i’m a self proclaimed academic weapon — also i’m a huge fuckin’ loser who loves to write angst and smut ??
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What’s the writing list look like rn?? Kinda curious to see to what fics of yours are in the works (also great stuff, all your fics are amazing)
Thank you hehehehe!! I’m currently working on a fic trade with wolfs, then planning to get onto another summoned a slime chapter, but I also have a skywars medic!der x skywars goat!Avery fic in the works for a request from 💚 once life calms down I will be tearing into my writing list like a starved animal
Inspired by [this] lovely post by @on-a-lucky-tide
Thinking about ghost who, since you moved in together, has always had a preferred side of the bed.
He doesn't like sleeping next to the wall, as you've come to learn. The fist few nights he would grumble and push you further onto the bed before snuggling up to your back with a "my spot now, love. Comes with the relationship."
Not that you mind, of course. You like how it almost feels like he envelops you, tucked between the wall and simon.
It's not until you two stay at a hotel this unofficial rule you've decided ghost lives by is brought into question.
You don't think much of the bed being in the center of the space, it's a standard layout. So you pick a side arbitrarily, exhausted and wanted to pass out. Only to peek your eye's open to ghost looming over you, frowning "yer in the wrong spot. I go there."
Which....makes no sense. There's no wall, no nice space to hide in. The thought ghost had a designated place without the presence of a wall makes you question the entire rule itself!
Every place after that, you start taking greater note, until it huts you.
Ghost always sleeps on the side closest to the door.
In fact....ghost is always closest to the door. Manhandling you into a different seat at restaurants, or climbing over you on the sofa to claim "his spot".
A physical barrier between you and the entrance.
Ghost has been protecting you this whole time without you even realizing. He's been enveloping you in his form of safety. If someone were to enter with bad intentions, they'd reach him before you.
Ghost huffs in confusion when you cuddle him much tighter than usual that night, but indulges either way. He's just happy to keep one of the few good things in his life safe.
It’s not that you spent too much, or that you were too controlling of the list, or that you didn’t help.
For some reason, you were so touchy. Not that Nanami would ever complain about such affection, no. He loved it, truly. However, it felt as if you had been possessed by a succubus whenever you both stepped foot into the food shop.
Your hands would trail everywhere, along his waist, fingers delicately wrapping around his bicep and squeezing every few seconds. In empty isles, his ass would be slapped until he was sure you’d left a mark, him silently ticking off items as you tried to act nonchalant playing with his belt loops.
What was a girlfriend meant to do, though, watching the handsomest man ever walk around with reading glasses perched low on his nose? Biceps flexing as he pushed the cart in front of him, brows furrowed in concentration as he checked over the list again and again. Were you really expected to keep your hands off?
Unfortunately for Kento, you couldn’t. Hell, he almost got a boner halfway through the shop when you decided to palm his bulge firmly in an empty isle. Nanami’s head tipped down with a groan, one hand gently taking ahold of your wrist and trying to pull it away.
“D-Darling, I appreciate the affection but maybe we could save it for somewhere more… private?”
You pout up at him, dropping your hand with a huff. “Fine, I’ll wait.”
Until the car.
Good thing Nanami parked in the back corner of the car park otherwise you were sure the whole town would have seen the vigorous rocking of the car as you pushed Nanami into the back seat, mounting him like some wild animal in heat.
You sunk down onto his thick cock quickly, head tipping back and moaning whoreishly. Nanami kissed up your breasts, quickly attaching his lips to yours as he guided you up and down on his cock, the wet phap phap sound filling the silence of the car. Your fingers entangled into his blonde locks, messing up the neatened style.
Heat bloomed in your lower belly all too quickly, movements faltering as his grip tightened, moving you himself as your legs practically gave up on you.
You came at the same time, one hand gripping the back seat headrest as thick ropes of semen shot up into your womb, leaving you feeling bloated and full as you pulled off with a sheen of sweat covering your forehead.
If this was what happened after every shopping trip, then Nanami couldn’t find a reason to complain.
in which the men turn to the AITA subreddit for opinions on their relationship disputes. the comments aren't always the most...supportive
warnings: just fluff and crack, some cursing, some sexual language, prob not the most accurate depiction of reddit (I am not familiar with the platform so I did my best lol), non curse au mostly, NOT PROOFREAD (this was a pain to edit you don't even know so I don't want to hear it)
featuring: Gojo, Geto, Choso, Toji, Nanami, Sukuna
No thoughts just alpha!ghost who grew learning to control his scent and omega!reader who very much...didn't.
Ghost had always been told that spilling your scent everywhere was poor manners, that only children couldn't control their scent. Meanwhile you were taught that having an open scent was essential for communication and perfectly normal.
Which means the first time ghost meets you, his instincts have no idea what to do with such strong happy omega scents suddenly in his space. Ghost grew up with scent blockers at home, and in most public spaces people wear some sort of blocker. You barely have a chance to purr a greeting before he's grabbing you by the shoulders and shoving his face into your neck.
"Mghhggh— omega. Sweet. Good." He rumbles, low and muffled into skin, almost as if he doesn't register it's happening. You can only stand in shocked confusion. Gaze slipping to the still open door of his office and wondering if you should call for help, because you have no idea why he's acting like this and—
"Fuck— you smell good— christ—" ghost holds you tighter, crowding you against the desk. You tentatively lean in to sniff around his scent blockers and get the faintest scent of arousal.
Which is instantly confirmed by his hips rutting forward, his hard cock rubbing against you while he whines "sorry— I don't— fuck that's good—"
Oh. Oh shit. The peices slowly click into place, and you realize exactly what your scent is doing to him, though you always thought this sort of aphrodisiac like reaction was a myth.
You try to soften your scent, knowing it will stress him out if your own scent fluctuates too much, one hand sneaking up to massage the back of his neck "hey. Hey, it's okay. I get it, do what you need to do."
Ghost makes a sound caught between a growl and a keen, pressing the entire length of his body against you. "Fuck— sorry— hold still— omega. Smell good. Mhhh—!"
You've never seen an alpha react like this.
You've also never seen an alpha pop a dry knot in his trousers, and yet thats exactly what ghost just did.
....you. probably shouldn't leave him alone in such a vulnerable state, right? You should stick around in his office, close the door and makes sure he's okay.
You're just being a considerate coworker....or thats what you'll tell yourself later.
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?”
“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!
“I…I just want to kiss you first. More than anything, I think.”
This earns him an amused huff. “Sweet Johnny…”
John’s cheeks grow warm. “I’m serious.”
“I know you are,” Simon replies, his voice soft.
----
Technically fanart for my fic "Accept Invite" - a "What if they met while playing Call of Duty?" AU. If you like uhhh *checks tags* gay chicken, bisexual awakenings, phone sex, long distance pining, and cozy domestic slice of life, then I humbly present this as an offering ✨
Also, Simon has a service dog. Her name is Sadie. She is best girl.
synopsisyou and Trinity decide you've had enough of being the casual booty call, agreeing to play hard to get to prove to your partners you can go without them. easier said then done
warningsmut. oral (f! receiving) fingering, language, pinv, unprotected sex, MDNI. slight praise kink. no use of y/n
authornotethe way in which i need to be driven mad by this man using me is concerning to feminism
main masterlist. other Robby fic
“I don't get it!” said Santos for... well, you had no idea how many times she'd repeated herself but you were considering making it a drinking game. Every time she said she 'didn't understand' you resolved to take a shot. “I thought we were fine, doing great and casual- what- what is casual?”
Whitaker's hand hesitated in the air like they were in class. “Well I think by casual she means-”
“I know what casual means, Fuckle-berry,” said Santos quickly. “But it was casual now it's just weird.”
You nodded along, humming.
She groaned, hands running through her hair in frustration. “I don't get it!”
You took a long gulp of your wine.
“How do you handle it?” Trinity asked, arms wide in question at you.
“Me?”
“Yeah, how do you and Robby do casual?”
“Oh- we... it's- um-” you stumbled over your words, hoping that if you let it up long enough she'd take it back and start on her problems again. She didn't and she stood in front of you and Whitaker, waiting for an explanation.
The whole thing between you and Robby had started about the same time Santos and Garcia started. In an awkward confrontation that was you and Trinity bumping into each other in your shared bathroom, both your hairs messed up and both supporting bruises suspiciously in the shape of lips on your necks.
When you returned to your room you and Robby waited eagerly to see who would flee Santos's room. Neither too shocked to find Garcia.
“It's um?” Trinity asked.
“It's going,” you said into your wine glass, finishing it and pouring in more. The truth was for a while things had been odd, on your end more so.
Casual was a label you thought you could do, that when Robby said to you a week after sleeping together, his sheets over the both of your bodies that he liked keeping it simple. Sex. Release. You thought you could do it.
Almost three months since then and you were regretting it because every time you saw doctors eyes lingering over Robby, every time you heard his 'seven-week rule' and every time you saw happy couples fawning over each other in the ED your stomach twisted.
You didn't realise you wanted that until it was dangled in front of you and snatched away all in the same minute.
Trinity's brows rose. “Oh?”
You looked to where Whitaker was next to you, hoping for sympathy. You only found curious eyes. “It's just different than before.”
“Different how?” asked Dennis.
“Is it still casual?”
You scoffed, mumbling under your breath. “Yeah to him.”
“You want to be more?”
You didn't know if she was accusing but your room-mates expecting eyes on you heated your body in shame and embarrassment. “And you don't with Garcia?"
“Ok, enough!” suddenly Whitaker stood up. “The two of you, we need to sort this out.”
With a vacant seat next to you Trinity plopped herself down and you gave her your wine. You just decided to take the bottle.
“I cannot stand it anymore, okay! The two of you, we're gonna change this,” he said. “Trin- no more pining and waiting for Garcia to call at like one am.”
She was wanting to retort but only folded her arms over her chest as he carried on.
“And you-” he focused on you. “Need to stop crying over Robby. You guys can do better.”
“Yeah in a world where we're not working twelve hour shifts five days a week,” you said. The idea of casual hook ups wasn't anything new to the ED, not even the hospital. It was easy way of escape without the pressure of dating when all their time was spent saving lives or charting about saving lives or studying how to save lives.
On the coffee table in front of you Trinity's phone pinged and she reached for it like it was seconds away from self-destructing.
She tucked her phone into her chest to read the text before slamming it back down.
You caught a glance at the words and the contact. Can't make it tonight, I'll hit you up tomorrow- G
“You're gonna leave them,” he said.
You and Trinity sat up. “What?”
“No!”
There was a flicker of fear in his eyes.
“Okay- I take it back,” he said, surrendering. “Then how about give them a taste of their own medicine.”
“Their medicine?” you asked.
Whitaker gently nudged the empty glasses and cans of beer aside, perching on the edge of the coffee table, appealing to the two of you. “How many times have they cancelled plans, or said you couldn't come over to ask you to come over two hours later?”
You hadn't realised how perceptive he was.
“Now, make it so you guys call the shots. They want to come round, you say no.”
The idea was new to you. You'd always wanted Robby. You spent half your spare time wanting him and the other half having sex with him. You'd never even wanted to say no.
“So then we what, don't have sex?” asked Santos.
“You will,” he said. “You create distance, get them wanting and crying or what-whatever and then they'll realise they've messed up.”
You thought we was giving them too much credit.
Santos chuckled. “Huckleberry, are you telling us to play hard to get?”
He thought about it, eyes moving as if he was calculating it. “Yes!”
That's how plan 'hard to get' started. It was agreed you and Santos, the next time Garcia and Robby asked you to come over you'd say no.
Easier in practise when you work with them.
The next day was a slower day, un-usual in that sense. It meant everyone had more time to linger around each other.
“And so I said to him- officer-” said Myrna, lying on the bed between you and Robby. She'd seizure, hurt her leg and needed it disinfected and cleaned- not for the first time in her life. There was a mix of glass and gravel that needed plucking out and apparently the attending of the ED had nothing better to do that join you in the task. “What would you have done if you caught your third husband eating out another woman?”
“And did he say shoot him?” asked Robby. He was bent over the same leg as you, your heads so close you were either gonna head butt or kiss. Not likely over the state of her leg.
“No, he didn't say anything, he just arrested me!”
Robby hummed, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “Imagine that.”
“You know Myrna sometimes I can't tell if all these stories are true,” you said, taking a small bit of glass and adding it to the pile you'd already created.
“Oh they're all true, honey, I never lie. Unlike Mark that two faced bastard.”
“Which one was Mark?” you asked.
“The fourth husband. Good body and shit everything else!” she said with a wheeze. Abruptly she grabbed your hand. “Are you single?”
Robby glanced up at you, creases of amusement at the corner of his eyes.
You looked away first. “Why, you asking me out?”
“If you're single, stay single!” she said. “Men, all they are are liars! Lying bastards! And babies! I hardly even shot the guy!”
“Am I so bad, Doctor?” asked Robby looking over the frames of his glasses at you.
Was he so bad? No. He was short-tempered sometimes, moody, didn't accept help from anyone. But you knew he could be gentle, you knew his true belly laugh and the smile he gave at mornings when you were still in bed. You just wish you knew if he ever saw himself staying in that bed a little longer, if he ever wanted to make breakfast and take the day together, stealing moments throughout.
“No,” you said, looking back down to her leg that was almost clean. “You're not.”
Myrna was oddly silent but you could see her head moving between the two of you. “Don't go there sweetheart,” she said, a word of warning. “This one might look fun but he's all danger and heartbreak.”
“Me? No,” said Robby with an air of un-care. “I'm a teddy bear.”
Five minutes later you and Robby were instructing Perlah wrapping her leg before throwing off your gloves and leaving her to it.
“How many husbands you think Myrna had?” he asked.
“Oh there's no telling,” you replied, fetching her chart to finish off the notes. At some point someone had put a star next to her name, as if she was VIP.
Robby leant next to you, scanning around the ED. “Any plans tonight?”
“On a Wednesday? Nop.”
“Wanna come over?”
There was an abrupt and loud clear of a throat.
You hadn't realised Whitaker was there but he was watching the two of you, closely. When you met his eyes he gave a small subtle shake of his head.
Robby looked. “You got a cough, Whitaker?”
He cleared his throat, sliding down in his chair. “No.”
The agreement. It was all fine in practise but how were you supposed to say no when you just said you had no plans and you really wanted to have sex with him! It was the glasses, you were sure that was what did it. The way he pulled them on and pulled them off, the focus it gave him and the way they slipped down his nose.
“So, tonight?” he asked again, voice low.
Only a few people knew, like your room-mates and you were sure others had guessed. Robby wanted to keep it private. Or a secret, you'd never asked for clarification.
You caught Whitakers gaze on yours, watchful. He didn't say anything but you wondered if he'd be disappointed. Would you even be disappointed in yourself? “I can't tonight.”
“Oh,” he said, nodding. “Okay.”
He didn't sound annoyed. He didn't sound anything. It was impossible to tell.
“Yeah, we just- there's this thing-”
“Thought you had no plans?” he asked, an almost amused rise in his brows.
Ah. “It's like- not a plan- just a- a room mate thing. You know?”
Robby looked to Whitaker as if to confirm.
He nodded. “Yeah! Every Wednesday. We watch films.”
“Films,” you confirm.
“And talk.”
“We talk.”
Robby nodded. “Sounds thrilling.”
“Robby!” Dana called. “Got a trauma, woman in her thirties. Five minutes.”
“Got it," he said but he was still slumping over the counter. He took his time moving, stretching up till his shirt rode up enough to expose that slither of skin that held so many promises. “Some other time then.” His hand ghosted the small of your back before he disappeared.
You watched him go, realising you wouldn't spend the night buried in his bored but sleepless and restless.
Whitaker replaced Robby at your side. “See? Doesn't that feel good?”
You answered truthfully. “No.”
That night you, Santos and Whitaker sulked on the sofa, face masks over your faces with a bowl of popcorn left on the table and a shitty movie filling the silence.
Your phone lay face up with nothing from Robby and from Trinity's expression you figured she'd had nothing either.
You'd been to the bathroom once, took your phone with you and debated texting him but you never got that far. You only flicked through texts, casual one's at first. Small 'Are you coming over?' or 'You left your shirt at mine.' There were some dotted from him, on times you were both too busy to meet where things got more... riskier. His texts started simple but you could always catch on to his wants, leading his want.
Things like 'Thought about you today,' or 'you looked good today,' but he never just complimented you for the sake of it.
The texts didn't help so you turned your phone off and re-joined the two all the while your head and heart were in bed with Robby.
The next day passed like another dry spell.
It was busy- too make up for the quiet day beforehand. You didn't have time to greet Robby before being thrown into the chaos from a pile up on the highway. All day your bodies shuffled past each other, his hands lingering on your arms when he passed or always standing next to you in trauma.
It felt something like punishment.
Or a test.
By Friday you were crawling out of your skin, still dealing with the ramifications of the last two days. You hadn't even seen that Robby had text you the night before, so exhausted from work you crashed only spotting his name on your phone the morning you woke from the blare of your alarm.
“You're avoiding me,” he said, kneeling at the computer you typed furiously at to get your charting down. It was a casual move he used, usually un-tying and re-tying his shoes. This time, he simply knelt, seemingly done with pretence.
“What? No.”
“I've barely seen you the last few days," he said, wetting his lips. “Is there something wrong?”
“No, no, I've just been super busy,” you said, tapping on the computer.
Robby shuffled next to you. His hand laid next to yours. He didn't take your hand or stop you but his fingers fidgeted like he didn't know what else to do with himself. “Did I do something?”
You looked down at him, spotting the crease between his brows. “No.”
It was the closest you'd got to seeing him vulnerable.
“So tonight?” he asked. “Feel like I'm losing my damn mind.” His finger was light as it traced your hand, slowly drawing circles.
Tasting Robby was like the first sip of alcohol. It always left you wanting me. Sweet. Bitter. Whatever. You were just left wanting and nothing else, which was why you went crawling back every time. Why saying no had never crosse your mind before. Why the smallest touch from his hand was leaving you in shivers.
You squeezed your eyes shut. “I can't tonight-”
Robby smirked, breathing out a puff of air.
“I would,” you said quickly, turning in your chair to face him. “Believe me, I would, it's just... Trinity is going through some stuff and I just- I don't want to leave her alone, you know.”
It was the truth. Trinity was taking Garcia's silence worse than you or Dennis had anticipated. You knew there was more going on, you only wanted to be there to help her.
Robby perked. “You need me to speak to her?”
“No, no, it's just stuff. She'll be okay I just, want to be safe.”
He nodded but his finger fell from your hand. “Okay.”
“Doctor Robinavitch!” his name was called by the familiar dread of Gloria.
He sighed under his breath as he pushed himself up. “Oh so help me, God.”
By Saturday you were sure Robby thought you were lying and sort out to punish you. He was practically glued at your side all day long. He didn't ask to see you, didn't put his lips near you. But he lingered.
“Okay we don't have a lot of time, there's a lot of bleeding,” said Robby in the face of a trauma, looming over you. “We'll do a Hilar flip.”
“A Hilar flip, are you serious?” said Trinity.
“No other choice.”
You gulped, staring down at the bleeding and misplaced lung. “I've never done one of them before.”
“I'll talk you through it, we'll go easy,” he said, coming at your side. “You're gonna rotate the lung one-eighty, very slow. Very gentle.”
