Keth'raal finding a device that disguises him as a human for a limited amount of time. He goes on a date out with reader and is so curious and happy to explore human culture and to understand reader more and use it later, like he looks so imposing (in my head, Yaut'ja are still big af even disguised as human compared to the human average, but it's still up to you) but acts so cute. Some mishaps here and there, perhaps a friend or co-worker notices the stranger with reader and they make an excuse that he's their boyfriend and only realize they fucked up after.
Genuinely, these two are so married couple to me and they give me so much serotonin gjfhggffhfff
P.S. Sorry for any typos. I love your work so much!
Anon come here and let me give you a hug because this is genuinely the cutest prompt 💚 hope you enjoy everyone! Let me know what you think in the comments!
Keth’raal had been far too proud of himself when he found the cloaking device during a raid on an old research outpost.
“Temporary human disguise,” he had announced, mandibles clicking with excitement. “I will walk among your people. I will understand you better. This will be… educational.”
Although you had a feeling “educational” was going to mean messy, but you agreed anyway. How could you resist his excited eyes?
The device worked surprisingly well, when he activated it, the big 7’7” Yautja shrunk down to a very tall (still 6’7”), broad-shouldered human man with sharp facial features, green eyes with yellow specks and forest-green tinted hair that looked too perfect to be natural.
He was still very imposing, people instinctively gave him space on the sidewalk, but the way he looked around with wide-eyed wonder completely ruined the intimidating effect.
On your date, he was uncontrollably happy.
He held your hand like it was the most fascinating thing he had ever touched, gently turning it over in his much larger one. “Your skin is so soft compared to mine,” he murmured.
It wasn’t that you hadn’t held hands before, but never like this. Not so openly. Not in public.
The simple joy of being able to touch you freely had Keth’raal completely enchanted. He could lean in close without fear, slide his hand around your waist to pull you against him and stare at you with open adoration, just like a real human boyfriend would.
At the café he insisted on trying “all the human caffeine drinks,” then spent ten minutes staring at the foam art on his latte like it was ancient magic.
Every little thing thrilled him.
“These ‘fries’ are excellent weapons,” he declared, holding up a single fry like a tiny spear. “Small. Sharp. Greasy. I respect them.”
When a dog on the sidewalk barked at him, he crouched down immediately, still towering over most people and trilled softly at it, trying to communicate. The dog ended up wagging its tail. The owner looked terrified though.
It wasn’t that he looked scary, but Keth’raal was simply too big for this human form.
His back was broad and heavily muscled, the borrowed shirt straining across his shoulders and biceps. Every time he lifted a hand to run it through his hair (a new habit he seemed to love), the hem of the shirt rode up, revealing a strip of toned abdomen. The fabric clung to every ridge of muscle, leaving very little to the imagination.
You kept worrying he might feel uncomfortable with so much of his skin showing, but Keth’raal looked almost naively confident. He carried himself with that same effortless pride he had in his true form, completely unaware of just how devastatingly attractive he looked.
Everything was going surprisingly well… until your coworker, Mary, spotted you two outside the movie theater.
Her eyes went wide as she took in the giant, ridiculously attractive man standing protectively close to you, one arm looped around your shoulders while he curiously sniffed the popcorn.
“Oh my god… is this the mysterious boyfriend you’ve been hiding?!” she squealed.
You froze.
Keth’raal, not understanding the social trap at all, lit up with pure pride. He puffed out his chest (exactly how he did in his Yautja form) and declared happily, “Yes. I am her boyfriend. She is mine. I have claimed her.”
You felt your soul leave your body.
Mary looked like she had won the lottery.
“He’s so… tall. And intense. Wow. Nice to finally meet you!”
You laughed nervously and dragged Keth’raal away before he could start explaining how he had “won you through honorable combat and almost bleeding to death beside you.”
“What? Did I say something wrong?” Keth’raal asked, startled as you pushed him back against the shadowed wall behind the movie theater.
It was dark enough here that your coworker hopefully wouldn’t spot you. Your breathing was still fast, hands pressed firmly against his broad chest as you tried to steady yourself, head bowed in embarrassment.
His much larger hands gently covered yours, fingers curling carefully around your smaller ones. The touch felt strangely soft in this human form.
“I cannot hear your heartbeat clearly like this,” he murmured, sounding almost guilty. “Tell me what is wrong.“
“I’m sorry I dragged you here—” you started, still trying to process why you had panicked so hard the moment your coworker laid eyes on him.
His palm slid up to rest against the side of your neck, thumb pressing lightly over your fluttering pulse, reading it like a language only he understood.
“Na’kai…” Even disguised, his voice was low and raspy, carrying that same deep timbre that always made your stomach flutter. You couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Look at me,” he said gently.
His thumb brushed along your cheek, tilting your chin up. When you finally lifted your gaze, the softness in his expression nearly undid you. His brows were drawn together, green-tinted eyes gleaming with quiet wonder as he studied your face.
“You look so beautiful through human eyes,” he admitted quietly.
“What do you mean?” you breathed.
“You look different to me in my true form. Softer now.” His thumb swept tenderly over your eyelid and you instinctively closed your eyes at the gentle touch. “I don’t have to worry about hurting you like this.”
His thumb continued its slow descent, tracing the line of your jaw before settling on your lips. He brushed the pad of his thumb across your bottom lip twice.
“You never hurt me,” you whispered, your fingers trailing lightly over his wrist.
Keth’raal was quiet for a moment, simply savoring the closeness.
“I know,” he said softly. “But it is still… nice. To touch you without fear.”
When he finally let you, a fresh wave of confidence surged through you. You grabbed him by the wrist and strode back toward the movie theater without hesitation.
You didn’t care about the stares. Not the prying eyes of strangers, not the way people openly ogled the towering man at your side and surely not the fact that you were practically dragging a 6’7” wall of muscle behind you with zero resistance.
By the time you were seated in the dark theater, a bright, giddy smile had taken over your face. Having Keth’raal with you, even in this strange human form, felt like a privilege. You wanted to enjoy every second before the disguise ran out.
You kept stealing glances at him. His sharp green-tinted eyes gleamed as they fixed on the massive screen, one hand absently reaching for the popcorn.
“What is it?” he asked without turning his head, his voice low.
You blinked, caught off guard. “How did you—”
“I might look human right now,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching, “but my instincts remain the same.”
He lowered his head slightly, lips brushing the top of your head as he spoke. “You do not like the movie you chose?”
“Do you like it?” you countered, your fingers fidgeting in your lap. You were far too restless, tempted to squeeze and pinch his arm just to feel the solid muscle beneath that tight shirt.
