love

i love yapping

[fereberries]

. ⋮ THE PITT P!LINKS .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

18+ only! make sure you're logged into x/twitter to access the links

included: dr. michael 'robby' robinavitch, dr dennis whitaker, dr frank langdon, and dr jack abbot (might make a part 2 and add more characters hehe)

℘ DR ROBBY

making out w ur ass જ deepthroat જ deeper n deeper જ such a tease જ kneading ur ass જ spread ur legs wide open for him જ

ᯤ DR WHITAKER

inked!dennis જ dryhumping જ after shift video જ hasnt seen you in weeks જ involuntary hip movements જ god he loves when u control him જ slow and soft જ

⚡︎ DR LANGDON

loves watching you squirm જ at your mercy જ early morning before his shift જ he loves ur strap જ laid out before him જ loves how you look at him જ

ᝰ DR ABBOT

pussy whipped જ riding him જ cant stop thinking about you જ touchy feely જ breakfast જ all black જ in uniform જ personal plaything જ

[mirrormauve]

faultlines

simon 'ghost' riley x f!reader | soulmate!au | 18.8k (oops)

Ghost didn’t want a soulmate, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either.

cw; soulmate!au in which soulmates share scars, references to self-harm, lots of talk about scars, angst, fluff, references to domestic abuse and past violence, references to simon's past, descriptions of pain, military inaccuracies, miscommunication, touch aversion, reallllly slow slowburn, ghost being sort of really bad and weird at affection

Simon didn’t remember how he got every scar on his body. 

The big ones, the important ones, sure. He remembered them all too well, even through the haze of pain and fatigue that often hung thickly around their reception. 

But there were too many to account for. To remember the particulars of each slash and burn and gunshot wound was a losing battle. He’d long since given up on keeping track of them. Little lines on the sides of his fingers, stretchmarks on the backs of his biceps, winged fans of a burn on the side of his thigh, a pale line along the point of his elbow that he might as well have been born with.

There were ones from further back, too. Scars that time and pain had eroded the precision of the memory, but not the feeling. Cigarette burns on his forearms, a necklace of animal teeth on his side, a craggy line across his hip, accompanied by the shadowy memory of hand reaching for him, and not being quick enough to duck out of the way. 

They all meshed together into the hard patchwork of scar and muscle his body had wrought itself into.

Almost none of them could be helped, out of his control, out of his hands.

They were a catalogue of his life, a story traced on his skin.

Stamped, more like. Branded. 

Survived. 

And soulmates shared scars. 

Their hurt was his; his hurt was theirs. Literally or metaphorically, he wasn’t quite sure. Simon had so many, spent so much time in pain, it was impossible to know if any of them didn’t belong to him originally.  

He didn’t like the thought of someone sharing his scars, having felt what he did. Possessive of them and the pain in a strange way. 

It’s ironic, then, that he should be able to find his soulmate more easily than the average unmarred person, and wanted to do nothing of the sort. Simon dismissed the whole thing as drivel a long time ago, anyway. If they did exist, if they weren’t just incredibly rare instances of luck, Simon was sure that he hadn’t been afforded one. 

There was guilt, too, settled somewhere deep inside him, that someone had to endure it alongside him. It was easier to believe he’d been left out of the whole thing. 

Better he was alone. 

The likelihood of finding that person was slim. It almost never happened. Eight or so billion people swanning around the planet would do that. A one in eight billion chance. 

A grand, cosmic joke. The unfairness of it drove some people crazy, drove them to do insane things to increase a probability that couldn’t be altered—to know that person probably existed somewhere and yet know that they would probably never run across them.

A trend of self harm cropped up online every few years, healed over self inflected wounds posted in forums of people seeking their other, fated, half. The presumption being that they were being desperately searched for in turn.  

Idiotic. Determined. Fallibly human.

And taboo. Most saw it as circumventing fate. 

Violently frantic for the thing Ghost had been unwillingly given. A way to find them, or, at least, easily identify them. And he never would. 

But, sometimes, he wondered. 

He tried to picture the imprint of a person somewhere out in the world wearing his wounds, suffering his losses. The thought would circle his brainstem in an unrelenting loop, a bright fish whispering around the perimeter of its bowl before it dissipated in lieu of something more pressing. 

It was always there, though, waiting to be grappled with again. 

He always came up blank. Nothing but a shadow in his mind where a person should be. Fitting, typical.  

It was a cruelty he couldn’t imagine, somehow. Someone being fatefully, inescapably afflicted with him. 

Simon didn’t want a soulmate anyway, and he was sure, if they existed, that they didn’t want him either. 

If there was someone out there, someone wandering around with his scars on their skin, he was certain they hated him already. 

He didn’t particularly believe in fate; life had taught him not to. He believed in himself, his capabilities, planning and contingencies. And Simon didn’t relish the thought of something he couldn’t control, someone holding the other end of his corded, deformed soul, like a leash they could tighten and use to yank him to his knees. Compromised, vulnerable. 

It wouldn’t happen; the margin for discovery was so small it was practically nonexistent. 

He blamed Soap, then, for tempting fate.

Ghost listened to Johnny yammer on, the sound of his voice louder than usual in the rattling dark belly of the transport plane home. The glow of green light, the roar of engines, the jangle of gear. 

It was an irritating, and sometimes endearing, quirk of Johnny’s that he couldn’t stop talking in the post-op cortisol and adrenaline drop, his words a smeared haze of jumbled thoughts spoken aloud for hours afterward.

The notion of a soulmate was at the front of Soap’s mind, not for the first time. He’d always seemed to enjoy the idea of it, and find some comfort in it, particularly after a close call. There was someone waiting for him, somewhere, after all, it couldn’t all come to nothing yet.   

Simon glanced out the window, watched the sea below morph into land. 

A yellow network of light winked below, a sea of reverse stars swimming in the black.

“Lucky that way, Lt,” Johnny declared with finality, finally winding down, sounding exhausted. “Findin’ ‘em will be easier.” 

Ghost glanced over, the first time in nearly an hour that he’d acknowledged the conversation beyond a hum and a nod. “What do you mean?” 

Soap gestured to his scarred chin, then his temple. “Know ‘em straight away, wouldn’t I?”  

Simon’s own thoughts spoken out loud; his hopes to never see his own scars reflected back at him turned on its head. 

Johnny made it sound like a good thing, instead of the nightmare it was. 

No, he thought for the nth time in his life, not that, not for him. 

But he’d always had an extraordinary knack for beating the odds. 

.

.

.

The base was a constant flurry of activity, a relentlessly buzzing hive of people. There were very few places that skirted away from the general chaos of life on a military base, but Simon had catalogued them all—the field behind the barracks when drills were not being run, the concrete service walkways beneath the base, crowded with spiderwebs and dust, the cool, sterile medical wing, and, the orderly administration offices. 

Each place had caveats. 

The service walkways were the most reliably quiet, but Simon hated being underground, hated the claustrophobia of it, like some part of him would always be clawing at black earth, and so usually avoided it. 

Soap had found him smoking behind the barracks once and now regularly joined Simon there. 

The medical wing could be crowded and frenzied, depending on the day. 

The administration offices were practically serene in comparison. Neat file folders, tidy desks, windows that let in the watery, gray English sun. Square offices with their doors propped open, conference rooms bathed in the light of glowing intel reports, data convergences, and map overlays, uniform gray walls and floors. 

The admin wing only occasionally spasmed into restless activity if an emergency op was underway or about to be, and if that happened, Ghost was usually already swept up in it himself, probably already long gone. 

A spare office stuffed away at the end of the hall with the name plate removed technically belonged to him. A mostly unused space he sometimes finished reports in but, more often than not, sat empty. 

He preferred to haunt the corridors, observe the more peaceful, inner workings of the military, breathing in the quiet air for five minutes at a time. It gave his perpetually over taxed nervous system, his forever-in-fight-or-flight-mode body, to relax, if even it was only an increment or two. The lightning was softer, the constant bark of orders and drills, the snap of gunfire, the general loudness of the rest of the place, was muted and far away.

Simon knew of all of the staff and their precuilarities—names, ages, birthdates, minor feuds among each other, immediate family members, previous posts, favorite foods, habits, complaints about the building’s irregular temperatures and the pervasive scent of diesel. It wasn’t information he necessarily collected on purpose. Gleaned over years of half heard conversations, glimpses of photos on desks. They, like the medical staff, didn’t often change, not like the revolving door of soldiers and operators. 

It was a regular, routine, quiet place. 

So it would be difficult for even the most oblivious person not to notice when the familiar order of the place was interrupted. 

Soft, dandelion light flooded the hall from a doorway that had always before been shut tight.

The scent of an unfamiliar perfume lingered in the hall in a feathery streak, oakmoss and lavender. It settled hard in his lungs, made his footsteps slow slightly, caution prickling at the back of his neck. 

The click of ceramic being sat on wood, the soft shuffle of files, tapping of computer keys emanated from within the now open office. The faintest notes of bubblegum pop floated by, at odds with the chill, still air. 

Inside, you were hidden behind two massive computer monitors, the very top of a pair of lilac headphones just visible over the rim. Plants in colorful painted terracotta pots lined the window to your left absorbing what they could of pale winter light, a thick blanket was thrown over the back of a chair in the corner, a jumble of bright, hand crocheted squares. A brass floor lamp with a circular shade sat behind your desk and drooped forward like the antenna of a giant radio, or a bug, casting a delicate halo of light around you like a protective ward. 

There was something. . .lambent that emanated around the room, that had nothing to do with the ridiculous lamp. 

Simon hovered in the doorway, in the shadow of the dim hall, just to get a glimpse of your face. Start a mental file on you, begin his careful catalog. Something to match the color and light to. 

It was a surprise to you both, then, when you glanced up and caught him at it. 

You stood hastily, headphones sliding down your neck when the cord jerked taut, the tinny sound of pop echoing loudly from them until you slammed your fingers down onto the keyboard and silence descended abruptly. “Sorry, sir. I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with something?” 

Simon could only stare at you, a curl of dread snaking its way between his ribs. 

Johnny was right, then, he would know his own scars anywhere. 

He would know his own face anywhere. 

He would, apparently, know you anywhere. 

Your face was a faded mapping of his own, the same scarring traced with a lighter hand. The same crack over your lips, a line drawn across your cheek, a faded check through your brow, the bridge of your nose bisected, the outline of webbed burn scars crosshatched at the edge of your jaw and shoulder. A jagged, thick line crossed your throat. 

Despite his legacy marring your face, you were pretty. Beautiful, even, with curious, cautious eyes, one side of your mouth pulled up into a half grin that tugged at the line across your cheek and somehow didn’t ruin the brightness of it. 

You were watching him watch you with a tentative gaze, brows drawing slowly together the longer he stood there staring at you, breathing around the newly minted cavern under his lungs. 

His eyes met yours again, and as soon as the realization settled in, something clicked violently into place inside his chest, like a missing rib bone had suddenly slotted into the cage around his heart. 

Pain bloomed hot and tight across his chest, so acute he covered his side, expecting to find a knife inexplicably lodged there. He grunted mutely. The discomfort receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a vast hollow just beneath his breast bone. Cavernous, lurching, undone. 

The hollow hardened into a solid brick of pain. 

Nausea swept into the back of his throat. 

“Are you okay?” 

He was frozen in the direct line of fire. Your eyes swept over him, fingers curling around a folder on the edge of your desk which you thumbed nervously. You began to lift your other hand, an aborted half movement toward your face that you dropped at the last second. But you didn’t avert your gaze. You looked past the mask, past him, and into his eyes. 

You saw him. 

Simon was not to be seen.

Ghost didn’t get caught, didn’t freeze. 

Didn’t feel like an animal trapped in a cage, pinned and weak and panicked. 

Not anymore. 

He was a ghost, a shadow, a silent—

The silence unspooled, thin and fragile as unraveling lace. 

Your smile widened, a slow, confident thing that stretched across your face crookedly, pulled at your scarred skin as you tilted your head. It was, maybe, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

“Sir?”

Amusement threaded your voice; a laugh curled like a sleeping animal in your throat. 

Instead of answering, he faded back into the hall.

As he retreated an uncertain realization prodded at the back of his mind. One wonderful contingency. 

You had not felt the shift, the world turning horribly on its axis, the pain that radiated hot as a wildfire. 

You hadn’t recognized what he was. 

And he was going to keep it that way. 

.

.

.

It felt like there was a hook in his chest, slipped right between his ribs, a constant painful tearing that landed him again and again outside your office door. Like he was a fish on a line, and you held the reel in your fist, totally oblivious to it. 

He didn’t love you, that’s not how the soulmate bond worked. You were tied together, for some reason, though that reason remained to be seen. Resentment was all he felt, a burning desire to chew his leg out of this trap, to grip the line that bound you and run a knife through it. 

Better yet, through you. 

Sever the tie as cleanly as a blade through an artery. 

One sure way to free himself was your death. 

It was unusual, but it happened—headlines of a soulmate killing their pair because they couldn’t tolerate the connection. It was taboo, considering how rare the bond was. The link suffocated them, instead of comforting them. 

Simon understood the urge.

He thought of your office, the way your back was angled half toward the door, how easily he could slip in and slice your throat open. He had seen and done worse, but the thought of you lying in a pool of blood, let alone at his hands, was so abhorrent and wrong that he doubled over as an acute, sharp pain pinched between his ribs, like someone wriggling their fingers between the bars to claw at his insides. 

Which irritated him. Things like that didn’t bother him, not anymore. At the very least, he was better at handling discomfort than this. 

It did start him thinking about someone else doing it, though. Slipping quietly into your office and nudging a knife between your ribs, pressing a silenced pistol against your temple, Ghost left to find your cold corpse. 

It was wrong. 

He could feel your life wrapped around his fingers, tangled in little ribbons around his wrists. A pulsing, glowing, bright thing.  

The resentment doubled because he should not care. He didn’t know you, trust you; your death should mean nothing. You should mean nothing.  

Still, he found himself walking the administration wing again the following day, even though the sun was out and it’d be nice to sit behind the barracks and smoke and listen to Johnny rattle on about something or the other when he inevitably showed up. 

Your door was open again, gold light spilling into the corridor, the low flutter of too loud music in your headphones accompanying it. 

Simon would never admit it to himself, but he also needed to know that he could remain hidden from you. The shock of your eyes finding his still hadn’t left him. It had never happened before—not on an op, not about the base, not out among civilians. He blended in, he remained invisible, but you saw him, sensed him, and he needed to know if that was something he had to adjust to. Planning was survival, and you were an unknown factor he needed a method for handling.  

Simon stepped close to your door, out of the beam of light. 

Your office was bathed in soft, cream light but not from your antenna bug lamp. 

Your back was fully turned toward the door, face tilted into the scarce winter sun streaming in the window as you leaned back in your chair. Your eyes were closed, headphones over your ears as he suspected they were. 

Fuuucking hell. 

Couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, back toward the entry point of the room. 

Your life hung there, trusting, fragile as spun crystal. 

He waited, but you didn’t turn, didn’t seem to know he was there. Something in his shoulders uncoiled, tension slowly replaced with an odd sense of calm. The pain in his chest eased for the first time in twenty-four hours, fading to a tender ache. 

Your lunch, half eaten, laid abandoned on your desk. The blanket that had been on the chair in the corner was swaddled around your shoulders. 

You yawned, eyes still closed. 

He waited for you to sense him, glance up, but you seemed unaware of him. He wouldn’t admit it then, but he half hoped you would. 

Ghost backed away, left you to your peace. 

The weight in his chest intensified again.

He hated you for it. 

He went back the next day. 

And the day after that.

.

.

.

Anchor might be a better descriptor. 

Hook was too violent.

Simon knew what it felt like to have a hook between his ribs, and this feeling was not that. 

He was satisfied, after weeks of observation as late winter turned to a wet spring, that you did not have a preternatural sense of his presence. In the process, he learned other things. 

You hated the cold, and your office always seemed to be chillier than you would prefer, blanket perpetually tucked around your shoulders. He watched you fiddle with the radiator one morning, bottom lip caught between your teeth, sigh, and resign yourself to it. He waited for you to complain to your coworkers like everyone else did, to call maintenance to fix it, but you didn’t. 

You liked to sit in the sun, however you could, squinting against the glare of it against your computer screens just to have it on your skin. 

You hunched over your desk, and clearly had pain in your neck and back because of it. 

You often stayed later on base than many of the staff and walked out of the building alone late at night. 

You didn’t drink tea, but politely accepted the tea several different coworkers made for you with the very good intention of showing you a proper cup. You drank every drop as you chatted with them, even though you clearly detested it. It didn’t show, but Simon could tell. He didn’t like that he could, that it was instinctual and nothing else. 

They were also plying you with shit tea, of course you weren’t going to like it. He watched as one bloke let it steep for a full fifteen minutes and then presented you with what must have been the bitterest lukewarm tea to ever pass through the base. An older secretary took the opposite approach and handed you a cup of barely brewed tea with approximately four tablespoons of sugar in. 

Absolutely bloody foul. 

Horrific crimes committed in your name, and you swallowed them with a smile. 

And you smiled a lot. From the tiniest twitch of your lips when you were alone, to a grin so big he could see all your teeth, that your eyes squinched closed. 

You nearly always had headphones on—wired earbuds dangling from the collar of your shirt as you walked down the hall, or over ear headphones looped around your neck at your desk, usually pop, occasionally 70s rock or alternative spitting from the speakers. 

You talked a lot, and your voice carried. One of those truisms about Americans, you could be heard long before you were seen even if you weren’t being particularly loud. He didn’t need to be close to hear you, and he found himself thinking one afternoon good. It would be easier to keep track of you. 

He liked your voice, anyway, liked your laugh, liked to hear you say English phrases in that accent of yours that made them sound ridiculous. 

You could likely give Soap a run for a world record of useless chatter. Anyone who walked into your office was subject to your stream of consciousness if they lingered long enough. 

Lonely, he might have called it. But you were new, to the base, and to the country. Your only connections were those you were attempting to craft with stuffy intelligence officers who sometimes seemed to regard you as below them. 

He found his thoughts drifting to the sound of your voice once he’d left you for the day, replaying things he’d heard you say in the period of observation he allowed himself, like the tune of a lullaby. It calmed him. 

The resentment in his chest festered like a badly healed wound. You were nothing but a distraction, a thorn stabbed into his side, stealing his focus from nearly everything that was more important. 

That used to be more important. 

Now his every thought was asterisked by you. 

Distracted. 

He didn’t do well with it. 

He didn’t like that he could feel the newly rended hole in his chest corroding and throbbing when he wasn’t near you, suffocating him. He’d felt worse in his life, so he could mostly ignore it. 

Simon decided that the nature of the bond was at least neutral. You were not a threat.  

He was tired, anyway, of constantly thinking about your back to the door, your headphones playing too loudly. 

After you left one evening in mid spring, he moved your desk. 

Simon sat in your dark office for longer than he should have, letting the pain ease out of his chest. 

It was enough to be where you had once been. 

That was as close as he cared to be. 

He fixed the radiator before he closed the door again. 

.

.

. 

He went by Ghost, you learned eventually. 

His was a redacted, blacked out name in the files on your computer, so Ghost seemed less a name than a description. You briefly scanned the ops he had been on. It was a horrifyingly long list, most of them totally classified or excised beyond comprehensibility. And those were only the missions you could see, likely his involvement in many ops had been scrubbed entirely. 

It was clear that he was good at his job, though it left you to wonder what he had been doing in the administration wing of the base, let alone peering into your office like a silent wraith. 

It should have been terrifying to find him looming in your doorway. His massive frame had blotted out the corridor behind him. Mostly in black, a skull mask covering his face. You hadn’t been able to see his eyes in the low lighting. But you had only felt curiosity, apprehension, a delicate wrenching in your gut. 

Something that a different person might liken to butterflies. Absolutely absurd, but nonetheless true. 

Fear, afterward, of course, that you’d missed some kind of order or request. 

It had also been a while since someone stared so openly at you, since you’d felt the urge to duck your head, obscure the scars littered across your skin. You never had before, and you wouldn’t have started then. You wore them proudly. Most bore their soulmate’s scars better than their own, and you were no exception. 

It had become a rarity, really, in recent years that anyone spared you more than a glance. Being surrounded by military personnel who had seen worse, might have had worse on their own skin, meant you didn’t stand out.

When you mentioned the incident to Laswell, worried that some kind of disciplinary report, during your first month at this post no less, was headed your way, she had only shook her head. “That’s just Ghost. He probably didn’t say anything. You get used to it.” 

The base, especially among the operators, was filled with odd personalities with even odder quirks, so you decided not to question it. You had only nodded, and said, “Okay.” 

Laswell had smiled. “You’ll do well here.” 

You suspected you were being watched in the weeks following the incident, though you couldn’t say why at first. The suspicion was confirmed when you arrived one blissfully sunny spring morning to find your office warm and your desk moved. Your other furniture was rearranged neatly around it. You rounded it, dropping your bag as you went, half expecting to find a note. 

There was nothing, and you started to rotate it back, a bit irritated, when you paused and sat. The new angle gave you a clear view of the door and window. The sun hit your face without causing a glare on your screens. The monitors had been lowered ever so slightly so you could easily see over them.

You left your desk in its new position. It was better that way. 

Ghost appeared in your office that afternoon as suddenly as he had left it. 

You sensed that he’d been there for a long time when you finally noticed him in the doorway, that you were only seeing him because he wanted you to.

You smiled and turned away from a report. A welcome reprieve for your strained eyes and hunched back. 

“Hi. Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?” 

This time, he stepped into your office, grasped your offer with both hands. 

The room seemed to shrink and adjust to his size. He was more massive than you remembered, in height and breadth. His eyes didn’t leave yours, a deep blackened honey brown half hidden by skull. Neither of you looked away.

“Have I passed?” 

His head tilted ever so slightly. When he spoke his voice was like an iron rod shoved down your spine. Deep and jagged and rough, it settled between your ribs, in the pit of your stomach. “Passed?” 

“Your test?” 

“Think I’m testin’ you?” 

“You moved my desk.” 

He didn’t answer for a long moment, still not dropping your gaze. The silence lasted so long you began to think he wouldn’t answer at all. “Practically had your back to the door,” he said eventually, as though that explained it. 

It conjured the image of Ghost creeping around the base in the dead of night to adjust offices into more tactical configurations and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the giggle in your throat from bubbling out.   

You nodded and then shrugged instead. “I guess I don’t think about things like that.” 

“Should.”

“Maybe.” 

“Especially in the field.” 

“I don’t do field work.” 

He nodded slowly and finally took his eyes off yours, glancing around the room again. When his lashes caught the light, you saw that they were a light blond. 

“Welcome to sit,” you offered, taking up a pen and a pad of yellow paper. “Ghost.”  

He didn’t sit, but he didn't leave either. When he remained mute and motionless, you looked back at your report and continued working, resigned to the new addition to your office. 

Minutes passed in silence, with only the scratch of your pencil over paper, the tapping of computer keys, for company. 

All at once, the room sighed, and when you looked up, he was gone. 

Ghost was strange, slightly off putting. 

You liked him.

Maybe, you thought, he’d come back. 

.

.

.

Ghost visited regularly after that. 

Sometimes he simply stood at the door and watched you work. 

His boots were so silent that you often didn’t know he was there until he was leaving again. It felt as though he often melted into nothing but shadow, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable feeling. 

You didn’t feel watched, so much as observed, minded.

But the lengthy silences began to wear thin, so you started talking to him.  

Talked at him, more like, about anything that came to mind. 

The shit weather and how cold you always were. Recounted phone calls with your sister and noted things you’d seen on your commute. You told him of your slightly creepy neighbor who would follow you occasionally down high street when you did your weekly shopping trip, but that was probably harmless.

You were sure he wasn’t actually listening, his eyes focused somewhere in the middle distance as he stood statuesque in the middle of your office.  

The visits were occasionally broken up by operations that could last days or weeks, once up to a month. Time passed either way, but you found it passed more easily when you could reliably count on a visit from Ghost. Hearing his voice in staticky communications wasn’t the same. A blinking green dot on a map that you tracked just a little more closely than the others. 

Ghost sat down for the first time toward the middle of a particularly miserable and cold spring afternoon. He sighed as he did, the only sign of any feeling. Almost a resignation in the soft cut of it. 

You didn’t comment on it, just chatted as you usually did, buoyed in a way that you could not explain. 

He started to bring you coffee, done up to your preference, always when you were hitting the midday lag. 

In exchange, you left offerings at the edge of your desk. Baked goods, protein bars, chips, sweets— which disappeared when you looked away from him. You noted what went first so you could invest in it. Chocolate went more frequently. 

But Ghost, whether he was listening or not, made you feel less alone. The ache of loneliness in your heart eased, and maybe that said more about you than him. 

If he was around, he usually slipped in while you ate lunch. He didn’t eat with you, the mask never moved, but you began cooking extra in the evenings, leaving tupperware containers at the edge of your desk in addition to brownies wrapped in waxpaper, chocolate chip cookies sprinkled with sea salt. “Don’t have to,” he always said. 

“Want to,” you answered, and then received the empty, clean container from the day before as though it were an offering.

Your office always smelled like tobacco and tea for hours after he left, a comforting combination that you began to wish you could bottle. 