Perhaps it shouldn't have been as erotic as it was. The way his chest heaved against your back, his arm stretching along yours to hold your hand and guide it through the blood to his lung. His face was concentrated next to yours but his breath was hot on your cheek and breathless.
“Go slow.... go slow. Easy.... gentle.... just like that, there we go,” he uttered against your ear.
“Blood loss is slowing down.”
“There we go, you got it,” he mumbled as you slotted it back into its place. “Okay-” Robby moved on like your whole body wasn't trembling. You had to carry on trying to save the guys life after it, like you weren't picturing his entire body draped over yours, whispering filthy things in your ears.
“Thought I was watching a porno there,” said Santos as you all fled the room when the guy was stable.
“Jesus-” you caught your breath, throwing off the gloves and running your hands through your hair, trying to get some air to your neck that sweat.
Santos chuckled to herself. “So does Doctor Robby talk you through it?”
“Trin-” you snap.
“Does he praise you? Is that the kind of thing you're into.”
You didn't respond, hiding in the bathroom to throw cold water onto your face and calm the rush of blood but you could hear Santos outside the door. 'This is a teaching hospital!' she teased.
It became a thing you had to do, get away from him. You couldn't be distracted when dealing with patients. It was bad enough working with him when all you could think about was fucking him!
But Robby seemed to insist in helping you.
“Gaping wounds like this, under the skin we use sub-Q to bring it together,” he instructed as started the stitching for a mans wound on his leg. It was just like anything else, hardly a teaching wound when you knew how to do it. As it was under tissue and there was just no other nurse around Robby insisted.
“Five-O under skin, three-O after that,” he said.
“You think you could show me?”
You both knew you didn't need to be shown but Robby still gave you a small smile and sat on the stall, coming close to you till his meaty thigh was against your own. His hands- though gloved as yours were- still grazed yours as he took the instruments to do it.
“Guide it through... it's finer so you want to extra gentle... lotta care...”
You hummed but you couldn't say you were watching it with keen eyes. You weren't watching the way the stitches came together just the way his hands flexed, his fingers moved.
“Start deep... all the way in... bury the knot in... yeah, see how it comes together just like that?”
You nodded with an absent mind.
Robby held the equipment out to you. “Go ahead.”
You hesitated. Maybe you should have paid more attention.
He all but shoved them into your hand. “You're a big girl, you got it.”
Santos's voice played it your head. Were you into this?
With a breath you steadied yourself and went in. As he had before Robby leant over you, his body practically weighing you down.
You took the thread under the skin, pulling together just like he had.
“Bit deeper-” Robby's hands guided your arms. They were as light as a feather at your elbows before slowly sliding down your arms with a firmer hold, leading the threads.
You remembered his tight hold on you when he wanted you in place on the bed, when he was was dragging clothes off your body or wrapping a hand around your neck-
Robby called your name, watching you expectantly. His eyes were softened at the edges but they grew darker, the smallest bit of a smirk at the corner of his lips. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.
“Right... sorry-” you went as deep as he instructed, knowing his face was concentrated on you and your hands.
“Do you want me to leave?” asked the patient.
If he could leave his leg and leave it would've been great.
“We'll get you out of here in no time,” said Robby.
You'd thought that maybe the stitching at taken so long it was almost time to leave. Maybe you could talk to Whitaker and Santos about this hard to get thing. It was only eleven and you had more than six hours left with situations that constantly brought you and Robby together. Even when it didn't, there he was, whispering words of encouragement.
“You got this... nice and easy.... doing really good there...”
Or the simple phrase that had you hiding in the bathroom for five minutes.
“Good girl.”
When the end of the day came you ran out of there, gasping in air and rushing back back to your place.
“Hey,” you greeted walking through the door.
Trinity was already there, looking like she was ready to leave, jacket thrown over her scrubs she hadn't changed out of even though she finished an hour before you. “Hey.”
“Where's Huckleberry?”
“Oh he's at Amy's tonight.”
You scoffed. “Woah. What a speech about doing better and playing hard to get but as soon as the chance comes to play farm. So, movie tonight? I can order pizza?”
“Actually, I'm just on my way out too,” she said. “Garcia called.”
You slumped. Your entire body slumped. Your heart gave up. “What? I thought we all made a deal?”
“We did, I played hard to get now she wants to see me,” she said.
“I haven't seen Robby in three days!”
“So go to his, get dicked down, girl,” she said, moving past you with a breeze. “I'm sorry, we can talk about how much of a bitch I am when I'm back from having the best sex yet! Later!”
She was out the door before you could chastise her. You shut it after her, falling upon it.
You'd ran from the ED to stay strong, to avoid another interaction with Robby that would have you climbing his bones in an empty room. You'd happily have done it with the teasing he'd subjected you to all day. For your friends and the promise you'd made you remained strong.
You'd never do that again.
Saturday night after the longest shift of your life and you had the place to yourself. It was rare. Either Denis or Trinity were home or you were spending the night at Robby's.
Your phone was heavy in your pocket.
Call him.
But the problem still lied un-answered. You were still at Robby's beck and call, begging for his attention. Begging him to be hard thinking about you so he could fuck you into the mattress to be professional the net day and treat you like you were just another MR.
You didn't want special treatment so to say, didn't want him to give you the easy patients or get you into the traumas more. You just wanted a smile, or a glimpse of .... love.
Maybe your friends were okay with what they had. You weren't.
You turned your phone off for the night and stripped from your scrubs, changing into a large shirt and blasting music Trin hated and Denis claimed to hate (but you'd heard him playing your playlist in the shower). For a crazy night alone you caught up on washing several pairs of scrubs and anything else, cleaned out the freezer leaving you barren of anything to eat. Maybe you'd even iron some normal clothes-
That's at least what you were thinking when there was a knock at the door.
You'd hoped it was Denis or Trin coming back, tails between their legs, keys forgotten.
Robby stood on the other side of the door.
You stood, frozen, shocked to see him there. He was just as still, waiting with raised brows. “Doctor Robby. Is everything okay?”
His backpack was slung over his shoulder, his scrubs only slightly dirtied from the day. But his eyes were alive and his body didn't sag with exhaustion like usual. His eyes darted back behind you. “Can I come in?”
You held open the door, closing it slowly behind you.
Robby had only been to your place once before. He looked the open living space open with interest. Typically your meet ups were at his, on account he lived alone and his bed was much nicer to be down on than yours.
“Er- Whitaker and Santos aren't home, if- if this is a hospital thing.”
“It's not,” he said, lowering his bag at the sofa.
“Oh?”
He turned, leaning against the back of it. “It's a me and you thing.”
“Oh.”
His arms flexed as he folded them over his chest, the green of his top under his scrub bunched at the forearms. His head ducked, trying to get a read on you. “So?”
You rocked on your heels, realising the shortened of the shirt you wore. Not that it wasn't anything he had seen before. “So...”
“What's going on?” he asked. There was still nothing in his voice to give away his true thoughts, only a slight edge of urgency.
“What-what-what do you mean?”
Robby listed off what he saw was wrong like symptoms. “You've been avoiding me, you never answered my texts, you didn't want to see me the other night nor tonight though you have the place to yourself-”
“I didn't realise they were gone,” you said.
“Okay so every other time?” he asked. “If I did something you can tell me. I'm a big guy, I can take it.”
It was a chance to voice up every ill thought you'd had but all you could think about was how big he was. Standing there, jutted on the back of the couch with his scrubs around his arms and thighs.
“You didn't do anything,” you said, though you weren't looking at his eyes more his arms.
They flexed again like he knew what he was doing. His voice dropped, finally to something you could name. “So tell me. what's going on.”
If you threw yourself at him you knew the chances of him taking you to bed were high, but the chances of you regretting it in the morning when he had rolled out of bed, dressed and left you were higher.
“I just-” you blew out a breath, readying yourself for the dismiss. “I don't think I can do this anymore.”
Robby waited like he was listening to the words re-play. His head lowered as he nodded, taking it in. “May I ask why?”
“It's the casual thing,” you rushed out before you could take it back. “I don't think I can do casual. I thought I could, but I-I can't.”
He nodded, chin tucked into his chest and for a moment you thought you really had upset him. But then he straightened up, pushed himself from the sofa and shrugged. His boots thudded heavy as he stepped to you slow. “Okay then.”
Was this the moment when you got the door for him on the way out?
“Okay, so... um.... I guess I'll see you-”
Robby's hands grasped your cheeks and he kissed you quick, hard. His lips tasted as they always did with a hint of mint-freshness. They were rough as always as they worked against yours, opening you up to him as always-
You brushed away, shaking your head. “I um- Robby I can't-”
He took a deep, shuddering breath. He stepped closer to you, the heat of his body waving over you. “We don't have to be casual anymore, I don't want to be casual- not anymore.”
Everyone knew Robby only knew casual. Only selected few ever got past seven weeks. Heck you hadn't counted how long this had been going on for, maybe ten weeks but that could be nothing. You were good sex, that was all.
“Robby-”
“Listen, listen-” he said, arms waving around you before settling on your forearms. “You don't want casual, neither do I. You want me to ask? You want me to ask you to be my girlfriend, I'll ask.”
“Robby you don't date,” you tried to tell him.
He scoffed. “I date. But not anymore, not if I have you.”
Had word of the deal got out? Was Robby just tired after his shift? Delusional?
“Hey, hey-" his hands ran through your hair, cradling your cheeks. “I should've said it earlier, I know but I want this. I want serious.”
His eyes crinkled as he looked at you, the edges of his gaze soft. “You don't just have to say this. You can have anyone else-”
Robby's head ducked into the crook of your neck, brushing your hair back and pressing light kisses to the expanse of your neck. “I don't want anyone else, I want you.”
Your body awakened in shivers that he elicited.
His fingers wound to the front of your body, slowly peeling away the buttons of the shirt till it pooled at your ankles. He didn't move to ravage you, his lips remained light as they kissed down your neck, finding your collarbone and working a mark there.
Your hands wound up his arms, clutching at his shoulders. “Robby-”
“Not this time,” he uttered against your collarbone.
You knew what you called him when it was you and him. “Michael-”
“Good girl.”
You moaned out at the words, the moan you'd held all day revibrating around your flat.
He slowly kicked odd his boots and helped you throw off his scrub top before he kissed you again.
You only got a short glimpse at the body you craved before his tongue, hot and heavy, slid into you mouth, bathing in the warmth. His hands were rough as they studied every inch of your body, fingertips digging into skin.
“I want you, sweet girl,” he mumbled against your lips as you scaled your hands under his shirt and along his stomach till your fingers skimmed under his waistband.
His mouth opened against yours, groaning at this slightest touch. “Oh-”
His arms scooped you up, bringing your body up and flush against him as his arms were strong on your back, kissing you. It was all wet tongue and soft lips as he stumbled back on the edge of your couch.
“Santos will kill me if we have sex on our couch,” you gasped.
Robby rose a brow. “Oh, we're having sex?” he teased.
“I should hope so.”
You kissed you hard again, wetting the both of your mouths in delectable smacks of your lips. The two of you stumbled away to your room and his body caged you in as the two of you fell atop your sheets.
You crawled up the bed as Robby's face fell between your chest. His tongue made wet paths from each breast, taking a nipple in his mouth and his hand groping at the other one till you withered against his body.
“Michael-”
He moaned into your breast and shoved a meaty thigh between your legs. “Grind on me,” he demanded.
Your body did against him as if it only listened to his command.
He mouthed your other breast, groping where his tongue had pressed before. All the while you body moved against his thigh, dragging your pussy against him.
“Yeah.... jus' like that... god.... can feel you.... so good,” he uttered as he jutted his thigh against you.
Your hands went to his shoulders, messaging the skin there until he came back up your body and shoved his tongue down your throat again. Your arm wrapped around his neck, keeping him into you.
All the while you wet down his scrubs.
“You want serious?” he uttered against you, pulling back enough to see you.
You nodded, hair splayed over your pillow.
Robby nodded along, eyes hooded. His hand slid down between your bodies. “I can do serious.”
His finger slid into you, working in and out in slow thrusts. But even the meassured curl of his finger had you holding him, back arching from the bed.
“Mmph-”
“Don't be quiet,” he said, nuzzling his head in you neck, biting the skin there. “Don't do that.”
Another finger curled in and you moaned on. You weren't quiet usually, there was nothing more than Robby liked than being loud. Everything was measured in the ED, out of it, buried inside of you or hot mouths on each other had Robby groaning, moaning and wanting you to do the same.
His fingers thrusted knuckle deep in and out again, the soft moving of skin moving around the room as your breaths covered the sound.
His fingers moved quick as your breaths grew laboured. He sucked the skin of your neck, thrusting and curling as his hips sort some sort of friction.
You withered against him. “I'm gonna- Michael I'm gonna-”
He released your skin with a small bite and laid his mouth open on yours. “Cum,” he uttered.
“Michael-”
His voice turned harder, the hand that wasn't inside of you wrapping around your neck, pushing you into your bed. “Cum.”
With just the right curl Robby had your pussy in the palm of his hand, slick with your release as he worked you through it, rubbing his hand along your clit with jolts of your body.
“God so good,” he said, looking up at you as a thin sheen of sweat glistened on your bodies. “And all mine?”
You nodded, cheeks flushed. You could feel the heat of your body as strong as it was when he walked in.
“All mine, huh?”
“Yes,” you said, breathless.
Robby slowly took out his fingers from you, putting his fingers in his mouth and licking them clean like it was nothing. He fell back on his feet, fingers working on the ties of his scrubs. “That why you were avoiding me?”
“I wasn't-” your words died in your throat as he dropped his scrubs and boxers in one.
You'd seen his cock enough to know it by memory but the size and fullness of him always rendered you speechless.
Robby knew it to. He stood there with a smirk. “You weren't avoiding me?”
Slowly, he sank to his knees.
“No,” you said, mesmerised by the sight of him going down.
Robby's hands grabbed your thighs, spreading them. He tapped your ankles, getting them on the bed as he got closer to your heat, still leaking from the last orgasm. “Promise?”
The words had hardly left your lips before his tongue pressed into you.
Your entire body moved into his but his arms wrapped around your hips, keeping you pressed into the bed. He moved further up, burying himself in you.
“Aw- fuck-” your hands waved for purchase before curling into the sheets.
He licked a stripe up and down before nudging your lips open and finding himself in there. It wasn't the slow drag of fingers but the desperate kisses and licks of a man hungry. He pulled back, spitting against you. “You won't avoid me again, will you baby?”
You shook your head.
Robby's eyes remained on yours until he buried himself in your pussy. You watched his eyes roll into the back of his head as he moaned into you.
His hands kept you spread open every time they quivered but it didn't take long for his hand to wind down to his cock. You prepped yourself up onto your elbows to watch as he pumped his cock agonizingly slow.
“Want your cock, Robby-”
He halted his movements and you but down on your lip.
“What did you just call me?” he asked, slowly moving up your body.
You knew you were supposed to call him Michael but watching the full swing of his cock stand to attention as he made his way over you was far too distracting.
“Hey-v his hand cupped your chin, forcing you to look up. “Michael.”
You nodded. Your hands reached for his cock, straining to wrap around him.
The only notice of the effect you had was the clench of his jaw.
“Michael,” he repeated, voice almost a growl.
“Michael.”
He nodded.
“Condom?” he asked, jutting back on his heels.
Your hand slowly worked his cock, the pre-cum beading at the tip. You shook your head. You were both clean, you were on the pill but tonight you wanted to feel everything, wanted him to even fill you-
Robby bent his head, spitting down on his cock and your hand. For a moment that's all it was, you hand moving on his cock as your other circled your clit. “God... your hand.... missed you...”
When your strokes got heavier, faster Robby's head fell back and he groaned. His cock was pink, heavy in your hand-
Quickly he grabbed your wrist and threw it off before grabbing the hilt of his own cock and slowly pushing into you.
His throat strained as he groaned at the push in and your back arched into him. “Fuck!” he fell atop you, arms braced at either side. “Shit- ah-”
Your arm wrapped around his shoulders, keeping you in.
“God, you make me crazy,” he uttered, searching for your lips.
The two of you collided in a mess of salvia, tongue, lips as he pushed into you, catching your gasps.
Eventually the rock of his hips grew steady. The creak of your old bed echoed the moves of him against you.
“Shit- ah-” he groaned, shaking off the sweat and the tension.
“Michael,” you said, holding him in closer. “I want you to... go hard.”
Hard he could do. Soft he could do. He would do anything you asked.
His tongue darted out, swiping your lips. “You missed me?”
“So much, so much, so much,” you pulled him down till his weight tested yours, cock deep. “On me.”
“Okay, okay,” he mumbled to himself. He put all his weight down, crashing your body into his bed. He wasn't as young as he once was. By no means but if you wanted it, he'd give it.
Pressed into you his cock went far and deep and he couldn't fully withdraw so it was small, maddening movements.
“Oh god,” he uttered.
You moaned, loud, as he wanted and he was breathless, groaning.
The dull thump of your headboard banged on the wall and something on your bedside table fell off.
Robby's arm stretched out, grabbing your hand and stretching your arms to the headboard, trying to steady it. With the stretch of the bodies he reached that spot in you.
“Aw fuck!” You yelled out, louder than anticipated. “Michael I'm gonna- I'm gonna-”
“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” he grunted with you. His other hand threw to your hip, holding your pelvis flush into you. “Fuck!”
In seconds he let go inside of you and the gush of his cum and the sound of the wet bodies threw you over the edge. His clutch on your hand grew tighter as his body trembled with yours, the spurts of your releases cooling down.
If this was casual Robby wouldn't have lingered, he'd have pulled out, flashed you a smile before using the bathroom.
He moved slower, staying till the both of you were spent. He kissed you, soft and sweet, lips moving around to remember the taste. “I'll move out,” he whispered as he took out his cock.
You stole a glance of both of your release leaking from you and around him before Robby moved aside.
He didn't flee, he didn't go to the bathroom. He pulled the sheets from under your bodies and got the both of you into bed. He laid beside you.
Robby tucked you under his arm, sweat on both your bodies cooling as you laid together. “Feels better when we're serious.” His fingers moved slow on your shoulder, delicate touches like a feather.
If he woke with a new thought, woke with regret you'd deal with it. For the moment you allowed yourself to feel the thump of his heart as the two of you slowly lulled to sleep.
Your alarm was the first thing you picked up in the morning. It's beeping ringing in your ear as you moved to turn the thing off or throw it at the wall-
A weight over your stomach made the effort harder but you got it.
Last night came back to you in the spill of scrubs on the floor and the ache between your legs.
Robby stirred next to you. Last night.
He stayed.
“You on today?” he asked, morning voice rough. You got a look at him, it was a rare sight you got to see him in morning light. His eyes were still shut, his face without the stress the day job gave him. He asked so casual, as if this was a morning routine you'd slipped into years ago.
You hummed, nodding and readying to move-
His arm tightened, drawing you in. “Call in sick.”
You chuckled, but your eyes closed. You promised yourself five more minutes. “My attending might have something to say about that.”
Robby grumbled. “Have a word with him, I'm sure you can be very persuasive.”
Somewhere in you apartment you heard the front door open and close, voices moving around the place.
You hadn't closed the door.
“Hey! We brought coffee and bagels!” called Santos.
“We're sorry for leaving you- we- huh?” you heard Whitaker. “What the?”
The clothes on the floor. The scrub top that would have his doctors badge on it.
You groaned and suddenly Whitaker and Santos were passing the doorway, one smirking, the other shocked.
Robby beside you didn't even stir.