Keth’raal tilted his head, still observing the screen. “These humans… they interlock their lips constantly.” His tone was genuinely fascinated as the actors fell into yet another passionate kiss. “They seem to enjoy it a great deal. They moan quite often. Is it truly that pleasurable?”
Your face burned. “Yes, yes, it can be,” you whispered quickly, waving a hand at him to keep his voice down.
He turned to look at you fully now, those striking eyes catching the light from the screen. “Do you like it?”
You pressed your lips together and stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his gaze. He looked far too good like this, unfairly handsome, the tight shirt doing nothing to hide how broad and powerful he still was.
“I want to hear you say it,” he pressed, voice dropping into something velvet and irresistible.
You finally turned to him. His eyes were already locked on you, patient but intense.
“I… I like it,” you admitted softly.
A small, pleased sound rumbled in his chest.
“You want to try it with me?”
You let out a breathless chuckle. “Usually there aren’t this many questions before kissing.”
“I want to know if it is okay,” he explained, though his gaze had already dropped to your lips.
Your eyes traced the shape of his mouth, the full bottom lip, the deeper color, the way it curved so invitingly. Even disguised, he was so annoyingly tempting.
You caught him staring at your lips with the same intensity. He was studying them, trying to understand how they would feel before they even touched.
“Keth—”
You didn’t get to finish. His right hand slid to the side of your neck, long fingers threading into your hair as he pulled you in. His lips crashed against yours, hungry and eager. The moment you gasped, his cool tongue (chilled from all the soda he had been drinking) traced your bottom lip before slipping inside.
Your eyes fluttered shut. You leaned into him, opening your mouth wider, a soft, involuntary moan escaping as his tongue explored yours.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered against your lips, the curve of a smile showing even in the dark.
You nodded, breathless, then bit down gently on his plump lower lip. He stayed almost perfectly quiet, letting you lead while still holding you close. Every time a moan threatened to slip out, he pulled you closer, muffling the sound with his mouth and the steady pressure of his hand at the back of your neck.
It was a delicious push and pull. He let you take control, but you could feel the restraint in every tensed muscle, in the way his fingers tightened against your skin, in his slightly shaky breaths. He was holding himself back.
“Na’kai…” he breathed, breaking the kiss only to trail his lips down the side of your neck. He licked a slow stripe over your pulse, teeth grazing your collarbone without biting. “We need to stop.”
His voice sounded pained.
You pulled back slightly. “What’s wrong?”
Keth’raal rested his forehead against yours, eyes closed, breathing uneven. “In this form… I can’t control my body the way I can in my true one.” He let out a shaky chuckle, almost embarrassed. “I can suppress it normally. But not like this.”
Your gaze dropped.
The very obvious, very impressive bulge straining against his pants was impossible to miss.
He noticed where your eyes went and let out another soft, embarrassed laugh.
“I’ll never get used to how ethereal you look through human eyes,” he murmured, rubbing his thumb tenderly under your eye. “Is this truly how humans see you?”
Your face burned. You shook your head, smiling shyly. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I should be more jealous,” he said quietly, eyes soft. “That others get to see you like this every day.”
For the rest of the movie, he barely looked at the screen. His hand stayed wrapped around yours, thumb gently stroking your knuckles, while his gaze kept drifting back to your face, like you were far more interesting than anything happening on screen.
Later that night, back at home, the disguise flickered off as the device reached its limit. Keth’raal returned to his full green, Yautja self, but he was still buzzing with energy, pacing around you excitedly.
“Did I do well?” he asked, tilting his head. “I was a convincing human boyfriend, yes? Your friend seemed impressed. I even drank the bitter bean water for you.”
You groaned, covering your face. “Keth… everyone at work is going to ask about my giant, mysterious boyfriend now.”
He paused. Then clicked his mandibles in amusement and leaned down, purring as he nuzzled against your neck.
“Good. Let them ask. I will visit again. Next time I want to try the ‘roller coaster’ thing. And hold your hand in public more. And kiss—”
You cut him off with a sudden kiss over his mandibles, before he could plan your next ten fake-human dates.
He made an amused sound against your lips, clearly pleased with himself.
“So… you like my original form just as much,” he said, mandibles twitching with satisfaction.
“There was never a question about it,” you replied, smiling up at him.
plug nikki is so scrumptious ouuu your mind…i also kinda want reader to run over her “boyfriend” with his car
You know what the crazy thing is?
Nik still sells to him. Gets you a new phone with a new number. It’s not necessary, but it helps. Just in case he gets a high and has a little lapse in judgement. It happened once. Nik wasn’t happy with how much it upset you.
Your ex…. Every so often he gentle, skittishly prods. Asking Nik about things that aren’t his business. Namely, you.
“So, uhm…. How…. How is she?”
Nikolai doesn’t think of himself as a bad man. He’s not cruel or callous when he doesn’t need to be. He places a warm, comforting hand on your ex’s shoulder and looks at him with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes just a little.
“You don’t need to worry yourself about that, my friend.”
Nikolai has a way of letting finality simmer beneath his words. It stops people in their tracks, no matter how well planned and rehearsed their encounter with him may have been. Like a viper, his mouth drips with a paralytic.
Your ex proverbially rolls over. Exposes his soft underbelly, with a stretched, submissive smile.
Nikolai rolls his thumb against your ex’s shoulder. Not unlike how he comforts you with a firm hold to your back or your thigh.
“Good man.”
When Nik leaves the building, he pulls up your contact and smiles at your little “thinking of you” message. He gets one from you most days that he goes out, and it keeps you with him. Like he’s got a little angel on his shoulder, kicking her little legs cutely and enjoying a sucker— it makes her lips sweet when she turns her head to kiss his cheek. He wonders if you have any idea how many noses, capillaries, and livelihoods those little messages have saved just by putting him in such a good mood.
He asks you want him to pick up on the way home. You ask for a turkey club and a slice of chocolate marbled cake.
SUMMARY: On a visit to your boyfriend, you end up having to deal with a creep on base, but Soap and Ghost's methods of resolving your problem are... far more drastic than yours.
PAIRING: Soap x f!Reader (and BFF!Ghost)
TAGS: Dark content, Badass!Reader, Established relationship, Dark! a bit yandere! Soap, Dark! a bit yandere! Ghost.
WARNINGS: Canon violence, blood mention, sexual harassment, insults. Soap and Ghost are acting creepy but not towards Reader.
WORDS COUNT: 1,1k words.
A/N: Was thinking about how high the risks of sexual assault are in the military for women + about how much the Task Force could get away with (Soap's mohawk is NOT standard issue lol), but it turned out kinda dark. Not my usual kind of content. This is my first time writting those characters, pls be indulgent.
Your elbow connects with the man’s nose with a satisfying crack.