He didn’t appear one day at his usual allotted, precise time. You figured something came up or he finally got tired of you, but he turned up instead late in the afternoon.  

“Sorry,” he said as he sat, without explanation, a paper cup of coffee steaming at the edge of your desk like it appeared there by his will alone.  

“Oh,” you answered. “You didn’t have to—“

“Did,” he said simply. “‘ave you eaten?”

“Yep. Got something for you, too.” 

He settled back. “Neighbor still botherin’ you?” 

You blinked in surprise, the slightly creepy neighbor had not spoken to you in a few days. “Oh. . .I—You were listening.”

He tilted his head. “‘Course I was, bird.” He leveled you with a look. “So?”

“Not recently. Not in a couple days.”

“Good. Let us know if he does, yeah?”

Then he sat back and waited, shoulders relaxed as though attending a sermon, but content with silence anyway. 

When you glanced up from a report a while later, for clarification on a mission detail that he happened to be on, his eyes were closed. 

It felt akin to having a wolf willingly curl up in your lap, blood wet maw dripping peacefully onto the floor.

.

.

.

When you turned from watering your plants one innocuous spring day, you found Ghost entering your office with a different mask on. A soft black balaclava. You could see his eyes and brows, the bridge of his nose and the thin, bruised skin beneath his eyes.

You froze and then smiled at him, tried hard not to stare. His eyes were always pretty but now you felt you could actually see him. Blond brows and lashes, his irises were lighter, amber honey in the yellow light of your bug lamp, as Ghost had called it one afternoon without a shred of humor. 

It was raining, and the dim light made the small space cozier than usual. The patchwork blanket was around your shoulders, a ward against the chill bleeding beneath the window. 

In his usual chair, you’d laid a gift. 

He pointed to the blanket you had carefully folded there earlier. 

“It’s for you. I knitted it.” 

He froze, hand half extended toward it. You swept past him around your desk again, inundated with the scent of black tea and cigarettes as you went. His was alternating black and dark blue squares to your brightly colored purple and teal. “Just in case you were cold. You’re always so buttoned up after all,” you joked. “And you fixed my radiator this winter. So it’s a thank you, too.”

Ghost only moved it to the back of the chair. You hadn’t expected him to take it, really, but his gloved fingers lingered on it for a moment, rubbing the fabric gently. “How d’you know it was me that fixed it?” 

“Who else would have?” 

He grunted. “You knit?” 

“When I can’t sleep,” you answered. “Keeps my hands and brain busy.”

His brows furrowed, and seeing even that small movement felt like seeing him naked, like seeing something he didn’t want you to. You averted your eyes, heat crawling up your neck. 

“Can’t sleep?” His fingers slid off the blanket and he sat.

You shrugged. “Must seem silly to you. You see it with your own eyes. But some of the reports. . . stick with me.” 

Ghost considered this for a long moment. “It’s not.” 

“What?” 

“Silly.” 

The way he grunted the word made you laugh. 

“Could I ask you something, Ghost?”

“Reckon you just did.” 

You rolled your eyes. “Am I allotted only one question?” 

“Just two.” 

It was. . . funny. You giggled and shrugged. “Guess I’m shit out of luck.” 

“And out of questions.”

You laughed again. 

He surprised you by laughing too. If a low, graveled grunt counted as a laugh. You certainly counted it, a cache of swollen pride bubbling in your stomach. “Go on, then.” 

“Where are you from?” 

The levity vanished. His brows lowered. “Why?” 

You shrugged. “Just curious. I’m not good with all the accents yet. Just can’t place you.” 

He relaxed back into the chair again, but didn't answer. 

The pinch of his brows, the tense line of his jaw, remained, his expression considering as he tilted his head back. 

“Why do you come here?” You asked instead. 

This question he answered readily. “It’s quiet.” 

“That’s one way to tell me to shut up.” 

He blinked and lowered his chin to meet your eyes. “Not the kind of noise I mean.” 

You decided not to take offense at being called noise. 

You snorted and reached beneath your desk, taking some pride in the fact that Ghost did not tense anymore than usual when you did, withdrawing your lunch. 

“Hungry?” You asked.  

“Tryin’ to see my face?” 

You smiled. “Never,” you answered, “Not sure I want to see what you’re hiding under there.” 

The rain tapped against the window as you popped the thermal lid off.  

“Why are you here?” He asked as you folded your legs beneath you on the chair and tucked the blanket around them. Ghost rose without asking and twisted the knob of the radiator beneath the window a bit higher.

You waved your fork, indicating the office. “Fairly positive I work here. But perhaps base security is more lax than I thought.” 

He sighed, a long suffering sound. “England, smartarse.” 

You smile and dig your fork into last night’s spaghetti bolognese. The steam caressed your face in a warm puff as you lifted a bite. “I’m on loan to Laswell.” 

“On loan?” He asked as he settled back into the chair, broad shoulders pressed to the wall behind him, against the blanket. It slid over his elbow a little, curled over his forearm. He didn’t move it. 

When you lifted your gaze to his, his stare was piercing, brows lowered, furrowed. You imagined he must be frowning.  

“Temporary replacement for whoever used to be in this office,” you explained. “She needed someone quickly, who she could trust.” 

Ghost folded his arms across his chest, something more tense than usual in the movement. “How long are you on loan for, then?” 

You shrugged, twisted your fork into the noodles. “It’s unclear. So, for now, indefinitely.” You smiled, “Hopefully not through another winter, though, I don’t think I’m cut out for the rain and cold.”

His shoulders eased, but only marginally. If it weren’t for all the hours he’d passed in your office, you weren’t sure you would have caught it at all. 

“From somewhere warm?”

“Warmer than here. Especially in the winter.” 

“Must be nice, that.” 

“Has its perks. But the summer is its own kind of hell.” 

“One you enjoy.” 

“But of course. I like feeling like I’m baking alive.” 

He snorted again.

You ate in silence for a bit. The quiet had become comfortable between you somewhere along the way, silken and gentle. 

When you were scraping the last bit of sauce from the bottom of the container, Ghost said, “Manchester.” 

“Hm?”

“Where I’m from.”

His voice was low; he wasn’t looking at you, eyes trained on the door instead. 

“Manchester,” you repeated, trying to place it on the map of the UK in your mind. “And do you all sound sort of like—“

You were about to say like you have gravel in your mouth but he makes an affected noise, that stiff grunt again. “Are you laughing at me?”

“It’s your fucking accent.”

“My accent?” You asked incredulously. “Have you heard yourself?” 

“Got a thick one, bird.” He imitated your voice. “Manchester.” The sharp rhotic r sound was like a gunshot in his mouth, each letter enunciated to the point of being butchered. 

You scoffed, not bothering to fight your smile. “Takes one to know one, I guess.” 

“Suppose it does.” 

“Fucking Brits,” you said, without any venom. “I can’t do anything right according to you all.” 

He tilted his head, something predatory in it. It made your heart flutter a little. “Who’s tellin’ you you can’t do something?” 

You sighed, long suffering. “My coworkers. Can’t make tea, apparently. I don’t care for it and everyone keeps insisting I just make it wrong.”

“They make it wrong too.” 

You groaned. “Not you too.” 

Ghost rose to take his leave as you snapped the lid back onto the now empty container. 

“I’ll show you how to make a proper cup sometime.” 

You paused, a warm surprise sweeping into your chest, and decided not to linger on this solitary acknowledgement that Ghost would return to your office. “Big fan?” 

“I love tea.” 

It made you laugh. “Of course, English afterall.” 

He nodded, just once, and started toward the door. “Ghost?” You called. 

Ghost turned and you slid another tupperware container across your desk. “For you.” 

He stared at it, for a moment too long, as he always did, like he was telling himself to leave it. “Didn’t have to.” 

“I know.” You nodded at it again and then then ducked behind your computer screens. “I always want to.” 

Ghost moved so silently that you didn’t hear or see him take it, but when you looked up again he and the container at the edge of your desk were gone. 

.

.

.

It should be a good thing. 

You would be gone soon enough, none the wiser of who Ghost was. Of what you were to each other. 

But it didn’t sit well. It was a new thing to nag at the back of his mind, finding your office empty, you becoming a ghost in your own right. He hated the ache in his chest, the thought of you so far away. He could only assume you’d be stationed back in the US.

The thought festered, burrowed. 

“Laswell.”

She jumped, hand going beneath her desk before she spotted Ghost in the corner of  her office. She sighed and closed her eyes, fingertips rubbing her eyes instead. 

“Ghost,” she sighed, “Don’t do that.” 

Simon said your name, and Laswell lowered her hands to look at him. “How long has she got?” 

“What do you mean?”

“Said she’s on loan. I want to know how long.”

Laswell considered him; Ghost waited. He wouldn’t explain himself, and Laswell knew that. 

“Maybe as long as a year.” She tilted back in her chair and asked anyway. “Why?” 

Ghost didn’t answer, slipping back out of her office and down the hall. 

You were still in your office, hunched over the desk, lavender headphones pulled down around your neck. He watched you for a long moment, eyes tracing over scars that belonged to him. It was jarring each time to see pain he experienced threaded over your skin. It made him feel exposed by proxy.

As he watched, you lifted a hand and rubbed your neck with a wince, fingers lingering on the long scar slashed at the base of your throat. The grimace faded from your face and your expression receded into the impassive, blank, focused slate it always settled into as you continued working. 

When he sat down in your office, you just shot him a tired smile and continued working. 

He walked you to your car around midnight. 

“Tell us if you’re here this late again,” he said, not looking at you. 

“Ghost,” you said. “It’s almost enough to make me think you like me.” 

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he answered. 

You just laughed. 

.

.

.

“Tea?” 

You jumped, just as Laswell had, only your hand didn’t go beneath the desk. Nothing there to reach for, he knew, your vulnerability like a beacon, or a stain. 

It would need remedied. 

But first, this. 

It was the sixth time in two weeks that you were at your desk well past when everyone else had gone home.  

“Jesus Christ.” 

“Unfortunately not.” 

You laughed; his shoulders eased. “Ghost,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” You tilted your head. “I’m starting to think you’re spying on me.” 

“What’re you still doing ‘ere?” 

“What are you doing wandering around our wing after hours?” 

Not a line of questioning he was keen on following. That just being near a place you had been earlier in the day was enough to loosen that fucking tether in his chest. That he was worried incessantly about you being alone at night.

“Offerin’ to make you a tea,” he answered. “Obviously.”  

“Obviously,” you echoed. “Of course.” 

“You’re supposed to tell me when you’re stayin’ late.” 

“Ghost,” you said seriously, lifting your brows, “I’m here late again today.” 

“Hilarious, you are.” 

You giggled again. “Are you really offering to make me tea?” 

He nodded. “C’mon then.”

You smiled and shrugged the blanket off your shoulders. He waited while you locked your computer and stood.

Simon allowed you to lead toward the breakroom where he’d observed the many cups of tea you’d politely swallowed from well meaning coworkers, who left it to steep for too long or too short, added too much sugar and milk, or left it totally plain. 

The overhead lights were too bright, a blue-white glare that made you frown and squint. Your nose scrunched up in distaste. There were circles beneath your eyes, exhausted loops that matched his own.  

“So,” you prompted, leaning against the counter, “How does one make a proper cuppa?”

“Not bad,” he said of your accent, lifting the electric kettle from the hook to fill with water. “Little posh.” 

“I’ve been practicing.”

He grunted, and put the kettle on, before rooting through the cabinet above the sink for tea bags. A grim selection awaited him, but he’d make due with what was available.

“Ah, so you boil the water. I was under the impression you could just stick it all in the microwave.” 

He involuntarily made a pained sound. “Fucking hell,” he muttered, “That your usual method?” 

You bit the inside of your cheek, poorly concealing a laugh. “I scandalized a data analyst with that joke.” You cup your chin in your hand, peer up at him from beneath a thick fringe of lashes. “I do know how to boil water, I’ll have you know.”

“Got a head start then.” 

You laughed again, shoulders shaking. Simon watched the corner of your mouth curl, and it eased something in his chest. You were painfully close, the woodsy, floral scent of your perfume curled in the air. Your elbow brushed his. He didn’t know how you could be unaware of the bond at that moment, when being that close to you felt like being lit on fire. He wanted to reach for you so badly that he had to clench his fist closed to avoid it. 

If someone were to ask him to move away from you right then, it would end badly. Bloody. 

The thin, needle sharp connection ached, begged. 

Simon ignored it.  

When you glanced up, he looked away. He could feel your eyes on his face, and didn’t mind the scrutiny in it. He didn’t mind you watching him, and wondered what you saw. 

“I like being able to see your eyes,” you said, just as the kettle clicked off. 

He met your gaze, disarmed by the declaration. Your features had softened, melted into a dangerous fondness. “Why?” 

“You have pretty eyes,” you shrugged. “And it’s hard to see you with the other mask.” You shifted, watching him lift the kettle, pour the hot water into a mug and over the teabag he’d dropped into it. 

“You can tell me to fuck off, if you want,” you began carefully, fingertips drumming nervously against the counter. “Why do you wear it?” 

Simon watched the teabag bob on the surface of the water, thin amber trails unfurling, coloring the water slowly brown. “Five minutes,” he nodded at the tea. “Don’t touch it. None of that dunking shite.” 

“Yes, sir,” you agreed. “Five minutes, no touching.” 

He huffed, and your smile widened. You bumped your shoulder against his. The contact only lasted a second or two, but the relief it provided was so intense that he nearly choked on it. 

The pain, softened by your proximity, returned immediately, crept down into the soft ligaments between his bones. He felt the loss in the roots of his teeth, the middle of his chest; it was like losing his breath in a different way, being suckerpunched in the solar plexus, knocked on his ass.

“To hide my face.” 

“Your identity, you mean.” 

“My identity,” he agreed.

“Why?” 

He released a long, slow breath, and thought about telling you to piss off, maybe even just to see how you’d take it. Were you as good as your word? Would you let the subject drop? 

Instead, he said, “There are a lot of bad people in the world, bird.” 

You pursed your lips, fingers toying with the teabag string, flicking the tab at the end with your nail. There was another question swimming in your eyes, but you let it go unasked, dropping your eyes from his instead. 

“You’ve seen more of them than most,” you said. “I would guess.” 

“Part of the job.” 

Your mouth curled a little, lashes fluttering against your cheek. “Hm. But y’know something? I think I’d know you anywhere,” you said, without a hint of shame or irony. “It’s all in your eyes.” 

Before Simon could respond, you hid a yawn in your sleeve and rubbed your hand over your face, exhaustion layered in thick rings beneath your eyes. “Even if this is gross,” you indicate the tea, “At least it will keep me awake.” 

“I take offense to that.” 

You laughed again. “Hm. Sorry, Lieutenant.” You leaned in, “It smells so nice, so why does it taste like shit?” 

He rolled his eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee if it’s shit.” 

“You’re kind.” This time when you leaned your shoulder against his, you left it there. The empty soreness like a bruise inside his ribs loosened again. For the first time in a while, he was left with the absence of pain.  

When the tea was done steeping, he did yours with a bit of honey. There was no way you’d take it plain and like it, but he drew the line at milk. Especially the blasphemy that was the military issued powdered milk in a canister that sat on the counter. Abso-fucking-lutely not. 

“There you are,” he said, “Cup of tea.” 

“A proper cuppa,” you tried again. It was a little less posh this time. 

He huffed. “Better all the time.” 

“And I have you to thank.” 

Your face creased as you took the cup between your palms, an unreadable expression flitting across your features. Then your mouth twisted to the side, a sure sign you were attempting to keep some emotion or thought in check. 

Your shoulder was still pressed heavily against his. 

“Thanks, Ghost.” 

“”S just tea.” 

You shook your head and lifted the cup, blowing gently on the surface before you took a tiny sip. He watched your face, watched your throat move as you swallowed, the flickering web of your lashes. A step up, at least, from all the shit tea from your coworkers that make your brows tense in an effort to conceal a grimace. “One good thing has come of this,” you said after a moment of contemplation. 

“What’s tha’?” 

“I know how to make tea for you now.” 

“Like it?” 

“I love it.” 

You briefly tilted your head onto his shoulder, then pulled away entirely. The flood of discomfort was worse than before. His muscles spasmed around it in a violent convulsion. “I mean that really.” 

He breathed out, through it. “I don’t take honey.” 

You studied the contents of the cup, tilting it one way and then the other, like something important laid at the bottom of the porcelain well. 

“Noted.” 

Sure enough, the next day, a hot cup was waiting for him, which he drank as you chatted from behind your computer, decidedly, pointedly, giving him the privacy to do so. 

.

.

.

Things settled into a pleasant rhythm. 

A regimented, regular existence that you had long ago learned to embrace. The base became home more than the tiny apartment you rented and spent only enough time to sleep, bathe, and cook in. 

You timed your days to the ebb and flow of the base, to visits to your office, debriefings and conference rooms, the restless energy of so many people in one place moving. You breathed around absences, the pockets of emptiness that sometimes cropped up. The loneliness that felt like an unfillable pit in your stomach. 

People often saw your scars and thought not to bother. Why would fate have marked you so heavily if you weren’t meant to find your pair? The scars meant nothing, really. They were no more significant than anyone else’s. Your chances of running into your soulmate was no higher than someone who had accrued no scars from their bond. 

You were a stopping off point, a bit of fun, but not someone to invest time and effort into, not when the reminder that someone else might come along and render it all moot was so visible, so literally in their face. To look at you was to be reminded of that bond waiting in the wings, for them and for you, and that you could only ever be temporary. 

It made friendships hard too. Some were jealous, others thought there couldn’t be room for anyone else in your life. You were important to no one.

It had been proven to you time and again, and you weren’t sure what kept you hopeful that someone would one day see past it. So when Sergeant Davies stuck his head in your office one Friday afternoon long after Ghost had departed your office for the day, and asked you out, you found yourself saying yes. 

“Would you like to go out sometime?” He asked, hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Just round the pub for drinks?” 

“Oh,” you said. “I—” 

It had been a long time since anyone took interest in you. You’d only talked to him a few times before, but Davies was handsome in a boyish way and sweet and you liked him well enough, you found yourself hesitating for half a second. To your horror, your mind flashed to Ghost, stomach lurching painfully, a knot of tension fisting itself in your chest. 

You looked at his usual chair, empty now, seeing his large frame sprawled there anyway, thighs spread wide, arms crossed over his chest, eyes steady and focused, locked onto you with an intensity and constancy you still weren’t used to.

Heat bloomed in your lungs, crept up your neck. You glanced away, back at Davies waiting at the door. 

“Yeah,” you answered firmly. “Sure.” 

“Brilliant,” he grinned. “How about tonight?” 

Your belly gave another sour squirm that you ignored; it had just been a long time, that was all. “I’m free.” 

“Brilliant,” he said again. “I’ll text you.” 

“Okay.” 

His grin was crooked and self satisfied as he exited your office. 

So you found yourself walking off the base with Davies later that evening. You found yourself laughing and hopeful in a local pub that you hadn’t gotten the chance to explore yet, busy as you were, the base a tide that tugged you back again and again. Like a magnet, you wanted to be there. 

And all of it came to nothing, the moment Davies saw the extent of the scarring when you took him home. It wasn’t just your face, it was your hands and arms and chest and belly. Your whole body was marked, dogeared for someone else. He looked down at you in your bed, his head framed by your ceiling fan and you saw the moment it clicked. The moment it wouldn’t work. 

“Someone out there is really looking for you,” he said. “You’re lucky.” 

“No more than anyone else,” you countered. “You know that’s not how it works.” 

“I know,” he said, pulling on his shirt. “I’m sorry.” 

“It’s okay,” you said before he kissed your cheek and retreated. 

Still, you didn’t sleep, just laid on your side, half undressed, staring out at a sky that slowly lightened, stars fading, wondering if perhaps your truest fate was to be lonely for your whole life. 

You didn’t hate your scars, or your soulmate. But sometimes you thought it would be easier if you didn’t have one at all. 

.

.

.

Monday. 

There was a knife in Simon’s pocket. 

Not unusual in and of itself, he carried several at all times, slipped into his sleeves and belt and boot. 

The one in his pocket, though, was for you.

A gift, a contingency, and an offer all wrapped in one. 

The knowledge that it was yours was an uncomfortable weight in his chest. It meant admitting he cared enough to procure it, test it, hand it over. 

It wasn’t quite your typical lunch hour, but Ghost was headed to your office anyway. It was sunny, for once, and he expected to find you taking an early break anyway, leaning back in your chair with your headphones on, absorbing the rare rays. 

And, he wanted to be done with it, to stop tapping his pocket repeatedly, checking the blade was still there, like it might have run away. 

Soap had noticed his fidgeting as they all sat through a briefing on intelligence reports with Laswell that morning. Ghost had forced his hand still, exuded a forced calm, but Johnny’s eyes hadn’t turned away. 

When he arrived at your office, deliberately rustling against the doorjamb so as not to startle you, you glanced up and smiled tightly and his plan vanished. 

Something was wrong. The blinds were closed, your office an unusual sea of gray air. Your shoulders were caved inward protectively, your expression wan and closed. Your smile didn’t reach your eyes, your voice was rough when you said, “Hey, Ghost.”  

Simon took his usual seat, watching you type something, decidedly not looking at him. He watched you, the set of your mouth and eyes. He waited for your chatter to begin but it didn't. 

“All right?” 

“Hm?”

“You’re quiet.” 

“Oh, only one of us is allowed to be quiet?” You joked, but it came out a bit brittle, and worn.

There were, he noticed as he looked at you, circles beneath your eyes. “What ‘appened?” 

You looked up again, and shook your head. “I’m just tired.” 

“Try again.” 

Frustration crept into your features. “Who said I want to tell you?” With that, you ducked behind your monitors.

Simon waited, but you did not reemerge. 

He stood, and rounded your desk. You glanced up then, leaning back when you found him so close. “Jesus, Ghost—” 

“Nice weather.” 

“I can see that.” 

“And you aren’t out there sunnin’ yourself? Something horrible must have happened.” 

Your mouth twisted to the side and you glanced away. “I. . .I’m just being dramatic.”

“C’mon, then.” 

You blinked up at him. “Where are we going?” 

He didn’t answer, but you rose anyway when he tilted his head toward the door. Simon snagged the blanket you’d knitted for him months ago from its place along the back of his chair, finally with a proper purpose, and carried it over his arm. 

“Lunch.” 

You grabbed it and followed him down the hall. Simon shouldered open an external door and held it open for you, the scent of your skin, the warm brush of your body so close to his as you ducked under his arm like a beacon, a light he wanted to follow. 

Carefully, you nudged your shoulder against his as you walked. The familiar sharp, sweet pang whenever you brushed too close together settled in his chest. He wondered if you felt it too, if you felt that sickly flutter in your chest, or if his suspicion that he was holding one end of an untethered bond in his hand was right. 

Just his luck. 

Didn’t matter though. 

He ticked his elbow out a little, and after a moment, you pushed your hand against the inside of his arm. His shoulders loosened; his jaw unclenched. The pain in his chest settled. 

The absence of the ache was intense; he was so used to being in near constant pain. 

“So, what are we doing?” 

“Walking.” 

“I can see that.” 

“Why’re you askin’, then, bird?” 

You huffed but didn’t ask anymore questions as he led you down one concrete pathway. 

The sky was a flawless robin’s egg blue, only a wispy, thin line of cloud on the very distant horizon. The distant shouts of drill instructors snapped in the warm summer air. Your shoulders drooped as you walked, eyes fluttering closed for a few seconds at a time as you tilted your face to the sun, inhaling deeply. 

He led you around the last building in a long line of barracks and brought you to a halt. The only thing beyond was a chainlink fence that marked the edge of the base. A faint breeze coated him in the smell of your skin, settled deep in the well of his lungs. He took a breath, watched your lashes flutter. 

Your thumb stroked a pattern against the inside of his arm, lazy and slow. “You’ve got a soft spot for me, Ghost.” 

He didn’t deny it. 

“What are we doing back here?” 

Ghost pulled away from you with some effort and spread the blanket over the grass. He sat on the concrete steps that led to the back door of the unused barracks.

You sat on the blanket, started to open your lunch and then flopped back in the sun instead. “A usual haunt?” 

“Sometimes.” 

“Secret’s safe with me.” 

“Mind if I smoke?” 

“No.” Then, “I won’t look.”  

He grunted in acknowledgement, rolled the bottom of his mask up, carton of cigarettes and lighter pulled from the depths of a trouser pocket. Simon watched the rise and fall of your chest, tracing the latticework of scars over your face. They looked better on you, he decided. Not as noticeable as his own, faded and light, pencil through wax paper instead of the thick groves of his own. 

They glinted a little in the sun, like the scales of an iridescent fish. 

Your eyes remained peacefully closed, soaking up the sun like a long deprived plant. Sweat beaded along your forehead, and when you pushed up your sleeves, Ghost was reminded that all of you matched all of him.

He recognized a burn mark on your forearm that belonged to him, a cut that wrapped halfway around your wrist. He was pretty sure the burn mark was from a mishandled flare, the wrist scar from a rope that had gotten tangled and burned him. 