“Good morning, Doctor Robby!” called Santos.
He only lifted a hand in greeting before making sure the covers were over the two of you.
You reached for something heavy, landing on a cushion and aiming at the door. It closed in front of your laughing friends.
Synopsis: You arrive in Japan with a soft heart and nothing to lose until the meanest, the most popular fuckboy in your class chooses you as a bet, smiling at you like it means something.
While you fall for him counting the petals of the roses he gave you, he's only counting days to get in your pants.
Tags: HEAVY Angst, emotional manipulation, bet trope, power imbalance, fluff, fear of abandonment, slow burn, smut, college AU, soft reader, rich mean Gojo, oral- f receiving, lots of drama.
Aesthetic | Playlist
(It’s a pretty long chapter so grab a snack and a tissue box because this is gonna be a wild ride)
An email arrived early enough that the city outside your hotel bedroom window had not fully awakened yet. Okinawa existed in that strange in-between hour where the sky still carried traces of blue-grey dawn, where office lights flickered awake one by one inside distant buildings, and where silence still clung softly to the world before the machinery of morning properly began. Your room remained warm beneath heavy blankets, tangled with the lingering comfort of sleep and sand particles that could be felt between your toes mixed with traces of Satoru’s cologne – reminder of the hundreds of kisses you exchanged the night before. You’re still confused and upset about why nothing ever escalates with him though. One of your socks had disappeared somewhere beneath the bed during the night, your phone lay half-buried under your pillow, and your hair was spread across the sheets in messy waves from how restlessly you had slept after returning from the beach.
Well, about time you check the mail that so rudely woke you up.
A small groan escaped you as you blindly reached for it without opening your eyes properly, thumb lazily dragging across the screen while sleep still clouded your mind. For a second, everything remained unfocused, the brightness too harsh, your thoughts too slow, the words swimming together in meaningless shapes until gradually they sharpened into something coherent.
And then your entire body went still.
No fucking way.
The exhaustion vanished so suddenly that it’s almost comical. Your eyes moved across the screen once more, slower this time, pulse beginning to flutter unevenly beneath your ribs as though your body had recognized the importance of the moment before your mind fully could.
You had been accepted.
The words remained there no matter how many times you reread them, impossibly formal and calm compared to the violent shift happening inside you. Bunka Fashion College. Acceptance Confirmation. Your gaze lingered over the lines again and again, unable to process how casually life-changing news could present itself through a simple email sent at seven in the morning while you sat in bed wearing an oversized sleep shirt and smudged mascara from the previous night.
The application had not been planned carefully. That was perhaps the strangest part of it all. You had not spent months preparing for it or discussing it with your parents or organizing your future responsibly the way someone like you was expected to do. The decision had happened impulsively one rainy night after returning from one of your late drives with Satoru, when your cheeks still hurt from laughing too much and your heart felt strangely swollen with the terrifying realization that maybe your life did not have to remain exactly the way it had always been designed by your parents.
You remembered sitting cross-legged on your bed past midnight with your laptop balanced on your thighs while rainwater slipped down the windows in silver streams, you felt too lazy to shower that day. Tokyo had glowed outside your room in fractured reflections headlights, and somewhere downstairs your parents had already gone to sleep, entirely unaware that their daughter was quietly contemplating ruining the future they had spent years constructing for her.
Because finance had never truly been your dream. It had simply been the safest continuation of the life already chosen for you.
Your father’s textile company had always existed like another family member within your household, its presence stretching across dinners, vacations, phone calls, arguments, celebrations, every existing part of your upbringing inevitably circling back toward expansion projects, investments, contracts, market growth. You had grown up hearing the language of business more often than the language of love. Even as a child, you understood what was expected of you. You were intelligent, good with numbers, composed in professional settings, capable of eventually taking over the international side of the company once your father grew older. The path had been laid before you so neatly that questioning it almost felt ungrateful.
And perhaps that was why you buried every other dream so deeply for so many years. Love for fashion had survived inside you anyway, stubborn as wildflowers growing through concrete.
It existed in the careful way you dressed even for ordinary lectures, in the folders full of saved runway photographs hidden on your phone, in the sketches tucked between notebook pages during boring finance classes, in the almost painful emotion you felt whenever fabrics moved beautifully under light. Other people often treated fashion as something shallow, but to you it had always felt intimate in the same way poetry did to poets. Clothing carried personality before words ever could. It transformed insecurity into confidence, loneliness into softness, longing into something visible enough to touch. You understood emotion through color palettes the way some people understood it through music.
But dreams become embarrassing after a certain point when practicality enters the room. So you stopped speaking about it, stopped imagining yourself within it. Stopped believing it could belong to someone like you.
Until somewhere between late-night convenience store runs with Satoru, shared headphones during train rides, sleepy conversations at four in the morning, and the terrifying tenderness of being loved so openly, something inside you had begun changing shape. You had started wanting things again. Not small things either, but frightening things, the kind of things that demanded risk and selfishness and courage.
The application had been submitted during one of those moments.
You remembered staring at the Bunka Fashion College website for nearly an hour before even opening the form, your guts tying themselves harder with every section you filled out. Academic records. Transfer information. Creative portfolio submissions. Personal statement. You had nearly closed the laptop several times because the entire thing felt absurd. What exactly were you supposed to submit? Instagram posts? Outfit photographs? Your best pictures that were all clicked by your ex? Moodboards saved at three in the morning because they made your heart ache in ways you couldn’t explain?
And yet you had done it anyway.
You uploaded styling photographs from your account. Personal concepts. Fabric studies. Pieces of yourself disguised professionally enough to sound legitimate from the time you still had the faith to dream. When it came time to write your essay, your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a very long time because the truth sitting inside your chest sounded far too vulnerable to survive outside your body.
You wanted fashion because it made you feel alive. It made you feel like you. Every time you imagined spending the rest of your life trapped inside boardrooms discussing profit margins for your father’s textile business you did not care about, something inside you quietly mourned. You feared waking up thirty years from now wearing expensive clothes you never chose inside a life that no longer resembled you at all. But instead of writing those things, you crafted polished paragraphs about creative expression, cultural aesthetics, modern design language, visual identity. Then you hit submit before fear could stop you.
Afterward, you convinced yourself it would amount to nothing.
It had been easier that way. Safer, perhaps.
Yet now, staring at the acceptance email glowing softly in your hands while dawn stretched itself across Tokyo outside your bedroom window, you realized that somewhere along the way you had secretly wanted this far more desperately than you ever allowed yourself to admit.
Your gaze slowly drifted towards your phone wallpaper—your parents standing together at some corporate event years ago, your father’s hand resting firmly against your shoulder with unmistakable pride. The image suddenly felt unbearably heavy. Because accepting this would mean changing everything. And perhaps for the first time in your life, the possibility of becoming someone your parents might not fully understand no longer terrified you enough to stop wanting it anyway.
The acceptance letter disappeared the moment your phone lit up again, though the feeling of it lingered stubbornly beneath your ribs like seawater trapped inside a shell. Even after forcing yourself to stand before the mirror and brushing your teeth, you weren’t sure if pretending your life was not threatening to split into two entirely different futures would do anything.
Tokyo.
Fashion.
You.
The words felt foreign together.
Your father would hate this. No…maybe that was not entirely true. Your father would hate losing the future he had spent his entire life building for you. That realization alone spread guilt through you slowly, thoroughly, like ink dissolving into water. Because your father had never been cruel. Strict, yes. Demanding, absolutely. Ambitious to a terrifying degree. But cruel? Never. Everything he had ever built came from sacrifice, from years of clawing opportunities out of places where opportunities barely existed at all. Before the business became stable, before the international contracts and partnerships and overseas clients, there had only been long flights, factory visits, sleepless nights, supplier negotiations that stretched until dawn, and a man stubborn enough to believe he could build something bigger with his bare hands.
You grew up hearing stories about it.
How he started with textile sourcing first…small-scale fabric procurement, endless meetings with manufacturers, traveling across cities just to inspect stitching quality himself because he did not trust anybody else with his standards. Your mother used to joke about it.. Tokyo one year. Seoul the next. Singapore. Bangkok. Sometimes he relocated for months at a time just to oversee production management personally or secure manufacturing contracts before competitors could touch them.
And because your father went everywhere, you went to a lot of places too. Especially when your family used to shift of course. Your childhood existed in fragments of countries stitched together like fabric swatches inside a designer’s archive.
Fabric reports spread across dining tables beside half-finished cups of coffee. Your father discussing manufacturing margins over dinner while reviewing supplier quotations from three different countries at once. Export spreadsheets glowing across laptop screens long after midnight. Currency conversions scribbled across notepads. Revenue projections. Profit percentages. Shipment calculations. Production costs. Import duties. Market forecasts. Expansion strategies. Negotiation calls with factory partners happening while you quietly finished homework nearby, learning the language of business before you were even old enough to understand what corporate strategy truly meant.
Hence, your finance degree. Fashion never arrived in your life suddenly. It had always been there quietly, breathing beside you. Your father simply never realized that while he was teaching you business, the world itself had been teaching you beauty.
And perhaps that was why disappointing him felt almost unforgivable. Because he truly had given you everything he never had growing up. Stability. Education. Safety. Opportunity. A future already mapped carefully before you were even old enough to understand what futures meant. He never treated you lesser for being his daughter. If anything, he treated you like something precious enough to sharpen carefully for the world. He wanted you disciplined because discipline had built his life. He wanted you strong because softness had never been afforded to him.
The cruel joke, however, was that you were soft.
Not incompetent though. However, children do not understand pressure at first. They understand love. You remembered being seven years old in Singapore, sitting inside one of his office meetings coloring quietly while he discussed textile exports with another manufacturer. Every few minutes he glanced toward you just to make sure you were still there, still listening, still watching him with those huge admiring eyes.
And you always were. At school, whenever teachers asked what you wanted to become someday, your answer came naturally. Like my father. You proudly told classmates you would inherit the business one day. During parent-teacher meetings, your mother laughed while telling teachers how obsessed you were with “business talk.” You memorized brand names and market terminology before most girls your age learned makeup brands. Well, you learned makeup after that so sometimes that feels rebellious enough no?
You never noticed when your own dreams quietly began shrinking to fit inside his. But every single time you almost considered speaking about it aloud, reality crushed the thought before it could fully bloom. Because what would you even say?
Father, thank you for building an international business from nothing, but I think I want to work in fashion branding instead.
It sounded childish inside your own head. How would it sound in front of your father? Wait…you already know… “embarrassing & ungrateful.” So you buried it before anybody else could. You loved making him proud. Enough to keep sacrificing pieces of yourself quietly. Until Satoru arrived and ruined the careful architecture of your life simply by existing inside it.
Because Satoru treated life like something meant to be devoured. Not endured. He laughed loudly. Loved recklessly. Bought stupid things impulsively. Kissed you like it was his last day on earth. Dragged you into midnight walks and spontaneous plans and ridiculous adventures and moments so bright they almost felt unreal afterward. Somewhere along the way, being loved by him had started making you feel braver too. Heck, he even climbed up your balcony because he felt like it. That feeling of doing things just because you want and not because you’re obliged too..well fuck those thoughts because your traitor mind instantly reminded you of Satoru’s kisses last night.
Damn, those veins on his hands, and his silver chain, and his soft locks, and his pretty blue eyes, and his voice? Uhhhhhh that fact that his voice sounds a hundred times better when he’s speaking Japanese is enough to turn you on. Weird thing but a girl can’t help what a girl feels. no?
Ting! Your phone buzzed against the sheets. (Play Knee Socks by Arctic Monkeys from here on, I beg you.)
Satoru: Baby.
Another vibration followed instantly.
Satoru: I’m literally starving.
A small laugh escaped you despite everything as you finally reached for the phone.
You: Order something then.
The typing bubble appeared immediately.
Satoru: Even yummy food tastes yucky without you.
Heat climbed into your cheeks so fast it almost annoyed you. You walked toward your suitcase finally, kneeling beside it while sunlight spilled warm across the carpet around you. Today was supposed to be slow. No sightseeing. No packed itinerary. No racing from beaches to cafés to markets to karaoke bars. Just resting inside the resort after two days of exhausting yourselves in the best ways imaginable.
Okinawa had given you more happiness in two days than entire years before this ever had. The aquarium visits. Ferry rides. Night markets glowing under lantern light. Arcade competitions that Satoru took far too seriously. Late-night convenience store runs in oversized hoodies. Beach walks. Random races down hotel hallways. Sharing desserts. Sharing headphones. Sharing pieces of yourselves without even realizing it.
And somewhere inside all of that living, you had become greedy for him. Greedy for his every glance. Every touch. Every kiss that left your thoughts spinning afterward. You pulled out the outfit you had planned earlier, a soft white sundress layered beneath a pale-blue cardigan airy enough for the humid weather. Then came the socks. Sky blue knee-high socks. Cute enough that Satoru would absolutely lose his mind over them. You didn’t plan to go to the beach today which meant wearing whatever made sense to you.
You bit your lip unconsciously while pulling them on because lately you had started dressing with him in mind far more than you should probably admit. Blue shades because his eyes lingered longer on them, also because it’s his favourite too. Strawberry lip gloss because you loved the way his tongue swirled across his lips immediately after he’d kiss you. Short skirts because the expression on his face whenever you bent slightly nearly killed you every single time.
The way that man looked at you lately was becoming dangerous. Not because it lacked restraint. But because it carried wayyy too much of it. His body constantly gravitated toward yours like gravity itself had rewritten around the two of you. His hand resting at your waist during group walks. Fingers brushing your thigh beneath restaurant tables. His mouth lingering too close to your neck whenever he hugged you from behind. Every touch warm. Intentional. Heavy with something unsaid. And yet he always stopped himself before things could become more.
Always.
Sometimes it drove you nearly insane. Because your own body had long since stopped pretending indifferent around him. Every make-out session left you dizzy and wanting for more. Every kiss felt like standing at the edge of something enormous only for him to pull away at the last second, forehead pressed against yours while breathing unevenly like he was fighting himself internally. There had been several times when you felt his boner, you know he’s hiding a whale under his pants. IF ONLY, he’d let you swim to the said whale ugh.
You did not understand it. Part of you worried maybe he simply did not want you that way. Another part thought maybe he respected you too much. But how could that be true when you caught him checking you out multiple times with his dangerous half lidded gaze. It’s not like you didn’t notice his “quick bathroom breaks”. The worst part was that you wanted him enough to overthink every possibility.
Your phone rang suddenly. Not a text this time.
A video call.
You answered instinctively only for Satoru’s face to appear immediately, sprawled dramatically across his hotel bed shirtless with silver hair sticking everywhere, and sunglasses that you could track on his nightstand. “Finally,” he groaned. “My girlfriend remembers I exist.” Your stomach flipped embarrassingly fast at the word girlfriend. “You saw me last night,” you muttered while applying lip gloss carefully in the mirror.
Satoru went suspiciously quiet. You glanced toward the screen to notice that he was staring. Not even pretending not to. His blue eyes dragged slowly over your reflection before settling on the socks currently visible beneath the hem of your dress.
“Oh, you evil woman,” he breathed dramatically. “Those knee socks will be the end of me.” A laugh escaped you softly.
“You’re insane.”
“No,” he said seriously while sitting upright now, “actually I’m in love with you, which is unfortunately way worse.” The terrifying part was that he said things like that so casually now. Like love was something light enough to throw between conversations about breakfast and room service. Like it did not have the power to alter entire lives. Your fingers stilled slightly against the lip gloss tube. You did not address it.
You couldn’t.
Because if you did, if you truly stopped and looked directly at the weight behind those words, then you would also have to confront the other thing sitting quietly beneath your happiness these past few days, the same thing you kept trying not to think about whenever he kissed you too softly but still pulled away too quickly afterwards. Satoru wanted you. You knew he did. And yet he still held himself back.
Every
Single
Time
Lately the doubt had begun creeping in during quieter moments, ugly and persistent and impossible to fully silence. Because how could this possibly be the same Satoru that the pink haired girl was talking about? The same man who apparently moved through hookups and flings effortlessly before you. The same man that you came to know girls whispered about at parties. The same man who had no issue touching other girls before, wanting other girls before, sleeping with other girls before.
So why did it suddenly feel different with you? Why did he stop every time things became too intense with you? Why did his fingers tremble against your waist only for him to press one final kiss to your mouth and pull away like he was forcing himself to?
Sometimes, late at night when your thoughts turned crueler than usual, you wondered if maybe the problem was simply that you were not enough to make him lose control. Not sexy enough. Not confident enough. Fuck…a virgin too. Was it written all over your face? Maybe he liked you romantically but did not burn for you physically the way you burned for him.
The thought alone made embarrassment crawl hot beneath your skin because God…you wanted him so badly it almost humiliated you sometimes. Wanted his hands everywhere. Wanted him closer. Wanted him to stop treating your body like something he had to carefully avoid ruining. You could never even bring yourself to ask him about it. Because what if the answer shattered you?
I was on fire for you
Where did you go?
I could’ve died for you
How could you not know?
Fire for You that just started playing at the speaker you balanced on a shelf in the shower. The worst part was that while you sat there questioning your own desirability, Satoru was currently fighting the urge to lose himself over you every few seconds of the day.
He had never struggled with attraction before. Never. Desire had always been easier for him than emotions. It has been simple, physical, fleeting. Girls liked him, he liked them back, and then they’d fuck back in his room. There was never hesitation attached to it. Never this horrible tightening in his heart every single time his feelings for somebody threatened to become real.
But you had ruined the balance of everything. The problem was not that he did not want you. The problem was that he wanted you so much. And now that he knew his feelings for you were real, now that he had officially called the bet off in front of everybody, now that the guilt of how all of this had started lived inside him like poison, he could not let himself touch you the way he desperately wanted to until he told you the truth.
Because what if afterward you looked back at his every kiss, every touch differently? What if one day, after hearing about the bet, you started wondering whether every touch from him had only been another part of the game? That thought alone made him feel physically sick. So he held himself back constantly. Even when it was becoming nearly impossible.
Especially in Okinawa when he was constantly around you. You with your sleepy voice, coarse voice, messy hair, in the evenings with your worn out makeup, especially your worn out perfume, would mix with your own natural scent– wrapping around his senses and dizzying him like no drug could ever.
You, who kept unknowingly making things worse for him every second. The floral sundresses. The sunscreen shining softly across your skin beneath the beach sun. Your glossy lips wrapped around straws during café visits. The way you climbed onto his back during group pictures and laughed directly into his ear. The way you absentmindedly stole food from his plate while talking. The way your fingers played with the rings on his hands during movie nights, tracing stars on his biceps. The way you leaned into him automatically now, like your body had already accepted him as home.
And those blue knee socks today. He genuinely thought they might kill him. Because you had no idea what you looked like to him. No idea what it did to him whenever you curled yourself against his side during ferry rides while your dress rode higher along your thighs. No idea what happened inside his head whenever you bent over your hotel bed yesterday morning searching for chargers or makeup products while talking casually like you were not actively ruining his sanity. No idea what it took for him to keep his composure whenever your lips brushed his during lazy make-out sessions and you sighed softly into his mouth, trusting him completely.
There had already been too many close calls.
One during a cafe visit, when you got excited over a strawberry parfait and grabbed his hand so suddenly that you practically crashed into his chest, your perfume and body heat surrounding him instantly while the orange cafe lights reflected across your face. He remembered staring down at your lips for one second too long before practically shoving his hands into his pockets afterward because touching your waist any longer would have ended badly for him.