Immediately he howls, pressing his broken nose with one hand, blood dripping between his fingers.
“FUCK! What the fuck! You broke my nose, you crazy bitch!”
This. This is why you didn’t want to meet the Task Force on base. There was always one brainless fucker who didn’t get the memo that, no, despite having breasts, you weren’t here as a comfort woman.
The private is glaring at you with a hatred as deep as it is sudden, one that screams murder.
The only good side of the situation is, with how loud he’s being, you won’t even need to call for help. Already most of the soldiers nearby are staring at you, muttering among themselves. Not that you can’t beat this guy up on your own, but the military tends to frown upon civilians roughing up their members, you learned it at your expense quite early. On the other hand, soldiers settling accounts between each other was… well, not exactly authorized, but it was way less trouble for you.
He grabs you by the collar, his rage only exacerbated by your composure. The action stains your clothing with his blood. You mentally grimace. You’re no stranger to blood, but the idea of this repulsive individual’s bodily fluids being anywhere on your person is disgusting.
“Are you listening, you dumb bitch!? I’m gonna fucking kill-”
The venom-filled verbal onslaught stops dead as a hand takes hold of your assailant’s wrist.
“Now, now, at ease, soldier. Ya making a spectacle of yourself.”
The thickly accented voice of your boyfriend sends a wave of warmth in your chest.
Your harasser hesitates a second too long, so Soap makes the decision for him, tightening his grasp until the soldier winces, and finally takes the hint, letting you go and taking a few steps backward. Johnny immediately positions himself between the two of you, shielding you.
He’s been smiling the whole time, but it’s the kind of dangerous smile you wear when you’re about to give an asshole a righteous beating.
The private looks partially sheepish, but not defeated, indignation burning in his eyes. He lets loose a torrent of justifications and excuses, actively painting you as the villain, not caring if he contradicts himself in the process. You don’t pay attention to the details of his speech. It’s always the same “she was asking for it” kind of diatribe. The fact that he sincerely believes that there’s a chance that Soap will take his side instead of yours is laughable, but not surprising.
You wonder how long this will go on, until the private notices something next to you, and all blood seems to desert his face as his voice deserts his vocal cords.
You turn your head and, to no surprise to you, Ghost is there. He stands so close to you that your arms are almost touching. Clothed entirely in black, which brings out the white skull on his mask, his presence is as menacing as ever; all he needs to do is scowl at lesser soldiers to make them cower in fear. He doesn’t look back at you, but his support for you is so obvious through the rest of his behavior that he doesn’t need to.
Soap takes advantage of the newfound silence to turn to you.
“Ya good, yeah?” He asks, cradling your cheek tenderly, and stroking your cheekbone with his thumb.
The question is futile - if you were hurt, he would have noticed right away. But it’s still cute to see.
“Yeah. Not a scratch.” you smile.
“That’s my girl”, he smiles back. “So, what the bloody hell happened here?”
You glance at the private behind him. He’s shaking, and the look he sends you back is begging for mercy. Remembering the first words he addressed to you earlier, you realize you’re all out of mercy for today. Thus, with a sadistic little smile, you recount the events.
“This man came to me complaining that I was unfairly privileging Sergeant Mctavish and that he wanted his turn. Then when I explained that I wasn’t some kind of free-for-all buffet, he took it the wrong way and put his hands on me. That’s when I exploded his nose.”
By the time you finish your explanation, Soap’s expression has darkened considerably.
“I see.” is all that leaves his mouth. Anyone familiar with him would know that for him to start talking by monosyllables like Ghost, something must be very wrong.
Pivoting again, he faces the private and, as the latter opens his mouth to plead for forgiveness, punches him right in the face. Blood gushes, drops of it landing on his face. You mentally count until three, one for every blow, and when Soap still doesn’t stop punching, you frown, disturbed and worried by his conduct. He’s never been one to remain impassive in the face of injustice, easily riled-up even in critical situations and despite his superiors’ orders, but you’ve never seen him go this far.
You’re about to intervene when Ghost beats you to it, putting a hand on his sergeant’s shoulder. That’s right. Ghost, the voice of reason, the paragon of self-control, their cold-hearted leader, will fix everything.
However when you hear the next words that leave his mouth, it’s like the world tilted on its axis.
“Not out in the open, Johnny.”
The words are whispered low enough that only Soap and you would have heard. They send a cold shiver down your spine. Rattled and unsettled in a way that they never made you feel before, you contemplate the situation in silent incredulity.
“Aye, L.T.”, replies Soap with an abnormally monotonous tone.
Before you can ask what the fuck is happening, he proceeds to punch the soldier so hard in the stomach that the latter collapses without a sound, except for the muffled noise of someone winded. The scene makes you increasingly uncomfortable. You feel like Bluebeard's newest wife, having stumbled upon the one room you were forbidden from entering, having witnessed something you weren't supposed to see, and now you can never go back to how things were before.
You counted on Soap and Ghost’s intervention, sure, but you expected them to put an end to the fight, maybe intimidate the guy a little, and ultimately end things here. You didn’t expect… whatever this is.
Staring in shock at the two Special Forces, you shake your head to get a grip and come closer.
“Alright guys, I think he’s had enough-”
Ghost interrupts you with a hand on your shoulder. The Ghost touching two people in less than five minutes? Yes, something’s seriously wrong. Looking at him, you try to convey urgency with your gaze…
“Simon, this isn’t-”
…but his next words make you lose hope of winning this argument.
“Easy there, love. Johnny’s takin’ care of it, ya don’t need to worry ‘bout a thing.”
The next thing you know, he presses a hand against your lower back, making you leave the premises, completely ignoring the way you stare at him in utter disbelief… and growing apprehension.
Sat inside the CEO's office, on the top floor of 'Price Tactical Solutions', you twiddled your hands in your lap as you awaited your boss to say something - anything - to put you out of your misery.
Mr Price stood by the towering windows overlooking the city around his skyscraper, the sun setting on another long workday and streetlights slowly beginning to flicker on one by one beneath us. His suit jacket off, draped over the chair opposite you, and the sleeves of his dress shirt rolled up to just past his elbows. The ink of a few tattoos, from back in his military days - if the office rumours were anything to go off - peeking out from under his shirt.
You'd only met the CEO a handful of times. Mostly just seeing him in passing as your buzzed about your usual business, not including that one time he'd asked what floor you were heading to when you'd stepped into an elevator, your own hands too full of folders to press the button.
But you knew silence from a man like John was never a good sign...
"I assume you know why I called you in here today" Mr Price finally broke the tense silence, making you jolt where you sat, startled; the CEO still facing the window.
"...yes, sir" you replied after a beat, taking a moment to collect your quickly fraying nerves.