Simon wanted to reach down and cup the side of your throat, feel the soft, sun warmed skin beneath his fingers. He wondered if your scars felt the same as his own, rough and grooved. 

Probably not, they were imitations, ungenerous sketchings of his own. 

He’d like to map them all against his own, find out if he bore any of yours. He wouldn’t have noticed something small that you might have collected yourself. A childhood fall, a careless burn while cooking. 

He watched the delicate flex of muscle in your forearms. Your shirt was a little askew, more faded marks left like a tracery of veins on your chest and collarbone and shoulder. It was fucking awful, a wrenching feeling in his chest, to know all that had been inflicted on him, had fallen on you too. 

He wondered about the pain again, imagined you writhing with terror and agony and confusion, every gunshot wound and burn and slash he received an echo inside you. Cigarette burns dotting your arms and wrists when you were just a child, months of pain without end when he was captured and tortured and his life was irrevocably changed. 

Simon wanted to ask, needed to know just how much damage he’d inflicted. But the words stuck in his throat. A fear of knowing, if he asked about the pain, maybe he’d hear other things too, how much you must hate him and didn’t know it was the man in front of you your hate should be directed at.

When he stubbed out his cigarette on the heel of his boot and rolled his mask back down, you blinked into the sun and exhaled, long and slow, and then sat up, leaning back on your palms. 

“What ‘appened?” He asked.

Your mouth twitched into your usual, if a bit more sheepish, smile. “You’re like a dog with a bone, you know that?” 

“Affirmative,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and set up straight, brushing your palms together before reaching for your lunch. “I brought something for you.” 

“Stalling.” 

“Pushy,” you countered, giggling, rummaging around in your bag. Your smile faded as you pulled free one of the usual containers, what looked like lasagne within. He watched the edge of your mouth curl, the scar slitted along one side pulling at your expression. “I went on a date this weekend.” 

Ice slid down his spine, curled in a viscous circle in his gut. “Bad date?” 

“No,” you said, shaking your head adamantly, staring down at the container in your lap. “No, it went really well.” You glanced up at him and then dug in your bag again, passing another one to him along with a fork. “Until he saw my—” You fidgeted with your sleeve and then yanked it down. The other followed suit. “My marks. My scars.” 

“He’s a prick.” 

“No, he wasn’t,” you shook your head. “It’s happened before. They see the extent of it, and it’s like something biological clicks. I’m off limits.” You sat your food to the side and wrapped your arms around your knees. “Even though I’m no more likely to find mine than anyone else.” 

You looked very small, and alone at that moment. 

“I know it’s not my soulmate’s fault,” you said quietly. “I know that. I know that. And I don’t blame them for it. But sometimes I get so lonely I just—I wish—I wish I didn’t have one. Sometimes I wish I could hate them.”

The chill spreads outward.  

It was confirmation enough. If you knew, you would hate him. All that repressed, sentimentalized resentment would come bubbling up the moment you were actually faced with the person who so fundamentally changed the course of your life. 

He looked at his scars winking in the sun on your skin and felt a self hatred so intense it nearly made him flinch. He wished he could crawl out of that grave and kill them all over again, slower, just for this. 

You glanced up and smiled tightly. “But I’m a hopeless romantic, and dramatic. It was just disappointing. I always have hope someone will see past it.” You ran your hand over the blanket and unfolded yourself to finally begin eating. “This helped, though,” you said. “Thank you, Ghost.” You nodded at the food in his hands, averted your gaze again. 

And even though you could easily glance at him, Simon pushed up his mask and popped open the lid of the lasagne still warm between his hands. 

You ate together for the first time, in silence in the sun. You closed your eyes, kept your face pointed up and away, a cool breeze ruffling your shirt sleeves. 

“Have you found yours?” 

Simon looked at you, the edge of your jaw, the soft shadows your lashes cast over your ruined cheek. “Don’t think someone like me is meant for one.” 

You nodded. “Me either.”

.

.

.

He walked you back to your office. 

You felt better, settled, but he sort of just had that affect on you, you were coming to find. 

Ghost smelled like sun and freshly mowed grass and cigarette smoke. His shoulder kept touching yours, something in your chest lurching each time, like a rib bone had come loose and was knocking against your heart and lungs. 

Ghost carried the blanket back, folded it and set it carefully along the back of what had become his chair. 

You sat and turned, expecting to find him already silently gone as was his way. 

Instead, he was very close and depositing something on your desk. 

Matte black, compact, deadly, cold to the touch. 

A folded pocket knife sat at the edge of your desk. Ghost loomed over you, his shadow curling around your edges. 

He slid it toward you, watched you fold your fingers around it. For a long moment, each of you was holding it. “What’s this?” You asked when he released it, gloved fingers sliding across your desk, back to his side.  

“A knife.” 

“Oh, really? I've never seen one before.” 

He rolled his eyes. “It’s for you. I’ll teach you how to use it.” 

“Why?” 

“In case you need to.”

“Is this about me staying late?” 

“No.” He did not elaborate. 

“You know I received firearm training. I can shoot a gun. Isn’t a knife a little—” 

“But you don’t carry a gun.” 

“No,” you agreed. “I don’t.”  

He nodded as though that explained it. “Right.” 

You considered it, flipped it open. Deadly, shiny blade newly sharpened and oiled and well cared for. It was odd to be given a weapon, and yet unsurprising where Ghost was concerned. You glanced up, watched his dark, intense eyes flick over your face. You weren’t sure what he was looking for, but his brows knitted the longer you stared at each other. Concern, weariness.

“Okay.”

His shoulders loosened. “Tomorrow.” 

“Tomorrow,” you agreed. 

.

.

.

If you thought you would receive one lesson in knifework and be done with it, you didn’t know Ghost very well. 

You only ran drills first, as though Ghost were making sure the physical fitness exam you had to pass once a year was up to scratch. You proved again and again that you could run without getting too winded, disassemble, load, and fire a service weapon. When he was satisfied with that, the real training began. 

You practiced with a rubber blade that bruised when stuck into your ribs. He did not go easy on you. You left the gym battered and bruised, sweaty and just a little bit resentful. But you could break a wrist lock hold, grapple and use your body and size to your advantage. The goal he repeatedly told you, was not to turn you into a fighter or a soldier, but give you an opportunity to get away, to run away.  

What kind of danger he imagined you getting into between the base and your apartment you couldn’t begin to imagine. But you enjoyed spending time with him, enjoyed being in the gym. You found yourself laughing when you were repeatedly slammed into the mat, knife wrested from your fingers. It was fun. And, it was good for you, you decided, even if you thought his intense insistence was a tad dramatic. 

Ghost was a bit dramatic about certain things, you were coming to learn.

This was one of them. You were, you thought with warmth, one of the things he was a bit dramatic about. For whatever reason, you’ve been tucked under his wing, into his shadow. 

On the third week of relentlessly brutal training, you arrived at the base gym, empty as it always was, to find him holding a length of rope. 

You eyed it warily and shifted from foot to foot, amused despite the discomfort. “What do you imagine is going to happen to me?” 

Ghost didn’t answer as you set your bag down and pulled off your sweatshirt. The room was warm, close and humid, the scent of left over dregs of soldiers clogging the room for most of the day. The scent of plastic, lemon disinfectant, and sweat is thick on the air, but when you stepped toward Ghost, his familiar comforting smell of tea and cigarettes washed over you in a vacuous, orbital cloud. 

You looked up just as his eyes slid away from you, blond lashes catching the light, skin pink around his eyes. You’d swear it was a blush if you didn’t know better. “Ghost?” 

“Better to be prepared, yeah?” 

“For what?” All the same, you turned with a sigh. 

After a painfully long moment he stepped close and pressed the dark material around your wrists. His body was warm behind yours for that brief moment even without touching you, like the glow of a heat lamp that made the rest of the room feel cold by comparison. 

His gloved fingers were carefully delicate against your skin. It sent sparks skittering up your arms. What would his bare skin feel like against yours? 

Rough, warm. Safe.  

It’s a thought that had curled its roots into your mind the first time you fell to the mat together and you felt his weight against yours, brief and heavy, but comforting somehow. It wasn’t supposed to be, he was playing predator, it should have been panic inducing. 

Stupid, silly. 

If your most recently failed date had shown you anything, it was that feeling anything for anyone that had seen your scars was a failing venture. And Ghost had seen more of them now, than most. Maybe you should start wearing a mask. 

“What’s the goal today?” You asked, feeling a little like you couldn’t breathe. His warmth and scent and the weight of his presence was overwhelming in a way that made you want to curl into him, gladly suffocate. 

“Same as always,” he answered drolly. “To get away.”

“Hm. I keep thinking you’ll challenge me,” you teased.  

“Not a game, bird.” 

“But what am I meant to do? I can’t fight.” 

“Get out of the bindings. Get to the door.” 

“Is that it?” 

You would swear he’s smirking. “Simple enough, aye.” 

It wasn’t easy. 

For the third time in a row, you landed hard on your back. 

Ghost’s weight was heavy against you, before it lifted away. Your sweaty skin stuck to his hoodie.

Your breath comes in hard, deep pants. Your wrists ached and panic had begun to set in. 

“On your feet.” 

Clumsy as a newborn deer, you stumble to your feet. You had to be faster than him, incapacitate him. “You won’t be getting away from me,” he’d said once, “so you’d have a chance.” It was a compliment; one that said you were doing good. 

It didn’t feel like you were doing good now. 

By the sixth time, you felt raw and helpless, wrists caught at an odd angle beneath you. It wasn’t fun; it wasn’t sparring. You couldn’t manage to wriggle out of the bindings and you were useless at anything he’d taught you without your hands. 

“You’re hurting me,” you gasped. 

He released you immediately and the pressure in your wrists eased. It hadn’t been pain, not really, just panic, just exhaustion. 

But you knew instantly that you’d made a mistake, that he would not take it that way. 

“Shit.” 

.

.

.

The window was open and you were not in your office. 

Simon paused in the doorway, noted your bag on the chair in the corner, the patchwork quilt trailing over the arm of your desk chair and spilling onto the floor. His was gone from the chair. You’d been wandering off without him recently. 

He turned and marched back down the hall. An administrative assistant pointed toward the external door. “Getting sun, she said,” he said. “Sir.” 

Ghost nodded and shouldered the door open. He found you behind the barracks, lying on his blanket, staring up at a patchy sky, slices of blue peaking from between low hanging gray clouds. 

When his shadow fell over you, you opened your eyes and squinted up at him. “Ghost, you’re blocking my sun.” 

“Not much sun to speak of.” You grimace and frown at the sky. “You weren’t in your office.” 

“Sorry, should have left a note.” You patted the blanket next to you. “Sit.” 

Simon sat on the concrete steps. “Where’s your lunch?”

“Forgot it.” 

Worry sprouted, blossomed along his veins, ubiquitous as the pain that accompanies it. 

“Canteen,” he said. “Let’s go.” 

“It’s okay—“

“Wasn’t a suggestion.” 

“You’re bossy,” you said but didn’t move, chin tilted up, eyes flitting shut again. “I’ll have a big dinner.” 

He sighed and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, content enough to wait you out and smoke. The clouds continued to gather, putting your beloved sun to rest for the moment. The air grew steadily thicker with humidity. 

“Gonna rain,” he commented. 

You ignored him, eyes squinching closed harder, like you could will the sun to return. He watched you, made himself look at the bruises on your wrists and forearms, he knew there were matching ones on your ribs. They were harmless, just the usual consequence of sparring, but the ones around your wrists—that’s a mistake he won’t soon forget. 

When a fat raindrop landed on your arm, you sat up with a grumble. “Ready now?” He asked, pulling down his mask again. 

“I can see you won’t leave it alone.” 

“Affirmative,” he said. 

You rolled your eyes and started to get to your feet, pausing when he held out a hand to you. You stared for a beat too long before gripping his hand in yours. 

Even through his gloves, it was like being electrocuted. 

You released his hand as soon as you could, eyes skirting his. “Your lead,” you said. “I haven’t had the privilege.” 

He grunted, followed you closely back inside. 

As Simon’s misfortune would have it, Johnny was still in the canteen. 

He lasered in on the pair of you immediately, a grin growing across his face as he approached. “Ach so this is where you’ve been off to LT.”

Ghost herded you into line, a raucous group of new recruits halting their conversation to ogle you before their eyes flicked to his and away, conversation continued at a more subdued level. He shifted closer, between you and them, though you didn’t seem to notice.

“Haven’t been off anywhere,” he grumbled. 

“Who’s this then?” 

You smiled and offered your hand and name. “It’s nice to see that Ghost has bad manners with everyone.” 

“John MacTavish,” Soap said, all charm as he practically bowed. “Call me Soap.”

“Soap,” you giggled. “I’ve seen you in my reports.” 

Soap’s gaze flicked over your face, sharp eyes making the quick calculations that had made Simon hope he wouldn’t be in the canteen. “Are they yours?” 

“Sergeant—,” Ghost said sharply, a warning in his voice. 

But you only laughed and touched your cheek with obvious pride as the line moved up. “No. None of them belong to me. They’re nice though, right?” 

Simon went very still, swore his heart rate slowed. You held out your arm, showed off a sliver flash.

“Very becoming, lass.” 

You smiled again and gestured to your own chin, the side of your head. “Yours?” 

“Aye, all mine.”

“Ah, luck.” 

“Lucky indeed.”

Johnny’s eyes shifted to Simon’s, brows raised, with a look that said he knew. Simon glanced away, gritting his jaw so hard it ached.

 “Am I going to get food poisoning from this?” You asked as a tray was handed over, eying warily what was ostensibly mash, peas and carrots, mystery meat. 

“Probably not,” Johnny answered cheerfully. “Been mostly fine.” 

“Yes, but I think you military people might have tolerance to low levels of poison.” 

“That’s for sure, bonnie.” 

“Bonnie,” you said, giggling. “Are you calling me pretty?” 

Soap covered his heart, balancing his tray with one hand. “You wound me. Simon only keeps us good looking bastards around.”

“Simon,” you said softly, glancing up at him. “I didn’t think anyone knew your name.” 

Ghost didn’t answer for a moment, glaring daggers into the side of Johnny’s head, ignoring the way his heart was clenched so tight it felt like it was in a vise. Simon, his name on your tongue—  

“It’s need to know,” he snapped. 

Your expression folded and you glanced away. “Right, of course. Sorry.”

Simon clenched his jaw so hard it clicked as Johnny shot him a look. “This way, lass,” he said, leading you toward a spot in the corner of the mess. 

“Oh,” you said weakly, “That’s all right. You don’t have to—”

Ghost couldn’t help but notice the anxious look you threw him, the thin line your voice had transformed into. 

Soap wasn’t listening, already talking your ear off, pulling out a chair for you. You smiled and sat and Simon was left to silently watch it unfold. 

.

.

.

“Fuckin’ hell,” Soap muttered when they’d safely returned you to your office where a contingent of lesser analysts awaited you. The corridor leading away from the now closed door seemed impossibly long. “D’ya know how many people would kill to meet their soulmate? You’ve got yours right under your fuckin’ nose and haven’t even told her yer name!” 

“She doesn’t need to know.” 

“Yer name?” 

Ghost leveled Soap with a stare. 

Soap gaped at him. “Steamin’ Jesus. You aren’t plannin’ to tell the lass at all?” 

“Stay out of it, MacTavish.” 

Johnny followed him down the hall, outside into a bleak, gray drizzle. “You know it can kill you?” Simon kept walking. “Simon.” 

He stopped, glanced at Soap with a warning in his eyes. “Do ya?”

“It won’t.”

Johnny continues anyway, urgently. “There’s a pain, they say, under the ribs when—“

“Stay out of it, Sergeant,” Ghost growled, that very pain growing as it always did as he moved further and further away from you. “It’s nothing.” 

“It‘ll corrode,” Johnny said to his retreating back. “She’ll feel it eventually.”

Simon ignored him. 

But he wondered as he walked away, if he died, if you’d feel the corded snap of his life floating away from yours.  

Somehow, being that sort of ghost, didn’t sit well with him. 

.

.

.

Johnny, predictably, did not stay out of it. 

He regularly and reliably began to show up in your office. More than once, he looped Garrick into accompanying him. Ghost had watched as the same realization Soap had snapped into place on Gaz’s face, and knew it was only a matter of time before Price knew too. 

Luckily, they were the only three on the entire base that could make the connection, that had seen his face, so at least it was done with. None of them said anything to him about it, but there were a lot of worried glances being exchanged. 

Ghost felt the edge of his sanity begin to wear thin the longer it went on, not that there was much left of it in the first place.

The disruption, the infiltration, the distraction grated until his insides felt raw with irritation. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to know, not because he was ashamed, but because you were his, and you didn’t deserve to be burdened by that. He would shoulder that horrible belonging for both of you. 

But the way you’d tenderly touched your cheek remains burned into his memory. The soft look in your eye. The gentle way you and Soap always spoke of soulmates whenever they came up, reverent and tender. 

You enjoyed their company, Johnny and Kyle, and seemed all the better for it. It was clear immediately how much you liked both of them. How much you desperately needed friends. 

Ghost was loath to admit there was a seed of jealousy wriggling in his belly. The easy way you got on with them proof enough that a wire had gotten crossed somewhere, that you were more cursed by him than anchored by.

Then, the gifts left at the edge of your desk began to extend to the lads and not just himself, and it felt vaguely as though he were losing a vital piece of himself to it. 

Then, you stopped coming to the gym. You were gone, office dark, before he could walk you to your car. You went on another date. 

He didn’t know what to do with any of it.

One Tuesday at the end of July you were in your office, but Soap was there before him, tearing into a packet of crisps, lounging in Simon’s chair, patchwork quilt flattened beneath him in a heap. It was hot, and humid, a fan in the corner working overtime, window propped open.

You were happily listening to Johnny explain the ins and outs of football. A match was playing on your computer screen which you’d turned back so both of you could see. 

Your eyes found Simon’s when he paused in the doorway, and you waved him inside, an unsure smile twitching at the corners of your mouth. “Hi, Ghost. Do you keep up with soccer, too?” 

A groan from Soap. “Bloody Americans.” 

“Sorry, sorry. You keep up with footie too, mate?” 

“Horrendous,” Ghost said flatly.

Your smile faltered then brightened again. It didn’t quite reach your eyes. “You should hear my Scottish accent. Soap said I offended every one of his ancestors.” 

“Aye and you did lass,” he said solemnly. “Yeh—” 

“Sergeant,” Ghost interrupted loudly. “Aren’t you due for PT?”  

“Ach, right,” he muttered, getting to his feet, “Thanks for the reminder, LT.” 

“Oh, Soap,” you said, “Hold on.” You rummaged beneath your desk for a long moment, then passed him a brown paper bag full of cookies. “Your favorite, as requested.” 

“You sweet on me or something, bon?”

You rolled your eyes and said, “Out of my office.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

Ghost took Soap’s vacated seat, watched you avoid looking at him as you moved things needlessly around your desk, twisted your monitor back around and muted the match. 

The silence was suffocating. 

“All right?” 

You froze, then shuffled the papers together and slid them to a corner of your desk. “I wanted to apologize.” Your voice hitched a little. 

He blinked, taken aback. He didn’t like that you could surprise him. “For what?” 

You bit your lip, fidgeted again. “Your name, I guess. You didn’t want me to know.” Your mouth twisted to the side. “And your team bothering you here—” 

“You’re apologizing for Soap?” 

Your brow furrowed. “Well I encourage it—”

“No.” 

“No?” You shook your head, “and that day in the gym—” You opened and closed your hands anxiously. “I think I upset you.” 

He stared across the room, toward your big, sunny window, all those little potted plants that have flourished through the summer months. Your bug lamp seemed to droop in the heat, sad and watchful. He’d hurt you, and you’d taken the blame. Something horrible lurched in his belly, heavy and unforgiving. “Didn’t. I should have been more careful.” 

“Right,” you said carefully. “So if it’s not that, why are you—” 

He shrugged, watched one of the emerald leaves sway in the warm breeze. “I like you to myself,” he admitted. “Not the best at sharing.”  

“Oh,” you said, voice tender. “Oh.” 

“Mm.” 

“I’ll make space.” 

He didn’t quite understand what you meant by that, but he liked the way it sounded. Space for him. 

“You’ll come to the gym later, yeah?” 

“Yes.” 

“Good.” He stood, deposited your knife, which he’d snagged early in the morning to clean and sharpen, back onto your desk, along with the new box of tea because he noticed you were out the night before. “And don’t tell bloody Soap.” 

“Aye, LT.” 

He chuckled. “Take care of that.” 

“Teach me how?” 

He nodded. 

“Thanks for the tea. I used the last bag yesterday afternoon.” 

“I know.” 

Your smile was soft, your fingers touched his. He breathed a little easier. 

“‘Course you do.” 

.

.

.

Simon couldn’t stop thinking about pain. 

His body functioned at a constant low level of pain, had for years. Maybe it had his whole life, so he tended not to notice it. But the ache you caused had only seemed to grow over time, tendrils spreading to the furthest reaches of his body, the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees, places he didn’t think could hold pain. 

The intensity increased too, until he could no longer ignore it. It was like a whine, like a child begging to be seen to. 

He kept thinking of your voice, too, dreaming of it. You’re hurting me. Panic ridden, laced with fear.

You said he didn’t, after,  but he didn’t relish the thought of the possibility. Accidentally hurting you, hurting you on purpose. He thought of his mother, doing her best with a brutal man. He was afraid of unknowingly stepping into a cycle, to find himself standing above you one day, drunk, mean, angry. 

You’re hurting me.  

It echoed like a heartbeat. Inevitable. 

You might collect his scars, but he would not add to them with his own hands. He’d rather die; he’d rather be burned alive; he’d rather crawl out of a grave a hundred times over. 

He was afraid of it. Afraid that every terrible aspect of this bond between you could only bring you pain. 

His father loomed in the recesses of his mind, all the violent men he’d ever known, every bloody fist. Simon’s scalp ached, the memories swam behind his eyes. Long nights, wild animals, dead girls. 

There was one person who had a preoccupation with soulmates who was likely to know, who badgered him regularly about eroding the bond, about bond tears and pain. Simon could know, once and for all, if he was the cause of the indirect pain, at least. His own imposed on you, pushed into your skin like a punishment. He could cross that off his long list of sins. 

Johnny, when Simon finally tracked him down, was sat in the armory cleaning a rifle. He watched over his Sergeant's shoulder for a long moment. The methodical movement soothed him, brought his heartrate down a little. 

“Johnny.” 

Soap jumped and glanced around. “Spooky fucker. Should put a bell on ye—” 

“Does she feel it?”

“What—”

He exhaled long and slow. “My pain. If I’m shot tomorrow, would she feel it?”

Soap glanced around, brows raised. “Ye don’t know?” 

“Say I don’t.” 

“No, the lass doesn’t feel it.” Soap turned his wrist, pointed to a scar that was lighter than some of the others, a pale tracery that slipped from the inside of his elbow to mid forearm. “Not mine. Watched it fade in one mornin’. Didn’t feel a thing.” 

Ghost looks at the scar, and Soap lets him. “Tha’ why you haven’t—”

“No.” 

“Why?” 

“Deserves better.” 

Johnny nodded, continued cleaning the rifle. “Thing is, LT. She doesn’t. That’s the point.” 

Well, at least he only had to worry about becoming his father. 

Fucking perfect. 

.

.

.

Two months deployment.  

The pain in Simon’s chest was agonizing, a constant fire. He couldn’t sleep, pain meds did nothing for it. 

He could only wait it out, wait until he was back on base and hope you were in your office, that the solace of your presence in that warm yellow light would be waiting for him. The pain would recede. He needed a plan, though. Clearly it wasn’t fucking viable to just let it go on. It was too distracting and only getting worse. It was no longer something he could ignore. 

Maybe, he didn’t really want to.

Maybe, Johnny was right. 

He half convinced himself that the lancing ache was so bad because you’d been posted somewhere else the last two months and you were further away than ever. Your office would be empty. This was just an agony he would have to learn to live with. 

Finally, though, they were going home. Intel secure. One last building to sweep. Empty. A loaded silence that made the back of his neck prickle. 

Not as empty as they thought. 

Soap steps quickly into the last room ahead of him, gaze sweeping from one side to another before he lowered his weapon and stepped forward. 

Ghost followed quickly, lowered his gun when he saw what Johnny had. Civilians. One curled around the other, sobbing so hard she made no noise. 

When she lifted her face, Simon sucked in a startled breath. She looked like you, only without his scars. There was a mark slowly bleeding into place on her temple, one that matched the gunshot wound of the woman beneath her. 

The wail that suddenly pierced the air was distraught, horrible, a lurch and a bang. 

Soap was there, kneeling, looking for wounds that Ghost knew didn’t exist. Horror froze him for the second time in his life, your face swimming behind his eyes. 

“I thought you said they couldn’t feel it,” he barked. 

“What?” 

“Soulmates.” 

Soap looked at the pair with fresh eyes. 

“They can’t, LT,” Soap said without glancing at him. “It’s no’ that. It’s just—” 

Grief. The unbearable snapping of a fated cord. The tether in his own chest pulsed, ached. He thought of it breaking cleanly in two, as though it never existed, your light snuffed out, leaving him in total darkness again. 