Another time in the elevator when everybody else got out first and you stayed behind with him accidentally for only twenty seconds, your back against the mirrored wall while laughing about something stupid Nobara had said earlier. The elevator had jerked slightly and you stumbled forward directly into him, palms against his chest, his hands automatically gripping your hips to steady you. He still remembered the feeling. Still remembered how his entire brain went frighteningly blank. The way your eyes widened slowly when you looked up at him. The way your gloss caught the shitty elevator light. The way he almost fucked you hard enough to completely forget about the bet.
Satoru liked it hard, fast like he was born with too much passion in his veins and no real way to contain it. Like every touch had to mean something, every kiss had to steal the breath right out of someone’s lungs. He was greedy with pleasure, relentless with his lust, overwhelming in every possible way.
But with you? He’d slow down just to memorize you properly. Would kiss every inch of your body like devotion alone could keep you tethered. His lips would linger against your skin as though he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to love you this closely. He’d bury himself beneath your jaw, mouth hot and feverish under your ear, breathing your name like a prayer he was terrified to lose. And Satoru Gojo - who had never once handed control to anyone would give it to you so willingly and would never regret it at all.
He’d rest his forehead against yours, smiling softly when you’ll guide him slower, gentler, sweeter. He’d let you decide everything. The pace and the rhythm. How close he could get. When he was allowed to come. Because loving you stopped feeling like hunger and started feeling like worship. You made him careful. You made him patient. You made him want to savor instead of consume.
So… Makima wasn’t lying to Denji when she said that being close to someone would feel better if he had feelings for them…
Dear God, Satoru would give you everything. Every piece of himself without hesitation. His hands would never ache for another body, his eyes would never search for someone else in crowded rooms, because once Satoru loved you, it became terrifyingly absolute. The kind of love that could soften monsters into men.
And yet he had to stop himself from going all the way with you. Again and again. And afterwards he always hated himself for the disappointment that flickered across your face before you quickly smiled like nothing happened. It killed him because he knew exactly what you were starting to think. He saw it now in the way your confidence faltered afterward sometimes. The way you overcompensated. Dressing prettier. Sitting closer. Kissing him deeper. Seeking reassurance in tiny ways that shattered him internally because you genuinely believed maybe you were somehow lacking. When in reality he was barely surviving you. And every single time one thought returned to him with terrifying certainty.
Mine.
It terrified him that if he crossed that final line with you before telling you the truth, he knew himself well enough to understand there would be absolutely no going back afterward. And maybe there already wasn’t.
The resort buzzed softly with life by early afternoon. Everyone had eventually gathered downstairs again after spending most of the day hidden away in separate rooms recovering from the previous night’s exhaustion. Suguru and Shoko argued over drinks near the poolside bar while Toji kept stealing fries directly from Utahime’s plate just to annoy him. Nobara and Maki were already half-planning another shopping stop before tomorrow’s flight back to Tokyo while Haibara loudly insisted everybody should stay in Okinawa forever.
Meanwhile Satoru barely heard any of it. Because you had just walked out of the resort lobby. And for one horrifying moment he genuinely forgot how breathing worked. Your cute dress and the sky-blue socks directly in front of his eyes, somehow making you look even softer, even sweeter, even more impossible to look away from. Like you already weren’t the cutest person to ever exist.
His silver chain rested against the open collar of his shirt, rings glinting beneath the evening light as he stared openly now, too gone to even pretend otherwise. “Dude,” Suguru muttered beside him without looking up from his drink, “Close your mouth before a bird flies inside.”
Satoru ignored him completely.
Because you were smiling shyly already under the weight of his gaze, hand shooting up to hide your smile but Satoru’s instant gaze reminded you he’d yank your hand away if you don’t. Your fingers instinctively smoothing down your dress while warmth climbs visibly into your cheeks.
Whenever he complimented you, you physically softened. Your shoulders curled inward slightly. Your lashes lowered. Your hands became fidgety around jewelry or sleeves or the hem of your dress. Sweat gathered faintly beneath your collarbones whenever he stared too long, like your entire body simply did not know what to do with being wanted so openly.
Beautiful, beautiful girl.
He stood the second you reached them, moving toward you automatically before his fingers hooked gently around your wrist. “You trying to kill me today babygirl?” he asked quietly. Your eyes widened immediately. “What?”
“That dress,” he murmured, gaze dragging slowly over you again. “Those socks. The gloss. Baby, seriously.”
Heat exploded across your face so quickly you had to hide part of it by looking at the ground, fake adjusting your socks. Behind you, Nobara gagged dramatically. “Oh my God,” she complained loudly. “You two are actually disgusting now.” But Satoru barely heard her.
Because even through your embarrassment, even through your shy laughter and avoidance and flustered little reactions, he could still feel that tiny lingering insecurity sitting quietly beneath your skin. And he hated that he put it there. Hated it so much that his chest physically hurt with it sometimes. If only you understood. If only you knew that every inch of distance he forced between your bodies existed precisely because he loved you too much now.
The teasing from your friends lasted far longer than either of you expected it to. It started when Haibara clapped his hands loudly near the poolside tables and announced that everybody absolutely had to go out properly tonight because tomorrow meant flights back to Tokyo, responsibilities again, classes again, work again, and apparently he refused to “let Okinawa end tragically.” Nobara immediately agreed because any excuse to dress up and drink overpriced cocktails near the beach sounded perfect to her, while Shoko looked one minor inconvenience away from falling asleep directly into her bitter iced coffee but still nodded anyway.
Plans formed around you in overlapping conversations. Somebody suggested a bar near the waterfront. Somebody else mentioned live music. Suguru complained about crowds while already putting his wallet away like he knew he was going regardless. The entire thing carried that strange bittersweet energy final vacation nights always seemed to have, everybody trying to stretch happiness a little longer before real life returned.
And through all of it, Satoru barely stopped touching you once. His fingers remained looped lazily around your wrist while he leaned against the back of your chair. Then his palm settled absentmindedly over your shoulder while arguing with Suguru about if they can extend the trip. Then his chin dropped directly onto the top of your head while he scrolled through Instagram on his phone like he genuinely belonged there. “You guys are coming for other stuff that’s planned for today, right?” Utahime asked eventually, glancing between both of you. Before you could answer, Satoru spoke first.
“Nah,” he said easily. “We’re staying back today.”
The words should not have affected you as much as they did. But they did because he remembered the random promise you made last night to stay in and spend some time together. Satoru is literally the best boyfriend ever!!
Something warm spread quietly through your chest while the group erupted immediately into dramatic reactions. “Oh my God,” Nobara groaned. “You two cannot survive one moment without each other anymore.” “We can,” Satoru replied instantly. A beat passed. Then he looked down at you.
“We just don’t want to.”
Suguru threw a fry at him. Who was even having fries at this hour? You laughed before you could stop yourself, ducking instinctively against Satoru’s side while your cheeks burned beneath everybody’s relentless teasing. Yet even while smiling, even while laughing softly into the drama of your friends, you still caught the way Satoru looked at you when nobody else noticed. The way his eyes softened every single time your attention drifted elsewhere. The way his thumb kept tracing slow unconscious circles against your wrist.
Like touching you had become instinctive now. Eventually the plans finalized around a Karaoke near beachside bars, and after another ten minutes of arguing over outfits and transportation and whether Gojo could survive alcohol without embarrassing everybody publicly again, the group slowly dispersed upstairs to get ready.
You and Satoru never did.
The moment the elevator doors closed behind the others, silence settled around both of you almost immediately. The silence wasn’t completely awkward but it could still be felt. The resort hallways glowed gold beneath the evening lights while distant ocean wind drifted through the open sections of the hotel, carrying salt and warmth and the faint sound of waves somewhere below. Satoru stood beside you with one hand tucked into his pocket, silver rings catching briefly beneath the lights every time he moved. Then he looked at you. It’s that expression again. That unbearably fond expression that always made your stomach twist into something helpless.
“What?” you asked quietly, suddenly too aware of yourself beneath his stare. His gaze drifted slowly down your body before returning upward again, almost thoughtful. “You know,” he murmured, “I genuinely think you enjoy making my life difficult.”
Heat climbed instantly into your face. “.”Satoru, you’re so corny”.
“Daww- how could you?” You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you immediately.
By the time you entered his suite, the sky outside was way too bright, umm just like your mood let’s say. Warm lights glowed across the hotel room, reflecting faintly against glass balcony doors left partially open to let ocean air drift inside. The atmosphere felt strangely domestic almost immediately once shoes got kicked aside carelessly and both of you collapsed onto opposite ends of the couch like this had become natural.
Which perhaps it already had.
Room service arrived barely twenty minutes later because apparently Satoru ordered enough food to feed an entire family. Desserts first, naturally. Strawberry pancakes. Matcha parfaits, wagyu sliders, and soda cans stacked messily across the coffee table. Half the order looked chosen exclusively because one of you once mentioned liking it casually during some conversation days ago.
“Hmm…you remembered our little plan it seems” you asked softly at one point after noticing your favorite pastries sitting near your plate. Satoru looked genuinely confused.
“Obviously I remembered.” Like forgetting things about you was ever impossible. The realization sat quietly inside your chest afterward. The day unfolded lazily after that. Shoes abandoned beneath tables. Music from video games humming softly while both of you sat cross-legged on the carpet arguing over them with the kind of seriousness only deeply competitive people could achieve.
“You cheated.”
“I literally didn’t.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I’m just smarter than you.”
Satoru gasped dramatically like you had slapped him. “That’s crazy,” he said. “That’s actually insane to say to me in my own room.” You laughed so hard you nearly dropped the controller. The best part was that he genuinely could not even deny it entirely because you were good. Annoyingly good. Arcade games, racing games, rhythm games…somehow you adapted to everything faster than expected, and every time you won you looked unbearably pleased with yourself afterward.
Especially when you cheated just slightly. Satoru caught you eventually during one of the rounds, your sneaky glance toward his side of the screen immediately giving you away.
“Oh my God,” he said, scandalized. “You little liar.” You stuck your tongue out instantly with a grin. And that expression nearly killed him because you always looked so adorable doing that.
Happy, he’d always want you to be happy. “You’re cute when you cheat,” he muttered absentmindedly. Your entire face warmed immediately. “Shut up.”
“No seriously,” he continued while leaning closer across the couch cushions now, smiling lazily. “You get this evil little look on your face first.” “Sa-umm No, I do not.”
“You do.”
“I hate you.”
“That’s okay,” he replied softly. “I love you enough for both of us.”
There, once again, he said it so naturally. So easily. Like love rested comfortably inside him now. Meanwhile you still carried it carefully like something fragile enough to shatter in your hands.
The game controller slipped from your fingers eventually after he tackled you backward against the couch during another cheating accusation, both of you dissolving instantly into laughter while cushions collapsed beneath your bodies messily.
“Satoru—”
“You’re a criminal actually, so you should be punished.”
“Omh..you’re such a looser toru moru.”
“Toru moru?”
“Toru, moru, loru, doru”
“Yeah, you’re gonna pay for it now,” he corrected immediately. “You’ll learn this the hard way.”
You laughed again, breathless now, and somewhere during the chaos your legs tangled together awkwardly while his body shifted above yours. And then neither of you moved. The room suddenly felt quieter.
Not truly silent though, the music from the video game still hummed somewhere forgotten in the background, ocean wind still drifted faintly through the balcony doors, distant laughter still echoed somewhere outside the resort but all of it blurred strangely once awareness settled fully between your bodies. Because Satoru was on top of you now. Close enough to trap you.
Enough for warmth to spread rapidly beneath your skin once you realized exactly how close he suddenly was. Your laughter faded first and then his. And God, being alone with him like this felt different without friends nearby. Without distractions. Without rushed moments stolen between crowded schedules or calls from your parents.
There was nowhere else either of you would want to exist at this very moment. The world could wait, everything could wait. Satoru’s face hovered inches above yours now, silver hair falling slightly across his forehead while his breathing slowed gradually into something heavier. His silver chain glimmered faintly near the open collar of his shirt. This close, you could see each and every freckle on his face and the beautiful constellations they formed. His rings brushed absentmindedly against your waist where his hand rested. You became horribly aware of every point of contact all at once. His torso pressing between your legs, knee socks uneven. The warmth of his chest. The weight of him. The smell of his cologne mixed with salt air and sugar and his own unique scent.
Your pulse stumbled violently. And then you felt it. Felt exactly how affected he was beneath the thin distance still existing between your bodies. A soft gasp escaped you before you could stop it. Satoru’s eyes shut briefly. Like even hearing that sound from you physically pained him. Your hands slid instinctively upward against his shoulders, then higher toward the back of his neck, fingers brushing through soft silver strands while your body arched unconsciously closer.
He inhaled sharply.
“Baby,” he said quietly. And then his mouth finally touched your neck, every coherent thought inside you scattered immediately. Warm open-mouthed kisses dragged slowly beneath your jaw while his hand tightened instinctively against your waist. Then higher. Then lower again like he could not decide where he was allowed to touch you. His lips moved feverishly against sensitive skin beneath your ear before trailing downward again, tongue brushing softly along your throat in a way that made your legs wrap around him instantly.
Your fingers dug harder into his shoulders.
Fuck.
The sounds leaving him were making things worse. Soft breathing against your skin. Small strained exhales every time you pull him closer unconsciously. The way his composure kept slipping for seconds at a time whenever your nails brushed lightly against the back of his neck.
And still he held back somehow. Even now. Even like this.
His palms spread against your body carefully despite how hard he was breathing already, and he was painfully hard, he felt like his pants would burst out any moment because of it. His one hand slid beneath your thigh briefly before squeezing gently upward. The other remained near your waist, occasionally brushing higher beneath the fabric of your dress before pulling back again like restraint physically hurt him.
Meanwhile your entire body practically begged for more. You pressed closer instinctively, legs tightening around his hips while your hands moved lower now, tracing desperately across his back, his waist, the sharp lines beneath his shirt.
“Satoru,” you whispered shakily. He groaned softly against your throat. And then suddenly—
Distance. Not much but enough to notice. Enough for cold air to rush between your bodies again. Enough for confusion and humiliation to slam directly back into your chest. Your breathing remained uneven while Satoru stared down at you with the exact same tortured expression he always wore afterward. The same restraint. The same hesitation. And something inside you cracked a little this time. Because you could only feel rejected so many times before it started becoming impossible not to internalize it.
Your arms slowly loosened around him. Satoru noticed immediately. “Baby—”
“No.”
Your voice came out quieter than expected. You turned your face slightly away first, embarrassed by how quickly emotion already burned behind your eyes. “No, it’s fine.”
But it very obviously was not. Satoru shifted immediately, concern replacing heat across his face almost instantly. “Hey Y/N”
You laughed once softly, except it sounded awful. “Am I seriously that bad?” His entire expression changed. “What?”
“You stop every time.” Your throat tightened embarrassingly fast now that the words finally escaped. “Every single time, Satoru.”
“That’s not—”
“Then what is it?”
The hurt sitting inside you finally surfaced all at once after days of trying to swallow it quietly. “Because I genuinely don’t understand anymore.” Your voice shook despite trying desperately to steady it. “You act like you want me and then you pull away constantly and I keep trying not to think about it but it’s getting humiliating at this point.”
Satoru stared at you like you had physically struck him.
Meanwhile once the words started coming, they refused to stop.
“I know about your past, okay?” you admitted softly, looking away now because shame burned too hot beneath your skin. “I know you’ve been with people before. I know this has never been difficult for you before.” Your fingers tightened painfully against the fabric beneath you. “So, I keep thinking maybe the problem is just me.”
“Baby—”
“Maybe I’m not experienced enough or sexy enough or maybe you just—”
“Stop.”
The sharpness in his voice startled both of you. Immediately afterward his expression broke completely. Because he looked fucking devastated. Actually devastated. Satoru moved closer again instantly, one hand cupping your face before you could avoid him fully.
“Don’t do that to yourself,” he said quietly, almost desperately. “Don’t you ever fucking do that to yourself because none of this is because I don’t want you.”
His thumb brushed gently beneath your eye. “You have no idea what you do to me.” Your chest hurt because he sounded sincere. “Then why?” you whispered finally. “Why do you keep stopping?” For a moment Satoru said nothing. His jaw tightened slightly instead.
Then finally—
“Because I’m trying to respect you, take things slow”
It was a lie. The bet was constantly dangling in his head no matter how badly he tried to bury it beneath kisses and soft touches and genuine feelings. He couldn’t touch you the way he truly wanted because he still hadn’t come clean, and if he ever acted on those urges before telling you the truth then what would that make him? No. He couldn’t do that to you. Not to the girl he now knew with terrifying certainty that he loved. Pathetically so, actually.
Satoru had taken so many stupid online quizzes at three in the morning trying to figure out whether this was love or just infatuation, rolling his eyes at every ridiculous question while still answering them honestly anyway. Do you think about them constantly? Yes. Do they feel like home to you? God, yes. Can you imagine a future with them? A terrifyingly beautiful one. He didn’t rely on those results because deep down he already knew what he felt for you, but somehow every single one still came back the same, giant green signs practically screaming at him that yes, Satoru Gojo was hopelessly in love.
The answer stunned you silent. His gaze softened immediately afterward. “You can not compare yourself with ay of those girls Y/N. You’re not some random hookup to me,” he admitted quietly. “You’re not temporary. You’re not somebody I just want one night with and then move on from after.” His fingers brushed shakily through your hair now. “And I know you haven’t done this before.”
Your stomach twisted instantly. “So?” The embarrassment returned immediately after saying it aloud. “So what if I haven’t?” Satoru blinked. You swallowed hard before continuing anyway.
“I know I’m inexperienced.” Your face burned so badly now. “I know I probably seem awkward and embarrassed all the time and maybe I don’t know what I’m doing yet but I still want you, Toru” Your voice cracked softly at the end. “And honestly it makes me feel horrible when you stop because then I start thinking maybe you regret touching me each damn time.”
The look on Satoru’s face afterward nearly destroyed you. Because suddenly he understood. Understood every insecure thought quietly eating at you these past days. “Baby,” he whispered painfully. Then immediately pulled you against him. His arms wrapped around you so tightly it almost hurt while one hand cradled the back of your head carefully against his chest. “No,” he murmured softly against your hair. “No, sweetheart, that’s not it at all.” Your eyes stung unexpectedly.
“I just didn’t want you feeling pressured,” he admitted quietly after a moment. “I didn’t want your first time becoming something rushed because I couldn’t control myself around you.” A shaky breath left him. “And trust me, I’m barely controlling myself already.”
Despite everything, a weak laugh escaped you. Satoru pulled back just enough to look at you again. “You are literally the sexiest girl I’ve ever seen,” he informed you very seriously. Your face immediately buried halfway into his shoulder again.
“I’m being serious,” he insisted softly, smiling now despite the lingering emotion in his eyes. “You drive me fucking insane.” Heat spread slowly through your chest again. Gentler this time.
Satoru brushed his forehead lightly against yours afterward, his voice lowering carefully. “But if… you want this too,” he whispered, “then I need you to tell me properly. We will only go with what you want.”
Your pulse immediately sped up again. His thumb stroked slowly across your cheek. “Can we?” he asked softly. “Can we go further?” Your breath caught instantly. For a second you could only stare at him. Then your teeth caught nervously against your lower lip while warmth climbed rapidly across your entire face.