"Gotta say, haven't seen a fuck-up quite this bad in... well, ever," Mr Price nodded, the reflection you caught in the window showing a stormy look on his weary face, though his tone remained almost-scarily calm. "Think you can explain to me why one of our biggest investors just pulled their contract?"
"W-Well, Mr Price, t-there happened to be an... um, slight oversight on my part and-"
"A slight oversight?" The older man scoffed, finally turning to face towards you, his brow furrowed into a firm frown. "Fifty grand isn't an oversight, sweetheart. An oversight is forgetting to pack your lunch the night before. An oversight is realising you were supposed to be in a meeting five minutes ago. This wasn't an oversight, it was idiocy-"
"I'm not excusing my behaviour, sir, but if I could just-"
"No, you listen here, and you listen well," Mr Price interrupted again, crossing the space with his gaze firmly fixed on the employee in his hot seat. "The only reason I haven't sent you to pack your belongings from your desk is because up until now your service and dedication to this company had been exemplary. That being said, after your performance today-"
"Sir, Mr Price, please," your tried again. "If I could just-"
"I'm placing you on a strict performance review for the next six months," John continued as if he hadn't even heard your interjection, stepping back around his desk to pick up the correct forms he required you to sign for the disciplinary action. "During which time your manager will monitor your performance-"
"Oh for Gods sake, will you just listen to me?" You rise from your seat, frustration bubbling beneath your skin, hands lightly trembling in your upset as the CEO slowly looked up from the paperwork in his. "Thank you, I... I know I messed up, sir - I'm not negating that and I take full responsibility for what happened today with the 'Dwindleboch' account. However, I feel like the big picture is being missed here."
Mr Price stared at me for a moment, obviously unused to having someone speak out against him. With narrowed eyes, he set the papers down and cross his arms.
"And what exactly is the big picture here?"
"I was never supposed to handle the 'Dwindleboch' account, sir," you confessed, averting your gaze in something akin to shame. "I'm not trained on the software they use, nor familiar with the client at all. It was Mr Heegan's project but-"
"But he's been off with the flu," Mr Price took you by surprise, scrubbing a hand down his face, as he seemed to actually know what was going on in your department. "And was your manger, Miss Poten, aware that-?"
"I sent her an email the moment she CC'd me in when Mr Heegan called out, sir, stating I didn't have the necessary qualifications nor knowledge to handle the account," you continue, semi-relieved his anger seemed to be shifting elsewhere, even if you wished you didn't have to squeal to do so. After all, you liked your manager, even if she was a little airheaded at times. "Miss Poten never replied and the deadline was approaching, I panicked so did what I could but-"
"What I'm understanding is I'm chewing out the wrong person right now," the CEO huffed, shaking his head, reaching across his desk to dial his secretary; holding the phone up to his ear. "Shirley, get me Miss Poten in here, now."
The tense silence settled once more as he put the phone down, a silence you felt you had to fill somehow.
"I really am sorry, Mr Price, I should have taken the matter higher but I was scared to start office drama. I see now that I should have-"
"God, do you always ramble like this when your nervous?" The older man chuckled, reaching to rub his temples as if there was a headache brewing. "Listen, we lost a big client today, but - that being said - clients come and go. What I don't like is when my machine doesn't run properly. If all the gears don't turn the way their supposed to, then bigger issues then a measly fifty grand are going to arise in the future, hence why we need to sort it now, yeah?"
"I... I get that" you nod, shuffling awkwardly in your seat.
"Performance review stays, only because I want to see if we can help develop that backbone of yours, alright?" Mr Price explained, gesturing for me to get up. "Meant what I said before, your a good worker, but your no use to me if you can't speak up for yourself and/or others."
"Yes, sir," you replied, releasing a breath you hadn't realised you'd been holding. "Thank you, Mr Price. I'll work on that."
As you head for the door, hearing the click of Miss Poten's heels entering the CEO's personal waiting room beyond his private office, his voice stops you in your tracks,
"You know, Shirley's heading on maternity soon and I'm looking for a cover secretary - ever done anything like that?"
"Uh, I used to answer the phone for my dad at his garage" you thought back, feeling a little foolish the moment the words tumbled from your lips.
"Hm," Mr Price chuckled, looking oddly thoughtful for a moment. "I look forward to your application for the role then."
"Oh, wait, but I wasn't going to-"
"I said, I look forward to your application."
"...yes, sir."
---------------
Hi, all! Beanie here!
Incase you didn't know, I actually run a discord server named 'Beanie's Tea Room' ❤️ we host movie nights, gaming lobbies, art competitions and have so many fun people from all walks of life within the server.
I also post sneak peaks of my writings ahead of time 🤭
Link to Server: https://discord.gg/bVGMDzZC4G
The link to my server is in the Linktree in my bio and while you're there, why not check out my other social media like Tumblr and TikTok 😊 can't wait to see you there!
How about a scenario where Eddie and his shy best friend are messing about in his trailer and he gives them a tap on the ass in passing but immediately stops when he hears them moan in response. Shenanigans ensue... 😈
warnings: spanking (i mean... obviously...) plus a pussy spank, fingering, virgin reader, some daddy kink
Other kids used to make fun of you for being so quiet, for freezing up when you were spoken to by someone and didn't know what to say. "What's the problem, cat got your tongue?" they'd say. That was how you got your nickname, the one Eddie gave you all the way back then: kitty. That was back when he had buzzed hair and a front tooth still missing-- and you were just happy to have a friend.
A lot had changed since then-- you got a bit less shy, he got a lot more hair-- but he still called you 'kitty'. Another thing that had changed is how it made you feel when he called you that.
"C'mon, kitty, just gimme it!" he whined, trying to reach for the pack of Marlboros in your hand. And gosh, it made you really want to give in-- but you'd promised him you'd help him quit, which is why you'd quickly confiscated the pack you found stashed in his couch cushions. "Just one smoke! I'm cutting back!"
"No way!" you stuck your tongue out as you kicked him away. Of course, he was so much stronger than you; he was able to grab you and pull you into him, bringing the pack in reach as you tried to squirm away. "Ugh, I hate you!"
"You love me," he rolled his eyes. He let you go and you jumped up off of the couch, dusting yourself off as he laid back on the couch and looked up at you.
"Whatever," you deflected quickly, glancing at the kitchenette. "You, uh, want a beer? I'm having one."
"Sure," he decided.
And for some unknowable reason, when you turned to go get them, he gave you one hard smack on the ass, just above where your shorts cut off.
Your hand went over your mouth, but it was far too late to catch the sound that came out of it... a moan, loud and needy and desperate. You spun around, hoping he hadn't heard it, but, well, his expression gave away that he definitely had. His eyes went wide for a second, before a grin cracked across his face. "No..." he whispered, narrowing his eyes at you. "Not a good girl like you, not my innocent little kitty."