It wasn’t pain she was feeling, it was the absence. 

“Ghost,” Johnny said sharply and Simon finally snapped out of it, went to his side. 

It wasn't worth it, he thought. None of this could be fucking worth it. He was left with the sinking sense that all he could ever do was hurt you. 

All the same, he felt an urgency to go home. To return to your side. To feel your pulse under his fingers. 

Just to be sure. 

It took them a long time to get her to leave the body. 

.

.

.

Task Force 141 was deployed for nearly two months. 

September and October passed slowly, in starts and fits that seemed to drag. 

You developed a pain in your side, a stitch from taking it too hard in the gym you assumed. But nothing seemed to help it. The pang became a prick became a small misery that the base medical staff couldn’t pinpoint the origins of. 

You missed Ghost, and Kyle and Johnny, tolerated the terrible tea your coworkers made for you, went on another series of failed dates, and finally became friends with your cross-hall apartment neighbor. Months of baked goods and hellos finally coming to fruition. Pieces of a life were falling together. 

Finally, they were coming home. You left your offer that night with the assurance that they were uninjured, that Ghost, and likely Soap, would be in your office by noon the next day. 

But Simon still managed to reappear as he always did, silently and without warning. A shadow crossed your back as you were locking your office near midnight, a hand grazed your back. You followed the series of steps you’d been taught months ago. Foot back, elbow out, knife in hand, open, turn—

Your wrist was caught by the flat of his palm, fingers of the opposite hand yanking it from your grip.  

You blinked and breathed out heavily, relieved. The tight tenderness in your side leveled off for the first time in a month. “Ghost,” you murmured, lowering your now empty hand, “You aren’t supposed to be back until tomorrow morning.” 

“That disappointed to see me?” 

No. Never. But he was still in full tactical gear. The skin around his eyes was still layered with eyeblack, exhaustion and an acid tension rolling off him in a thick wave. His gaze was heavy, but steady, assessing you in turn. He smelled like diesel and cigarettes and gun powder. You lifted your chin. “Surprised to see you. Glad to see you.” 

He only flipped the knife around and held it out to you. “Nice work.” 

You smiled as you took the blade and stored it again. “You’re making me paranoid, I think.” 

“Good. Paranoid keeps you alive.” 

His eyes flicked over you, looking long and hard, though for what you couldn’t be sure. He stepped closer, until you were forced back against the door. He towered over you, corralled you back against the cool wood. Soft, dark eyes like wells of ink in the shadow of the hood pulled over his head, searched long enough that you began to worry something was wrong. 

You reached out and rested your hand on his forearm. His body was so taut you could feel the tremble of exhausted, overwrought muscle. “Ghost,” you said gently, carefully. “Are you okay?” 

He inhaled deeply, so hard and fast it sounded pained. 

He looked at you again, eyes sliding over you slowly, like he was orienting himself, finding steady ground on which to stand. 

“Why don’t you cover ‘em?”

Your belly clenched. “Cover what?” you queried, silently begging him not to ask that question. 

“Scars.” 

You went still, looking down at your skin. You had rolled up your sleeves earlier in the evening when furious typing had required it. They glinted silver in the low light of the hall. Pretty and delicate as dragon scales. 

It wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. 

Still, you fought the urge to cross your arms. You hated when he stared at them. 

“Why would I?” You rubbed your wrist. “I don’t want to. They belong to my soulmate.”

He glanced away from you, his jaw tight beneath the mask. “You actually believe in that shite?” His voice was harsh, aggressive in a way he had never spoken to you before. “It’s a bloody children’s tale.”  

You bristled, felt something hard and mean well behind your breastbone in a tight knot. The pain that had been kicking you in the ribs lately reared again, made you wince and cover your side. “Well,” you snapped, gesturing to yourself with your free hand, “these aren’t mine, so I guess I have to.”  

He scoffed and you felt your heart lurch, hurt settling in your gut, twisting an invisible knife that much deeper. You tried to side step him but he didn’t move, a terrible, solid wall of muscle and—anger? Irritation? You couldn’t tell. “What the fuck do you care? Maybe you’re ashamed of yours,” you said roughly, “But not all of us are.” 

His brows furrowed and he shook his head again. “Oh, come off it.” 

“What?” 

“You’re tellin’ me that if you came face to face with the bastard that did this to you, you wouldn’t hate him?” 

Indignation burned a righteous path up your throat. “You don’t get to do that,” you said lowly. 

“You didn’t deny it,” he said. “You would.” 

“No,” you interrupted vehemently, swallowing around the word like gravel in your throat. “No, of course I wouldn’t. It wasn’t done to me, it—” 

But Simon was determined, his mind set. 

“He hurt you, changed the course of your bloody life, whether you want to admit it or not. You’ll hate him for it, love.” 

“For something he went through?” You asked incredulously, defensively. “Do you know how scared I was?” 

Ghost’s eyes went blank, his stare suddenly flat and far away. His gaze drifted from yours, the weight of flinty amber lifted. “Of him,” he said viciously, like something terrible he’d always known had been confirmed. 

“No,” you snarled again, not sure why Ghost was fighting you, not sure why he cared about your scars suddenly. “You aren’t listening. For him.” Your ribs ached, your breath came in short bursts. He was too close, the clashing sensations of safety and agitation calcifying the tension between you into a solid, immutable wall. 

You inhaled shakily through the sudden distress. Your lungs hitched and spasmed before you could suck in a proper breath, feeling faint, glad for the wall behind you. 

He blinked, looked down at you again. “Hey—” 

“I was so scared I would lose him before I ever got to meet him. Ever since I was a kid I’ve had scars. Cigarette burns and scratches, bite marks. I used to hope he was older than me, so it wouldn’t have meant that he—so that he wouldn’t have been—” Agitation rises like a tide, all the nights you’d sat awake watching scars bleed into your skin. Your parents had been unable to look at you in the morning, wondering what the future held for you. What kind of person that child would grow up to be. 

The same fear Simon seemed to be holding onto so tightly. 

You stumbled over his concern, something prickling at the base of your neck. 

“Once,” you continued shakily, “they just kept showing up, day after day, for months. I didn’t know what was happening and there was nothing I could do. I thought he was going to die and I couldn’t help him. I was so worried and all I could do was watch.” 

You met his eyes, saw something so raw and wretched there that you flinched back, closed your eyes, breath caught. 

You aren’t sure when you transitioned to using he instead of they. 

It suddenly didn’t feel like you were talking about someone you hadn’t met yet. 

You thought of how strangely intense he was about you. How you had felt so strongly about him immediately. How the only bit of his skin you’ve ever seen has been around his eyes; the delicate veins at his wrists.

You thought of him making you tea and teaching you to defend yourself. You thought of him walking you to your car and pulling you into sunny days. You thought of all the cups of coffee and boxes of tea, the gentle way he handled the blanket you made him from cheap cotton like it was spun gold. 

You thought of Johnny asking after your scars the first time you met him. How not long after you’d been personally introduced to the rest of the 141 for no discernable reason. How they checked on you. How they were probably the only people that knew what Ghost’s face looked like. 

“No,” you whispered, pieces of a terrible puzzle sliding together in your mind. 

You opened your eyes.  

“Ghost?” you asked softly, tentatively lifting your hand. 

He jerked back. “Don’t do that,” he warned.  

You stepped closer, knowing you were playing with fire, that he might burn you, lash out like a dog with its leg in a trap. 

But if he was yours—

If he was yours, you would not be the one to inflict more hurt on him. 

He did not want this, he did not want you, that much was clear. 

You closed your hand and let it fall, pushed your fist against your heart instead. “I see you,” you said gently. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“You don’t understand,” he rasped.  

“You survived.” You backed away. “That’s enough. To know you’re okay.” 

The empty spot in your chest ached, seemed to grow tendrils that wrapped around your heart. A bond so close and not latched. Because you haven’t seen him. He has to let you in.

“When you’re ready. If you’re ever ready. I'm here.”

He finally returned his gaze to yours. 

“Did it hurt?” 

“Did what hurt?” You tilted your head but he didn’t answer, just stared at you with big, moon dark eyes, brows pinched inward, eyeblack creating a tiny white line there. “Oh, you wouldn’t know, I guess.” You shook your head, “No I was just scared. Just worried. It didn’t hurt. You’ve never hurt me.” 

He moved so quickly and silently that you jumped when his hand curled around your wrist. Light enough that you could pull away if you wanted.  

“You don’t have to. You never have to. I don’t want to take anything else from you.” 

Ghost hesitated, his chest rising and falling quickly. “Do I have any of yours?” The question was quiet, almost reverent.  

You nodded, “‘Course you do. I fell out of a tree when I was a kid. Gave me a nasty scar on the back of my elbow. I landed on a rock.” 

His eyes flicked away, like he was trying to imagine it. You twisted your arm, showed him the thick line of scar there, totally different than the lighter version of his on your skin. “See? You’ll have that one in the same spot but lighter. Maybe not even visible, since you’re so pale.” 

Your breath caught when he stepped closer, the pain in your chest was so intense it made breathing difficult.

“It’s not fair to you.” 

“What isn’t?” 

“To bloody leave it. Hurts, yeah?” 

You didn’t admit to the spasming in your chest; it wouldn’t help anything. “When have you ever cared about fair?” 

He made a pained sound. “Don’t.” 

“I’m okay. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t want anything from you.”

“You’re supposed to need things from me.”  

He peeled his gloves off, tucked them into his back pocket. The hall was still and silent aside from your combined ragged breathing. It sounded like you’d been running a marathon. “Ghost—” 

“Simon,” he said. “Please, call me Simon.” 

You closed your eyes, felt his hands graze your collarbone, your throat, before anchoring on your jaw, tilting your face up. “Look at me, sweet’eart.” 

“I can’t.” Your voice trembled, tears clogging your throat. 

“Can.” 

Very gently, he leaned down and pushed his forehead against yours. 

You shuddered and swallowed and stepped closer. Simon curled his arms around you, pulled you into his chest. He was so broad and tall, you felt swaddled against him, warm and secure. His scent wrapped around you like ribbons holding you together. “No point dragging it on, yeah? No point you being in pain.” 

“How long?” 

“The whole time,” he admitted after a moment. His voice rumbled against your cheek. It felt like home. “First time I saw you.” 

“You have had this pain for almost a whole year—” 

“Not your fault,” he interrupted, one massive hand sliding down your spine. “Not your fault.” 

You huffed, hooked your fingers beneath his tac vest. “I’m sorry anyway.” You pulled back, felt his arms tighten around you for a moment. He didn’t want to let you go. “Is there anything you need to take care of? Reports or debriefing or something?” 

“No.” 

“Would. . . would you want to come to mine—” 

He reached under your arm and plucked your keys out of the lock before you could finish, guiding you down the hall, his hand never leaving your skin. 

You had never seen Simon outside the base, you realized suddenly, and everything felt vastly more fragile. It also felt as though that hollow pulse in your chest would tear if you were asked to walk away at that moment, something real and physical would tear and drop out of you, an irreparable part of your soul. 

You weren’t sure how you drove home, Ghost huge in your passenger seat, your hands shaking each time he shifted his grip on you. 

In your apartment, you hesitated, not sure where you belonged in your own space anymore. Simon looked strange in your tiny living room, among soft blankets and years of collected books and knicknacks. An all consuming shadow. You wondered if this would end like all those dates, just another failure, another loss. 

When you started to step toward the lamp, Simon’s fingers curled around your wrist to keep you by his side. “No.” 

“Just turning on the lamp.” 

He released you.

As you stepped away, a hollow pulse in your chest retched with pain that made you gasp and clutch the edge of the sofa. It felt real, like something was breaking, jagged edges clawing at the inside of your skin. You wondered what Ghost’s self imposed distance might have done to the bond. There were stories, albeit few, of corrosion. The bond literally rusting out, slowly poisoning the soulmate and their pair. 

“Come ‘ere,” he muttered. “Sit down.”

When his palm cupped your elbow, the world became softer. Like purr instead of a shriek. He guided you onto the sofa. 

Your hands shook when he released you, making quick work of the lamp. The room flooded with soft yellow light. He glanced around. Art on the walls, forest green rug over hardwood floor, molding you had painted a delicate gold. You felt embarrassed of it all suddenly. 

“God,” you muttered. He didn’t seem to feel the pain at all, which made your chest ache in a different way and guilt pool heavily between your bones for it. You didn’t want him to be in pain, but you felt as though you were breathing water, choking on your own lungs. “How have you dealt with this?” 

“Worse now,” he said, though you felt it was his version of a kind untruth. 

He sat next to you, reached for you, then faltered, unsure. You closed the space, folded your fingers between his. The scars made a fucked up little mirror when you looked down at your hands. They matched exactly. “I’m sorry.” 

Simon didn’t answer, but stayed close to you, letting you hold his hand. Even the smallest amount of space between you seemed to burn, a brazier that flared hot and demanded attention. But it was better; just having his bare hand in yours helped. 

“Nothin’ t’be sorry for.” He said after a few minutes of uneven breathing, eyes trained on your hands, thumb running over the back of your fingers. 

“You don’t want me.” 

It wasn’t a question. 

He glanced up, something razor sharp in his eyes. You flinched a little, but his hand tightened on yours. 

“You don’t have to—We don’t have to bond,” you tripped over the last word. “It’s okay.” 

“Obviously it’s not, bird.” 

Your heart sunk and you glanced away. A one in eight billion chance was sitting under your nose for months, and he wanted nothing to do with you. He was being forced into it.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured again. “Ghost, I’m—”

“Simon,” he corrected.  

“Simon,” you echoed. 

He curled his hands around your wrists, lifted your palms to the bottom of his mask. He let your hands settle at the base of his throat, eyes never leaving yours. “I didn’t want you,” he said plainly. “I never wanted you to know.” 

You swallowed and nodded. “I’m s—” 

“No.”

You closed your mouth with a click of your jaw. You don’t expect a speech and he doesn’t give you one. “You deserve better,” he said. “But I’m all you get.” 

His knee touched yours. Your faces were tilted together, so close that the only thing you could see were the soft depths of his eyes reflecting the gold light.

It didn’t feel close enough. 

You wished it were all different. 

That he didn’t feel forced, that you were what he wanted. 

“I deserve you. Isn’t that the point?” 

He watched you for a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face, then nodded. 

“Go on, then.” 

Your throat felt tight as you tugged the mask upwards, heart lurching when you recognized the same scar on your throat on his. You pushed the fabric over his chin and mouth, up until you could pull it over his head. 

You looked at him, the same scar over his mouth, along his cheek, the bridge of his nose was nicked, the outline of burn scarring crossed the edge of his jaw and neck. When you looked past that, you saw him. Crooked nose, thick, furrowed brows, dark eyes you’d loved for a long time cast darker by the black around them, light eyelashes and hair, longer on top and curling. 

Something seemed to. . .snap then. A warmth broke between you, filled that awful, dark, pained well in your chest. It hurt, but the pain was brief, like stitches done by a seasoned medic. 

Breathing was easier. You could feel the pulse of him without the threat of imminent pain. It was a warm, comforting, safe thing in your lungs. You inhaled, attempted to stand, to give him a bit of space. “Should be able to separate now. Shall we test it—” 

You didn’t get a chance to move away, tugged suddenly from your seat and into his lap. You fell heavily against his chest, wrapped tightly in his arms, foreheads slanted together. 

“No,” he said, sounding, for the first time since you’ve known him, breathless. “No.” 

“I don’t want to.” 

“Good.” 

“Can I touch you?” 

“Can do anything you like to me, bird.” 

You stroked the side of his throat, felt him shiver. “Well, I won’t. Not anything.” 

He made a content noise of agreement. 

You touched his jaw, his cheek, the tail of his brow, the faded check through it that you’d never noticed matched your own. His arms tightened around you in increments until the pressure forced you to take shallow breaths. “You’re beautiful.” 

“Lookin’ in a mirror, are you?” 

“Sort of,” you answered. “A little.” 

His hands shifted, anchored on your hips, and pushed you back a little. 

Disappointment that it was over so soon pinched at your throat but you backed off, attempting to slide from his lap. His hand caught at your hip. “Stop trying to bloody move.” 

“What—” 

He was only taking off the vest, which probably should have been left at the base. It dropped heavily to the floor as he pulled you against his chest. It was warmer, softer like that, thick muscle coiled beneath your cheek when you rested it against his shoulder, heartbeat hard against yours.  

“No more pain?” 

“None.” 

“Good.” 

You pushed your face against his throat, felt him tense and then uncoil. One large hand cupped the back of your neck, holding you there. You brushed your lips against his pulse point, felt a scarred flutter against your mouth, a muted grunt.

“You’re all I want,” you admitted quietly. “I think I knew. I think everyone knew. I’m sorry,” you finally said, “that I’m not who you need.”  

His hand squeezes your neck and then he’s pushing you down against the cushions, pressing one massive thigh between your legs, hauling you closer like it could never be close enough. The space between your bodies would always be too large, because you couldn’t climb into his chest, nest among his veins. 

It would have to do then, his hand tilting your jaw up, his eyes searching yours as you part your lips. 

“You are, sweet’eart,” he said simply, mouth brushing yours before he kissed you properly. 

He tasted of black tea; his eyeblack rubs off on your temples. 

Already, he was leaving pieces of himself behind with you to mark safe.

“Simon,” you murmured against his mouth. Just to say it, just to be rewarded with a shudder.

The kiss slipped into something more desperate, your hands felt the skin of his back, your own scar on his elbow, and you thought, maybe, you could become what he needed.  

if you made it this far thank you for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!

[rawme-price]

No thoughts just ghost being akin to a wild animal with everyone except reader...

He spooks easily, and it's anyone's guess whether he'll react violently or simply leave an interaction. The constant battles, the military, roba, home. It turned ghost inside-out until he was all blood and sinew and hurt hurt hurt on the outside.

Ghost may play nice with a select few, but there's always a dynamic under every conversation, every touch. That ghost is the one in control, that they secretly fear him.

That is....except for you.

You took one look at ghost, sat stiff in the corner of the room for his post-mission med exam, and saw nothing but a wounded animal.

Other medics would have just cleared him without a glance at his person, some might have forced him to let them examine. You met him where he was at, sat only close enough you could study the subtle shifts of pain under his gear. You ask ghost to examine himself, guide him verbally on where to push or where to gauge his feeling.

He untenses halfway through, when you make no move to touch him. It takes twice as long with your method but...you care enough about his health to sit through it. You, a total stranger.

After that, ghost refuses to see any medic besides you. You colleagues bring you a blood-stained and deathly silent ghost and behind closed doors he melts into your soothing touch.

He seems, for a moment, almost human.

[rawme-price]

Whenever ghost is feeling a bit off, a bit less alive than he should, he goes into the woods.

The bugs and dirt embrace him when he lies in the now-dry river bed that will soon be running with water next season. Cold and damp from morning's rain, the smell of petrichor lingers in his clothes.

That's how you find him. The stranger taking a nap in your backyard.

Well, technically this isn't yet your backyard, you still need to sign some papers. Currently the land belongs to your late uncle, owner of a large chunk of forest. You used to run through these woods as a child visiting in the summer. It was only natural he leave the place to you.

"Uh. Hello?" And now there's a fucking stranger in your river bed. He's big, wearing old clothes. You glance at the net of scars over his face, and mildly wonder if he's a veteran or something. "sir? Are you alive?"

The man peeks an eye open, wrinkles his nose at you in scrutiny before he huffs "what do you want, kid?"

"Are you....okay?" You ask, frowning at the dirt on him. You've always been too kind, generosity outweighing self-preservation when you add "are you hungry? It's awful cold out. You'll freeze."

The stranger closes his eyes and says nothing for a solid five minutes. Just as you're about to leave, he rolls onto his side and begins to stand "wot're you eating?"

Which is how ghost ends up sat in your kitchen, eating soup while his jacket dries by the fire.

He's....strange. funny. Kind-of nice, in a roundabout way. Like when he insulted your choice to toss food scraps in the trash instead of making a compost pile, then offered to weed your uncles garden that had gotten out of hand.

He knows so much about...everything, really. He points at bugs and tells you facts about them, fixes some things around the house.

You end up offering him a place to stay if he helps out, something to do on leave.

Now, every few months ghost can be found sleeping in your garden before you drag him in for tea.

Weird bloke.

You love having him around.

[groovyangelkisses]

sunday nights spent slow dancing to marvin gaye and jack talking about how lonely he's been his whole life until he met you.

swaying with you and looking in your eyes and smiling when you tell him you like this song. huffing a little laugh at your youth and telling you how you make him feel like that young man he used to be.

whispering how good he'd have treated you, and a part of him is sick because he's missed out on so much time with you. so many years lost. time that you weren't even born for. he's a melancholy old man, but he's yours <3

[blossom2blossom]

facts i think need to be kept in mind when looking at trinity's hatred for/fear of langdon:

she was sexually abused as a child by a male authority figure

her childhood best friend killed herself because of their rapist

langdon is a male authority figure who is commiting a crime

langdon is a father. he has access to children

trinity, on the same day, watched her department collectively decide not to report a man for raping his daughter

[seventasia]

WELCOME TO PRETTY GIRL AVENUE!

PRETTY GIRL AVENUE is an event organised between some friends and i dedicated to lesbianism in jjk <3 pls enjoy. pls.

ABOUT. sapphic romance in all its forms, from fem!toji to the classic shoko. do you want a western vampire? a historical mystery? what about a toxic romance? PRETTY GIRL AVENUE has it all! with only women, to boot!

AT PRETTY GIRL AVENUE, YOU WILL FIND ───

WANTED: WOMAN-EATING OUTLAW with TSUKUMO YUKI! More information available with @seventasia!

THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT with IEIRI SHOKO! If any issues arise, please reach out to @ackpplepie!

THE MAN I MARRIED WASN'T ACTUALLY A MAN AT ALL! with FEM!TOJI! Reach out to @strawb3rryhachi for more information!

PREACHERS DAUGHTER with IEIRI SHOKO! Find more information with @cassideezlife!

86'D with FEM!SUKUNA! Reach out to @cassideezlife if you have any inquiries!

TERRAPIN with IEIRI SHOKO! If interested, consult @purescription!

KISS IT BETTER with TSUKUMO YUKI! Please contact @ketamiis for details!

CEO - CONFIDENTIAL EATING OUT with IEIRI SHOKO! Details can be found with @lemonswirlss!

WHAT CAN I DO with FEM!NANAMI! Please contact @xstars-alignedx for details!

[hammyysammyy]

While I believe Simon Riley would give you princess treatment, it wouldn’t nearly be on the level that Johnny ‘Soap’ MacTavish would give you. That man is practically a service dog in your presence.

Car door? You don’t even have a chance to touch it before Johnny is jumping over the hood of his car just to open it for you. Of course, falling in the process and earning a little giggle from you.

Every time you go out to eat, no matter if it’s a high end restaurant or a fast food restaurant, your chair is pulled out for you before you can even think about doing it yourself.

He does things without you having to ask. He cooks your favorite dinner after a long day at work, will help clean the house, help you shower, shave, anything.

I’m yearning brb..

[bitterrfruit]

splinter

[masterlist]

ghost x f! reader tags/cw: smut (eventually). fixed simon pov. forced proximity bordering on captivity. somno. voyeurism. all that said this is probably the most wholesome thing i've ever written lol

your car breaks down in a snowstorm. a crude stranger takes you in from the cold.

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5

or [read on ao3]

extras

playlist pinterest board

[smilereads]

The prolongue 🫶🫶🫶

[millermouth]

summary: you teach joel how to choke you

|| smut MDNI 18+, horny musings, not much plot, choking, pinv, dirty talk (god I love nasty joel! what can I say he gets the mouth of a sailor when he’s turned on), bicep choking!!!!!!!, daddy kink, praise kink, little bit of pussy pronouns, anxious!joel, nervous!joel, sweet!reader, established relationship, jackson!joel, mentions of big scary joel bark bark bark, but actually I just love him so there's also tender fluff in here too. I can't make smut without making it abundantly clear im helplessly in love w him || a/n: oh yeah so I was on vacay this whole week and this was all I thought about. okay maybe one more thing you might see from this week of inspiration but plz enjoy!!! a/n II: thinking about joel's anxiety makes me sad but I feel like it's not written about enough plz don't make me cry anymore wc: 2.2k short and sweet 4 u

You knew your best chance was when he was at his most…pliable.

That slow-breathing, skin-sticky softness that only came in the after. When both of your bodies were loose and lazy with release— oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin still thick in the bloodstream. Joel’s soft hazel eyes were warm and drowsy, blinking slowly beneath the fall of his thick lashes. How unfair, you always thought, that he got to have such astonishingly beautiful lashes. Men often did, didn’t they? His cheeks were still flushed pink, his chest rising steady beside yours. You watched the corner of his mouth lift into a crooked smile as he burrowed into the pillow, a bullish breath releasing from his lungs.

Your hand found his hair, dark and streaked with silver, damp at the nape. You pushed your fingers through it, nails scraping gently as he purred beneath your touch.

He pulled you in, tucking your body against the broad wall of his chest. His chin came to rest at your shoulder, and you felt his breath as it moved across your skin—slow, heavy, hot. You let out a small sigh and traced the length of his arm, following it down to where his fingers splayed wide over your hip. He was still inside out from it all. Both of you warm and bare, still slick with the sheen of sweat and the fading intensity of the post-coitus high. 