And slowly—
You nodded. His hands felt impossibly large against you. Warm & everywhere. You had noticed them before, of course. The silver rings. The veins beneath pale skin. The long fingers that always seemed capable of holding too much at once. But now, with the entire world narrowed down to the space between your bodies, they felt devastating in a completely different way.
Because Satoru touched you like he was terrified you might disappear.
One hand rested at the small of your back while the other cupped your jaw so gently it almost hurt, his thumb brushing slowly across your cheek as though memorizing the softness there. Your skin felt cool beneath his palms from nervousness, from anticipation, from the way your entire body had turned hypersensitive under his attention, and the contrast nearly drove him insane.
“So pretty,” he whispered against your mouth.
The words barely sounded human anymore, his breathing was just so heavy, each kiss eliciting a moan from his heaven-like lips. Your breath caught when his hand slid lower, fingers spreading across your waist before pulling you closer until there was no longer space left between your bodies at all. Every inch of him surrounded you. Heat. Cologne. Warmth. The silver chain at his throat brushing your skin whenever he leaned down to kiss you again.
And Fuck.
His kisses, anyone who kissed him before you deserves to be punished, you’ll end them. End them all. He’s yours, just yours, your Satoru. You had never understood before how something could feel both unbearably soft and unbearably hungry at the same time.
Satoru kissed you like a starving man pretending patience. Slow only because he was forcing himself to be. His mouth moved against yours deeply, thoroughly, like he wanted to consume every sound you made and keep it inside himself forever. Every time you gasped softly into his mouth, his grip tightened instinctively around your waist, grip bruising but you loved each second of it. His forehead pressing briefly against yours like he needed a second to survive you.
“Still okay?” he whispered. You nodded immediately. But apparently that wasn’t enough for him.
His nose brushed yours softly before he asked again, quieter this time, “Tell me.”
“Yes,” you breathed instantly. “Please.” Something in his expression shattered after that.
Satoru is so fucking gone this time.
His hands moved over you almost helplessly afterward, like he genuinely could not stop touching you now that he finally allowed himself to. Your waist. Your ribs. The curve of your hips. Your trembling thighs. He touched you like he had spent years denying himself and no longer remembered how restraint worked around you.
And maybe he hadn’t. You stumbled backward together between kisses, laughing shakily when the backs of your knees hit the mattress before you fell onto the bed once more, Satoru immediately following above you, silver hair falling into his eyes as he stared down at you like he could not believe this was real.
Beautiful girl. His beautiful girl.
The straps of your dress had already slipped halfway down your shoulders. One of your dress straps hung dangerously low now beneath his wandering hands, and the look on Satoru’s face when he noticed nearly ruined you completely.
“You’re killing me,” he murmured hoarsely. Your cheeks burned immediately, but before you could hide again, he kissed you harder. Rough and messy and desperate.
His mouth traveled from your lips to your jaw slowly, kisses growing softer the lower he moved until your breathing turned uneven beneath him. Then came the feeling of his lips beneath your ear, warm and open-mouthed enough to make your entire spine arch instinctively.
A quiet sound escaped you before you could stop it. Satoru froze. Not because he wanted to stop. Because he looked wrecked by hearing it.
“Fuck,” he whispered shakily against your skin.
His hands tightened around your waist while his mouth returned to the sensitive spot beneath your ear again, slower this time, more deliberate, and suddenly your thoughts stopped functioning properly altogether. You could feel him everywhere. His weight between your thighs. His breath against your throat. His rings grazing your skin. The way his fingers trembled slightly whenever they touched bare parts of you.
And through all of it, he kept talking to you softly like you were something precious enough to soothe even now. “You’re okay?”
“So beautiful.”
“Tell me if you want me to stop.”
“I’ve got you.”
Every word made your chest ache worse. Because nobody had ever touched you like this before. Like your body was not simply desired, but adored. Fuck, couldn’t he do this sooner? Your hands slid shakily beneath his shirt, fingertips dragging across warm skin and muscle while Satoru inhaled sharply above you, his eyes immediately falling shut for one dangerous second.
There it was again. That terrifying lack of composure. You felt powerful beneath him in a way that made your pulse throb harder. Because this was Satoru. Satoru, who flirted with everyone effortlessly. Satoru, who always looked untouchable. And yet now he looked completely ruined just from your hands on him.
His forehead dropped briefly against your shoulder while he laughed softly under his breath like he genuinely could not believe what you did to him. “You have no idea,” he murmured.
“ Mhm about what?” you whispered.
“How fucking hard I am baby”. He gently lifts your hand and takes it down to cup his bulge, “You make me so so horny Y/N”. You were sure that your neck, and cheeks were on fire. Heat rushed through you instantly.
But before embarrassment could fully swallow you whole, Satoru lifted his head again and kissed you slowly enough to melt the nervousness right out of your body. His fingers intertwined carefully with yours against the sheets afterward while he stared at you with that same unbearable softness that always made your chest feel too small to hold your feelings properly.
“Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured against your mouth. The fact that he kept asking nearly broke your heart. You shook your head again, fingers sliding shakily into his white hair. “Don’t stop.” The sound he made was dangerous. Low in his throat. Completely wrecked.
His tongue brushed softly underneath your ear before dragging back upward, and the sensation made your entire body arch instinctively beneath him. “Satoru—”
“I know,” he whispered instantly, voice warm and soothing despite the obvious strain in it. “I know, baby.”
His teeth caught your earlobe gently, nibbling just enough to make your fingers tighten in his hair while a shaky breath escaped your lips. He smiled against your skin at the reaction, clearly addicted already to every tiny sound you made for him.
Meanwhile his hands had become impossible. One slid beneath your back, pulling you flush against his chest while the other traveled slowly up your stomach, bunching the fabric of your dress higher and higher with every lingering touch. The thin straps had already slipped halfway down your shoulders from all the kissing, leaving your skin completely exposed to him.
And Satoru looked ruined by the sight. His blue eyes dragged over you with open awe, like he genuinely could not process that this was real. That you were here beneath him, flushed and breathless and letting him touch you like this.
“I’ve wanted you like this for so long,” he whispered.
His fingers brushed lightly over your chest and you inhaled sharply, the intimacy of it making your head spin instantly. That tiny reaction alone nearly destroyed him. You saw it happen in real time, his eyes darkening, his jaw tightening briefly while his hands trembled ever so slightly against your body.
“You feel so good,” he murmured against your skin between kisses. “So soft… fuck.”
Your face burned hot enough to hurt, but he only kissed you deeper, slower, like he wanted to soothe the embarrassment out of you before it could fully form. Then his lips traveled lower. And lower.
His hands kept smoothing over your belly and thighs while he kissed down your body with terrifying patience, pausing every few seconds just to look at you again like he still couldn’t believe you were real. From above him, your fingers stayed tangled in his hair the entire time. You could barely think anymore. Every kiss melted another coherent thought out of your head until the only thing left was him. His warmth. His voice. His hands.
Satoru settled between your thighs slowly, eyes lifting to meet yours again while his mouth brushed teasing kisses against the inside of your thigh. The heat of his breath alone made your stomach flip.
“You’re so pretty Y/N, smell so good, I bet your pussy’s yummier than your lips…you know how bad of a sweet tooth I got right? Fuck, I could live between your thighs, stay as your good boy,” he whispered softly.
Your thighs twitched at his words and he smiled faintly against your skin, clearly noticing every reaction. “Satoru,” you breathed helplessly, fingers tightening in his hair. “Please stop teasing me.” His eyes flickered upward immediately at the sound of your voice. “Aww, is my baby so eager?” he asked softly, almost amused, though his expression still looked completely consumed by you.
Then one of his fingers brushed gently against your lower lip. “Open,” he murmured. You obeyed before thinking. The second your lips closed around his finger, Satoru visibly lost composure again. His head dipped briefly, a rough breath escaping him while his free hand gripped your thigh harder.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispered hoarsely. Your eyes stayed locked on his while you sucked softly around his finger, and the expression that crossed his face afterward looked almost painful.
Like he loved you too much already. Another finger joined the first slowly before his thumb brushed your cheek affectionately. “Shh,” he soothed quietly when your breathing turned shaky again. “You’re gonna get what I give you, okay?”
His voice dropped softer then. “I’m gonna make you feel so good, baby.” A kiss against your thigh. Another against your knee. Then his forehead rested briefly against your skin while he smiled helplessly to himself. “God,” he whispered, almost reverently. “I fucking love you.” and with that he quickly pulled you up with your hands.
He quickly shifted, guiding you upright while carefully lifting you up and making you sit opposite of him, you were now rested fully against his chest, your body tucked perfectly between his spread legs. Now, there was a mirror right in front of you. It reflected everything too clearly, your dress pushed high over your thighs, your flushed face, Satoru behind you looking devastatingly composed despite the hunger burning in his eyes.
One of his arms wrapped around your waist possessively, holding you close while his other hand slid slowly down your stomach. His palm was so warm against your skin that it made you shiver instantly. Large hands that looked sinful moving over your body possessively while claiming you as his.
“Want me to fuck you on my fingers baby?,” he murmured softly near your ear. You imagined this a lot but this instant shift in Satoru’s words and how easily he could get so dirty tipped you over the edge. His breath ghosted over your skin while his fingers traced teasing circles through the thin fabric between your thighs, and your entire body jerked at the sensation. A quiet gasp slipped from your mouth immediately.
Satoru smiled against your neck. “That sensitive, huh, can’t wait to get inside your pretty hole, I know it’s soaking wet from my voice.” You could barely answer him. Your head had already fallen back against his shoulder while one hand braced weakly against the mattress beside you. The other stayed curled behind his neck, fingers tangled in the soft dark strands at the nape of his hair.
Meanwhile his hands kept roaming.
One slipped upward, easing the thin strap of your dress down your shoulder slowly until more skin was exposed to him. He inhaled softly at the sight, like the simple act of seeing you was enough to undo him completely. “God,” he whispered hoarsely. “Can’t belive I’m actually holding your boobs, Fuck- you’re so sexy Y/N.” His palm spread gently over your chest afterward, thumb brushing softly over your left nipple while his lips found the side of your throat. Every touch felt unbearably deliberate. And then you made the mistake of glancing at the mirror. The sight nearly destroyed you.
Satoru looked completely lost in you. Eyes half lidded and heavy beneath lowered lashes, mouth pressed lazily against your neck while his hands moved all over your breasts like he physically couldn’t stop touching you. Meanwhile you looked dizzy already… lips parted, face flushed deep pink, body squirming every time his fingers stroked lower between your thighs.
You could feel how hard he was beneath you too. The realization made heat rush through your entire body.
His hand shifted again, touching you more directly now, and the sudden intensity made your breath catch sharply. “Toru—”
“I know,” he soothed instantly, kissing beneath your ear. “I know, sweet girl. I’ve got you.”
His fingers traveled south, circling your clit for the tiniest bit and ultimately hooking your panties by hooking two of his fingers…. He glazed his fingers with his spit and slowly entered his middle finger inside you, learning you carefully, while his other hand kept smoothing over your waist and belly to calm you whenever your body trembled too hard. You were already overwhelmed by it — by the way his finger was curling just the right angle, by the way he added one more finger unannounced, by the way you could feel slick gushing down your thighs, by the way he kept whispering praise into your skin every few seconds.
“Pussy so warm-fuck! .”
“Hahhh- imagine how good my dick would feel sweetheart.”
“Tell me, did you think about this too? Did you ever fuck yourself thinking of me?.”
You were melting in his arms. Satoru was nasty. And when his fingers fastened up and his stores deepened, your head tipped back fully against his shoulder, a helpless sound escaping your throat. Satoru exhaled sharply at the sound, his composure cracking for a moment while his fingers flexed against your thigh, palm messily rubbing your clit.
“Baby,” he whispered carefully. “I’m not hurting you, right?”
“No,” you breathed immediately, almost desperate. “Please… keep going Toru, it feels so good ohmygod”. The answer seemed to wreck him. His forehead dropped briefly against your shoulder while he inhaled shakily, fingers resuming their slow rhythm afterward. Every movement made your body feel hotter, tighter, more unbearably full of sensation until you could barely think anymore.
The mirror reflected the exact moment you started losing yourself completely, meeting his cerulean ones. Your eyes half-lidded, tears threatening to spill over, mouth open, lips dry making it hard to even lick them to soften them.
Satoru’s hand intertwined with yours over your belly while he held you steady through your high. Knuckles deep in your wetness. You could feel his hips bucking in you from beneath as well- making you think how good he would feel inside, how hard he could be with you, how right could he fuck you.
“That’s it,” he whispered near your ear again, voice low and affectionate. “Cum on my fingers, like the good girl you are.”
Your fingers tightened around his instinctively as pleasure kept building hotter and hotter inside you, your gone self in the mirror rushing blood through your kitty. The feeling spread through your stomach, your chest, your entire body until it became almost unbearable. And through all of it, Satoru never stopped working you open, stretching you nice and good on his bigass fingers. Never stopped kissing your neck. Never stopped calling you beautiful.
“Good fucking girl,” he murmured softly when your breathing finally broke apart completely. “Just like that.”
The climax hit you suddenly and all at once. Your body tensed hard against his chest, thighs trembling while a broken sound escaped your lips. Satoru held you through every second of it, one arm tightening securely around your waist while the other kept touching you gently, carefully, coaxing you through the overwhelming waves until you were shaking in his arms.
“There you go,” he whispered tenderly, kissing your temple. “That’s my girl.” You could barely breathe afterward. Your entire body felt molten, boneless against him while your heartbeat pounded violently in your ears. Satoru brushed your hair back from your face carefully, eyes softening immediately at how dazed you looked.
And when you glanced at the mirror one last time, the sight almost made your chest ache. Because he wasn’t looking proud. Wasn’t looking smug. He was looking at you like he was crazy for you. “Satoru,” you whined softly while his large hand cupped your face, thumb smearing slowly across your swollen lips as he stared at you like he couldn’t believe you were real.
“Fuck,” he whispered shakily. “I’m so lucky to have you like this.”
“Want to make you feel good too,” you whispered. The sentence alone nearly destroyed him. His blue eyes softened instantly, fingers brushing beneath your lashes where tears still clung from how overwhelmed he’d made you already. “Baby,” he murmured quietly, forehead resting against yours, “you already do.”
“No,” you insisted softly, lips brushing his palm. “Not enough.” A rough breath left his chest. You had no idea what you did to him. Because beneath all the teasing and arrogance, Satoru handled you like something precious. Like something he was terrified of ruining accidentally.
“You don’t have to do anything,” he whispered gently. “I just wanted to take care of you.”
“But I want to Toru, fuck please - I wanna suck you off,” you murmured back stubbornly, cheeks burning. “Wanna make you feel so good.”The words hit him hard enough that he shut his eyes briefly. How could you…the sweetest most innocent girl he knew utter such filthy words?
Then he kissed you again. Slow and deep. You never thought anyone could make you feel this small and dizzy at the same time. But Satoru… Satoru was a storm trapped inside a human body. Beautiful. Playful. Catastrophic. And right now, with his beautiful hand cupping your face so carefully, he looked at you like he wanted to ruin himself for you willingly.
“We could- We could do this later.” he murmured with a soft laugh, thumb dragging slowly across your swollen lips.
“Satoru, please I don’t know if it’s right to ask but I like- I want you to use my face? Fuck- like..like fuck my face. Wanna be so good for you Toru,” you whispered before you could stop yourself. That shut him up for exactly one second. Nonononono this can’t be the angel he fell in love with, this was a completely different side of you that he never knew about.
Then his entire expression softened in the most dangerous way possible.
His forehead rested briefly against yours while his other hand slid down your lips, fingers spreading possessively against the curve of your jaw, trailing down to your throat. You were painfully aware of how large his hands were on your body, how easily he held you still, guided you closer, made you melt beneath the smallest movement.
“Satoru,” you whispered shakily.
“Have you done it before baby?” His stayed locked on your face while his fingers tangled gently in your hair, tilting your head back just enough for him to kiss you again. Slow this time. Deep. Like he genuinely had all the time in the world to worship you properly. “No” you whispered back. He exhaled from his nose, cursing himself on how many of your firsts would a guy like him be taking from you but who could blame him? Have you ever tried being around yourself?
A grin tugged at his lips when he noticed. “So sensitive to praise,” he teased quietly. “Don’t tempt me baby.”
You could barely breathe when he talked to you like this. Especially because beneath all the teasing and arrogance, there was something unbearably tender woven into every word. Nobody had ever handled you this carefully before. Well, there was a guy who used to kiss your eyes before kissing your lips, like he was taking permission from the universe behind your eyes to guide him towards your lips.
“Come closer,” he whispered. You obeyed immediately. His hand slid to the back of your neck, guiding you into his lap while his other arm wrapped around your waist securely. The movement made you gasp softly, and Satoru laughed under his breath at the sound, eyes darkening with affection and want all at once.
“Open your mouth for me baby” he asked softly. You obeyed and stuck your tongue out. Oh, what a joy would it be to have your lips wrap around his cock. “Later, I promise. This moment? It’s about you. Just you.” His nose brushed yours gently. His thumb brushed your cheekbone carefully, catching the dampness gathered there from how overwhelmed he’d already made you.
You nodded. His lips curved faintly at the sight. “That’s my girl.” The praise went straight through you. And Satoru noticed immediately. You saw the exact moment his composure cracked apart again — his jaw tightening slightly, blue eyes darkening while he stared at your flushed face like he was losing his mind in real time.
He whispered under his breath. “You have no idea what you do to me.” Then he kissed you again. Slow enough to drown in. One of his hands slipped beneath your jaw while the other spread across your lower back, fingers sliding lower and lower until your breath caught sharply against his mouth. He swallowed the sound instantly, pulling you tighter into his chest while his lips moved against yours with growing desperation.
For a few minutes, neither of you moved. Then he kissed your forehead softly and murmured, "Just wait here, baby." You watched him disappear into the bathroom. A minute later you heard running water, cabinet doors opening and closing, the muffled sound of him moving around. There was something ridiculously domestic about it. Something that made your chest ache in a way you couldn't explain. He returned, a warm towel rested in his hands.
"Come here." His voice was gentle enough that you obeyed without thinking. The warmth against your skin made you sigh immediately. Satoru sat beside you on the bed, carefully cleaning you up, his movements unhurried and patient. Every few seconds he'd press a kiss somewhere random on your shoulder, your cheek, the corner of your jaw, the top of your knee whenever he happened to reach it. Like he simply couldn't stop touching you now that he had you.
You could get used to this far too quickly. Because as you watched his concentration, the way his brows furrowed slightly while he made sure you were comfortable, one thought kept repeating itself inside your head. It would be so nice to have him for a lifetime. The realization hit with enough force that you almost looked away. Satoru finished, tossed the towel aside, and immediately leaned down to press a kiss against your cheek.
"Want a bath?" You shook your head instantly. "No. I just want to cuddle with you." His smile appeared so fast it was almost embarrassing. "I'll shower later," you continued. "We're meeting everyone for karaoke anyway. Don't tell me you forgot."
The guilty look on his face answered the question before he even opened his mouth. "Oh, I absolutely forgot." You burst out laughing. Satoru pointed accusingly at you. "To be fair, I had more important things on my mind." "Sure you did."
"I did."
"You forgot."