You had to clench your thighs together. "Ed..."
"You liked that?" he noticed, and you bit your lip but nodded. "Shit... I hit you harder than I meant to, I was gonna apologize-- but... you made such a pretty noise..."
Your cheeks were so warm. You were warm between your legs, too; and deep in your gut.
"I wanna hear it again," he admitted-- even his face was pinker now. "Is that bad?"
You shook your head. "Is it bad that I want you to hit me again?"
"U-uh, no, it's not," he assured, though his voice cracked halfway through. He sat up on the couch, clearing his throat. "If you... if you wanted, you could... lay across my lap. And I'll give you a few more."
You hesitated, because you could hardly believe this was really happening.
"It's okay if you don't!" he blurted out, raising his hands up. "I mean, it's just an idea. We don't have to-- and, uh, nothing has to... happen if we do. Just a little friendly spanking, right?"
You shivered a little, and nodded, before wordlessly bending down and laying yourself across his legs. You rested your cheek on the threadbare sofa cushion, fluttering your eyes shut. "I want it," you breathed, "I want you to."
"Oh," he sighed, making your heart twist. "Okay... then... I will."
The first one was soft-- way too soft, but it still made you turn your forehead down into the couch and arch your back, trying to beg him for more.
"That wasn't right, was it?" he noticed. "You need it a little harder."
It was just an observation, but it made your toes curl inside your socks. He hit you again, closer to the right intensity, and you moaned softly.
"That's better," he groaned, "you sound, um... you sound really good. Can you get a little louder for me?"
I can do anything you want. "Just hit me a little harder, and I will."
He chuckled a bit, and you were worried you'd said something wrong, but then he gave you nice, hard smack right on the thickest part of the curve of your ass. "Is that better, kitty?"
You nodded, afraid if you tried to say anything that you'd make a fool of yourself. He hit you again, again, back and forth between each cheek-- you made a higher-pitched noise when there was a sudden impact on the back of one of your thighs.
"You feel how hard I am, right?" he grunted. "I got rock fuckin' hard in a second after you moaned like that, kitty..."
And you could feel it, his erection on your hip; sometimes you imagined that you could feel it throb, but you couldn't tell for sure if it was real.
"I... I'm gonna pull your shorts down, okay?" he whispered, and you nodded. His fingers hooked under the fabric, the cool metal of his rings dragging across your skin as he exposed your ass-- he let out a quick sigh as he rubbed your butt through your panties. "White cotton-- should've known, god, you're such a good girl, kitty..."
You whined and wiggled your hips, desperate for any friction on your aching pussy. "Y-you can take them off, too, Eddie..."
"Really?" he sighed. As you nodded, he hummed and slipped just one finger into the elastic waistband, slowly revealing your bare skin.
It was so fucking hot, just having him undress you like this; your poor hole was clenching on nothing, your head was totally empty-- you weren't even thinking about how insane this all was.
You were so wet that he had to peel the fabric off of your pussy, and he groaned through his teeth as he did it. "O-oh my god, kitty... look at your... your-- Jesus Christ..."
He surprised you completely with the hardest spank yet; you sobbed, but spread your legs as best you could with your shorts and panties dropped around your ankles.
"You know," he grunted between more and more hits, "if I do it hard enough--" he hit you again and you had to literally bite your tongue to stop from crying his name-- "there'll be a nice big welt in the shape of my hand."
You could feel his rings-- you could feel his fucking rings, there were tears on your face and you'd never been so desperate for anything in your entire life.
"Would you like that?" he asked.
"Yes!" you shouted. "God, do that, Eddie, please?"
He hit you over and over in one spot, until your legs were shaking. Yes, it hurt, and you couldn't help but cry from the pain now, but it was so good, even though it felt like the sting was penetrating so deep into your skin that it would just come out the other side or something.
Just when you thought you knew what was coming next-- more of this-- he gave you a random slap right on your pussy. Your scream was short and broken, and your whole body shivered for a second. "Daddy," you said before you could stop yourself.
"Fuck," he choked out, "fuck-- fuck, kitty, are you serious? I thought you were... I thought you were a virgin."
You didn't say anything, relishing your much-needed break and panting as you hid your face and tightened your grip on the sofa.
"You are?" he realized. "God, kitty, how?"
Because I only ever wanted you. But you didn't say that. You didn't say anything.
"Just nod if you want me to hit you there again," he offered, "shake your head if you want me to go back to what I was doing before. A-and just... hold up your hand and give me a peace sign if you want me to stop."
You shook your head. He didn't get back to it right away, though-- he rubbed his hand over your sore skin first, making you whimper and wiggle around a bit. His jeans were a little rough on your bare skin, but it was just the right amount of pressure; when he hit you, finally, you rocked your hips forward with it, again, again, again...
"Oh, fuck, are you humping my leg?" he noticed, and gave you a hard smack to the thigh that made you yelp. "Bad kitty. You know you should wait for Daddy to help you with that."
Your eyes rolled back in your head; you weren't sure how much more of this you could take. Not the pain-- the pleasure. You'd touched yourself plenty before but you'd never felt like this, you'd never been so needy before.
"Tell me I can touch you," he gasped, "fuck, please..."
As you nodded, you felt his fingertip slide over your cunt, landing right on your swollen clit in less than a second. He toyed with it, and you were so raw everywhere that it was already almost too much. You instinctively tried to move away, but his other hand grabbed your shoulder and held you down.
"Want me to make you come?" he asked. "Say it."
"Make me come, Daddy," you breathed.
Then there were two fingers on your bud, pushing down just hard enough to make your legs quiver, rubbing fast circles that kept your mouth open in a constant stream of moans and curses. "My god," he groaned as he watched you, "so fuckin' cute... you have the cutest pussy, babe. Look so good stretched out on my dick."
Yeah, bet it would feel good too-- bet I'd come in half a second if you fucked me now. But you didn't say that. "I'm yours," you said instead.
"God," he groaned, "don't-- don't say that, if you don't mean it..."
"No, Eddie," you whined, pushing back against his touch-- you were seconds away, you were right on the edge and he'd barely touched you. You moved your legs around and you felt that your wetness had already dripped down your thighs, making them slick and tacky. "Been yours for so long."
"F-fuck, say it again, then," he hissed through his teeth-- his hips were rocking against you too, his cock rubbing on your side through his jeans.
"Yours, yours," you chanted, and it was already starting-- you felt your whole channel flutter, your nails literally tore right through that old sofa cushion, and you came. You'd made a little patch under your face from your tears, and it was warm and damp on your cheek as you pressed into it. You wanted to muffle yourself, you were getting so loud-- but he stopped you by grabbing your hair and pulling your head back. "Eddie!" you shouted.