You brought his hand up in front of your face, holding it in both of yours like something precious. You traced the creases in his palm, the coarse curls of hair on the back of it. He was such a big man, all of him thick and solid and heavy. You loved it so deeply about him. How he could be so big and scary and yet so tender all at once.

That was the thing about Joel Miller. He was the most dangerous man you'd ever met. But in your home, in your bed, in these quiet moments, he was gentle. So, so gentle.

You made your move.

Guiding his hand slowly, you carefully set it down to your neck. You knew he was watching out of one squinting, peering eye. Always watchful, always aware of your movements.

“What’re you doin’, young lady?” he asked, voice like honey and gravel on asphalt.

You settled his palm against the sensitive flesh of your throat, pulling his thumb to one side and resting his fingers on the other. Just gently letting the broad stretch of his hand rest under your jaw.

God, he was so warm.

And even though his expression had softened in this post coitus high, even though his breath moved gently against your skin, this kind of calm didn’t come easy to him. When he was like this—sated, warm, still wrapped around you—all you could do was hope he’d stay there in it. You hoped he wasn’t going to bark or bristle or retreat behind that rough voice he used when his chest got too tight.

Because Joel’s anxiety didn’t come in skittishness or shaky hands. It was silence, stillness. It was the way he watched everything, how fast he could go from soft to sharp, always ready to protect. Even when there wasn’t a threat. Even when he thought the threat was himself.

You felt him stiffen as he realized what you were doing. 

He tried to pull his hand away, and you let him—again, not wanting to spook the big, terrifying, yet sweet and sorrowful creature you’d come to love. 

“How would you feel if I asked you to choke me?” you asked, voice calm, your tone low and careful. Coaxing the beast within.

His answer came quickly and without hesitation: “Ain’t happenin’.”

Whatever softness had still lingered in him was gone now. His voice was flat, and his whole body had gone still beside you, his heart hammering through his chest and against your skin.

“Joel, baby, I’m sorry—” you whispered, reaching for the calm you’d just shared, trying to soothe what you’d stirred.

“There ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for,” he said, and his tone wasn’t cruel, but it was set. Final. He wasn’t angry, he was afraid, you knew that. Knew him. “I just ain’t doin’ that.”

You turned towards him, wrapping your arms around him, nuzzling your nose into the thick, wiry hair of his chest. You waited as his heart settled, kissing his chest, interlaching your fingers behind his back, tracing gentle circles into his damp skin.

And maybe it was because you knew him. Knew how to coax that big, nervous animal in him into gentleness, into calm. Knew how to read the quiet tension in his body, how to recognize the moments when he pulled away. Because he was never angry at you, that you’d come to realize long ago. He was afraid. Full of gut churning fear and worry. He was just a man who had seen too much, done too much, and lost even more. And now, he was trying, so hard, to be good. 

That’s why, when you answered, you didn’t push. You pursed your lips against his thick chest of hair and said, “Okay.”

“I promise you won’t hurt me, baby,” you told him softly, your voice slow with wine and warmth as you laid back on the bedspread, still smelling like smoke and sugar from the community bonfire. You’d been out with Tommy and Maria, drinking too much under the string lights, and Joel had come home handsier than usual—emboldened by the night, maybe, or just finally brave enough to give you the thing you’d been asking for.

He was already hard and thick and stretching you open, your body split in two around his cock, your hips cradling his breadth of a body. Your thighs hooked tight around his waist as you tried to pull him in even deeper, closer than skin would ever allow as his hand rested against your throat.

“Don’t you think it makes a pretty necklace?” you teased, breathless already. Just the weight of his hand there was enough to have your hips rolling up in search of more, desperate for that aching stretch and the sweet pressure you craved.

He hesitated, voice thick and low. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

But you reached up, took the hand at your throat into both of yours, and guided him to press his digits to your skin. Just his thumb, just the fingers on the other side of your throat.

“Right there, daddy,” you whispered, eyes fluttering. “Just pinch. Don’t push.”

His brow was furrowed, his hazel eyes swallowed up by the black of his arousal. You circled his thick wrist with your nimble fingers, grounding him, showing him how safe he was here. He was always so god damn warm, your personal furnace, all heat and weight and steady flame. The fire in the hearth of your chest, your soul, your heart. His chest pressed down against yours, his cock buried so deep you could feel him in your ribs, your arousal slick and messy, dripping down his shaft and onto the bed beneath you.

You whimpered, high and needy.

“Please, Joel,” you whispered. “I trust you.”

That seemed to loosen the shackles he kept tight around himself. The ones forged in fear, in longing, with a want too big and too dangerous to trust within himself. He exhaled, sharp and tight, and gave the faintest, featherlight squeeze. Not even enough for your head to go light, but enough for your cunt to flutter helplessly around him. He sucked in a tight hiss, the sound breaking in his throat.

“Oh, fuck,” 

His eyes squeezed shut, then opened again, blown black and flicking from his hand on your throat to your face and back. Your mouth was slack, your head tilted back, eyes rolling in ecstasy. Your pussy clenched hard around him again and he groaned.

“Again, again, again,” you pleaded, rocking up into him, your hands urging his wrist to hold you tighter.

He did it again.

And your walls seized around him.

“Christ, baby—Jesus fuck,” he choked out. “You’re—she’s— grippin’ me—chokin’ my cock while I hold your pretty little neck—”

And thus, it was the start of something wholly beautiful and euphoric and filthy. 

He had you prone on the bed, your legs spread wide and stretched beneath him, back arched, ass pressing and pushing back greedily into every stroke. His weight draped heavy over your spine, chest slick with sweat as it laid across your back. The room was thick with the sound of skin, the slap of his hips meeting the swell of your ass, again and again and again.

“I love you, baby,” he whispered into the shell of your ear, his voice rough with breath and effort. Every word was broken by a grunt, by the slap of his pelvis slamming into you.

You moaned helplessly, drool slipping from your parted lips, soaking into the thick muscle of his arm where it curved around your throat. Your chin was tucked to his elbow, held snug in the crook of it, his bicep pulsing as he held you close. His forearm pinned you in place, tight and possessive. Your anchor, just how you’d begged for it.

“Got you all cock drunk now, huh?” he muttered, low and smug, the bastard, dragging the words across your skin like velvet. You could hear the grin in it, even feel the curl of his mouth as he pressed a kiss into your ear, “Can’t even talk while I’m fuckin’ you, baby?”

You mewled in response, the only sound you could manage as his thick cock punched into you, each thrust stealing another breath, another thought. He was deep, impossibly deep, stretching you to the edge of your limit and keeping you right there, stuffed full and shaking.

“So pretty like this,” he groaned, voice pitching low in his throat. “Takin’ daddy’s cock so good, princess. So fuckin’ good.”

You tried to answer, tried to give him something back, but what came out was a garbled, wet sound as your tongue dipped out to collect the spit dribbling out on your slack lips. You were trembling beneath him, wrecked and ruined and still asking for more.

“You know,” he rasped, his breath warm against your ear, “I’ve killed men by doin’ this. You know that, right?”

Your eyes rolled back. Your walls fluttered around him, involuntary and tight.

“Oh, yeah, she loves that. Killed ’em easy, baby, just my arm to their neck. Watched their lights go out. That turn you on?” His voice was rougher now, throatier, but still careful, still asking. Still watching you.

You pushed your ass back into him with a sob, wordless, every nerve in your body crying yes.

“Tell me, baby,” he murmured, thrusts slowing in their tempo. “Tell me. Use your big girl words.”

“I love it,” you cried, the words torn from your throat. “I love it, I love it, I love it—” You were close, almost there, your voice climbing higher with every breath, every roll of his hips, every squeeze of his arm.

“I know, sweet angel,” he groaned, his cock twitching inside you as your walls clenched tighter. “My nasty girl loves when daddy chokes her, huh?”

You could barely nod, could barely think. He just kept fucking into you, the drag of his cock thick and slow, then sharp and deep, until your body curled and tightened beneath him. He was everywhere—his chest on your back, his balls slapping your clit, the heat of his breath against your cheek, your pussy leaking down his shaft and onto the sheets in creamy slick. His weight pressed you into the mattress like he could mold you there and never let you go.

“But I love my girl,” he said, softer now, almost like a confession. Maybe to remind you, to remind himself. “Love her so much. I’d never hurt her, you know that, right?”

You nodded, jaw slack, lips kissing the sweaty skin of his arm as you forced your mind to work, for your tongue to follow orders, “I know d-d-daddy, I know—I love—oh fuck—I love you too…oh oh, ah!…hmmmppphhh—”

“Oh, good girl, that was hard, I know. That’s alright. That’s it. Right there,” he growled, hips snapping harder now, erratic, desperate. “I feel her chokin’ daddy’s cock back. Feel how much she loves it. C’mon, baby girl. Come for me. That’s it. Fuck—”

Your body seized beneath him, a full-body tremor that started at your core and rippled outward, your vision going white as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave. You sobbed through it, breath stuttering, your cunt fluttering around him in tight, wet pulses that had him growling through his teeth.

“Good girl,” he grunted, barely hanging on. “That’s my goooood fuckin’ girl.”

He followed you down a moment later, groaning raggedly against your shoulder, his cock twitching deep inside as he spilled into you, thick and hot, his weight sinking heavy over your back. You breathed there together for a long moment, lost in that same fuzzy cotton haze.

And then his arm loosened around your throat, sliding down to your sternum to shift the both of you. His cock slipped out of you with a wet drag, still heavy and shining, your slick clinging to him as your body clenched around the sudden emptiness. The loss made your limbs tremble, thighs twitching where they rested against his. He moved you onto your side, then onto your back and settled beneath you, his own back pressed to the sheets, your spine stretched along his chest.

He sighed in relief before shifting slightly, just enough to reach and press his lips against your temple.

"You alright, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse, still catching on the edges of his breath.

You nodded, face softening as you tilted your head toward him. He reached down and kissed you, slow and warm, and you hummed against his mouth.

“Perfect,” you whispered.

You both sighed then, content and drowsy, riding the soft haze of afterglow. The hormones still moved thick through your bodies, warmth blooming in your limbs as you looked up at him. Your fingers slipped into his hair and you held him close.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “For trusting me.”

“Don’t need thankin’, honey,” he said, his voice low, eyes soft and steady on yours. “If anything, it’s me who oughta thank you—for keepin’ me here. For trustin’ me.”

“I do trust you. With everything,” you said. “And I love you.”

He kissed you again, and you kept your eyes open, watching the furrow of his brow, watching his mind whirr with the thoughts and big feelings he once was so afraid to say.

“I love you too, baby,” he whispered when he finally released your mouth, voice rough at the edges. “So much.”

“To touch is to be touched” —Hélène Cixous

[madamechrissy]

please, please, please

You love being Satoru Gojo's girlfriend, he dotes on you, takes you on dates, spoils you - just one little problem, you are perpetually ovulating around him! Is wanting your nerdy boyfriend's cock in your mouth really such a bad thing? Satoru wants to wait for the perfect moment for your first time, though! He'll totally wait even when you're wearing that slutty lil dress and grinding on him, right?

pairings - nerd! gojo x girlfriend! reader

warnings - cute and silly, oral over panties/boxers, Satoru edging tf outta us -- reader is horny, Shoko/Hime, Sukuna being a fratboy dick, jealous Toru, rough blow jobs, p in v sex, first time, squirting, teasing, fingering, creampie, consent, breed kink, making your nerdy boyfriend feral and spit in your mouth <3

art creds here!!

this was a comm for my angel @cantarcantar!! ty for understanding that my life was like INSANE - ilysm for being patient <3 wc - 10.1k

It took you almost two years of crushing on Satoru Gojo to actually become his girlfriend, and you’re loving every minute of it. From being too damn shy to admit you like him, to very awkwardly trying to confess and every chance just utterly failing – to then instead becoming the very best of friends.

You two were finally ‘officially together’ as a couple.

Oh, and it was everything, being in his arms, swallowed up by those huge biceps he had hidden underneath his starch white dress shirts. Hearing that little laugh from his lips, all of those sweet little kisses he bestowed upon you – truly, all the feelings blossoming between the two of you in the most beautiful way, especially over the months of truly being his girlfriend.

He’d take you out for all day movie marathons, going to play bumper cars, mini golf, you name it – Satoru was down for it. Every date was a meticulously planned out one too, with little to no down time aside from the drive to and from. Perhaps that’s where you would sneak just the littlest pecks on his neck, hear his sighs as he gripped the gear shift of that fancy sports car.

Satoru adored you – and you adored him.

You were all his. There was no one else in the entire world than the boy who could never quite tie that tie on correctly, always just a little crooked for you to straighten out.

Yet with that came you being unreasonably horny all the fucking time, who wouldn’t be with Satoru though? Those long fingers pressing into your waist, the way that bulge pressed between your thighs, plump lips slipping up your throat. Every time it even got just a little close, maybe you were grinding so good that you were about to cum from that – he paused it.

Wearing a cute, bashful little smile on his face, fogged up, thick rimmed glasses – murmuring sweetheart in a voice that’s designed to make your pussy drip, and you feel like a complete pervert for wanting to beg for more. God, imagining his cock in your throat alone had you desperate and needy, let alone having him filling you, pumping you full, taking you first.

Maybe you are a pervert, truly.

You’ve tried so hard to be patient, you want him to want it as badly as you do, but every time you’re making out with your boyfriend – the top of the dean’s list and ultimate dungeon master for DnD – Satoru Gojo?

Every time his big ass hands grip your waist and he drags you down against his length, before he puts a pause on it?

You can’t even think about it.

You’re pumping your fingers in your needy cunt just thinking about it after every damn date with this boy. Whining out in your bed with your hips bucking up, gasps escaping your lips desperately in your empty room. Pumping faster and faster until you’ve got that sticky release all over your hand.

It’s almost as if you have this sort of ritual now, before you see your boyfriend and right after/.

Your rose toy is probably fucking tired of you.

As if you don’t you ache so damn bad around him it’s painful, hard not to shamelessly hump his thigh till you cum. No, the toy? This takes the edge off just a bit, but even the way you moan his name in your sleep is endlessly hilarious to your poor roommates that have to hear you between the walls of your off campus apartment.

“Still a virgin?” Utahime asked with a laugh when you had woken up this morning, getting ready to see Satoru.

“Not by choice,” you grumble, shaking your head and grabbing a coffee pod from the little rack, popping your favorite inside and pressing the on button. The aroma hits immediately, waking your tired brain.

You’d had the filthiest damn dream of him fucking your tits, cock sliding up and down in messy strokes that had you needing a damn shower right now.

You’re just perpetually ovulating.

Satoru is the perfect boyfriend, truly he is. He’s sweet, he’s a gentleman despite his blue eyes and where they glance too long. Mostly, he cares. You’ve fallen so in love with him so quickly over these past few months, but every time you think that things might progress, Satoru stops it. Gently lifting you up off his lap and sighing, kissing his way up your jaw, his snowy lashes tickling your cheek.

‘Sweetheart, let’s pause this,’ he would murmur those words all sweet and sultry against your skin after almost sucking on those nipples that just stay hard around this man, instead hovering a breath away so it ghosts your tits. Those huge hands brushing just underneath them.

It’s torture, really.

‘Oh, okay Toru,’ you’d whisper back, he’d moan and kiss up your neck, breaths tickling your skin. ‘Mnh…’

‘You’re so beautiful, god look at you.’

It was just wrong to talk to you like that!

“You poor baby. At least you have your toy collection,” Shoko teases, sneaking in and brushing your hair back. “Extensive, too.”

You flip her off, peeking at the phone then and seeing Satoru's name pop up.

Study session?

“Dick session?” She asks, you gasp, as if affronted at such a suggestion.

“I would never assume such a thing!”

You hope so.

*****

It’s not.

No, it’s not a dick session at all.

It really is an actual goddamn study session – both of you were sitting there in Satoru’s living room, his place was far fancier than anywhere, but that came from him being the Dean’s very son. It intimidated you a little at first, but now you’ve grown comfortable, as he made you feel so special.

Today though?

Well, you can’t focus on anything but how badly you’d love to kneel and suck your nerdy boyfriend, his thighs spread wide all slutty.

God his legs are long.

You bet his cock is-

“And this equation?” Satoru teasingly asks you, distracting you from your slutty freaking brain.

You're not even sure what stumbles out of your mouth for an answer, without saying how thick you think the circumference of his cock must be.

That is something you’ve done with your past experiences, and you know you’re good at it. You could easily deep throat a man and you wanted to see his cock so damn bad – could he be a challenge, though?

Your eyes drift down his chest, he peeks at you curiously.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” He asks casually, spinning his pen between his fingers and studying you. “Hard question?”

“Um… yeah, a very hard time…”

Stop that! Stop looking at his dick print!

“The question is hard?”

“Uh… the question… yes.” You feel like a damn pervert every time you’re around him, can’t you chill and let things happen when they happen?

He sighs and stands up, stretching his arms up over his head, his abdomen revealed when his dress shirt rides up, showing those little v cuts that make your ovulating brain just a million times worse. It’s like you’re in heat. It's so pathetic right now – maybe you should avoid him till it stops.

“Let’s take a break then.”

“Yeah?”

He chuckles at how eager you are at the thought and comes up to you, leaning down with a hand on each arm of your chair, tilting his head so some of that soft white hair falls over his forehead. You brush a bit of it back and he kisses your palm, lips warm and sweet.

“You’ve been such a good girl, how can I not treat you a bit?” Your heart hammers in your chest, until those next words spill from his lips. “Boba?”

“What? Huh?” You blink as he eases back, pulling up his phone and leaning against the desk. “Boba??”

“Yeah, Boba, I’ll buy you some, I know you love it,” he smiles curiously as you bury your face in your hands. “No Boba? Matcha then?”

“I’m um…” About to cum if he touches you once even. “No, I guess Boba is fine. Thanks Toru.” you manage to say, thighs pressing together, Satoru frowns, kneeling now and gently taking your hands off your face, seeing your blush.

“Are you sick!? You’re all flushed!”

“I’m not-”

“You’re burning,” he touches your cheek in concern, and you almost fucking feel bad – you’re not sick, you’re ovulating. “Baby girl, let’s get you to a doctor right now!"

“No, no I feel fine, I’m not warm because of that,” you shift in your seat and whine out at just that friction. “Promise.”

He frowns and watches you carefully. “You’re hurting, it could be the start of something!”

“Well yeah I hurt,” you sigh as he spreads your thighs and kneels between them, shoving at him. “You’ll make it even worse down there.”

“I’ll make what worse, exactly? Your…” He trails off then, seeing your panties and blushing himself, pink dancing across his high cheekbones and dusting them in that rose. “Y-your… your panties are so… uh… s-soaked and…”

You should freak out at this proximity, at just how much he can finally see of you, but all you can do is whine again, as his eyes shoot back up to yours. “I’m okay, promise.”

“Am I neglecting my pretty girlfriend?” He asks softly, just a little nervous. Satoru has never touched anyone but you, but he’s extensively studied the female anatomy, and how to make you cum.

He just wanted your first time to be perfect.

That’s why he was waiting – the last thing he needed was for you to not enjoy your first time, though he knows you’re a little more experienced than he is – Satoru’s hardly kissed anyone before you. Not because he couldn’t – he just had no interest in that sort of thing until he met you – and even then, he really couldn’t find the damn courage to ask you out forever.

“No I’m being a damn pervert,” you cover your face and he chuckles at that.

“You’re being a what, now?”

You sink into the seat, mumbling. “You heard me.”

He’d been your best friend for so long, thinking there was no chance in the world – always jerking his cock with any article of clothing you’d leave in his room, like a filthy depraved pervert – and you think you were one perverted here?

Does him wanting the timing to be just right making you think that?

Satoru exhales softly, just a hint of what he wants to say slipping from his plump lips.

“What, do you touch your little pussy thinking of me?”

His voice has you lowering your hands, he spreads those thighs and slides up your skirt, making you moan out, head falling back, your hands gripping the arms of the chair even tighter.

“Wha-?” You can’t even finish your damn word.

“Asked you a question, baby.”

“God,” he’s diabolical without knowing – or maybe he does know. You’re trembling as you lean back, letting his thumb brush on your clit and gasping at the touch, already getting slick from a brush on your skin. “What question?”

“Not paying attention, tsk,” he clicks his tongue and his teeth nip your inner thigh, sinking in and making you whine out. “Do you touch her?”

“Y-yes,” he hums a bit, tugging your panties up until your lips are visible, that dark spot growing as slick starts pouring. “Please…”

“Be patient, baby,” he leans back now, smirking at you. “Show me?”

“Are you sure you…”

“Please? I wanna see so bad,” you blush now, you masturbate sure – but not in front of people! “I’ll show you?”

“Show me you um… jerking off?”

“Yeah, I mean… yeah?” You sigh a bit.

“Toru…”

“Mmm?”

“Why don’t I um… suck you?” He is bright red now, he’s almost busting just thinking of your mouth – that won’t do. His first blow job and he busts in one go!? No, Satoru has to jerk it three times before he gets the privilege of fucking your pretty little mouth, of feeling your pink tongue on him.

“Not yet.”

“Not yet? But you’re so hard,” you giggle and tease him with your foot nudging his thigh, he glares and catches it, shoving it wide. “Not yet, then. So you just wanna see me touch myself?”

“God yes, dreamed of that since…” He trails off then, he doesn’t want to admit just how long he’s jerked off to you, because it was before you even knew who Satoru Gojo was. “Lemme see.”

“Okay…” you lean back, running your fingertips over your panties, slipping underneath and leaning your head back, eyes fluttering shut, hearing Satoru’s soft little whine. “Toru…”

“Fuck,” he thought he could handle this, but he’s utterly failing, he can’t even see your pretty pussy and he’s already throbbing, leaking so much pre it hurts, sticking to his brand new digimon boxers. “You’re s’pretty, sweetheart.”

You blush as you look at him with dazed eyes, running little circles right around your puffy clit, coated in hot slick as it dribbles out of your panties. He swipes some of it on his fingers, studying it carefully, his tongue going to lap at it, moaning as the sweetness coats his tongue.

“Oh you’re t-tasting me,” it makes you needier, until you have to plunge two fingers inside your messy, quivering hole, that loud squelch echoing in your ears. He’s gripping your thigh with one hand bruising until you cry out.

“Fuck, so s-sorry… baby I hurt… y-you…”

“No, no, like it,” he moans and puts his hand back on your thigh, squeezing again so hard it aches. He's jerking his cock faster, whining out when he sees your slick fingers pull out of your panties. You press your cum soaked fingers to his lips and he eagerly wraps them around, sucking them off. “Toru…”

“So sweet, my pretty girlfriend,” his glasses fog up when he leans down, licking your inner thigh that is trembling, sliding higher until his tongue is on you – but it's not on your skin, it's on the soaked cotton of your panties.

“Fuck…” he moans as he gets those juices that are spilling through the fabric, his and squeezing his own cock as your thighs sit over his shoulders. 

“More, please,” you're tugging at his hair so hard it hurts, bucking up your hips for more. “I need you, please.”

“Such a needy girlfriend,” he murmurs, thumb circling his drooling tip, looking up at you with desperation in his pretty blue eyes. “You want me to lick it more for you?”

Your answer is a little nod, even having him lick you over your panties is more than you've ever had done, and fuck it feels good. Sinful as he trails a long, slow stripe over the fabric, the tip stopping right over your twitchy clit, his moan is muffled against the damp cotton.

“Toru!” He's lost in your scent, in that taste, the little hints of lace decorating your panties rough against his tongue, the sound is fucking filthy.

Satoru tugs those panties up more firmly, strings of gossamer saliva dripping and dissolving, peering up at you with flushed cheeks. “Like that, baby? Is this what you were thinking about instead of studying?”

Your only answer is to nod quickly, a jerky little motion as he sees those puffy lips just swallowing the damp material. He swipes his tongue over and over, the heat and wetness of his mouth making your entire body tremble. You feel it heating up, hearing the messy sounds of his own cock fucking his fist, wishing it were your throat instead.

"Oh god, Toru," you whimper out it so pathetically, your hands tangling in his soft white hair, fluffy and silky underneath your touch, trying to pull him closer, to shove his face where you need it. “Not enough, mnh!”

He chuckles against your puffy cunt, the vibration and the quick lave of his tongue have you on edge. Pulse racing as he had the audacity to tease you, landing a wet smack on your cunt that had you pathetic.

"Ah - ah," he clicks his tongue, catching your wrists in one of his stupidly large hands and pinning them against your waist, smirking at you in a way that's utterly not dirty at all. "No touching yet, sweetheart. I'm taking my time with you."

“Meanie,” he chuckles again, but you love it – feeling that strength as he grips you so tight. “My panties are ruined, Toru.”

“Mmm. Yes they are,” he tugs them again, looking at how wet the material is, just a pathetic little scrap of fabric with your juices pouring.

Instead of showing you mercy and moving them, he just presses them further against you again, tongue shoving that fabric until it's flush with your needy clit, you swear you can feel his tastebuds as that tongue drags through the fabric, pausing everywhere that has you jerking and honing in.