"I forgot okay okay." He raised his hands in surrender and the honesty was so immediate that you laughed harder. A few minutes later he disappeared into the bathroom himself, leaving the door cracked open while he cleaned up. The conversation never stopped though. You were still talking to each other through the doorway like neither of you could tolerate silence for more than thirty seconds anymore.
"What if we skip karaoke?" he called out.
"No."
"What if we stay here?"
"No."
"What if we lock the door and pretend we died?" You rolled your eyes toward the ceiling.
"Satoru."
"I'm being serious."
"You are literally never serious."
A dramatic sigh echoed from the bathroom. "Fine. But when we're back at university and drowning in assignments, remember this moment. Remember that I offered us happiness."
You could practically hear the grin in his voice. A few minutes later he emerged wearing nothing except grey sweatpants, hair still damp from the shower. Life was unfair. Satoru Gojo looked like that while simply existing. He caught you staring immediately. The bastard smiled and then walked over and dropped onto the bed between your legs like he belonged there. Which, unfortunately, he did. His hands found yours immediately. Fingers intertwining. Thumbs brushing softly across your knuckles. He lifted one of your palms and kissed it.
Then the other. "Okay," he said. "Open up." You narrowed your eyes.
"About what?"
"Whatever is happening inside that pretty little head."
You glanced away. Satoru squeezed your hands. "Come on."
"You know exactly what I wanna say." His eyes widened theatrically. Then he leaned forward.
"Oh my God."
"Satoru."
"My sweet innocent girlfriend is secretly filthy." Your face immediately burned. "You keep getting hotter every day, Y/N."
"Shut up."
"I'm serious." The grin on his face could have powered entire cities. Your laughter escaped before you could stop it. And for a second Satoru simply watched. Noticing how you weren't hiding behind your hands anymore. Not covering your mouth every time you smiled. Not shrinking yourself smaller. You trusted him now. Trusted him enough to be fully seen. The realization settled somewhere deep inside his chest. Then, without saying anything, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you against him. You hugged him back instantly. A moment later he gently pushed you both down onto the mattress, one arm sliding beneath your head automatically.
"Alright," he murmured.
You looked up at him. "Once karaoke ends at eleven, we're coming right back in my room."
You laughed.
"Satoru."
"I'm just reading your mind, baby. I know you Y/N." Unfortunately, he did. His nose brushed yours. "We literally can't keep our hands off each other." The two of you stayed like that for a while afterward, tangled together beneath the fading sunlight while the afternoon slowly surrendered to evening. Eventually reality forced its way back into the room. You needed time to get ready. Shoko would absolutely murder both of you if you showed up late.
So reluctantly, painfully, you finally stood. Satoru walked you to the door. "I've got a couple things to do," he said. "I'll meet everyone there." You nodded and then narrowed your eyes.
You laughed, kissed him one last time, and headed back toward your room. By now, Shoko had already made one thing very clear to Satoru: girl time was sacred. He was not allowed to steal you away for the entire evening. Apparently other people enjoyed your company too, which Satoru personally considered a design flaw in the universe.
Because the truth was that somewhere along the way, you'd become part of the group. Not Satoru's girlfriend. Just... one of them. And while everyone loved that, there was one person who loved it slightly less. Mostly because Satoru's favorite place in the world was wherever you happened to be. And tonight, for at least a few hours, he'd have to share. By the time evening settled over Okinawa, your hotel room looked like the aftermath of a minor fashion emergency.
-
Three different dresses lay abandoned across the bed, makeup products cluttered the vanity in messy little piles. Hair clips, lip glosses, jewelry, perfume bottles, all scattered everywhere while you stood in front of the mirror for what had to be the fifteenth time in the past hour, staring critically at your reflection like the girl looking back at you had to put in more effort.
“No, because genuinely tell me the truth,” you said for what was probably the hundredth time already, turning toward Nobara with visible distress. “Does this look weird?”
Nobara looked up from where she sat cross-legged on your bed eating chips dramatically slowly. “If you ask me one more time, I’m actually going to throw myself off the balcony.” Maki snorted from beside the bathroom doorway. “You’ve changed outfits four times.”
“Five,” Utahime corrected absentmindedly while fixing one of your bracelets for you. “The black dress was before we got here.” You groaned immediately, covering your face with both hands. Because maybe this was ridiculous. But you could not help it. Not after this afternoon and not after the way Satoru looked at you while kissing you like you were something precious enough to ruin him completely. Not after his hands trembling against your waist. Not after the soft look in his eyes when he asked permission like your comfort mattered more than his own self-control. The memory alone still made heat creep beneath your skin so quickly it felt humiliating.
And tonight—
Tonight felt important. Not because you expected perfection but because something between you and Satoru had shifted permanently today. The distance was gone now. The uncertainty too. And your entire body felt aware of it.
You turned back toward the mirror again anxiously, fingers combing nervously through your hair one final time. You had spent almost forty minutes styling the waves carefully because Satoru once casually admitted he liked your natural hair the most. Not perfectly straightened or overly done. Just soft and messy around your shoulders the way it naturally fell after long days near the ocean. “You look disgustingly hot,” Nobara added around another mouthful of chips. “Your boyfriend is gonna lose his damn mind.” Utahime smiled softly while adjusting the strap of your dress properly against your shoulder. “You do look really beautiful.”
Your chest fluttered helplessly at the reassurance. Still, your eyes drifted back toward your reflection again almost immediately. Because tonight mattered a lot, the sheer possibility of what more could happen between you two was too much to feel all at once.
What if you won’t be a virgin after tonight? The thought alone nearly short-circuited your brain. “You are down catastrophically,” Shoko announced dramatically after watching your expression change in real time. You threw a pillow at her immediately.
-
-
-
The karaoke place sat near the busier part of the city, glowing brightly against the Okinawan night with huge neon signs reflecting across rain-damp pavement outside. Music spilled faintly through the entrance every time the doors opened, mixing with distant laughter and the scent of alcohol, perfume, fried food, cigarette smoke lingering from nearby alleyways. Inside, the atmosphere felt warm and crowded in the best way possible.
Golden lighting washed softly over dark leather booths while colorful LED signs glowed along the walls. Somewhere deeper inside the building people were already screaming songs completely off-key over heavy bass and drunken cheering. Glasses clinked constantly and servers hurried between tables balancing cocktails and baskets of fried food while old Japanese pop songs played faintly beneath the louder private karaoke rooms.
Your group had taken over one of the larger rooms already. Suguru lounged lazily against the couch, scrolling through songs while Shoko and Nanami argued about whose turn it was to sing next. Haibara was loudly attempting a heartbreak ballad with far too much emotion despite clearly not knowing half the lyrics. Toji looked deeply unimpressed by everybody’s existence while stealing fries directly off someone else’s plate anyway. The table itself had become chaos with cocktail glasses, half-finished desserts, bowls of popcorn, chicken karaage. french fries covered in cheese powder.
Multiple pitchers of drinks are already sweating against the tabletop beneath flashing colored lights. Nobara and Maki immediately ordered expensive cocktails the second they sat down. Toji stole half your fries without permission. Utahime quietly sipped wine while watching everyone spiral into louder and louder stupidity as the night progressed. And through all of it—
You kept checking your phone.
Again and again and again.
Nothing.
Your fingers tightened slightly around your drink. “He’s probably still getting ready or got his dad’s call crying about some business shit,” Shoko said casually beside you after catching your expression for maybe the fifth time.
You tried laughing it off weakly. “I’m not worried.”
Lie.
Because Satoru was late. Not horribly late but late enough to make your mood slightly blue. Enough that your excitement had slowly started twisting into something more restless beneath your ribs. You glanced toward the entrance again instinctively the second the door opened.
Not him.
Your stomach sank stupidly fast. Where the fuck was he? After everything that happened the following afternoon, this felt a bit embarrassing. What if he wasn’t into it? You forced yourself to focus on the conversation around you instead, but it felt almost impossible. Everything seemed slightly muted without him here. Every joke feels lame. Every song is irritating. Every minute dragging longer than it should.
Your body still remembered him painfully well. The warmth of his hands against your waist. His voice low against your ear, whispering the dirtiest things ever. The look on his face whenever you reacted to how his fingers felt inside you. You kept replaying tiny details against your will now, sitting there beneath flashing karaoke lights while your brain completely betrayed you.
His mouth beneath your ear. His forehead against yours. The way he whispered your name softly like it meant something. Heat climbed into your face instantly. You took another sip of your drink too quickly.
Where the hell are you, Satoru?
The anxiety arrived slowly after that. Bitter and ugly. Persistent even. Not enough to fully ruin your mood yet, but enough to make your chest feel increasingly tight each time another ten minutes passed.
Your thoughts started turning crueler afterward. Maybe he got overwhelmed after today. Maybe things became too real too quickly. Maybe he regretted it now. Maybe— No stop - you murmured to your restless heart. You stared down at your phone again.
Still nothing.
Around you, everyone remained loud and alive and glowing beneath neon lights while laughter echoed against the walls, but somehow you suddenly felt strange inside all the noise. Detached from it. Like your entire body had become tuned only toward the absence of one person. And maybe that was terrifying. Because it had only been a few hours.
Yet somehow already, being away from Satoru felt wrong in a way you did not know how to explain properly. Like your body had adjusted itself around his presence too quickly and now noticed every second he wasn’t there. You hated how much power he had over your emotions already..
Soon enough…two hours had passed like quicksand. You sat frowning into the couch beside Nobara and Maki, knees crossed, fingers wrapped around another drink you’d barely touched. Your hair fell over your shoulders in soft natural waves, catching the light every time you moved. The same waves Satoru always pushed behind your ear with that stupidly fond smile.
And Sukuna had been staring at you the entire night. You noticed it after a while. They weren’t casual glances, not friendly looks. He was intently staring at you. The kind that crawled beneath your skin a little.
Across the room, he finally rose from his seat, lazily placing his drink down on the counter before making his way toward you. Tall, broad and confident in the way men became when they thought the room and everyone in it belonged to them.
You blinked when he stopped in front of you, extending a hand. For a second, you hesitated. You and Sukuna weren’t close. Sure, you’d all traveled together, spent nights playing cards, drinking, laughing until sunrise. He was Satoru’s friend. Your friend too, technically.
And it was just a dance. You didn’t want to make it awkward so you placed your hand in his. The dance floor swallowed you whole. At first, it was normal. Just swaying with the music. Bodies moving around you. His hand resting at your waist while you kept a polite distance between your bodies.
But little by little the distance started disappearing. His hand pressed firmer against your waist, pulled you closer. You stiffened slightly, trying to shift back without making a scene. Maybe he didn’t notice. Maybe it was the crowd.
Then his face dipped lower. Too close for your liking again. Close enough that if you tilted your head the wrong way, your mouths would brush. Your heartbeat spiked instantly and you stepped back again. And that was when his hand slid lower against your hips. Your stomach was all in knots.
No.
Something was wrong.
You tried moving away again, visibly uncomfortable now, but his grip tightened just enough to stop you. Like he thought if he kept you near him long enough, you’d eventually melt into him willingly. Then he leaned closer again and something inside you finally snapped.
You grabbed both his wrists immediately, yanking them off your body before taking a sharp step back. “Hey,” you said sharply, breathing uneven. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
For the first time all night, Sukuna actually looked surprised. “I’m dancing with you,” he replied casually, already stepping forward again. You immediately lifted your hand between you both, stopping him.
“No. I don’t want this.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Sukuna, you’re trying to get close to me. What is this? Are you drunk?”
A humorless chuckle left him. “No. Are you?”
“The fuck? No.”
“Then what’s the problem?” he asked, tilting his head. “You can’t enjoy one dance with me?” You stared at him in genuine confusion now. “I came here to dance normally,” you said slowly. “Why would I enjoy this? What is wrong with you?”
That hit something ugly inside him and it didn’t go unnoticed by you. His jaw tightened, his ego bruised raw. Because in his mind, there was no possible way you hadn’t noticed him before. No possible way you could choose Satoru over him without ever once looking his direction.
A bitter laugh escaped him. “Ah,” he muttered. “So you only notice fuckboys. That it?”
The color drained from your face. “What?”
What the hell was happening?
Where was Satoru?
Why was Sukuna acting like this?
Then he scoffed again, eyes darkening. “Bet he’s off fucking somebody in a corner right now. Too busy to give a shit about you.” He leaned closer. “He’s not even coming back tonight, by the way.”
You stared at him, disbelief turning into anger. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
But Sukuna kept going like he couldn’t stop anymore. Like weeks of arrogance and rejection and resentment were finally spilling out. “Funny thing is,” he said coldly, “you really bought all his sweet bullshit, huh?”
“Sukuna,” you warned, voice shaking now, “it’s about time you shut the hell up before you regret anything else you say.”
“Regret?” He laughed outright this time. “You know what’s comical? How clueless you act. Or maybe that’s intentional.” His eyes dragged over you cruelly. “Pretty girls like you always act innocent so men keep flocking around them.”
Each word felt like a tight slap to the face. Your chest felt warm. “Sukuna,” you whispered, horrified now, “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you, but I’m not having this conversation.”
You turned immediately. Ready to walk away. Then his voice cut through the music.
“What?”
For some reason, you decided to stop. His next words shattered something inside you.
“Don’t know about the bet?”
“The bet?” You repeated, and this time there was no mockery in his voice at first. Just disbelief. “There’s no fucking way he didn’t tell you about this.”
Your brows furrowed slightly. The music around you suddenly sounded underwater. Far away.
“What… bet?”
A cruel smile tugged at Sukuna’s mouth again, though it looked uglier now. Meaner. Like he realized exactly where to sink the knife. “You enjoyed it though, didn’t you?” he asked. “The most popular guy on campus obsessing over you.” His eyes dragged over your face. “I’m popular too. Why don’t you enjoy my attention a little?”
“Sukuna—” Suguru’s voice cut in sharply from somewhere behind him.“Bro. Shut the fuck up.” Toji immediately stood from his seat too, jaw tight enough to crack bone. Haibara looked horrified. But you barely noticed them. Because something cold had already begun crawling into your chest. A feeling so wrong your soul recognized it before your body could.
You stared at Sukuna. Then whispered, so quietly it almost got swallowed by the music— “What did you say?”
Suguru moved instantly, stepping between you both slightly. “Hey,” he muttered, panicking now. “Don’t do this. Are you out of your fucking mind?”
But Sukuna was looking only at you. And then he asked—
“Has he fucked you yet?”
The world stopped.
No—
It imploded like a star collapsing into itself somewhere deep inside your ribcage. Violent, silent. And catastrophic. You felt your heartbeat misfire so hard it physically hurt. Heat rushed to your face instantly—not warmth or embarrassment, but something closer to being skinned alive under fluorescent lights.
Every eye in the room was suddenly on you. People who weren’t even part of the conversation had turned to look. The music still played. Someone laughed somewhere distant. And you stood there feeling like roadkill beneath headlights. Toji grabbed your wrist gently.
“C’mon,” he muttered. “Let’s go.” But you yanked your hand away immediately.
“No.”
Your voice cracked. Your hands didn’t know what to do. They trembled uselessly beside you, fingers twitching like broken strings on a puppet abandoned mid-performance. “I wanna know more.”
Tears were already burning behind your eyes. Sukuna looked at you for a long moment. Then scoffed bitterly. “He really didn’t tell you.” You gently shook your head.
“Sukuna,” Maki snapped warningly but he kept going. Because now that the wound was open, he wanted to rip it wider. “Just so you know,” he said, voice cutting through you like glass, “the day you stepped onto campus, your boyfriend made a bet.”
No no no—
“He stood in front of all of us,” Sukuna continued, “and said within thirty days you’d be dying to let him inside your pants.” His laugh was empty. “That you’d fall head over heels for a guy like him. And if he pulled it off, he’d win.”
Every word landed like a hammer against your bones. You couldn’t breathe properly anymore.“You,” Sukuna said, pointing at you now, “were the bet.” The room blurred. Your ears rang violently.
“He acted all sweet and devoted because that’s what he does,” Sukuna spat. “Makes girls think he’s in love with them. Makes them feel special. But he isn’t.” His eyes darkened. “He just wanted to get in your pants.”
Your lips parted slightly but nothing came out. Not even denial because somewhere horrifyingly deep inside you—things were starting to make sense. Every flirt, every perfect line, every moment that felt too cinematic to be real.
No, Satoru wouldn’t—
Would he?
“Clearly he hasn’t gotten there yet,” Sukuna added coldly. “Otherwise he wouldn’t still be around.” Your heartbeat stuttered again. Or maybe it stopped entirely. You genuinely couldn’t tell anymore.
“Sukuna, shut the fuck up!” Haibara snapped. “Enough!” Maki barked immediately after. But their voices barely reached you. You looked at them slowly instead. At all of them. Suguru avoiding your eyes, Haibara looking sick, Nobara frozen in her place, Maki tense with guilt. And suddenly the answer hit before anyone even spoke.
You stared at them with tears finally spilling over. “You guys knew?”
Horrible, horrible silence. Enough to make you the fool in every room you walked into. Enough to let you stand there talking about Satoru like he hung the moon while they all knew there had once been laughter attached to your name. A sound left your throat.
Small and broken like something dying quietly. “Fuck you,” you whispered.
Then louder.
“Fuck You, Fuck all of you”
Nobody moved, nobody spoke. And then you looked back at Sukuna. Your entire face was wet now. Tears streamed endlessly down your cheeks while your lower lip trembled violently between your teeth. You tilted your head slightly, eyes hollow in a way that frightened even them. “Well?” you whispered. “Go on.”
Toji immediately stepped forward. “Don’t.” But you ignored him.
“No,” you choked out. “This’ll be the day I hear everything.” Your voice cracked apart. “This’ll be the day I stop being a fucking idiot.” Sukuna stared at you for a second. Then exhaled sharply through his nose. “What, you really wanna hear more?”
You nodded. A tiny, devastated voice managed to escape a small “Yes.” from the very lips that Satoru kissed that beautiful afternoon. The tears wouldn’t stop. “At least you’re honest,” you whispered. “You’re cruel as fuck, an asshole even… but you’re the one telling me the truth.”
Even saying it made you feel sick. Sukuna’s expression twisted strangely at that. Then he muttered darkly— “I can bet my money he’s probably with another girl right now.” His jaw clenched. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Even after saying he was dating you. He has always done it in the past.”
Your eyes widened slightly. Where was Satoru? He was supposed to be here. You both had planned this entire night together. The bar at eight along with Karaoke. Dinner after that and then back to his room at ten where it would finally just be the two of you again. He promised it all. So where was he? Before Sukuna could say another word, Toji abruptly looped an arm around his waist and dragged him backward hard.
“Enough,” Toji hissed.
“Get the fuck off me—”
“You’ve done enough damage.” Voices erupted instantly, shouting, arguments, curses hurled across the room. But you couldn’t process any of it anymore. Because Shoko had just returned from outside, cigarette still between her fingers, and the moment she looked at your face—
She quickly understood what happened. Her expression dropped immediately. “Oh no…”
You looked at all of them one final time. Your friends? Your humiliation reflected in every pair of eyes. Like you had just finished performing some horrible joke none of you could laugh at anymore. And suddenly you felt ridiculous. Like a clown finally realizing the audience had never been laughing with her but only at her. Nobara stepped toward you carefully.
“Hey—” You lifted your hand immediately.
Enough.
“The show’s over,” you said weakly. Then you turned and walked away. And once you started crying, you couldn’t stop. They weren’t graceful tears. They were the kind that tore out of your chest so hard it hurt your throat. Your breathing came in broken gasps as you stumbled through the hallway, heels clicking unevenly beneath you. You couldn’t see properly anymore. Everything blurred.