"Fuck, kitty, m'so-- fuck!" he stammered. "W-wanna feel you inside, wanna feel you coming, please?"
"Yes," you sobbed weakly, another wave hitting you right as he pushed his two fingers into your hole.
He made a low noise, and you felt his cock rub up against you again-- okay, it had to be throbbing this time, you could even...
Oh. You could feel his jeans getting wet: he was coming... he was coming in his pants, and it was so hot you could cry. Conveniently, you were already crying. But in a good way.
You were coming down at the same time, your pussy starting to finally relax after apparently trying to squeeze his fingers until they bruised; his chest heaved as he caught his breath, you knew because you looked back at him over your shoulder. His eyes were shut, and when he suddenly relaxed, you felt his fingers slip out of you. You missed the fullness, but it made it easier to focus on all the tingling you were feeling all over now.
He opened his eyes, and his gaze met yours as he brought the fingers to his lips and licked them clean-- all while smiling at you, the goddamned menace.
"Eddie..." you breathed.
"Can I give you a hug?" he asked.
"A hug? After that?" you laughed.
"Well, yeah," he sighed, pulling you up to be face to face with him. You nodded, and he smiled as he wrapped his arms around you. You buried your face against his neck, and you could feel his racing pulse. "You did so good, kitty."
"Y-you too," you whispered, "that was... I really liked that. Can we do that again?"
"Yeah," he laughed, "why don't you come over tomorrow?"
"I meant after I get a sip of water," you explained.
"Fuck," he choked, "you're... Jesus, kitty."
"Am I still a virgin?" you wondered aloud.
"Well, if you are, you're not gonna be much longer," he promised.
Simon's got a bit of a crush on 141's new secretary, and it's making him do crazy things. He can't help but get infuriated when he learns you're seeing a doctor on base. He knows it's wrong, but you know what they say...drastic times call for drastic measures.
Contains: simon POV, American!reader, moderate stalking, obsessive!simon, pining and yearning, drinking, unprotected piv sex, oral sex, (f receiving), very brief breeding kink, simon is a lovesick puppy with an emphasis on the sick part
Word Count: 10.4k
Simon wasn't sure how much more he could take.
As much as he loved the sound of your laugh, hearing you laugh because of something another man said was driving him insane.
Ever since you'd replaced Meredith, 141's previous secretary, he'd been plagued with...less than appropriate thoughts of you.
You were a sweet young thing, much too beautiful to be flitting around a big military base like this one. Though you had no military experience, you had filled Meredith's shoes and then some. You were always on top of their paperwork, were a great liaison between the gruff and sometimes grumpy 141 and other departments, and you never forgot their coffee or tea preferences.
At first, he had tried to simply ignore how his gut tingled when you smiled up at him, prompting him to ignore you in an attempt to get over this annoying little crush he seemed to have developed. He knew deep down it was different than how Gaz and Soap felt, both men shameless in the way they flirted with you. Always feeding you cheesy pickup lines that made you roll your eyes and laugh.
He tried to convince himself he was just a man, and staring at your bottom in the skirts you wore around the base was merely instinct. How was he supposed help himself from noticing the color of your bra through one peephole where the buttons in your blouse strained against your breasts? But as time went on, he couldn't ignore how his hands got a little clammy when you'd draw a smiley face on the paper cup you left at his seat, tea made just the way he likes it.
What's worse was Simon knew that he wasn't getting any type of special treatment from you, that you were sweet and even little flirtatious with plenty of other people on the base. Which is what started to drive him mad in the first place. He chastised himself for wanting something as silly as to be the only one getting your little notes and small smiles in the hallways.
He also knew that you were fucking one of the base doctors, Dr. John Carter.
Well, technically he didn't know, it's not like either of you told anyone. But he wasn't stupid.
The guy made up any excuse possible to come all the way up from the med bay to personally drop off paperwork at your desk, always lingering and chatting your ear off until he was paged back. At first, Simon figured he could handle some scrawny, pretty boy doctor lusting after you. Hard to blame him really. But what made it worse is soon you were doing the same thing. You jumped on any reason to go down to the med bay.
Which is where he was now, in the med bay, sitting with Soap as a nurse inspected the bruising welt on the man's arm, which Simon had given him on purpose because he knew you had volunteered to oversee the med student evals.
He watched, silently seething, as you helped him fill out a trainee evaluation from where you were perched delicately on the edge of his desk. Everything he said made you laugh, and Simon had to hold himself back when he watched Carter's eyes trail down to your ass as you walked out of the med bay, papers in hand.
Soap, always down to help his Lt., was giving empty answers to the annoyed nurse who was trying to help him with something he didn't really need help with. As soon as you were out of the room, Soap shooed the nurse away as politely as possible, standing with Simon as they followed out after you. Carter called out a friendly farewell to them and they both simply raised a hand in acknowledgement.
"What's yer plan?" Soap said lowly once the door clicked shut behind them.
"Dunno." Simon mused, "Have'ta think about it."
Soap offered a few options, none of which seemed fitting. Sure he wanted you all for himself, but they couldn't just kill the base's attending.
But truthfully? He had a plan in mind, just not one he ever thought he'd have to put into action.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
He laid in wait for a few days, scoping your apartment out to see what kind of alarm system you had. To his surprise (and dismay) you didn't have one. He tutted to himself, shaking his head as he picked the lock on your back door.
You were trusting a few easy locks and a deadbolt with your life. Eventually, when he moved you in to his house, you'd be perfectly safe.
Once inside, he tried his hardest to remain focused, but he couldn't help himself. He looked all around your things, figuring out your favorite foods, the products you used, the medicine in your bathroom.
He pressed his lips together as he read the label on your antidepressants, concerned about how much of your bubbly personality was a mask. He hummed in satisfaction when his eyes fell on your birth control, at least you were being safe. There were a few other things that caught his eye, your multivitamins and allergy medicine. There was so much he had to learn about you.
Gently closing the medicine cabinet, Simon reached in his pocket for what he came here to do. He slinked around your apartment, not making a sound even on your creaky wood floor, placing a few bugs around a couple rooms. He placed one in your living room, your kitchen, and upstairs in your bedroom. Once he was satisfied, he slipped out the back door, locking it as if he had never even been there. In a parking lot across the street, he was sitting low in the drivers seat of his truck, accessing the mics from the bulky old laptop he refused to get rid of.
He didn't have to wait long, as your car came rolling down the street about 30 minutes later. He couldn't see your apartment from his viewpoint, so the mic in the living room picked up you unlocking your door, he rolled his eyes at the first voice he heard.