Like this nerdy boy is studying you.

Oh. He is.

He's methodical, almost clinical with his research of your needy, clothed cunt just separated by this pathetic little piece of fabric, his tongue pressing more firmly against your soppy lil hole. She is pulsing around nothing, torturous strokes, pressing his fingers up and down, you're hot and sticky underneath his touch.

“Toru!” Your wrists are still pinned, his cock forgotten even though it's dripping down onto the soft, plush rug below his knees. Satoru finds your clit again and looks up under snowy lashes, you watch the drips of slick connect with that wickedly long tongue.

“Mmm. I bet I could see myself inside you,” he whispers, you suck in a breath at that, as if he is measuring the distance of your entrance to your belly button, easing your wrists to tug up your top, nipping your puffy lips over the fabric. “Scientifically.”

“Then experiment, scientifically.” He chuckles like the little shit he is, finding your clit once more, a hand pressing where he imagines his cock would bulge out.

“You are so needy f'me, s'pretty like this,” his words slur as he wraps his plump lips around your twitchy clit, barely concealed and swollen underneath the cotton material that is dripping wet. He pulls it in his mouth and sucks it hard through your panties, humming against you.

You're aching, cunt filling his hungry mouth as your hands land back on his hair, his movements making you cry out and buck your hips against his mouth for more.

“So sweet right now, god, look at that…”

Satoru is so close to cumming when he grabs his cock at the base again, squeezing so goddamn hard – he could almost bet that if he felt your cunt without the fabric, he'd spurt his white ropes everywhere.

Make a mess of you.

“Mnh. You close, sweetheart?”

Your answer is a jerky little nod, as he keeps torturing you with this fucking barrier, his teeth grazing that tiny clit ever so lightly through the fabric, making you scream out, your head falling back. Your panties are absolutely ruined now, utterly transparent with your slick and his spit coating them, your sweet little cries rushing through his ears.

Satoru? Well, he laps at the mess he's making happily, his tongue coating the entire area in circles that deliberately avoid that spot until you're twitching, tears falling down your cheeks.

"Such a messy girl," he moans out those words, eyes black when they peek up at you, his voice husky as your slick clings to his lips. "Soaking these pretty little panties f’me.”

“Please, Toru… move ‘em please,” he smirks and decides to have mercy on you, tugging them to the side of one of your lips and exhaling, watching the slick drool and spill down. You gasp as the air hits your cunt, already aching and needy, the dampness making it a cool shock.

“Fuck, you're so pretty,” he murmurs, his cock just about to bust without his touch, he glides his tongue from your ass all the way to your clit, looking right up at you. “Is this what you were thinking of, hmm? My tongue inside you?”

“Your cock, too,” he chuckles against you, but just a couple more flicks has you close, as he spreads your cunt wide, studying your every expression.

“Look at that. My slutty little girlfriend.”

Satoru is trying his best to hold it together, but when his tongue glides into your gummy walls and they grip him, he's too far gone, slurping up every bit of the cum that just pours out. You shatter so damn pretty, squirting all over his face, dripping down his chin until it's glossy, his cock starts pulsing right with your hole, imagining her milking him.

“F-fuckk….”

“Toru, mnh! S'good I… please…” You’re overheated, body sensitive, it’s just not enough, even with his tongue lavishing every bit of your pussy.

Not enough.

“Please what, baby? Mnh,” he grips his veiny cock as he cums with his tongue on your clit, more of your mess drenching his throat, his face, his shirt. His white ropes coat his hand, lashes fluttering shut as he savors your jumping clit in his mouth, whining against you.

“Want your cock in my mouth, Toru please…” he exhales, breath making you jolt, looking up at you with a blush.

“I um…” he leans back on his knees and you see the mess, blushing at it. 

“I didn't touch you though…”

“Didn't need to,” he's clearly a little embarrassed, you take his cum soaked hand then – dripping white – and wrap your mouth around one of his thick fingers. “Oh fuck…”

You suck him right off, tasting that salty white substance and moaning as it hits your taste buds. Satoru pulls back and laps it off his own fingers, before kissing you right with it, the mess spilling between your mouths and dripping down.

Satoru Gojo – your nerdy boyfriend with an insane Digimon collection was a fucking freak, greedily drinking his own cum off your mouth.

You’re trembling when the door knocks, and you faintly remember that he has ordered you boba. He’s the epitome of a perfect boyfriend after that, considerate, caring, cleaning the little rivulets of your own release from your inner thighs – you’re stuck back on the opposite side of the bed, cuddling him and watching a movie.

Satoru even has the audacity to snore after, heavy body wrapping as you ache to get filled by him – at least the movie was so damn boring you drift off right next to him.

****

“I’m gonna die a virgin,” you mumble to Shoko and Utahime the next weekend, aside from more heated kisses and grinding on Satoru’s thigh after your well planned out dates – nothing.

You’re aching.

How much use could your rose toy really see!? And now you even have two more toys going along with it, though you doubt any of them are getting close to Satoru and how good he must feel. No ‘clit sucker’ could come close to what that nerdy little mouth could do.

“You look like you’re dying, girl, damn…” Utahime earns your glare. “Is it that bad?”

“He finally got me off and…” You blush now, unable to finish your sentence, remembering his tongue drinking up your juices.

“Does he know what a clit is?”

“Very much so, it was so good.”

They look surprised.

“You all have no clue, he really was,” Shoko laughs at that, leaning back and hitting the vape, handing it over to you. “No, no.”

“You need a smoke, sweets,” you grimace, brushing your hair back, pacing back and forth as the two girls watch you, snuggling with each other. “You’re pacing holes in the carpet.”

“I can’t handle this, I just… god I wanna suck his dick, is it so terrible? He hasn’t even let me touch it. I sound like a horny ass man, I hate it. I wanna respect him, I really do.”

“You wanna respect him with his cock in your throat?” Shoko finishes.

“Yes. I mean!? I will respect him without the cock in my mouth! You two are menaces.”

They’re laughing like the brats they are, blowing smoke in each other’s mouths, you damn near moan in frustration. Satoru’s gotten you off that one time, then since then he has gone right back to worshipping you in the sweet way he always did, as if you’ll what – forget about his tongue?

His stupidly long fingers…

The cum on your tongue that you lapped right off!?

The taste.

“Ugh -” you lean back and sink further into the couch. “I really am gonna die.”

“Can’t die, we’ve got that party tonight,” Utahime teases, kissing Shoko’s lips and giggling just a bit, you pout at the two of them.

In public Satoru would kiss your hand at best.

Where on earth even had that freak come from that spit his cum in your mouth last week!? He’s all gone again – the pocket protector wearing Nerd Gojo in his place, like some twin fucking took over for a minute.

“I can’t go to a party and get drunk, I’ll make a fool of myself around him, one drink and my pussy has a mind of its own…” You finally sit down, plopping back into the seat. “I feel like a pervert.”

“You are! Let’s just call you fucking pervy Sage.”

“Hey!” You glare at Utahime, Shoko is inhaling another puff of smoke, you cough just a bit. 

“Hah – Sanji from One-”

“Don’t even!? I’m not that bad,” you huff at her, frowning now. “I swear I'm not trying to be pervy. God, what is in this weed?”

“Hmm,” Shoko tugs Utahime on her lap. “I wonder if he's scared you'll like … bite his dick.”

“You're so fucking mean,” you cough a little more, eyes watering as you scowl at the two of them.

“Look slutty, like really slutty,” Shoko walks up now, tilting your chin up and crooking her lips up at the corner. “Something that screams – fuck me.”

“He licked my panties and didn’t even…”

“Really slutty,” Utahime agrees, tapping her chin. “Ooh! I know, I have the perfect outfit in mind, that little black dress of yours.”

“But it’s too small for me now! It’s from like high school, and thanks to you two cooking all the time, my hips-”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly what? Oh…”

You trail off now, realizing what everyone knew – that Satoru loves your hips, he grabbed on to them every chance he got, even when he was just a little bit shy.

“Okay…”

They kiss again in front of you, laughing a bit, making you lovesick for your man – your nerdy man who you wish would kiss you in that way, tongues all dripping. It’s not even fair.

“All lovey dovey, fuck you both.”

They’re so hot and rude laughing at you – you decide to just disappear, you don’t need your hot ass best friends making out in front of you when you’re already in pain from the constant edging from Satoru. You are rushing to your room and trying on outfit after outfit, before finally deciding on the exact fucking one they brought up.

You would look as sexy as you could and hopefully get your boyfriend to not be able to resist you.

But also you’ll respect his decision, dammit! You can wait as long as he wants to, even if you were absolutely gonna put your tits and ass out there for him. Looking in the mirror and touching up your lipstick, swiping a finger across your lower lip to smudge it just a tad.

“Oh damn you look hot, Sanji,” Utahime says when you come out.

“I am not Sanji.”

“You are.”

“Fuck you both!”

*****

Satoru can’t keep his damn eyes off you.

Fuck you’re pretty tonight.

That damn little black dress clinging to your skin is fucking ruining Satoru’s mind, brain short circuiting as the two of you navigate the insanely packed frat house, one of his hands on the small of your back protectively. People are all bumping into everyone, stumbling around, absolutely no chance he lets someone hurt you by accident.

Moreso, Satoru Gojo can’t get his fucking hands off you, no, he can feel your warmth right through the thin layer of cotton material, fingers splaying across it. He reminds himself in his head over and over just what a horrible thing it would be to fucking take your first time at a frat party, even as he has to adjust his cock, turning from you to face the wall for a moment.

“Everything okay, Toru?” You ask softly, hand on his back, he laughs, a fake and terrible attempt at being normal, turning right back around to you.

“Me!? Yes, yes. Do you need a drink, babydoll?” He asks.

The music kicks on as he speaks, and all you can see are his plump lips forming words, ringing from how damn loud they’re blaring the worst dance music known to man. “What!!”

“A drink!!”

“Huh?”

“A DRINK-”

The music pauses for just a minute, switching to something else but leaving multiple people to stare at Nerdy Gojo shouting.

You blink a bit at his shouting, he swears he’ll kill Suguru and Nanami for having the audacity to fucking laugh at him and his pain. Them smoking weed earlier and trying to give him every tip known to man on how to bury said tip right against that surely cute little cervix.

As if Satoru hadn’t studied extensively.

“Yes, please,” you smile all pretty, letting him guide you through, he just about loses it from the sheer amount of eyes locked onto you, gripping you just a little too tight, feeling the curve of those breedable hips underneath his fingertips.

Imagine having them bent over, his hands fit so perfect-

No, he can make it another night, a dumb frat party was not the time or place for something so precious as your first time. Even if you smell that good, and you’re dancing all over him, giggling, your ass brushing right against where his cock has tented his dark jeans.

Your drink in one hand, the other in his as he pulls you against him, for a nerdy boy, Gojo can absolutely move his body. You feel so goddamn good against him, with your waist in his grip now, his lips pressed against your ear – he can inhale that sweet scent you just naturally fucking have.

That’s when he realizes he’s about to cum if your ass rubs up on his cock one more damn time with those heels making you tall enough, he could bend you over and slide it right in. God he bets you’re so wet too.

Satoru has to pull back, making you blink just a bit in confusion, he downs the rest of his drink, smiling apologetically.

“Bathroom, sweetheart.”

“Oh, um… okay, want me to-”

Satoru runs the fuck off.

Maybe you’re doing too much, shit… you were absolutely grinding all up on Satoru because you were craving him so bad. You needed to give him more time! If the roles were reversed, you know he would, even if he may want to as badly as you do. Going to pour yourself a shot, you throw it back and let your eyes shut, sighing just a bit as it burns your throat.

You need to ease up and let Satoru take his time, even if you have to press your thighs together to resist the needy urge of rubbing your cunt on anything right now.

Maybe you are fucking Sanji.

*****

Satoru’s leaned back on the door, unzipping his pants and seeing his reddened cockhead, and just how fucking swollen it is. He’s jerking his cock desperately, whimpering out as the door gets knocked on, banged on in fact by fucking Sukuna of all people.

“Gotta take a piss man, stop jerking it.”

“I’m not!? I’m pissing right now – w-wait,” Satoru is jerking it of course, but how dare Sukuna call him out on it. Dickhead fratboy that he is, he’s chuckling outside of the door, but none of it is getting rid of Satoru’s throbbing erection.

He’s just way too needy, too sensitive, he can see his reflection in the mirror – those flushed pink cheeks. Sukuna thankfully fucks off, but Satoru can't even cum with just his hand, not when he knows your little fist would feel so much better, when your mouth and pussy would grip him.

No, Satoru is left tortured.

*****

You are alone for some time, concerned if he was somehow drunk or sick when the leader of the frat – the slutty ass, pink haired jock named Sukuna comes up to you, sipping his cup and flickering his red eyes up and down your face.

“Hmm, Gojo left you all alone?”

“And?” You scoff, rolling your eyes at him now, he smirks just a bit, leaning close. “He’s busy. Okay?”

“Mmm… yeah,” he peeks over his shoulder now, then looks right back down at you. “So.”

“So, what?”

He grins all big. “Wanna play beer pong?”

“Beer pong?”

“Mhm,” he tugs at a little lock of your hair. “Bet I stomp your ass at it. Look like such a good girl.”

“Hah you think I've never been to a party!?”

“Never seen you before aside from with your nerdy lover boy,” he pours you a drink now and inclines his head.

“I've partied, just… usually me and Toru are busy.”

He snorts at that.

So busy your boyfriend is jerking his cock in the bathroom.

“I see, so busy, huh?”

“Yes but…” you curse now, shaking your head. Satoru has been gone fifteen minutes and won't answer a text, a game of beer pong wouldn't hurt. “Fine then.”

It doesn’t take long until there is an entire gathering of people to watch you absolutely annihilate Ryomen Sukuna in beer pong, to the point he is fucking furious. You're landing the pong ball in every cup, decimating the entire frat at a certain point, giggling as you study them, down to the last shot, against Sukuna again.

“Beginners luck or some shit,” he’s fucking furious – you swear you see his vein ticking underneath his jaw.

Satoru is still not here.

You’re worried but you’re also enjoying the cheers, especially when you land that last one, giggling as the frat brothers who were talking all that shit about the nerdy girlfriend of Satoru moments before are now staring in disbelief. With one final, perfect arc, the ball splashes into the last cup. 

It really is beginner's luck.

But.

Also, fuck Sukuna.

"Damn, girl!" someone yells, and you take a little bow, rubbing it right in Sukuna’s face now, who is slamming down the rest of his beer.

Surely he drank enough to get annihilated – but somehow still standing just normal, big ass man has some insane tolerance because those eyes look completely aware.

"Guess I'm not such a good girl after all, huh?" you tease Sukuna, who's standing there looking down at you, setting the cup down and crushing it.

“Hmmm,” his red eyes dilate just a bit as he steps closer to you, suddenly making you feel just a bit nervous.

Satoru hates Sukuna.

It’s well known, since high school the two of them have been overcompetitive and absolutely insane against each other. He’d be fucking furious if he saw you anywhere near him at all. You peek and see him across the crowd then, getting a text from Shoko blinging on your phone.

He’s really mad.

He is.

You get another text now from Utahime, biting down on your lower lip.

Make him jealous and maybe you’ll get dicked down, Sanji.

“I’m not Sanji,” Sukuna raises a brow, lips twitching. “I’m not.”

“Sanji? Who the fuck is that?”

“One piece?”

“Nerd – hey, wait,” you’re turning and he grabs your wrist for just a moment. “Shit, I mean… you’re right, you’re not a good girl, huh?”

“I sure beat your ass,” you say, pausing when he reaches out, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they brush a stray piece of hair back from your face, rough knuckles brushing against your cheek for a second too long.

"You did, you're full of surprises, brat.”

“Brat? Whatever…”

You can feel Satoru’s eyes on you – you’d pull back, but part of you wonders if making him jealous would bring that freak out that spit cum in your mouth – maybe you are a brat. You sip your drink, remaining normal.

“I’m dating Satoru, you’re too close.”

“Would nerdy ass Satoru know what to do, how to handle your ass?” He taunts, your eyes narrow, his laugh echoing despite the music as your boyfriend starts shoving his way through. “Show you that digimon collection?”

“I’m very pleased, thank you.”

“You look like you need to get your attitude fucked right out of you,” your fingers itch to slap him now. “If he fucks up, you know where to find me.”

“No thank you, I- Toru!”

Satoru is between you and Sukuna, shoving him off and glaring right at him – perhaps the two tallest men at the party right face to face, Sukuna’s smirk making Satoru want to punch him.

“Why are you so close to my future wife?”

“Wife?” You blush and he glares at you.

“Yes, and baby momma – but you’re being a brat,” he whispers, Sukuna snorts at that.

“She is a brat.”

“You can’t call her that,” he shoves the big ass man and takes your hand now. “She has better shit to do than talk to you.”

“Aw, but we were having fun,” Satoru is dragging you away, you blink just a bit, almost scowling at Sukuna who blows you a kiss.

What a dick.

BUT.

Satoru is fuming, and he’s hot.

You’re so toxic!

“What’s wrong, Toru? I was just playing some beer pong,” you say all innocently, as he drags you past everyone, you’re struggling to keep up with his long strides. “Um… what’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong!? Hah,” he’s laughing, psychotic and feral like you turned on a switch in his brain, when he finally starts getting some privacy. “Everything.”

“I don’t get it…”

“He was hitting on you,” Satoru yanks you away in the center of the party, you barely bite back your giggle at how excited you are to see him this way, looking ever so serious when he glares down at you.

Maybe you are evil, loving how mad he is, how jealous he is when he presses you against the hallway wall on the other side of the party, you can feel the music humming through the walls, but not as fast as your heart is racing looking up at your blue eyed boyfriend. Blue eyed angry boyfriend.

This isn't sweet Satoru at all, no – he's completely fucking unhinged, his chest rising and falling with his quickened breaths, cupping your face and jerking your chin to look up at him.

“You think he was?” You ask softly, making him raise a brow. “I thought he was just… being nice?”

You make him laugh without humor now, thumb brushing across your lip. “Are you being bratty, sweetheart? Teasing me, making me jealous?”

“What? No,” you straight up fucking lie to his face, batting your lashes all innocent and cute, but you can tell my that little smirk he doesn’t buy any of it for shit right now.

“No?”

“No, I was just talking, Toru. Isn't that fine?” You trail your hands up his chest, wrapping your fingers around to hook behind his neck, tugging him down to face you. “It’s fine for me to make friends, isn’t it?”

“Not when he's looking at these pretty tits,” he cups one, making you suck in a breath – your needy boyfriend is never this bold. “They're not his to look at.”

“Oh?” You lean forward now, tip toeing as he leans low, thumb brushing over a nipple, making it perk up for his touch. “Are they yours? Yours to look at?”

He’s losing it, his pulse hammering behind his ears, in his wrists, everywhere was hammering, his mouth practically salivating as he cups that tit right where anyone can see, big hand squishing it. You gasp out at the sensation, your lashes fluttering closed, little whines mingling against his lips.

“Yes, mine, every inch of you is mine,” Satoru shakes his head now with a soft laugh. “He thought he could dance with you. Kiss your lips? Lips that are mine.”

“All yours,” you open your eyes and giggle again, earning his scowl. “Sorry you're just so cute like this.”

Satoru blinks.

“Oh, I’m cute?”

You go to press a kiss when he snatches you up in one swoop, you gasp and wrap your arms around his neck now. Thighs trembling as he carries you to some room he finds, stumbling you in and shoving you right against the door.

“You think I'm cute,” he presses his cock against your slick heat, slutty little panties practically ruined for him, grinding his cock until you're gasping out. “Well I think that you're a brat.”

You gasp. “Me?”

Two people calling you that.

Well… maybe you are.

“You are bratty, with those pretty fucking lips,” he's kissing you filthy, tongues dancing, saliva dripping between you both, easing you down so that you slide against his body achingly slow. “Maybe I should shut your bratty mouth up.”

Oh fuck.

“Yes please?” He glares at your big fucking grin. 

“On your knees then, sweetheart,” you so eagerly obey, he laughs softly, his heart hammering in his chest, a mix of being utterly furious, nervous about his first time, and dumbstruck by the sight of your heart eyes. “Look at you, bein’ such a good girl – but are you really that desperate to suck me?”

“Please yes,” you have no shame – all you want is Satoru’s cock deep and buried in the back of your throat. “If you want though! C-consent.”

“As if I haven’t wanted this for years,” he shakes his head and tilts your chin up, sighing. “I wanted to do it all perfect, to lick and kiss every inch, worship your body until you were writhing, so fucking needy for it.”

Satoru unclicks his belt, the metallic click hitting your ears. “Mnh… years?”

"Years," he repeats softly, unbuttoning his jeans entirely too slow for you, you go to move your hands and he halts them with a little smack, you bite down on your lip, aching. “Hands on your thighs, you’ll listen to me for once, since you’ve been driving me so fucking crazy.”

“Me, making you crazy, really,” you do as he says though – eagerly – palms on your thighs, he laughs a bit, the sound of his zipper lowering echoing in the room even with the reverberating walls.

“You know every time you drag that messy cunt on me it ruins me, right?” He draws out that word, sighing now. "Every time you wore those little skirts and bent over, every time you'd bite your lip while concentrating…”

Satoru drags a thumb down your lip now, achingly slow against the plumpness that moves underneath it, your teeth nip on his thumb teasingly, and then you let him push your mouth open.

“Open real wide, sweetheart,” you do just that, and he can’t help but whimper as he presses down on your tongue, as if he’s studying the recesses of your open, eager mouth. “Wider, can’t you? For me?”

You listen eagerly, opening wide and fucking obscene, your tongue out for any bit of him he wants to give you, core just aching.

“Fuck, I've imagined this exact moment."

Satoru won’t tell you just how long he has, either, he swallows – just a bit nervous now.

“Suck,” you suck his digits, slurping them and moaning around them, imagining his cock instead, loving how dominant he’s being. “Stop.”

You obey, making him raise a brow.

“You like me tellin’ you what to do? Is that why you got me so fucking mad, so jealous, to have you listen?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, as he shoves his jeans down, and the hard, thick length of his bugle strains against the thin fabric of his boxers. “Pokemon? You traitor!”

“I can’t wait to shut your mouth up tonight,” you giggle at that, Satoru sighs and frowns at them, brushing your hair back a bit. “They were a gift, okay?”

“I’ll buy you digimon ones.”

“God, you’re so perfect,” you’re still giggling, when he gently smacks your face – the lightest little touch that has you almost moaning. “Open up again, yeah? Be a good girl, baby.”

“Mmm, yes,” you nod your head, doing just as he says – the side of freaky Satoru you only saw hints of last week when he’d lavished your panties with his long tongue.

“You got me jealous on purpose, yeah? Wore that slutty outfit to fucking ruin me, wanted cock in your throat that bad? Got me fucking leaking so much… fuck…”

Your answer is to keep that mouth open, leaning forward as you lap your tongue along the damp spot where his pre cum has already soaked through, right over a traitorous yellow pikachu. You’ll make more fun of that later, right now he’s jerking his hips, hissing at the drag of your cute lil tongue on him.

“Fuck…” You’re teasing him just like he did you – licking and sucking his tip over the damp cotton of his boxers. “Act so sweet and you’re evil, shouldn’t feel that good through that… mmm…”

Satoru’s letting you suck around his fat cockhead, slurping every bit of his white cum from it, tongue lolling right along that slit over and over.

“Torturing me back?”

“Yep,” you lick your lips, making him sigh, shaking his head now.

“Go on then, take what’s all yours…" his voice is low, hoarse damn near as he for the very first time pulls his cock out, letting it spring free, slapping against his lower abdomen with a loud, wet smack. “Can you fit all of it?”

You knew he’d be big.

You didn’t know he’d be that big, with his jeans undone all slutty, his pokemon boxers shoved down – his cock is perfect, just the right amount of thick and entirely too fucking long, with a prominent pale blue vein running along the underside. You’re literally drooling as he strokes it right in front of you, the head flushed a deep, pretty pink as it leaks white.

You’re soaked, fucking ruined.

“I can.”

You cannot.

Maybe?

You will try!

“Go on then, sweetheart, lemme see how good you can take all of me,” he chuckles as you lean forward without hesitation, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the tip. “Teasin’ me more?”

You lap your tongue up, keeping your hands right where he asked you too, sliding underneath so you hit that frenum. His sharp inhale is met with his huge hand tugging in your hair so hard it hurts, pulling at the hairs on the nape of your neck.

“Fuck… greedy lil mouth,” he’s damn near slurring his words when you swirl your little tongue around the head, lapping up the salty taste of his cock underneath, brushing along that vein. He whimpers out when you wrap your lips around it and suck. “Oh my… f-fuck…”

Satoru loses it the first time you really suck his cock, his hand coming to rest on the back of your head, pushing you down further as his other hand rests on the doorway, beginning to move so that he’s choking you. You’re whining out, aching to touch your cunt so bad you slide your fingers down.

“So desperate,” he tuts his tongue, fucking your throat now, his cock slamming the back of it as tears spill. “B-baby, is this s’okay?”

You pull back as he does, with a wet, filthy pop, grinning. “I want it, all the way deep in my throat, Toru, I can take it.”