The lights stretched into smears. Your chest felt flayed open like someone had reached inside you barehanded and ripped your heart apart while everyone watched. Every memory of Satoru replayed now like shattered glass. His smile, his touches, the way he looked at you, the way you believed him.
God, You believed him. You looked so fucking stupid. Your body shook harder with every step toward his room.
Room 201.
The room you were supposed to return to at ten. The room where you had planned to curl into his arms after karaoke and laugh and kiss and maybe finally give him even more pieces of yourself.
What a clueless, worthless bitch have you been. Desperate for the love of a man, believing that this would be the time the love gods would do you justice.
Every single thing about life and love started feeling rotten. You reached the hallway leading to his room looking utterly destroyed. Mascara streaked, hair disheveled. Chest heaving, still crying so hard you could barely breathe.
But somehow you kept walking toward that door anyway.
-
Rain lashed violently against the taxi windows hard enough to blur the entire city into streaks of neon and watercolor outside, red brake lights smearing across wet pavement while traffic crawled forward at the speed of a dying animal. Okinawa had become one giant glowing traffic jam tonight, every street overflowing with tourists, umbrellas, flashing storefronts, crowded sidewalks, laughter spilling drunkenly beneath convenience store awnings while thunder rolled somewhere farther out near the ocean.
And Satoru Gojo was losing his fucking mind.
His knee bounced restlessly against the backseat floor while one hand stayed wrapped tightly around the shopping bags beside him like someone might steal them if he loosened his grip for even half a second. Damp white strands of hair clung messily against his forehead from the humidity outside, his black button-up sticking uncomfortably to his skin after sprinting halfway through three different shopping districts because apparently every store in Okinawa wanted to personally inconvenience him tonight.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath for maybe the twentieth time already, blue eyes narrowing at the endless line of unmoving cars ahead. “Did everybody in this entire fucking country decide to visit Okinawa today?”
The taxi driver apologized politely from the front seat about evening congestion near the entertainment district, but Satoru barely heard him anymore because his brain had become one giant spiraling mess of thoughts about you.
You waiting for him. You checking your phone every few minutes pretending not to care. You probably trying to act normal around everyone while secretly overthinking yourself sick because he was late.
Fuck. He hated making you wait, Especially now, after today. Because today had changed something between you permanently, and Satoru knew it with terrifying certainty. The distance was gone now. The hesitation too. After everything that happened this afternoon, after the trembling kisses and soft confessions and the way you melted against him so trustingly, something inside him had shifted so violently that he genuinely did not think he could ever go back to the person he was before you.
Which was exactly why tonight had to happen.Tonight he was finally going to tell you the truth. The bet, the beginning, the ugliest, most shameful part of this entire love story. He had rehearsed it in his head the entire evening like a man preparing for execution.
You’d be hurt first. Obviously. Maybe furious too. You would look at him with that wounded disbelief that already made his chest feel tight just imagining it. You would ask him why. You would question every moment between you afterward. You would probably cry, and the thought alone made him feel physically ill.
But after that…after he explained everything properly. You would understand him. Maybe not immediately. Maybe not tonight but eventually. Because everything after the beginning had been real.
Every single thing.
The late-night phone calls. The way he memorized your routines without meaning to. The way his entire day improved the second you texted him. The way touching you felt less like desire and more like finally finding somewhere his body belonged. None of that had anything to do with the bet anymore. That stopped almost instantly. And honestly, Satoru hated himself a little for not telling you sooner, but every day after falling in love with you made confessing harder because he could physically feel how much power you had to destroy him now.
Tonight would fix everything. He truly believed that. Because afterward there would be no more guilt sitting heavy inside his chest every time you smiled at him so sweetly. No more panic every time you looked at him like he was good. No more shame when you trusted him completely. He could finally love you openly without feeling like a liar every second he touched you.
And Satoru wanted that more than anything. He wanted mornings with you. Movie nights. Studying together. Falling asleep tangled together in lazy silence. He wanted to hear you complain about exams while stealing food off his plate. He wanted to buy you stupid little gifts whenever something reminded him of you which apparently happened every ten fucking minutes now.
Because earlier today he’d walked past a boutique near Kokusai-dori and immediately stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk after spotting something in the display window.
A cardigan. Soft ivory knit with slightly oversized sleeves, delicate pearl buttons, loose enough to fall off one shoulder exactly the way you liked wearing things. Beside it sat a pair of cream-colored knee-high socks trimmed with tiny black ribbon bows and embroidered stars near the hem.
And instantly—
You.
You, you, you, just you everywhere. You sitting cross-legged on his bed wearing them while scrolling Pinterest. You stealing his hoodies while those socks peeked out beneath them. You curled up beside him late at night looking sleepy and soft and beautiful enough to ruin him permanently. The realization hit him so hard he walked straight into the store without thinking.
Which somehow turned into him showing the luxury store employees your Pinterest boards because yes, apparently this was who Satoru Gojo had become now. A man who kept your fashion boards bookmarked on his phone like sacred historical documents. “She likes things that look soft,” he’d explained while the poor employee stared at him with visible amusement. “Like… effortless pretty. And ribbons. She likes ribbons yeah.”
“You know your girlfriend very well,” the employee had laughed gently. Girlfriend. The word alone nearly knocked the air from his lungs. His girlfriend.
Something embarrassingly warm spread through his chest again at the memory. And then his brain spiraled even further afterward because once he started thinking about fashion, he immediately started thinking about Paris. Which honestly felt inevitable now. He had to take you there someday. There was genuinely no other option anymore. You would lose your mind in Paris.
You would spend hours wandering through vintage designer boutiques with stars in your eyes while dragging him by the hand from store to store. You’d stop every five seconds to photograph little cafés and flower stalls and tiny side streets. You’d sit beside the Seine dressed beautifully while complaining about your feet hurting after shopping too much, and he would buy you another pair of shoes anyway because you looked too cute and excited over small things.
And your birthday was coming up too. Maybe that was it. Maybe that was the gift.
Paris. Just you and him this time. No friends, no group trips, no interruptions. Just the two of you. He could already picture it so vividly it made his chest ache. He would spoil you rotten there. Anything you touched, bought! Anything you looked at for more than three seconds, yours immediately.
Jewelry. Shoes. Dresses. Perfume.
Whatever you wanted.
Not because he thought money mattered to you, because it clearly didn’t, but because he genuinely enjoyed giving you things. He liked watching your face light up whenever he remembered tiny details about you. He liked the feeling of taking care of you. It made something possessive and unbearably soft bloom inside his chest all at once.
Honestly, relationships suddenly made complete fucking sense now. Before you, Satoru never really understood why people became obsessed with their partners. Most relationships around him looked exhausting. Restrictive. Bitter. People complained constantly about their girlfriends, joked cruelly about marriage, and acted inconvenienced by love itself.
Meanwhile he spent every waking moment wanting to be closer to you. Having a girlfriend was incredible. It was like having a best friend who was endlessly cool and funny and comforting to exist around, except also unbelievably pretty and warm and kissable. You could talk for hours, rot in bed together, go shopping together, sleep together every night, laugh over stupid nonsense, hold hands in public whenever you wanted.
And yeah, you could also suck on their tits. Which honestly felt like a massive bonus on top of everything else. He genuinely could not understand people who hated their partners. He could never hate you. Not even remotely. And that was the thing eating him alive lately—because despite how this started, despite the lie, Satoru had never once treated your feelings like a game after realizing what you meant to him. Lying was one thing. Actually hurting you was another.
He hated whenever you questioned yourself around him. Hated those tiny moments of insecurity that crossed your face sometimes whenever you compared yourself to other women around him or wondered quietly if he genuinely found you attractive. Those moments made something vicious twist inside his chest because how the fuck could you not understand what you did to him? You walked into his life and ruined the worth of everyone else’s presence. You smiled at him and he forgot entire conversations midway through. You looked at him too softly and suddenly he was imagining wedding bells in the background like a complete psychopath. There was no universe anymore where he would intentionally make you feel unwanted.
Never. Not again. The taxi finally stopped near the hotel district after what felt like centuries, rain still pouring relentlessly while neon signs reflected across soaked sidewalks beneath the night sky. Satoru practically threw money at the driver before climbing out into the humid air, immediately shielding the shopping bags beneath his jacket.
The bouquet came last. A tiny flower shop tucked near the corner street exactly where he remembered seeing it during his morning jog earlier. Warm yellow light glowed through fogged windows while rainwater dripped steadily from the awning overhead. Inside, the air smelled overwhelmingly fresh and sweet, crowded with hydrangeas, pale roses, baby’s breath, tulips arranged carefully in glass buckets across the floor.
He remembered your favorites instantly. The florist wrapped everything delicately in ivory paper tied with satin ribbon while Satoru stood there practically vibrating with nervous energy. “For someone special?” the older woman asked warmly.
The smile that spread across his face felt almost helpless. “Yeah,” he answered softly. “Very special, my girlfriend actually!” By the time he stepped back outside, his arms were overloaded with bags and flowers and his brain had become a complete disaster.
He was sweating. For some reason, his heart wouldn’t stop pounding. His hands kept shaking slightly every few seconds, and he probably looked insane walking through the hotel lobby clutching flowers like a man on the verge of cardiac arrest. But this was it.
He just had to get upstairs.
Get into the room.
Tell you the truth.
Apologize properly. And then everything would finally be okay. Tomorrow he could wake up beside you without guilt crushing his ribs open. Tomorrow he could kiss you without feeling like he was stealing something precious through lies. Tomorrow he could finally become the person you already believed he was. And you would forgive him. Maybe not immediately. But you loved him too now. You didn’t say those three words yet but he felt it every time you looked at him lately. The elevator ride felt endless. By the time he finally reached the hallway leading toward your hotel room, his pulse had become so loud he could hear it in his ears. The carpet muffled his footsteps while dim golden lighting stretched softly along the walls. Rain tapped faintly against distant windows somewhere down the corridor.
The door was already unlocked. His chest fluttered immediately.
Cute.
You were waiting for him. A nervous smile tugged helplessly at his lips while he adjusted the bouquet carefully in one hand and pushed the door open slowly. “Sweets?” he called softly while stepping inside. “Sorry I’m late, baby, traffic was actua—”
He stopped. Something felt wrong instantly. The room was dark. Only faint silver moonlight spilled weakly through partially open curtains near the balcony, washing pale across the floorboards and tangled bedsheets. The air itself felt strange somehow. Quiet in the wrong way.
Satoru’s smile faded slowly. “...Hey?”
No response, his stomach started churning. Then he saw you. Sitting near the far side of the bed, back facing the room, shoulders unmoving beneath the dim moonlight. At first he thought maybe you were asleep or simply waiting quietly by the window because you loved looking at the moon whenever your thoughts became too loud.
But something still felt off, wrong. The bouquet shifted nervously in his tightening grip while his throat suddenly felt painfully dry.
Why was he so nervous?
It’s just you.
Still, his hands had started shaking again. His mouth felt strange. Too warm, too tight, too dry. The confession he rehearsed a thousand times suddenly tangled uselessly behind his teeth. He swallowed hard before stepping farther into the room carefully.
“Hey,” he said softly, voice catching slightly despite himself. “I’m sorry I’m late.”
Silence.
Another step. “You good?”
Satoru was still gripping the bouquet when he stepped into the room. The flowers had suffered under the strength of his hold, a few petals bent and crushed from how tightly he'd been carrying them all evening. “You're scaring me," he laughed softly, expecting you to answer with some teasing remark from somewhere inside the room. The silence that greeted him felt strange immediately, though he couldn't have explained why. It was too quiet.
He reached over and flicked on the bedside lamp. Golden light spilled across the room, washing over the furniture and the neatly messy bed before settling on the figure sitting at its edge. At first, he only saw your back. Your beautiful hair tumbled down your shoulders in disheveled waves, as though you'd run your hands through it a hundred times. The pale blue satin robe draped over your body, catching the warm glow of the lamp. For a second, confusion crossed his face. The robe was unusual. You weren't supposed to be dressed for bed. The two of you had plans. Karaoke, dinner, laughing until your stomach hurt, and then the promise for more afterwards. Yet there you sat motionless, one knee brushing against the sheets, your head lowered.
Then you turned. And the world seemed to leave his body.
The bouquet slipped from his fingers before he even realized he'd dropped it. The gift followed immediately after, hitting the floor with a dull sound that neither of you acknowledged. Satoru couldn't breathe. Your eyes were swollen. Red-rimmed and raw. Your lips trembled faintly, glossy and chapped from what looked like hours of crying. Tears had dried and dried and dried again against your skin until the evidence was impossible to miss. For several long seconds, his mind simply refused to process what he was looking at. This wasn't how tonight was supposed to look. This wasn't the face he'd been imagining all evening.
Panic hit him so violently that it almost made him dizzy. He hurried forward immediately, every protective instinct inside him screaming at once. "Hey, hey, baby—" His voice cracked with concern as he approached, but before he could reach you, your hand lifted into the air.
“Stop”
The motion was small and Satoru obeyed instantly. He froze where he stood. The concern on his face only deepened. Because now he was close enough to see that your entire body was trembling. You rose from the bed with slow, deliberate movements, as though every motion required effort. Then you walked around the mattress toward him. Your bare feet disappeared into the plush carpet. Your eyes never left the floor. Satoru watched helplessly, confusion and dread knotting together inside his chest, until you stopped directly in front of him. Then, without saying a word, your fingers found the ribbon securing your robe. And pulled. The satin loosened immediately. The robe slipped open. Satoru's breath caught. Not because of what he saw but because of the way you looked while doing it.
There was nothing playful in your expression. Nothing shy nor loving. The beautiful lingerie beneath the robe looked less like something chosen for intimacy and more like evidence at a crime scene. You pushed your hair over one shoulder and finally looked up at him. Tears were already gathering again, making your eyes shine beneath the lamp light. "Well," you said quietly, your voice so broken it barely sounded like your own. "Let's get on with it."
For a second, Satoru genuinely didn't understand the words. His brow furrowed. "What?"
You laughed. The sound was horrific. Tears slipped over the edges of your nose as you climbed backward onto the bed. The robe fell away from your shoulders completely while you lay against the sheets, your hands spreading weakly to either side as though offering yourself up to be taken. "Come on," you whispered. "You don't have to keep pretending anymore." Your voice shook so badly that half the words nearly disappeared. "You can just fuck me now."
Every muscle in Satoru's body locked. For a moment he looked physically incapable of moving. The blood drained from his face so quickly it was frightening. "What- I-?" His voice came out strangled.
You swallowed hard. Fresh tears rolled into your hairline. "We can just get it over with." Your lower lip trembled violently as you stared at the ceiling rather than him. "Then you can tell me it wasn't true. Tell me they lied. Tell me nobody knows anything." Your throat closed around the next words. "I'll believe you."
Satoru looked like someone had driven a knife directly through his ribs. He rushed forward immediately, dropping to the edge of the bed and grabbing your hand between both of his. "Baby, what are you talking about?" His words stumbled over one another in panic. "I don't—I don't understand. Who said what to you? What happened?" You looked at him.
The look in your eyes was worse than anger, worse than hatred. You looked shattered. Your fingers suddenly caught the front of his shirt. Desperately, you began fumbling with the buttons as tears continued pouring down your cheeks. "Just get it over with, Satoru."
His eyes widened. Your hands were shaking so badly that you couldn't even undo the first button. "It's okay," you whispered. "I'm ready. I even..." A sob broke through your sentence. "I even prepared myself." The words hit him like a physical blow.
Satoru immediately caught both of your wrists and pulled your hands away from his shirt. His hands landed on your shoulders instead. "What are you saying?" he demanded, panic flooding every syllable. "Why are you saying that? Baby, look at me. Did somebody say something to you? Did somebody—"
Then he saw it. The realization. It happened right in front of you. Like watching a candle extinguish. His voice died and his face went white. And suddenly he knew.
You knew about the bet.
The room seemed to tilt beneath him. Satoru took two slow steps backward until the backs of his legs hit the night stand. He sank onto the edge of it without meaning to, staring at you as though he no longer recognized the reality standing in front of him.
You stared back, waiting. And in that terrible silence, he couldn't bring himself to deny it. Not when the truth had already entered the room before he had. Not when it was written all over your face.
You wrapped your arms around yourself. Your hands climbed into your hair, clutching at the roots so tightly it must have hurt. Then a laugh escaped you. A disbelieving laugh. The kind people made when reality became too horrible to comprehend.
"Motherfucker." The word cracked apart halfway through. And suddenly you were sobbing. Your shoulders shook so violently it looked painful. Your breathing became uneven, jagged, every inhale catching in your throat. Tears poured down your face faster than you could wipe them away. You looked up at him through blurry vision, your entire face twisted with heartbreak.
"How could you?" The question shattered inside the room. "HOW COULD YOU?"
Satoru's chest was rising and falling so hard it looked like he couldn't get enough air. Fury burned across his face, not at you, never at you but at himself, at every stupid decision that had led to this moment. Shame sat heavy in his expression. Guilt. Horror. He looked seconds away from breaking apart.
"Baby, I..." He moved toward you again. "I was going to tell you."
You froze.
The room froze.
Everything froze.
Then you slowly lifted your head. "So it's true." The words barely existed. "So it's true, Satoru." His mouth opened, closed, and opened again. And that was answer enough. You stood so quickly the mattress shifted beneath you.
"Oh my God." A laugh burst from your throat. Then another. You kept shaking your head over and over, pacing barefoot across the room while dragging your hands through your hair.
"Oh my God." Your voice sounded hysterical now. "I can't believe this." You turned away from him and reached for the dress you'd prepared earlier. The one you'd spent nearly an hour choosing because you wanted him to think you looked beautiful tonight. The one meant for karaoke and dinner and stolen kisses and all the plans you'd made together.
Your fingers shook as you pulled it on. "He was right, this is why you were late too" you laughed bitterly while yanking the fabric over your body. "If that's not what you wanted from me, then you must've gotten it somewhere else. God knows how many others are lined up."
Satoru looked genuinely offended. "Excuse me?" You ignored him. You couldn't stop. The words were pouring out now. The hurt was pouring out now. "Whatever. It's fine. Really. It's just—"
"Please." The desperation in his voice stopped you for half a second. "Please talk to me." You looked over your shoulder. His eyes were red now too. All you could see was the fact that he hadn't denied it. So you reached behind your back and zipped up the dress. The sound seemed impossibly loud. When you finished, you felt more exposed than you had standing there in lingerie.
Nothing left to protect your dignity. Nothing left protecting the future you'd spent weeks building in your head. You moved toward the door slowly, feeling as though every step was carrying you farther away from the person you'd been only a few hours ago. Your mind wasn't working anymore. Thoughts came and went without meaning. The only thing you knew with absolute certainty was that the world you had walked into this room believing in no longer existed. And perhaps the cruelest part was that Satoru was still standing there. Still looking exactly like the man you loved. While everything else had already ended.
Satoru caught your wrist before you could reach the door. The movement was desperate rather than forceful, but the second his fingers closed around your skin, something inside you recoiled. You ripped your hand away so violently that even he looked startled by it. The distance between you turned into infinity. Your chest was rising and falling too fast, your entire body trembling from exhaustion, grief, humiliation, and the kind of heartbreak that seemed to scrape against your bones from the inside.