"I just can't believe that." Carter said, making you laugh lightly.
"Come on John, you weren't exactly easy on him either." you mused.
The two of you talked about the medical evals from earlier that week, before you put on an American sports game. The sound from the TV muffled your conversation slightly, but Simon had accounted for that in his placement.
What he couldn't account for was when he felt that all too familiar twinge in his chest as he listened to you and Carter chat so casually. You and him were both American, and you were even from the same city. Which Simon had figured was a big reason you gravitated towards Carter in the first place, he reminded you of home. It was probably the only thing Simon was willing to concede that Carter bested him at.
But Simon was going to learn every little detail about you so that you thought of him as home.
He listened as the two of you were engaged in the sports game, cheering and groaning together as your team got the lead, lost it, and then got in back just in time to win the game.
Maybe he should learn more about basketball...
Unfortunately, Simon also had to listen to you and Carter having sex. He had placed the mic right at your headboard, so he heard every gasp, every moan, every squelch of your pussy around Carter's cock.
Selfishly, Simon had hoped you wouldn't sound like you were having a good time. Of course he wanted you to enjoy yourself, but with him not with Carter. But the doctor seemed to be putting his knowledge of anatomy to good use, with the way you were keening for him, whining out his name amongst a slew of curse words and pleas. Simon was mentally filtering out Carter's own words and sounds, only really wanting to hear you. He pondered replacing the mic with a camera, so he could learn what you liked and what you didn't like. But he would prefer for the first time he saw your bare figure to be in person.
As much as you sounded like you were enjoying it, Simon realized you kept having to repeat what you wanted. Where you wanted Carter to touch you, put his mouth on you, how fast you wanted him to go. You were begging him to keep pace, so close to your own finishing line, and Simon chuckled to himself when he heard Carter slowing down and making you groan.
Simon knew he could please you, without you having to think about anything but how he felt inside you.
He chuckled again when he heard the buzz of a vibrator, Carter whining out as he came, and your strangled orgasm came through the headphones.
Soon, you would't have to worry about that anymore. Not in his bed.
He begrudgingly listened to your light pillow talk, before Carter got his things together and left. You cleaned off in the bathroom, and he turned the volume up as you drifted off to sleep, your breath evening out as you dreamt.
Only then did he drive off, back to his own flat, grumbling to himself as he stepped under the hot water in his shower. As he leaned on the cool tile, he wrapped a fist around his cock, which had been screaming for attention since he heard you moaning in bed. Though he was alone, his cheeks still burned with a light tinge of shame as he cast his spend on the wall of his shower, your name falling off his lips.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
It had been two weeks, and Simon was growing tired of his routine. Not of you, he could never tire of you.
But the more he listened to you and Carter, he was growing restless. Not only was he sick of being unknowingly cuckholded, Carter wasn't even consistent in bed with you. Since the first time he listened to the two of you having sex, he learned that you didn't always finish. Simon could tell when you were faking it without even seeing your face. Carter never seemed to know, or maybe he just didn't care enough. Your pleasure was a happy byproduct and not his priority. If Simon had to listen to you turn that vibrator on after Carter was through the door one more time he was going to lose it.
The thing that was keeping him sane was that you never asked Carter to stay the night, even when he offered.
Simon hadn't needed to return past the threshold of your house, but his audible snooping provided him with so much information. So if you went out for a night, sometimes he'd slip inside and poke around. In his defense, most of his poking was innocent things, just to get to know you. Through your CD collection he learned your music tastes, ranging from country when you missed your mother, classic rock when you missed your father, and a mix of pop and hip hop in between. Through your bookshelf he learned your favorite books, a surprising mix of horror, romance, and celebrity memoirs. Through your TV stand he learned that you had a penchant for buying a physical version of movies instead of just renting it.
Simon was also learning your little habits. You hummed and sang while you cooked and cleaned, never doing anything without music to back you up. You cleaned on Sundays, always washed your face even when you came home drunk, and you had broken down and called your ex boyfriend about a week ago. He listened to you talk on the phone with your friends back home, telling them that despite being very happy here in England you still missed them.
Today he was happily lifting weights in the gym, absolutely buzzing. Even his team had commented on his good mood, one they so rarely saw from him at this point.
Last night he had listened in as you had a few friends over for a movie night, and they were asking how your job was going, all normal things. He rolled his eyes at how you talked about Carter, and how your friends swooned when you showed them a picture. But none of that mattered, it was what you said about him that had him on a high.
You had told them about all of 141, making him chuckle with your descriptions of his teammates. According to you, Price was handsome but strict in a fatherly way that sometimes made you feel like you were being babysat. Soap and Gaz were both hot and though they laid it on thick you were under the impression that it was all just teasing and they didn't really see you that way. Simon knew those two well enough that if you gave them the chance they'd fuck you right there on base. Hell, even Price would probably sink his teeth into you if offered the chance.
But when you brought him up that's when he sat up and really tuned in.
"He's so...big." you said, making them all giggle, "And he always wears this skull mask. I've never actually seen what he looks like."
"He wears one all the time?!" one of your friends asked, an annoying but familiar question. You took it in stride.
"Yeah, around base its usually just a black balaclava or one with a skull face printed on it. But the one he wears on deployment is like..a big skull plate right on the front. I've never asked but, I dunno, I think it's kinda sexy." you said, the last few words muffled as he pictured you raising your hands to your face in embarrassment.
His chest almost burst. Sexy.
"Not seeing his face is sexy??" a different one asked.
"Listen, like I said he's huge. Super tall, built like a truck. His arms are massive. With tattoos." your voice sounded so much sweeter when he was the topic on your tongue.
"And you have a super cute doctor who's basically in love with you." your other friend said. Before he got too angry at your friends for swaying you in the wrong direction, Simon had to remind himself that they only had your best interests in mind. As soon as you were his they'd know the best thing for you was Simon.
"And maybe if he was staying here then I'd be more open to putting a label on us." you said, making Simon's brow furrow. It was the first time he had caught any wind of Carter potentially leaving the base.
"Plus Simon has been so nice to me lately." you said, smile evident in your voice.
"Nice how?" a friend giggled.
"He's kind of got a reputation on base as a grump." you giggled, making him chuckle, "Like the new recruits are terrified of him. But he's so sweet to me. And he must be paying attention to my desk because he always brings me a hazelnut croissant from Tratoria."
Simon was happy you'd noticed his extra efforts toward you. You were right, he had studied your desk to know what your order from the coffee shop was. He started bringing you your favorite sweet treats, sitting next to you in meetings, making jokes under his breath for only you to hear. You were responding in kind, no more smiley faces on his notes, they'd all been replaced with hearts. Checking in with him while he was in his office, lingering at your desk long enough to walk out with him.