“You can take all of it in that tiny lil’ throat? When she’s this tight?” He whispers, your nod makes him glare now. “Have you done this?”

You blink a bit. “Yes?”

“Then I’ll fuck your throat so hard you’ll forget anything but me,” he takes you over now, slamming deep inside, you’re whimpering as one of his feet spread your thighs, and you’re soaking his black boot. “That’s it, rutting on my boot and taking cock like a little slut, hmm?”

“Mnhgh…” you’re done for, this is exactly what you needed, him railing your throat until you can’t think, until you’re gagging and tears are spilling.

“Look at me,” he orders softly, you do just that as he presses deep, sniffling as you try to take all of him, he hisses as he feels his tip stretching that tight throat, his Adam's apple bobbing. “You know I fucking love you? And respect you?”

You giggle around him and he glares.

“You have to know if I’m gonna say all this,” you pull back again, fingers all coated in your slick, gliding it along his sticky tip.

“I know you love me, Toru. I love you…” He sighs, touching your cheek. “I love you talking to me this way, you could be meaner.”

“Oh? Fuck my frustration on your throat?”

“Please?”

“You’re ruining me,” he mumbles, slamming right back inside, now that he knows you’re okay, he can lose control, see how much you can take, as you grind on that shoe, nails now pressing in the muscles of his thighs, jeans slipping down. “Want our first time to really be right against this door? Shove your slutty skirt up and ruin your cunt for fuckin’ anyone?”

God, Satoru’s sexy like this, fogged glasses and all.

Your answer is to take him all the way, your nose brushing against the white hair, the tufts of it tickling your nose, he’s stuttering now, unable to stop himself from fucking faster, harder, the wet sounds mixing with his whines. He doesn’t hold them back, either, every time he does he feels a fresh gush of wetness even over that leather, he can see it shimmering as he pulls back and slaps his cock on your mouth.

“Slutty girl, this all f’me, huh? Not that fucking loser downstairs?”

“All you.”

“Hold that tongue out,” you do just that, and Satoru slaps his tip on your tongue over and over, as you keep grinding on him. “Can’t believe you’re this much of a pretty little whore, god I thought you were a good girl?”

“Toru… please…”

“Please what?” You just keep rubbing. “Desperate, fuck… stand up.”

You can hardly do that when he helps you by tugging you up, spitting directly in your mouth, you swallow it greedily, earning his pathetic moan as he turns you, shoving you against that door. “Mnh!”

“Stop me before I fill all your fucking holes with cum,” he’s kissing down your neck, his glasses cool against your neck, whines escaping his lips as he shoves that slutty lil dress up the gentle curve of your hip. “All of them, I’ll have your cunt drippin’, your throat full, fuck that ass while I’m at it.”

“Mngh, please, please,” it’s all you can do but to arch.

“That needy?” He’s tugging your panties to the side, dragging his tip up and down over and over, moans escaping his lips when he bends down, turning your face to him. “First time in a frat house against a door? You’re so wet do I even need to finger you right now?”

“Already did,” you answered, he laughs, shaking his head and kissing you, rubbing even more, teasing your slit with the fat head of his cock until you’re weak, your thighs shaking. “Please, please….”

“Please what, fuck your cunt for the first time? That’s what you’ve been wanting, me to lose it, huh?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, teasing even more, mouth messy and mean as he bumps your clit, until you squirt right down his length, dripping all down the carpet.

Sukuna’s carpet – it’s his room you faintly notice, as you see the little pictures on the walls.

You wonder if Satoru meant that.

“Squirting already, haven’t even fucked you yet,” he pulls back and bends down, slamming his cock so deep you scream out, head falling back as he tugs your hair, making your ass arch out as he fills you. “Oh my g-god… baby…”

“Toru,” he lets you adjust to his thickness, the very first time your cunt has ever been filled – and this wasn’t how he wanted to do it.

He wanted to stretch you out – one finger, two, then three – but you’re so soaked you suck him right in. Such a tight, perfect fit he can hardly take it, bending down to press sweet kisses on your bare shoulders, easing back and shoving in again, taking your hand and placing it on your tummy, pressing so you feel it all.

“Feel me here?” He asks softly, desperately – worried for a moment with how tight you are that he’s hurt you, but your answer is to look back at him with those slutty, parted lips and dilated eyes, nodding. “Who’s inside you?”

“You, Toru.” you answer, cunt spasming as she’s already close, his body overtaking you, wrapping and tugging, shoving even deeper.

“Who’s first?”

“You.”

“Who’s gonna make this cunt stretch out?”

“Y-you and… ah!”

“Mine, mine… fuck you’re all mine,” Satoru gave you that minute to adjust, a last mercy before your nerdy boyfriend fucking loses his mind. “Mine, this pretty body, this perfect pussy… you… mine…”

“Yours,” you whisper it over and over as Satoru fucks your messy cunt, even though it’s hard to take, you’re so full it feels perfect, letting his hand wrap your throat, fingers pressing on either side of your windpipe. “Ah!”

“Hah – such a perfect fit, made f’me,” he’s fucking you so deep you feel him everywhere, cock gliding in and out of your sticky, gummy walls, fucking you so goddamn messy it's dripping down between your thighs. “B-babyyy…”

You arch for more when he pulls out of your cunt with a filthy squelch and you whine from the loss. “Back in, please…”

He lifts and carries you to the bed, thighs shoved wide, feral now as he shoves back inside and sees himself moving inside you. Every slick glide smoothing your puffy cervix, until she is bruised and aching, that dress shoved higher, panties tugged firmly to the side. He uses both to move in you, laughing as you gasp out, as your thighs tremble.

“Aw, is it too much, sweetheart? Too deep?”

Feral Satoru is here, mixed with sweet Toru, but his cock is anything but sweet – the way it stretches you out, fucking ruins you, pummels your cunt so deep you’re about to cum all over his length, already sensitive.

“Mhm!”

“Full of me?”

“Nghhhh…”

You don't know how the fuck else to answer, it all is entirely too much, the way he can see his cock print, his insane laugh, those blue eyes glittering with the frames fallen off. So blue it hurts to look at, eyes almost threatening to close.

“Nuh-uh, eyes on me, that's it,” Satoru keeps pumping into your cunt, leaning up to shove your thighs against your tits, smushing them as he fucks you dumb.

He knows it too.

“Can't think?”

“mmm, nnnhhh,” your answer is pathetic and just a babble really, as your nerdy, once virgin boyfriend pummels your messy, needy cunt until she's stuffed so full it hurts. Your nails pressing into biceps, digging in as he stretches your puffy lips on it.

“Can’t even fucking talk – already?” Your eyes roll back in your skull as his cock ruins your pussy, so deep you do feel him all over.

“Gonna pump you so full, hah will you finish college without me breeding your cunt?” Satoru Gojo is batshit insane, as he leans over you, bending you so that you're folded in half under his heavy weight. “What would you do then, hmm? If I breed your slutty cunt? Make you mine.”

“Want it, mmm,” you’re utterly fucking shameless about it, feeling his bruising grip, his cock getting creamy at the base as his heavy balls slap.

“Jerked it in the bathroom, had me so hard,” you bite down on your lip, gasps escaping your throat, eyes locked. “You love that, huh? Driving me insane, slutty dress, pretty body… god…”

He presses your thighs down enough to tug your tits out, gripping them and exhaling, thumbs brushing your nipples until they’re peaks.

"Look at you," he pants, "taking my cock so well, pretty girl. You’re just such a good little slut for me, aren't you?"

You can only moan in response, your body trembling as he hits that spot inside you that makes your vision go white, your answer is to grip his hips with your thighs, letting him cup your face, pumping you so full that you can feel it all over. Warm and hot when he whines out so pathetically in your ringing ears, slutty little moans falling from your lips.

“Takin’ all of it, god…” He kisses you even as you shatter, your cunt spasming all around his veiny length, milking him for every drop. “So fucking greedy. So needy.”

He leans down and captures your lips, spurts of cum still pouring, you can feel him twitching, nails pressing into the strong muscles of his back. “Toru… l-love… toru y-you…”

“Cock drunk, sweetheart?” He teases, like the menace he really is – but he also lovingly caresses your cheek. “You took me like you were made for me.”

“I did?” You’re so damn drunk off him you’re slurring your words, pussy achingly empty, feeling his cum slipping out.

“You did a very good job. Such a good girl.”

“Yay!”

Satoru snorts at you, shaking his head and peppering kisses, leaned up on an arm, his shirt half open, revealing the hard planes of his chest. “You’re s’cute… I wanted to take it easy your first time.”

“I loved it,” you admit, yawning now, peeking around the room. “Mmm, can we go home though?”

“Of course we will,” he kisses down your body though, breath ghosting your thighs, spreading them to watch the filthy mess of his cum pour out, groaning. “You’re wasting it all, baby.”

“Hmm? Ah!” Satoru scoops some of that mess up against his fingertips, shoving it right back inside your quivering hole. You’re gripping him tight, thighs clamping down on his hand, as he smirks. “Toru you’re… crazy…”

“Mmm, you really have no idea what I have wanted to do,” he clicks his tongue, pushing that cum deep again, watching your every expression. “Gonna keep you so full of cum it’ll drip everywhere.”

Satoru does not just fuck you once, no – he makes sure to bend you over in the backseat of his car, fucking cum back inside. Once you're at his house he is pumping ropes of cum on your tits, laughing at how messy you get coated in white, before spreading it all over your body.

Satoru fingers and fucks all that cum inside until you're a trembling mess in his arms, passing out and snoring.

“So funny you started all this but then couldn't keep up, hmm?” He teases softly, cleaning you up, cock sore from how you gripped him, how much he came. But even the sight of milky drops escaping your hole had him damn near twitching back to life, groaning against your skin.

*****

“Good morning,” your nerdy boyfriend is littered in pretty kiss marks, indentions of your teeth all down his neck, a loopy smile on his face as he stands there shirtless, glasses firmly back on.

“Oh! Good morning…” you thought you'd be the one to ruin Satoru Gojo, ride his cock till he whimpered and cried from overstimulation.

You had no clue he'd fuck you so good you couldn't sit up right without his help, cupping your face and leaning down to kiss your lips, tilting your chin up and smirking. You're a mess.

A pretty mess.

Hair fucked up, covered in fingerprints and hickies, taking the coffee he brings and sipping it, sighing as it hits your tongue. “Mmm… good morning.”

“Don't you look pretty in my bed?” He muses, smirking on his features. “I wonder what Sukuna thought of his bed covered in your squirt.”

A blush heats up your cheeks. “I didn't squirt that much!?!?!”

“You really did,” you shove him playfully, giggling then. “My cum too though.”

“You did it on purpose, his room!”

“Me? Never.”

Satoru absolutely did.

That's what Sukuna gets for hitting on his girlfriend, dried up cum all on his blankets – as if he could handle you ❤️

heheh i hope ya'll liked horny reader for a change!!!

Patreon -- comms

[angel444riley]

simon riley x reader

genre: fluff

you don’t like angry people.

it’s something you’ve been telling yourself for a while. growing up around nothing but anger and hate, it got to you. you don't like the feeling of being constantly having to look over your shoulder or walk on eggshells. it makes your nervous system go haywire every time.

so the first sense of that anger buried in someone, whether they noticed it or not, you scrammed. you don’t want to be a victim again.

you don’t like angry people.

but you stand in front of ghost, hands cupping his less than soft skin, thumbs gently caressing his cheekbones as you smile softly at him.

he looks at you like you’re his world, and you can’t imagine ever leaving him. you’d given him a chance, and he’d never take advantage of you. he promised.

you don’t like angry people.

so his anger is never directed at you.

you’re an open person, you talk a lot.

it’s something simon noticed about you immediately. he’s tried his best to avoid, but somehow got caught in your web.

or were you trapped in his?

you both believe that you were trapped by the other- not that either of you minded.

you don’t like angry people.

but when he kisses you at night, in the secrecy and warmth of your shared bedroom, it’s like everything melts away.

and when his calloused hands wrap around you, face buried into your curls, he relaxes. the way he hasn’t in… ever.

and he lets go.

feedback is appreciated. feel free to send requests/comment/reblog ! :)

[juicy-xoxo]

go drink some water

[porcelia]

impromptu girls' night in with true form sukuna as your boyfriend (*´▽｀*)

the girls’ night was supposed to have five people. instead, it has one person, one charcuterie board, four unopened sets of pink pyjamas, six nail polish bottles, three sheet masks, a bowl of strawberries, and sukuna standing in the doorway looking like he has discovered a new form of human weakness.

he takes in the fairy lights, the fuzzy headbands, the tiny skincare jars, the folded pyjamas patterned with little cherries, and the plate of cheese arranged into a flower. his mouth twists. “what ritual is this?”

you look up from your phone, where the last cancellation text is still glowing. “girls’ night.”

sukuna looks around the room again. there is a pause. “then where are the girls?”

you pick up a cube of cheese and eat it. “unavailable, so they said.”

his eyes narrow, not with pity, but with the particular irritation of a man who has just learned people were invited somewhere and failed to appreciate snacks. “fools,” he says.

“it’s fine,” you mumble quietly.

“the cheese has been arranged.”

“i know.”

“there are uniforms.”

“they’re matching pyjamas.”

he steps farther into the room, all towering muscle, markings, and four crossed arms. he looks deeply out of place among the pink blankets and pastel bottles, like a war god has been accidentally summoned into a sleepover commercial.

as he gets closer, you hold up a fuzzy pink headband with cat ears with a sulky look in your eyes. his eyes sharpen immediately. “no.”

“i didn’t even ask!”

“you were thinking it.”

“you don’t know that.”

“i know your face.”

that shuts you up for exactly three seconds. then you smile. sukuna’s expression darkens. he knows that smile, that smile usually means inconvenience. humiliation. something involving modern technology, glitter, or both.

“absolutely not,” he says.

“girls’ night needs at least two people.”

“i am not a girl.”

you shrug, unfazed. “honorary then.”

“dangerous words.”

“beloved honorary.”

your boyfriend pauses. you can see the exact moment the word beloved enters him like a poorly aimed arrow. his face does not change much, because sukuna’s expressions are generally variations of displeased, murderous, and bored enough to commit violence. but one of his lower hands uncrosses. then crosses again, like it has betrayed him.

“i will sit,” he says finally.

you beam, lighting up. “yay!”

“do not cheer.”

he sits on the floor because the couch is too small for him and because the last time he sat on it, one of the legs made a cracking noise so dramatic you both had to stare at it in silence. even seated, he looks absurdly massive, knees bent, shoulders broad, four arms arranged with terrible dignity.

you place the cat-ear headband on his head and sukuna goes still. the soft pink ears sit against his hair, one slightly crooked. you press both hands over your mouth. his eyes lift slowly to yours.

“choose survival,” he says. “because i’m warning you.”

a tiny sound escapes you. “you look beautiful, kitty.”

he tsks, a hilarious sound when he’s wearing cat eyes. “wrong.”

“handsome.”

his expression relaxes by one terrifying millimetre.

“handsomely beautiful,” you correct with exaggeration.

he considers that for a moment. “i suppose that’s acceptable.”

this is how sukuna becomes part of girls’ night. not willingly, exactly. but not unwillingly enough to leave.

you start with snacks because that is safest. sukuna inspects the charcuterie board like it is an enemy formation. he does not understand why the crackers are fanned out, why the grapes are still on the vine, why honey needs its own tiny spoon, or why cheese comes in so many unnecessary textures. he does, however, eat almost all of it.

“so you like brie?” you observe.

“i am judging it.”

“well you’ve 'judged' half the wheel.”

“i needed to be thorough.”

he reaches for another strawberry with one lower hand while his upper arms remain crossed, as though he is above the entire situation. the effect is ruined when he dips the strawberry into the chocolate sauce you bought for everyone and hums, very quietly.

you freeze. his gaze snaps to you. “what.”

you press your lips together. “nothing.”

“speak and regret it.”

"it's just," you clear your throat to not laugh, “you made a happy noise.”

“i made an evaluative noise. i'm evaluating.”

“a happy evaluative noise.”

he points the half-eaten strawberry at you. “continue this path and i will feed you the headband.”

you wisely move on to skincare. sukuna eyes the sheet mask packet with immediate suspicion. “that is wet.”

“yes.”

“and cold.”

you nod. “also yes.”

“and you put it on your face voluntarily for no reason.”

“for beauty.”

“your species deserves extinction.”

“your face is dry.”

“my face has survived centuries.”

“and now it can survive hyaluronic acid.”

he stares at you. you stare back. his cat-ear headband sits proudly on his head. eventually, with the resignation of a man accepting the worst curse known to mankind, he lowers his face.

the sheet mask does not fit him. not even close. you try very hard to make it work, smoothing it over sharp cheekbones and around his markings, but one side keeps peeling up and the mouth hole sits in a way that makes him look personally offended by hydration. you lean back to admire him.

sukuna sits motionless, enormous and monstrous and damply moisturised, pink cat ears perched above his scowl. you make a strangled noise.

“do not,” he says.

you have to turn around for a full ten seconds. when you face him again, he has used one hand to pick up a cracker and is trying to eat it around the face mask.

“sukuna!”

he pauses. the cracker is halfway to his mouth. “what now.”

“you can’t eat with the mask on!"

“watch me.”

“no, you’ll get serum on the cheese.”

he lowers the cracker slowly, looking more insulted by this than by any actual threat you have ever seen him receive. “your rules are tyrannical.”

after fifteen minutes, he removes the mask by peeling it off with two fingers and holding it away from himself like a slain creature. you tell him to pat in the serum. he raises all four hands.

“gently,” you warn.

he begins patting his face with the intensity of a warrior applying battle paint. slap. slap. slap. slap.

“stop!” you shriek, grabbing two wrists while laughing so hard you nearly fall into his lap. “you’re not supposed to fight the skincare.”

“you said pat.”

“not assault.”

“well, be more precise next time.”

you end up doing it for him. sukuna sits still as you kneel between his legs and gently pat serum into his face. his skin is warm beneath your fingers, smooth where you expected roughness. he allows you to touch his cheeks, his jaw, the bridge of his nose. allows, because everything with sukuna is permission disguised as endurance.

he complains the entire time. sort of.

“this is inefficient,” he says, while lowering his head so you can reach better.

“your hands are cold,” he says, while one of his own settles at your waist to keep you steady.

“humans invented too many liquids,” he says, while his thumb absently strokes your side.

you pretend not to notice. he pretends not to be pleased. next comes nail polish. this is where girls’ night becomes a military operation.

sukuna has twenty nails. twenty. you realise this at the exact same time he does. you look at his hands. he looks at his hands. then he looks at you.

“no.”

“yes.”

“ten.”

“twenty.”

“five.”

you raise an eyebrow. “that’s even worse.”

“one.”

“twenty, sukuna.”

he mutters something old and ugly under his breath because he stands no chance against you, never has and never will.

you hold up the polish options: baby pink, pearly white, cherry red, shimmery lilac, peach gloss, and glitter. he points to red immediately, almost horrified with every other option.

“of course,” you say, "red for the big bad scary man."

“it is the only respectable colour.”

you shrug. “the glitter would have been nice. brings out your eyes.”

you paint his first hand with exaggerated care. his fingers are long, thick, deadly. his nails are dark and sharp, and the glossy red spreads over them so beautifully that you gasp before you can stop yourself.

sukuna’s eyes flick to you. “what.”

“baby, you’re serving.”

“serving what.”

you giggle. “don’t worry about it.”

“i will worry about anything said in my presence.”

“i' meant you look good.”

“obviously.” he says it like arrogance, but two of his hands shift a little closer to you, ready for their turn.

it takes longer than expected because he keeps forgetting his nails are wet. he reaches for a grape. you hiss. he freezes. he scratches at his jaw. you shout his name. he stops with all four hands suspended in the air, looking deeply inconvenienced by beauty.

“this is ridiculous,” he says.

“you agreed.”

you blow gently across his nails to dry them. he goes quiet. very quiet. you look up. he is watching your mouth with an expression so focused it almost makes you forget he has pink cat ears on. almost.

“don’t make that face,” you say.

“what face?”

“the face like you’re about to be inappropriate during nail care.”

he snorts. “then do not breathe on me.”

“i’m drying the polish,” you say. “it’s necessary. you’re so dramatic.”

“you are holding my hand hostage.”

“all four of them, actually.”

his gaze drops to where your fingers cradle one of his palms. for a moment, he says nothing. then he offers you the next hand. “continue.”

by the time you finish all twenty nails, sukuna looks devastating. annoyingly devastating. the glossy red suits him too well. regal, sharp, almost obscene against the black markings and thick veins of his hands. you add glitter to one nail on each hand while he is distracted eating another strawberry. he notices three seconds later.

“what is this.”

“an accent nail.”

“remove it.”

“no.”

he lifts one hand toward the fairy lights, watching the glitter catch in the light. there's a silence for a long moment as he stares.

you smile slowly. “you like it.”

“i am assessing.”

“you like it.”

“i am assessing favourably.”

“that means you like it.”

“your vocabulary lacks nuance.”

you add glitter to the other three hands. he lets you. then comes lip gloss. you do not originally intend to involve him. you only pick up the tube for yourself, swipe the soft pink gloss over your lips, and press them together.

sukuna watches. you notice. he looks away too late.

“want some?”

“no.”

“it’s strawberry.”

“i am not a child.”

“you ate the strawberry chocolate sauce with a tiny spoon.”

you hold up the gloss wand. he leans back slightly. not out of fear. out of dignity trying to escape. you follow. he stares. you smile. eventually, very slowly, he lowers his chin.

“one layer,” he says.

you apply the gloss carefully. it is ridiculous. it is perfect. sukuna’s mouth, usually cruel and sharp and used to saying terrible things, now shines faintly pink under your living room lights. he looks like violence dressed for a sleepover.

you stare. he narrows his eyes. “what.”

“pretty.”

“choose another word.”

you think. “glossy.”

“worse.”

“kissable.”

that shuts him up. very briefly. then he leans closer, eyes dark with challenge. “then test it.”

you almost fall for it. almost. instead, you press one finger to his chest.

“no. you’ll ruin the gloss.”

he looks genuinely offended. “you decorated me and now deny inspection?”

“you can inspect later.”

“unacceptable.”

“girls’ night rule.”

“i hate girls’ night.”

“you love girls’ night," you say. "you want to marry girls' night."

he growls. he is still wearing the cat ears.

you take twelve photos. he allows one officially and eleven accidentally because his nails are wet and he cannot snatch your phone without risking the manicure. this may be the most powerful you have ever felt.

in the first photo, he looks furious. in the second, he looks furious but moisturised. in the third, he is holding a strawberry with two fingers, nails red, glitter flashing. in the fourth, you lean into frame grinning while sukuna stares at the camera like he plans to curse the lens. in the fifth, he is definitely looking at you instead of the camera.

you save that one twice.

“delete them,” he says.

“no.”

“i will destroy the device.”

“your nails are wet.”

his eyes narrow. you watch him remember his own imprisonment.

“this power has corrupted you,” he says.

when the polish finally dries, sukuna inspects his hands with what he clearly believes is detached indifference. he turns one wrist. then another. flexes his fingers slightly. watches the red catch beneath the fairy lights. you sit beside him, chin in your hand.

“well? what do you think?” you lean in. “do you love them?”

“they’re adequate. they will do.”

you laugh softly. “for your next conquest?”

“for my next girls’ night.”

you gasp. he freezes. you freeze. slowly, sukuna looks at you. “i misspoke.”

“no take-backs,” you sing happily.

“i said nothing.”

“you said next girls’ night.”

“that was an auditory hallucination.”

“you want another one,” you continue you tease with a smile.

you have always been his weakness so sukuna only sighs. “next time, i want better cheese. and i want black polish.”

you grin so hard your cheeks hurt. he scowls down at you, pink gloss still shining faintly on his mouth, red nails resting at your waist, cat ears sitting proudly askew.

“do not look so pleased,” he says.

“you’re my best girls’ night guest.”

“i am your only girls’ night guest.”

“and somehow the prettiest.”

his scowl deepens. his arms tighten. his thumb strokes once over your hip.

“flattery will not save you.”

“from what?”

he looks at your glossy mouth. then back at your eyes.

“inspection.”

you laugh, but he is already leaning in, careful of his nails and completely uncaring about the lip gloss now.

by the end of the night, the fruit board is destroyed, the cheese is gone, four pyjama sets remain untouched, your phone is full of blackmail photos, and sukuna has strawberry gloss smeared at the corner of his mouth. he insists he hated every second. he also asks, with great seriousness, where one purchases black glitter polish.

you do not tease him.

much.

[indiewritesxoxo]

BREAKING NEWS!