"Don't fucking touch me, you whore." The words landed like a gunshot. For a moment, even you couldn't believe they had come from your own mouth. You had never spoken to him like that. Never raised your voice at him or anyone else. Never looked at him with anything except affection, patience, or love. Yet now you stood in front of him with tears streaming down your face and venom coating every syllable.
"Have some fucking balls and tell it to my face, Satoru Gojo." Your voice cracked under the weight of it. "Did you make a bet on me?" Satoru had heard you cry. He had heard you laugh. He had heard you whisper his name against his shoulder and call for him from across crowded rooms. But he had never heard this version of you. The disappointment in your voice frightened him more than your anger ever could.
For several seconds he simply stared. His throat worked uselessly. Every answer seemed wrong. Every explanation sounded pathetic before it even left his mouth. He could physically feel you slipping further away from him with every heartbeat, like sand running through clenched fingers no matter how desperately he tried to hold on.
Finally, he forced himself to speak. "Yes." The room fell silent again. You nodded. Then you turned away from him and slowly crossed the room before sinking onto one of the sofas. The movement looked oddly calm compared to the storm inside you. Your hands rested limply in your lap while tears continued sliding down your face. You tilted your head and looked up at him with such crushing disappointment that Satoru felt something cave in inside his chest.
"What else?"
"What else were you hiding from me?"
The look on your face, he would remember it for the rest of his life. Satoru felt sick.
"I..." His voice failed immediately. He swallowed hard and tried again. "I made a bet that I could make you fall in love with me in thirty days."
"And then what?" You didn't look away, didn't blink. You just kept staring at him. "Tell me." His hands shook visibly. "I..." But he couldn't finish. The words refused to come. The shame was too heavy. The guilt was too heavy. So you did the work for him instead.
A broken laugh escaped your throat before dissolving into a sob. "Was any of it real?" The question seemed to physically hurt him. "Everything was real." His answer came instantly, without hesitation.
"None of it was fake." Satoru crossed the room so quickly he nearly stumbled. He dropped to his knees in front of you, looking up at you like a man begging for his life. His eyes were already red. His breathing uneven. "Yes, my reasons were wrong when I started. They were horrible. They were disgusting." His voice cracked. "But everything changed. Everything changed the moment you kissed me. The moment I got to know you. The moment you started becoming the first thing I thought about when I woke up and the last thing I thought about before sleeping."
You looked down at him. A face beautiful enough to make poets write epics. A face you love. A face that suddenly felt like it belonged to a stranger. "You touched me this afternoon." The words barely rose above a whisper. You laughed again. "I'm sorry you couldn't finish your bet, Satoru." His entire expression shattered. "I really am."
"Stop."
You stood abruptly. "I'll excuse myself." The second you tried to move, his hands found your arms. He guided you back onto the sofa before you could collapse completely. "What are you doing?" he asked, voice breaking. "Why are you talking like this?" His hands shook against your shoulders. "Why are you acting like none of this matters?"
You stared at him. And suddenly you looked so tired. "What am I supposed to do?" you asked softly. "I've been a toy since the beginning." The words nearly knocked the air from his lungs. "I've been nothing but a fool." Your gaze dropped to the floor. The confession sounded almost pathetic now. Like an old wound being reopened.
"And you couldn't get what you wanted from me, so everything else was a joke, I’m sorry Satoru." Tears slipped down your face again. "I'll leave."
"NO."
"I'll go."
"NO."
"We never knew each other." His face crumpled. "Stop."
"Nothing happened."
"Please stop."
"I'll accept it." The desperation in his eyes became unbearable. Before you could turn away again, both of his hands gently cupped your face. His palms were warm, familiar. The same hands that had held yours a thousand times before. Yet somehow they felt different now.
"You're not listening to me." His voice trembled. None of his usual confidence remained. Only fear existed. Raw, naked fear. "None of it was fake." Tears slipped from his eyes now too. "Not one second." You stared at him. "I was going to tell you today."
He swallowed hard. "We are good." The words came out weak."We are so good." His thumb brushed your cheek. "I don't know what you're thinking right now, baby, but I need you to tell me. I need you to tell me what's happening in your head." You looked at him for a long moment. Then whispered the only question that mattered. "Why did you do that to me?"
Satoru's face completely fell. His eyes closed and his shoulders sagged. And when he spoke, his voice sounded smaller than you had ever heard it. "I was a stupid asshole." A tear slid down his face. "I didn't know what love was." Another. "I didn't know how badly I could hurt someone." He looked at you again. "I didn't know you." His voice cracked. "Then I met you." The tears came faster now. "I have never felt this way about anyone." His entire body trembled. "Do you understand what I'm saying?" He looked desperate.
"Everything I feel for you is real." His throat worked around the emotion choking him. "It scares me how much I love you." You heard every word and somehow none of it eased the pain. Because beneath all the apologies and confessions was still the same question. The one that wouldn't leave. The one tearing you apart. You looked at him through blurry eyes. And asked again. "Why would you hurt me?" This time, Satoru didn't have an answer.
Satoru kept trying to speak, but every sentence seemed to die somewhere between his chest and his mouth. He looked at you as though he was watching a building collapse in slow motion, knowing there was nothing he could do to stop it, knowing he was the one who had lit the first match. The tears running down your face were no longer frantic. Somehow, that made them worse. They simply fell, one after another, silent and endless, as though your body had accepted a grief too large for sobbing.
Then something occurred to you. Something that made your stomach twist all over again. Your eyes lifted to his. "Where were you?" The question was quiet.
Satoru blinked. "What?"
"Where were you?" you repeated, and this time your voice cracked under the weight of it. "I was waiting for you." His face immediately changed. "I was waiting for you all night." The memory came rushing back all at once. The empty chair beside you. The phone in your hand. The clock ticking forward. Every passing minute spent wondering where he was.
Your laugh came out broken. "Do you know what Sukuna told me?" "He told me you were probably fucking some girl in a corner." The words physically hit him.
His entire face twisted, his jaw clenched. His eyes squeezed shut for a second. And yet that almost made you angrier. Because now he looked hurt. Now he looked devastated. Now he looked betrayed by the accusation. Meanwhile you had spent the last hour discovering that the foundation of your entire relationship had been built on lies. "It doesn't matter," you snapped before he could defend himself. "It doesn't matter if it was true or not." Your voice was rising now.
Months of trust splintering apart. Months of love turning into something sharp enough to cut. "He told me the truth." The words echoed through the room. "He told me the truth while every single one of you stood there letting me look like a joker." Fresh tears flooded your eyes.
Your chest hurt so badly you could barely breathe. "You all watched me." The realization was unbearable. "You watched me fall in love with you."
Satoru shook his head immediately. "No—"
"Baby—No-"
You stared at him through blurry vision. "What did I do to deserve this?" The question sounded so small. That Satoru actually looked like he might be sick. "What was my fault?"
His eyes closed, the tears slipping away freely now "What was it?" Your hands trembled violently at your sides. "Did I look too dumb? Was I too stupid? Was it because I was-" The thing he loved most about you was the very thing he had destroyed. Your ability to trust him. Your ability to love without fear. "That's what's going to haunt me forever." Your voice dropped to a whisper. The kind of whisper that somehow hurt more than screaming. "I don't think you understand that, Satoru." His breathing became uneven.
"You don't understand what you've done to my head." A tear slipped down your cheek. "I can't stop thinking about it. Every memory, every kiss, every conversation." Your hand pressed against your chest. "It feels poisoned."
"I don't know what's real anymore." Satoru moved closer. "Everything was real."
"No."
"It was."
"No."
His voice cracked.
"It was."
You shook your head.
Violently.
"You don't get to decide that anymore." You didn't trust his version of reality anymore. You didn't trust his explanations. You didn't trust his memories. Hell, you barely trusted your own. "I’m thinking about all those times you called me yours." "I’m thinking about all those times you held my face.,I’m thinking about every pout you kissed away." Your breathing became shaky again. "And all I hear now is somebody laughing in the background." Satoru immediately grabbed at his own hair. Frustrated, desperate and heartbroken. "Stop, stop, stop" His voice was trembling.
"Please stop doing that."
"Doing what?"
"Turning everything into a lie." His eyes were red now.
"Because it wasn't." The desperation in him was becoming frightening. Like a man trying to hold water in his hands. "I don't know how to make you understand." His throat worked painfully. "I don't know what words I'm supposed to use."
You looked away, toward the door. Toward escape. Toward anything except him. "I'm leaving."
"No, you are not!" The answer came instantly.
"You should be the one telling me to leave." "You should be the one telling me to forget anything happened." His face crumpled. "You should be the one reminding me that I was a thirty-day challenge."You should be the one telling me that I was something you won."
"I didn't-"
"Because that's what I was."
"No."
"That's exactly what I was."
"NO." The shout echoed through the room. Both of you froze. Satoru looked horrified by his own volume. But he couldn't stop anymore. Couldn't stay composed anymore.
"I love you." The words exploded out of him. “I love you." His chest was heaving. Tears streaming freely down his face now. "I love you." And again.As if repetition could somehow fix this. "I love you." His voice cracked. "I love you." Another tear. "I love you." His hands were shaking. "I love you." The room blurred around him. "How do I make you understand?" The desperation in that question was almost unbearable. "How?"
His eyes searched yours frantically. "Tell me how." His breathing hitched. "Tell me what I have to do." Another tear rolled down his face. "Because none of my feelings have been fake." His voice became smaller. "I have never felt like this before." "I've never loved anybody like this before. I've never needed anybody like this before." And there it was. The horrible tragedy. Because he sounded sincere. Every word sounded sincere. Every tear looked real. Every crack in his voice felt real.
“Please—” His voice cracked so violently it barely sounded human anymore. “Please, Y/N—”
“Do not say my name.” Your words came out sharp, shredded by sobs, your chest heaving so hard it hurt. Your fingers curled around the door handle behind you like it was the only thing keeping you upright. In front of you, Satoru looked destroyed.
His hair was disheveled from repeatedly dragging his hands through it, eyes bloodshot and wet, tears running endlessly down his face without him even bothering to wipe them anymore. His shoulders shook with every breath. This wasn’t the composed, untouchable Gojo everyone knew.
This was just a man watching the love of his life walk away.
And failing to stop it. “Do you think only you get to ask questions?” he choked out, each word broken apart by sobs. “Today you don’t get to walk away without hearing me.”
A laugh ripped out of you. “Oh, now I have to listen?” you yelled, voice echoing down the corridor. “Now honesty matters to you?”
“I don’t know about my rights,” you whispered painfully, “but you lost all of yours.”
His face crumpled. “Why can’t you just hear me out once?” he begged. “Not one thing I did with you was fake. Not one thing. I felt all of it. I swear to you on my life, Y/N, I’ve never felt this way about anyone before, I never will” Your tears fell harder. “I might’ve started with the bet,” he admitted shakily, voice collapsing under the weight of it. “But after I met you— after our first kiss— I couldn’t go back anymore. I couldn’t.”
Your lips trembled violently. “So before that?” you whispered. “Before all that?” You nodded slowly before he could even answer. “That stupid show you put on for a week,” you said hollowly. “That was fake, right?”
Silence.
“I get it.”
“Well, you know what?” you cut him off, voice rising again. “I really, really loved you, Gojo.” His head snapped upward instantly. Loved. Past tense. You watched the exact moment the word lodged itself into his chest like a knife.“What do you mean loved?” he whispered.
You stared at him in disbelief. “What do you mean what do I mean?” “You still love me,” he said desperately, tears falling faster. “You—you can’t just undo that.”
Your face twisted in agony. “Are you hearing yourself right now?” you cried. “It’s done. We’re done. I’m breaking up with you.”
The words shattered him. His breathing stopped for a second. Then suddenly he was shaking harder, hands gripping his knees like the floor beneath him had disappeared. “All of this,” you sobbed, clutching your chest, “all of this was built on lies. My love, my dreams, my fantasies— everything. Everything was fake.”
“It wasn’t fake—”
“You hurt me beyond repair!”
Your scream bounced through the hallway. A few doors had opened now. People stood frozen in the distance. Someone sat halfway down the staircase. None of it mattered. Nothing mattered except the unbearable ache splitting you apart from the inside.
“Do you understand what this means to me?” you yelled. “Do you understand what you’ve done?” He cried harder at that. This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go. Tonight was supposed to be perfect. He was supposed to tell you the truth, hold your hands, explain everything, and somehow— somehow — you’d forgive him. Not this. Not you looking at him like he was something rotten.
“I can’t fucking believe you’d do this to me,” you whispered brokenly. “You’re just a cruel person, Gojo. Someone who feeds off people. Off girls.” His face twisted immediately. You take what you want and leave. Are we all toys to you?” His entire body folded in on itself because every word you threw at him was deserved. And he knew it. He dropped to his knees so suddenly the sound echoed through the hall. “Please,” he begged.
“Please, please, baby- please I beg you to just hear me out properly. Just once. You’re making a mistake.” You stared at him in disbelief. “I’m making a mistake?” you laughed through tears. “Wow. You’re unbelievable.”
“The kisses, us, every moment together— all real. All of it.”
“Except the beginning,” you whispered. He went silent again. And that silence answered everything. Your face crumpled completely. “So what if I never fell for you?” you asked quietly. “What then?” He looked horrified.
“What if I didn’t love you back?” you continued. “Would you have gotten bored eventually? Left me like the others?”
“How many girls have you done this to?” You wiped at your face angrily, voice splintering apart.
“They tell people not to fall for beauty,” you laughed painfully. “But how do I explain this? How do I explain that it wasn’t your face that ruined me?” Gojo’s expression shattered. “It was the way you remembered everything about me,” you cried. “My favorite songs. My nail polish colors. My stupid lip balm flavors. My desserts. My movies. The way I take my coffee. You knew everything about me.” Your voice broke completely. “And you still deceived me.”
He looked like he wanted to die hearing that.
“Y/N…” he whispered.
“I don’t want to see your face anymore.” He immediately stood up and stumbled toward you instinctively. You raised your hand instantly. “Do not fucking touch me.” He stopped so fast it looked painful.
Then slowly…He sank back onto his knees. Like his body could no longer hold itself upright. “Please,” he whispered again. Over and over like prayer, a cruel god won’t listen to. “Please don’t do this. I’ll do anything. Literally anything.” You shook your head, crying harder.
“I don’t believe you anymore.”
“I love you.”
“You lied to me.”
“I love you!”
“And I wish you didn’t.” That silence after that sentence was unbearable.
Then finally, with your entire body trembling, you whispered:
“ I’m sorry. I hate that I made you love me and if you ever did love me even a little… don’t ever try to contact me again.” His eyes widened in pure panic.
“No. No. No. Y/N listen to me-” You turned toward the door. Your heels scraped instead of stepped. Your body felt numb now. Like every piece of you had been hollowed out. Behind you, Gojo suddenly rushed forward. His hands wrapped around your wrist desperately. You gasped sharply. He lifted your trembling hand to his cheek, pressing against it like a dying man seeking warmth. “Do whatever you want to me,” he sobbed. “Hit me, scream at me, hate me— just don’t leave me. Please. I can’t survive this,” he cried. “Please, baby, please—” With shaking fingers, you slowly pulled your hand away from his face.
The hallway outside was crowded now. Friends sitting frozen on the stairs. Others standing against walls awkwardly. No one spoke. No one even breathed too loudly. They had all heard everything. But you didn’t look at any of them. You just walked. Your body shook so hard your steps barely worked properly. Your vision blurred endlessly with tears as you stumbled down the corridor toward your room.
Behind you, Gojo didn’t follow. Which somehow hurt even more.
Because for the first time in his life—
Satoru Gojo understood that there were some things even he could not fix.
-
Everything after that existed only in fragments.
Later, if someone had asked you what happened during those next few hours, you wouldn't have been able to answer properly. The memories came in flashes rather than scenes, broken pieces of a night that had shattered alongside your heart. You remembered stumbling back to your room with tears blurring your vision so badly that you could barely see where you were going. You remembered your hands shaking as you yanked open drawers and suitcases, throwing clothes inside without folding them, without thinking, without caring. Every breath hurt. Every heartbeat hurt. Every single object in that cursed city seemed to remind you of him.
The sweater he had complimented. The lip balm he had said was his favorite. The perfume he used to bury his face into whenever he hugged you. You wanted none of it. You wanted to get away from all of it.
Away from the hotel. Away from the city. Away from every place his laughter existed. Away from every memory that carried his name. You wanted to disappear so completely that fate itself would never be able to make your paths cross again. Because loving him had ruined you, and staying any longer felt like pressing your hand against an open wound and expecting it not to bleed.
Meanwhile, several floors away, Satoru was completely losing his mind.
The second he realized you broke up with him, something inside him snapped. He tried shoving past everyone, nearly tripping over the gifts and flowers scattered across the floor of the room he had spent days preparing for you. Suguru caught him by the shoulders before he could make it to the door, forcing him to stop before he hurt himself.
"Let me go!" Satoru screamed, his voice raw from crying. "Let me go, damn it!"
His chest rose and fell in violent, uneven breaths. Tears and snot streaked across his face, dignity long abandoned. He looked nothing like the strongest sorcerer in the world. He looked like a man watching his entire future walk away from him.
"I can't!" he shouted. "She's leaving!" Then suddenly his expression changed. His watery eyes darted around the room. "Who told her?"
The room fell silent."Who told her?" he repeated louder. Nobody answered. Then Utahime slowly looked away. Then Satoru glanced around the room searching for who wasn’t here. The realization struck Satoru immediately.
"Sukuna."
Nobody denied it. The rage that flashed across his face was terrifying. "He told her?" he whispered. Toji nodded grimly. "He tried getting close to her. She rejected him. So he told her everything." For a moment, Satoru simply stared.
Because there was nothing else left to do. If Sukuna had been standing there at that exact moment, Satoru genuinely might have killed him. But Sukuna was gone. And you were gone too.
Eventually the others managed to force him to sit down. Shoko brought him water. Maki told him to think before acting. Suguru refused to let him leave the room no matter how many times he tried. They kept telling him the same thing over and over.
"Give her time."
"Let her calm down."
"You need to think."
But none of it mattered. Because all Satoru could think about was you and the way you had looked at him as if he were a stranger. Nobody noticed that while they were busy keeping Satoru from chasing after you, you had already booked the earliest flight available. Nobody knew that you finished packing. Nobody noticed when you left.
By the time anyone realized you were gone, you were walking towards your seat in the airplane, now staring blankly at the man seated at the left of a seat that was yours to take. Your vision went blank. This was it.
The end.
The first man you had ever truly loved had also become the man who broke your heart. Destiny was so cruel that now you were face to face with him, as another heartbreak made itself known just a few hours ago. Nothing in the world could have prepared you for this. Fate, as always, seemed determined to be cruel.
Violet eyes widened in complete disbelief. For a second, it looked as though the man's entire soul had left his body. His pupils visibly dilated and his lips parted. Out of every person on Earth...Out of every possible flight… out of every impossible coincidence...
The person standing there was the last person you ever expected to see.
"Hey," he said carefully.
A pause.
Then a small, awkward smile.
"Hey Choso."
Author’s Notes: PIERCINGGG BLOOD GO BRRRRRRRRR
Well, let me know what you think of this chapter…took me over a MONTH to write this one, the word count is evidence enough sighhh… I have tried my best to tackle all the grammatical errors but bear with me if you still notice any. I’m trying to write better!