolling onto your side. Eyes still shut, you nestle your forehead into the swell of his bicep, sleepy hand scooping under his arm to hold it close to you. 

You let out a satisfied sigh, and sleep immediately swallows him whole. 

touchdown | series masterlist.

ryomen sukuna x fem!reader [18+] | angst, fluff, smut

ᡣ𐭩 pairing. football player! sukuna x journalism major! reader

ᡣ𐭩 summary. ryomen sukuna. your best friend’s frat brother. he’s tall, hot, suave, not to mention the best thing to happen to college football since…well, ever. he’s in a world completely different to your own. while he spends his nights partying and racking up his body count, you spend your nights reading and racking up your word count. but when the two of you decide to come to a mutually beneficial agreement, you realise you aren’t so different after all.

ᡣ𐭩 warnings/tags. 18+. fem!reader, fluff, angst, smut, college au, fraternities, sororities, partying, alcohol consumption, weed consumption, romance, jealousy, pining, slow burn, fake dating, opposites attract, acquaintances to lovers, she falls first he falls harder, sukuna being an asshole, best friend gojo.

ᡣ𐭩 status. ongoing

ᡣ𐭩 moodboard. no.1 no.2

ᡣ𐭩 word count.

chapter index.

ch1. ryomen sukuna wants to send you a message!

anon headcanons.

a note from the author. hi! my name is lana, and this is going to be my first tumblr long fic/series! i used to write on wattpad, but engagement was so low that it wasn’t worth it anymore :( i just want to give a preliminary thank you to everyone that reads this! it means so much to me that people enjoy my writing as much as i love doing it! if anyone gets really into the series and wants to send in headcanons about it, my inbox is always open! my requests are currently on too! and for those of you who don’t want to read something that ends sad, this is for you, this series will have a happy ending!

series tags. #touchdown #touchdownheadcanons