NOW REPORTING...LOCAL GIRL FUCKED MOTHMAN?

synopsis: sent to get the scoop on a strange cult popping up in a small city near you, you're surprised to discover the (moth)man behind it has more than just charm hiding behind his sly smile. but debunking the local cryptid sightings will be harder than you thought when you're sharing a bed with him!

pairing: mothman!Geto x journalist!Reader

content: mdni, smut and fluff and angst, reader is an investigative journalist, cult leader!geto in a different font lol, cryptid!Geto (he has wings), brat taming, hate sex, oral (m! receiving), fingering, unprotected piv sex, recording during sex, (is it too freaky if I add oviposition LMFAO), fights and making up, reader is a bit bitchy at times, slightly unbalanced power dynamics, blackmail, more tags to be added!

cryptid columns

one | two | three | four

five | six | seven | eight

nine | ten | eleven | twelve

[yenayaps]

controller | sukuna x f!reader

Summary: Working as Wasuke Itadori's personal assistant wasn't all that bad. You got paid well, the hours were reasonable, he wasn't a complete asshole like most CEO's were. But there was a catch, and it came in the form of his charismatic son that trouble always seemed to follow. Or maybe he was the problem? Just don't say you weren't warned about him.

genre: modern au, 18+, forbidden romance (?), smut, angst, fluff, crack & all that good stuff

warnings: explicit smut, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of drug and alcohol use, profanity, mentions of blood and violence, attempted violence towards reader, sukuna brought a knife to the function (non sexual), explicit smut, cunnilingus, marathon sex, rough sex, overstimulation, mentions of whipping, degradation, creampie, spit kink, a couple threats here and there, use of sex toys, narcissistic parental abuse, terminal illness, death/loss of a parent, slight mention of body obsession, toxic family dynamics, masochism, slightly toxic relationship

wc: 89.5k (on going)

Ko-fi link if you're feeling generous and wanted to show extra support ❤️

playlist

prologue

one: menace

two: attack dog

three: casino royale part one

four: casino royale part two

five: never again

six: i like the way you kiss me

seven: tamed

eight: failed attempts

nine: the only gift

ten: new year, same man

eleven: slow dancing in a burning room

twelve: make it work

thirteen: the sun part one

fourteen: the sun part two

fifteen: i can save us

sixteen: sweet little lies

seventeen: ceaseless

eighteen: that’s slander!

nineteen: surrender

twenty: passing the torch

head canons

mini dive on sukuna & readers relationship (ch. 16+)

notes: i will be doing a taglist for the first chapter of this cute lil romance story! so lmk if you'd like to be added to that <3 it should be coming out sometime within the next month

[willowsslove]

What The Hell? I've Been Isekai'd Into A Tumblr Fic. (Sukuna x Reader)

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Chap 3 ─ ˖᯽ ݁˖·

⁺˚⋆｡°✩ Summary ✩°｡⋆˚⁺

You get isekai'd into a Tumlbr fic of your favourite character, Sukuna. Yay! You get to join his harem of concubines and get bent like a pretzel. Only problem is...he's not interested.

It's time to change that.

‎‧₊˚✧ Warnings ✧˚₊‧

There will be some boning at some point so....18+, MDNI, lots of swearing, nudity, titty stuff.

(More warnings when there's something to actually warn you about)

‧₊˚✧ Word Count ✧˚₊‧

3k+.

˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Previous Chapter ─ ˖᯽ ݁˖·

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨Masterlist୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

You knew catching Sukuna’s eye would be easier said than done.

The man treated anything that wasn’t blood, battle, or casual mass murder like it was beneath his divine notice. Getting close to him felt less like seduction, and more like a military campaign with terrible odds.

But still, you waited....and watched...and planned. And finally, an opening appeared.

Lord Sukuna was obsessive about his hygiene. Every night he spent at least an hour in his private bath, attendants scrubbing at every inch of that massive, tattooed body until he gleamed like polished bronze.

You cornered one of those lucky attendants in a narrow corridor, an unassuming man with shaky hands and the nervous energy of a rabbit in a wolf den.

“Lord S-Sukuna personally chose each attendant” the man stuttered, back pressed flat to the wall. You had him caged, one palm planted beside his head, the other on your hip. You’d even made him squat a little so you could loom over him for maximum effect.

He swallowed hard, almost sounding like a frog, voice strangled as he squeaked out. “He’ll be furious if anyone else enters his chambers without permission.”

You rolled your eyes, then pinned him with another sweet smile. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll take full responsibility, okay?” You reached up and gently patted his head. He flinched at first, then slowly melted under the touch like a tense cat. “So just leave everything to me. Worst case, I’ll tell him I knocked you out cold, hit you with a rock like bam! Whatever sounds believable.”

His wide eyes glistened with something between awe and terror. “You might die” he breathed.

You shrugged, still petting him like a good boy.

“Get dick or die trying, you know... put that in my eulogy." The words left your mouth with attempted gravitas, but landed like a wet fart. The attendant’s face flushed crimson, he suddenly couldn’t meet your gaze, staring fixedly at the floor between your feet instead.

“Anyway” you continued, thoroughly pleased with yourself, “you know the plan. After he’s settled in the bath, you slip out quietly. Leave the door open just a crack for me. Got it?”

He gave a tiny, jerky nod, eyes still glued to the ground.

You grinned and gave his head one last affectionate pat before spinning on your heel. “Good boy. Don’t worry, I’ve got this.”

With that, you sauntered off down the corridor, silky layers swishing around you , already mentally picking out the dirtiest, most scandalous Heian-era underwear you could find.

Because if Sukuna thought physical indulgence was a weakness, you were about to become the most tempting, most infuriating weakness he’d ever encountered.

...

Twenty minutes later you're crouched outside his private bathing chamber, your heart hammering. Steam curled from beneath the sliding door like smoke from a dragon’s lair. The faint sound of water lapping against wood drifted out to you, followed by the low, rhythmic scrub of cloths over skin.

The attendant had done his part. The door sat open, just a finger’s width, but enough for you to peek in.

You took one deep, steadying breath, adjusted the scandalously loose robe you’d thrown on, and pushed the door open.

Hot, fragrant steam rolled over you in a thick wave, a scent you'd smelt on him in passing, something so unmistakably him.

The bath was enormous, carved from stone and sunk into the floor, steam rising into the air in lazy spirals. The lanterns that lined the wall cast a golden light across wet muscle and black tattoos that seemed to shift and breathe with every movement.

Sukuna lounged against the far edge, four arms draped casually over the stone rim, pink hair damp and clinging to his neck. Water beaded and slid down the hard planes of his chest, tracing every delicious ridge of muscle. The abdominal mouth sat half-submerged, occasionally licking droplets from the surface with lazy flicks of its tongue.

He hadn’t noticed you... yet.

You stepped fully inside, bare feet silent on the warm stone. The door slid shut behind you with a soft, final click that was far too loud in the steamy hush.

Heart hammering, you moved quickly, slipping behind him before common sense could catch up. A wide wooden ladle rested on the bath’s edge, which you scooped up and dipped into the water. With a shaky hand, you tipped it slowly across the broad, hardened planes of his back and shoulders.

If he suspected anything amiss, he gave no sign. His eyes remained closed, only the slightest roll of powerful shoulders, the slow tilt of his head from side to side as he stretched the thick column of his neck. Muscle bunched and released under glistening skin, black markings shifted like living shadows with every subtle movement.

The sight was delicious, obscene in its clarity. Your mouth watered so fast you nearly choked on it, drool threatened at the corner of your lips. You swallowed hard, thighs pressing together beneath the loose robe.

“Don’t just stand there...” he growled, voice low and rough, head still tilted back against the stone rim. “Do your job.”

You snatched up the washcloth, nerves jangled. Starting at his shoulders, you began scrubbing in slow, indulgent circles. Your hands quickly grew bolder, fingers pressing into every dip and valley of hard muscle. The cloth slipped lower, gliding over the broad expanse of his back, then around to his chest.

You leaned in closer, subtly pressing your body against his shoulders, face hovering just shy of his throat. The scent of him, warm skin, salt, and something metallic and dangerously addictive, flooded your senses. For a while you kept up the pretense, cloth moving in lazy strokes.

Then the washcloth slid from your fingers entirely, sinking forgotten into the water.

Your bare hands took over.

Greedy, hungry fingers, spread wide as they roamed across his chest, thumbs brushing deliberately over dusky nipples. You caught the tight buds just right and earned the smallest hitch in his breath.

His eyes snapped open, his head turning sharply, those four crimson slits locked onto your salacious, shit-eating grin.

“Good evening, Lord Sukuna” you purred, voice dripping honey and pure trouble.

He jolted, the bathwater sloshing violently over the rim, splashing across the stone floor.

“What are you doing in here?”

You let the loose robe slip from one shoulder, the silk whispering down, baring the elegant curve of your collarbone and the soft swell of one breast. His eyes dropped to follow the movement, lingering there, before snapping back up to your face.

“Well...” you continued, voice low and thick with challenge, “I heard the King of Curses likes to keep things… clean.”

A single drop of water fell from the wet tips of his pink hair, sliding down the hard line of his shoulder and catching the lantern light like liquid gold.

One clawed hand tightened on the rim of the bath until the stone creaked.

The abdominal mouth parted with a wet sound, the thick tongue slid out, tasting the suddenly heavier, steam-thickened air.

Sukuna’s upper lip curled, a slightly malevolent smile gracing his face.

“You really do have a death wish” he rumbled, the deep vibration rolled straight through your ribs and shot lightning south between your legs.

You didn’t retreat. Instead, your hand slipped a little lower, fingertips just teasing the surface of the water.

“Maybe...” you breathed, letting the robe slide another dangerous inch. “But I’m betting even you can’t ignore an offer like this when it walks in willing and half-naked.”

He let loose a low, growled warning, carmine eyes flicking down to track your hand as it dipped beneath the water.

The tongue on his stomach found your fingers first.

The sensation was bizarre, filthy and electrifying all at once. It was thick, hot, and far too dexterous, flicking across your fingertips, pressing between them like it wanted to lick every trace of your hand clean.

You gave a breathless laugh, leaning further over him, breasts pressing firmly against his broad shoulders as both arms wrapped loosely around his head.

The tongue continued its lazy, thorough exploration, curling, lapping, and sliding slick between your digits.

You shuddered hard, a soft, involuntary moan slipping from your lips before you could stop it.

“God, you’re fucking sexy” you whispered, turning your face to press an open-mouthed kiss against the hard angle of his jaw.

He shifted beneath you, almost imperceptibly at first, then more deliberately. His massive frame arched just slightly into your touch while that relentless tongue lavished attention on your fingers.

You wondered, delirious on your own bravery, how far he would actually let you go tonight.

One clawed hand rose from the water, dripping, hovering inches from your throat as if deciding whether to push you away… or drag you closer.

Those thick fingers wrapped around the back of your neck, skin as hot as forged iron. He pressed you harder against him, tilting his head to the side to give you more room, his eyes slipping shut with a low, reluctant rumble that vibrated straight through his chest into yours.

You giggled, a high, breathless, completely unhinged sound, before pressing sloppy, open-mouthed kisses along the heated column of his throat. Your teeth grazed his skin as bit down just enough to dimple the flesh, sucking hard enough to leave a dark mark blooming on the King of Curses like a brand. The thought sent a wild thrill racing down your spine. You...marking him.

Your hand finally slipped lower, greedy and impatient for more, expecting nothing but smooth, unadulterated skin and hard muscle.

Instead, your fingers met the sodden hem of fabric.

You pulled back, lifting your head from his neck with an outright foul look twisting your face.

“Why the hell are you wearing pants in the bath?” you grumbled, voice thick with frustration.

His eyes fluttered open, the usual sharp crimson softened into something almost hazy. You’d never imagined seeing the Sukuna like this, all pliable and little undone beneath your hands. The realization made you stupidly giddy, a manic little laugh bubbling up before you could swallow it.

“That’s how one bathes” he muttered, voice rough.

You huffed, then lowered your mouth again and bit down particularly hard on the same spot. The shudder that ripped through his massive frame was downright delicious. “Could you stand for me, My Lord?” you asked sweetly, the title dripping with mock obedience.

He hesitated, just for a heartbeat, before rising slowly from the water.

It was obscene.

Water cascaded down four powerful arms and the carved lines of his torso, highlighting every cut of muscle, every shifting mark. Droplets clung the sharp V of his hips, the sopping fabric of his pants clung shamelessly to the obvious, hardening bulge beneath, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.

You gently urged him to sit on the wide stone edge of the bath, hands sliding over wet skin. Your eyes zeroed in on that straining outline with zero shame.

You let your own robe slip from your shoulders entirely, the silk whispering to pool at your feet. You stood completely bare before him, skin still flushed from the steam and excitement, enhanced curves on full display.

Sukuna’s gaze roved over you like a physical touch, dragging slowly from the apex of your thighs, up the soft dip of your waist, lingering on the hardened peaks of your nipples, then higher to the line of your shoulders and the messy fall of your hair. Those four eyes felt scorching.

You stepped into the bath with him, warm water rising up to your knees with a gentle splash, this small shift in power felt electric. He watched you now, like you were the predator, not the other way around.

You moved closer, hips swaying with every careful step through the water, one hand reaching out to trace the waistband of his drenched pants, teasing the edge where fabric met skin.

“These...” you murmured, voice low and powerful, “are in my way.”

He growled, but there was no real heat behind the threat. His thighs parted just slightly as you pressed between them, water lapping at your waist now.

The abdominal mouth hovered near your stomach, tongue flicking out to taste the air between you with hungry curiosity.

Your fingers hooked into the wet fabric and tugged experimentally.

Sukuna’s hand shot out, catching your wrist in a grip that was firm but not crushing.

For one suspended second, the only sounds were the gentle lap of water and the heavy rhythm of your breathing.

His four eyes bored into yours, pupils blown wide.

“You push too far, little concubine” he rumbled, voice vibrating through the steam.

You leaned in until your lips brushed the shell of his ear, breasts pressing against his chest, nipples grazing wet skin.

“Then stop me” you whispered, nipping at his earlobe. “Or… help me take them off.”

The tension in the air crackled like lightning ready to strike, his grip on your wrist tightened, and the mouth on his stomach licked a slow, deliberate stripe along your ribs.

You gave his ear one last salacious flick with your tongue, tasting salt and skin. Then you sank lower, dragging yourself down his body inch by inch while those four cerise eyes tracked every movement.

Finally, you found yourself knelt between his thick, powerful thighs. The heat rolled off him in waves, rivalling the steaming bathwater. Your hands grasped the soaked waistband of his pants and tugged. With a minor, almost lazy shift of his hips, the fabric peeled down, clinging stubbornly to wet skin before finally giving way. You yanked them free.

One cock sprang out, heavy and proud.

Then a second followed right behind it.

You sat back hard on your heels, water sloshing violently around you.

“Bah!” The sound tore out of you, a loud, startled, downright undignified sound that echoed around the room. “What the fuck...there’s two?! Why is there two?!”

Your voice cracked so high you were certain half the pavilion had heard the scream. It echoed off the stone walls like a startled chicken in a cathedral.

Sukuna had the absolute audacity to look offended. With a deep huff rumbled from his chest, he turned his face away, the sharp lines of his cheeks flushing a shade that nearly matched his crimson eyes. “There’s supposed to be.”

“Uh, I think the fuck there ain’t!” you hissed, trying, and failing spectacularly, to stop yourself from glancing down at them.

They were… pretty. Ridiculously, unfairly pretty. Thick and perfectly curved, ruddy at their flushed tips, veins decorating the shafts like they’d been carved by some perfectly perverted artist.

If someone had asked you to draw the ideal cock, these two bastards would have been the reference material.

“Well, what do you have?” Sukuna asked, voice dripping with dry curiosity as he glanced pointedly down at your crotch, like he expected you to whip out twins of your own.

“One” you grouched, instinctively covering yourself with one hand. “I have one. A normal, single, perfectly respectable one.” You stared at the pair bobbing gently in the water between you. “Where the fuck am I even gonna put the other one?”

The thought alone made your brain short-circuit. You’d never done butt stuff, and the idea had always seemed like a one-way ticket to pain and regret.

“Butt?” Sukuna seemed to echo your thoughts aloud, one brow arching.

“I’ll cut your cock off, both of them, if you put either anywhere near my poop shoot” you snapped, eyes narrowing.

He looked offended again, those vermillion eyes skated off to the corner of the room while a distinctly petulant pout tugged at his lips. Now that was a picture, The King of Curses, pouting because you’d threatened his dicks.

You dragged a hand down your face, water dripping from your fingers. “I’ll think of something” you muttered, flapping a flippant hand like you were negotiating takeout options instead of figuring out how to handle double demon dick.

You repositioned yourself between his thighs, knees sliding on the smooth stone floor of the bath.

The two cocks twitched under your gaze, already glistening with water and something else. The abdominal mouth hovered just above them, tongue flicking out occasionally like it was offering unhelpful advice.

You reached forward again, slower this time, wrapping one hand around the base of the first. Your fingers barely met, the second rested hot and insistent against the back of your hand. Both pulsed under your touch.

Sukuna’s breath hitched, a sharp, barely audible suck of air, but you caught it.

“Two of you” you whispered. “This is either the best night of my life or I’m about to need a wheelchair and a doctor.”

One of his clawed hands came down, threading through your quickly dampening hair. He did not push or pull, just rested it there with surprising gentleness, the touch sending sparks racing down your spine.

“Still think you can handle me, little concubine?” he rumbled, voice low and rough, four eyes half-lidded as he watched you.

You looked up at him through damp lashes, a wild, manic grin spreading across your face despite the sheer logistical nightmare between his legs.

“Watch me try” you breathed.

Your thumb brushed over the slick head of the first cock, slow and teasing. The second jerked against your wrist in response, Sukuna’s grip in your hair tightened just enough to sting.

This was going to be fun.

You leaned in closer, breath ghosting over the flushed, sensitive tip. It jerked sharply in response, as if desperate to leap toward your mouth.

Sukuna’s four eyes stayed locked on you, half-lidded and burning, lips parted around heavy, ragged puffs of air that stirred the thick steam swirling between you.

“Tell me what you want” you purred, voice low and velvety smooth. Your hand dragged slowly up the thick shaft, squeezing just a little. A shaky exhale tore from his chest as his head tipped back the smallest fraction, jaw clenching so hard the muscle stood out in sharp relief.

“I’m just… so innocent” you murmured, fluttering your lashes like a demure little flower while your thumb teased the slick slit at the head.

“Don’t” he growled out in warning, the word rough and strained.

You fought down the wicked smirk threatening to break free and tilted your head with coy, feigned ignorance instead. Another slow, slick pump of your fist, thumb circling the sensitive head, pressing lightly into the slit.

His hips twitched upwards, hard, one powerful thigh spread wider, opening up for you like an invitation. Both hands gripped the edge of the bath until the stone creaked under his fingers, claws pressing divots into the stone.

“My Lord…” you hummed sweetly, finally pressing your lips to the hot length. You dragged them slowly upward, peppering wet, open-mouthed kisses along every veined inch. “Do you want me to rub?”

His breath hitched again, the hand tangled in your hair tightening by a fraction like a silent, desperate plea for more.

You weren’t satisfied, you wanted words.

“Or maybe… just lick?” You dragged your tongue in one long, filthy stripe from root to tip along the sensitive underside. A pained, guttural groan ripped from his throat. His head finally fell all the way back, throat bobbing as he swallowed, the sight sending a thrill straight down between your legs.

“Or would you like me to suck on you?” you whispered right against the glistening mushroom tip, lips teasingly brushing the swollen head. Pre-cum coated your mouth like a shiny, sticky gloss.

His head snapped back down, mouth falling open, breath coming in shaky bursts. You parted your lips, took just the tip inside, and gave it one slow, gentle suck before pulling off with a wet, lascivious drag of your plush lips.

“Fuck” he hissed, the muscles of his stomach flexing hard, rippling beautifully under the black markings, the mouth there opening and closing with a smack of its lips.

You stroked him again, almost moaning yourself when another thick bead of pre-cum slid slowly down the underside, glistening like an opalescent pearl in the lantern light. “Do something, you damned temptress.”

“My Lord!” you gasped, feigning deep hurt. You pulled your hands away completely and folded them primly in your lap, looking as innocent and contrite as a scandalised maiden. “I’m sorry. Should I leave?”

“No!” The word burst out almost like a yelp. His hand flew from your hair to the nape of your neck, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise.

Those flaming crimson eyes bored into you, irritation barely leashed behind barely restrained hunger. His mouth pressed into a tight line as he forced the words out through gritted teeth. “Don’t leave. Just…”

“Suck?” you offered brightly.

His spine snapped ramrod straight at your blunt word.

“Lick?” You tilted your head once more.

“Just… do something” he finally ground out, but it came dangerously close to a whine.

You didn’t give him a single second to rethink it.

Like some possessed serpent, you opened wide and took him in as deep as your throat would allow. Almost immediately, you realised you'd been overconfident.

Your throat convulsed around the thick head as it pressed against the back of your mouth. A soft gag shuddered through you, your jaw already aching from the brutal stretch.

Above you, Sukuna nearly howled. He leaned back heavily on two of his four arms, head thrown back, the filthiest, most broken groan ripping free from his chest.

The hand on your nape pressed you down just a little further before he caught himself. The grip softened almost immediately, resting heavy and warm against your neck like a gentle weight.

You began bobbing eagerly, tongue plastered flat to the underside, pressing and curling to mold around every ridge and throbbing vein. He tasted salty and warm, with the faintest floral tang of the bath oils clinging to his skin. You hummed around him in pure, shameless enjoyment.

Your other hand reached up, wrapping around the second cock, stroking it in perfect rhythm with your mouth. When you glanced up through damp lashes, a pang of genuine sorrow hit you.

If only you were back in the modern world with a camera, because this moment deserved to be immortalised.

He was a vision, all devastating and wrecked.

One large hand lifted to clamp over his own mouth, desperately trying to muffle the sounds spilling out. A deep red flush painted his face and chest, veins standing out sharp and prominent against his skin. And then his slutty waist began to undulate, hips thrusting up into your mouth in shallow, needy rolls.

You gagged again but forced your throat to relax, whole body throbbing with heat as the King of Curses used your mouth. He slid himself into your warm, wet heat over and over, the slick, obscene sounds echoing through the steamy chamber.

You braced one hand on his powerful thigh while the other kept pumping his second cock with eager twists. Your mouth flooded with more salty taste, and you swallowed desperately each time he hit the back of your throat.

He was close, you could tell, the groans rising behind his palm, growing louder and more frantic.

You wanted his eyes, needed to see his face when he fell apart.

The hand on his thigh slid higher, tapping lightly against his stomach.

He jolted violently, both hands on your head snapping away, hips sagging against the stone.

He looked shocked, almost appalled at his own lack of control.

You pulled off with a wet gasp, swallowing thickly before rasping through a slightly raw throat, “Don’t stop. I just wanted to see your face when you cum.”

His top lip curled into a vicious snarl, teeth bared. Then he grabbed you again, desperately, and pushed his cock back between your lips.

You hummed in delight, staring straight up at him as he thrust into your mouth once more.

The pleasure looked obscene painted across his features, his brows drawn tight, jaw clenched, teeth gritted, a dark flush burning across the bridge of his nose, eyes wild and glassy.

It didn’t take much more.

His hips stuttered, both hands pressed you down until your nose was buried in the neat patch of hair at his base. A deep, guttural groan of pure relief tore from him as he spilled hot and thick down your throat, enough to make you gag, eyes screwing shut while you struggled to swallow every drop.

His other cock throbbed hard in your grip, pulsing as cum splattered across your cheek and over your fingers in messy, warm streaks.

He finally released you, his hands dropping back to the stone.

You pulled back slowly, still catching the last spurts on your tongue, letting the thick, salty fluid coat your mouth. Before you could swallow again, his hand suddenly cupped your jaw, yanking you away entirely.

“What are you doing?” His eyes were wide with raw horror. “Don’t swallow that.”

The command only made you want to swallow more, just to see his reaction.

You made a dramatic show of it, grinning up at him like the gremlin you were, opening your mouth wide so he could see the mess glistening on your tongue, then closing it with an audible, theatrical gulp.

“Uraume!” he roared, head snapping toward the door.

Ice immediately flooded your veins. Had you fucked up? Were you about to be flash-frozen for making the King of Curses cum?

He turned back to you, fingers already prying at your lips, trying to force them open. “Hold still. I need to make you puke.”

“Fuckin’...stop that!” you hissed, nearly biting his fingers in the process. “It’s cum, not poison!”

The door slid open with a soft rasp.

Uraume stepped inside, expression bored at first, until their eyes fully registered the scene.

You naked and kneeling between Sukuna’s spread thighs in the bath, cum still glistening on your cheek and dripping from your chin.

Sukuna, also naked, fingers still attempting to breach your mouth while panic and post-orgasm haze warred across his face.

“Uraume” Sukuna growled, voice strained and awkward, “we need to make her sick. She just… swallowed some… bodily fluids.”

Uraume didn’t move.

Their gaze flicked slowly between the two of you, completely deadpan.

You couldn’t help it, another tiny, hysterical giggle bubbling up.

Quickly, you scooted backward into the bath and dropped yourself until only your chin remained above the water. Steam curled lazily around your flushed face as you stared up at the ceiling, heart still racing, the unmistakable taste of Sukuna still thick on your tongue.

Uraume’s voice finally cut through the steam, flat and unimpressed as ever.

“…Shall I fetch a bucket, my lord?”

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Sorry for the slow updates, life is getting in the way.

Also, don't feed into AI, repost without credit, or I'll isekai you into the JJK world and non of our asses would survive that.