For the rest of the night, you and your friends talked about your love lives, but as your friends droned on he sat there grinning. You had noticed his soft spot for you, and it wasn't going unreciprocated.
While he grinned under his mask and put the weight plates away in the base gym, he recalled that you had mentioned never having a 'real' conversation with him, so he was going to fix that.
Hours later Simon's good mood was being tested by Price, who had thrown him a proverbial mountain of paperwork that would likely take him the rest of the damn day. However, when he heard a soft knock and looked up, the grin was back under the cotton of his mask as you leaned around the doorframe with a little crease in your brow. He waved you in and kept his eyes trained on your face as your heels clicked across the tile.
"How ya doin' in here? I heard Captain Price gave you a bunch of files, and I haven't seen you in hours." you said empathetically, your concern for him making his heart thump in his chest.
"M'fine, sweetheart." he sighed, leaning back in his desk chair with his arms clasped behind his head. He pretended not to notice the way your eyes darted to his chest, then further down to where his shirt was tucked into his cargo pants.
The weight of your stare made gave Simon an idea, "Actually, walk with me?" he asked, making your eyebrows rise in surprise.
"Sure. Where to?" you said with a grin and he matched it, regardless of whether you could see it from under the mask. He stood up and rounded his desk, gesturing to the door.
"Just around the yard. Need some air." he suggested, and you eagerly fell in step next to him.
The two of you walked for 30 minutes around the yard, chatting casually, and it was the happiest Simon had been in years. He bit the bullet and asked if you had heard anything about Carter leaving.
"Oh, yeah," you nodded, "He's headed back to the states to work at hospital in Chicago."
You didn't sound happy about it, but you shrugged as if it was no big deal. After confirming that it was his last month on the base, Simon moved on and changed the subject.
One month, and then you would be untangled, unless of course one were to count your minor entanglement with Simon.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
Over the next month, the two of you took almost daily walks, peppering each other with questions. One day you had come in a little late to the office, worrying not only him but everyone else on the team. That morning you had waved them off with an apology, but on your walk with Simon you confided in him that your neighbor had cornered you, pressuring you to go on a date with him now that he had noticed Carter wasn't coming around on the regular. It had shaken you, and infuriated Simon. He should have been there, but truthfully he had been listening in less and less now that he talked to you so much during the work day.
He offered to be your ride to and from work, and to his slight surprise, you agreed. You had been quieter that day, and he could tell you were still keeping something back about what happened with your neighbor. He had given you his phone number, and told you that if you ever needed him for anything, to call him.
Though you hadn't called him for any emergencies, the two of you texted as much as Simon could handle, as truthfully he wasn't the best texter. And after Carter was gone, you had started leaning on him more, and he was more than happy to be there for you. He'd gotten Soap and Kyle to invite you out to the pub after a quick mission, and you'd started to join them more and more after that.
It was almost amusing to watch men's behavior when you were out at the bar. You seemed oblivious to it but plenty of them paused to watch you walk in, lots had their eyes on you, and you couldn't head to the bar without someone chatting you up, something that seemed to annoy you when Soap teased you about it. You always rolled your eyes, laughing and waving him off as you settled on to the barstool on Simon's right. That's always where you stuck yourself, between him and the wall. Safe.
On the nights he knew you were joining them at the pub, he always drove, and never got drunk, that way he could have an excuse to drive you home. Tonight, you were supposed to be meeting them at their normal pub after you were out with your friends, so he had been nursing a pint for a while now.
"Oh Lt., you are in trouble." Soap laughed, nodding his head towards the door. Simon turned around and his eyes widened as they fell on you.
You had a big grin plastered on your face, hair a little messy from the breeze outside. The tight mini skirt that clung to your hips was a far cry from what you wore around the office, and Simon could feel the fabric of his boxers strain against his hardening cock as his eyes fell on the bottom hem that was dangerously close to your bottom. You scanned the busy room, eyes lighting up as they fell on Simon as you made your way through the crowd.
He had to let go of the pint glass in his hand before he crushed it, watching several men crane their necks for a better view of your ass as you walked past them. He was trying to remind himself he was trying to get you to love him and not be scared of him. No reason to crush anyone's skulls because they were admiring your beauty.
Yet.
Soap let out a whistle when you made it over, making you laugh.
"Why don't you wear this at work, aye?" he slurred, and you smiled, leaning on Simon's shoulder.
"Because I would get fired." you mused, sliding across his back as you tucked yourself into his side as always.
"You want a drink?" he asked you, surprised when you shook your head.
"I think I've had plenty for one night," you groaned with a light laugh, "I need to sober up."
He patted your knee, standing up anyway to get you a glass of water and some crisps. When he got back, you gave him another dopey smile and a soft 'thank you'. He felt his heart tug at the way you trusted him with your safety, something he did not intend to take lightly.
You all chatted and laughed for another hour or so, and you seemed to be sobering up and getting tired so he offered to take you home. You smiled and nodded, bidding the other guys goodbye.
Your arms were wrapped around his bicep on the short walk through the parking lot, a walk that he purposely made slower to drag it out as much as possible. If you had said anything he would have told you that he was walking slower to make sure your heels didn't trip you up. But he just wanted to extend any time you had on his arm. For the first time you had kept your grip on his hand as he drove back to your place, fiddling with his fingers while his hand rested in your lap. The casual nature of the touch making it impossible for Simon not to smile to himself under the mask.
He did as he normally would and walked you up to your door, watching your back as you unlocked it. But this time instead of giving him a hug or a kiss on the cheek before saying goodnight, you hesitated.
"You alright?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. His eyes fell to your lips where you were chewing on your lower lip in nervousness. You blinked a few times before deciding with a shake of your head.
"Yeah, no I'm - it's fine." you said, tripping over your words as you looked down at your feet but staying planted where you were. He didn't respond, put held his eyes on you. When you looked back up at him you reached out to hug him around his neck. His palms splayed across your back as you sighed into his neck. This hug was longer than the others he had gotten from you, and this time when you pulled back you held his face close.
"I really wanna kiss you."
It was barely a whisper, but it made his brain stop short. Your big doe eyes were staring up at him with a look of genuine of affection that Simon was not accustomed to being on the receiving end of. He didn't say anything, opting instead to lift the bottom hem of his balaclava up to his nose. His hand moved up from the small of your back to gently grip behind your neck, pulling you up towards him as he bent down a bit to press your lips to his.
Simon wasn't too proud to admit that he had been thinking about this very moment for months. He'd probably been thinking about it the entire year you'd worked for them. And now that he was in it, feeling the plush skin of your lips press on his it felt like nothing he had ever felt in a kiss before. Sometimes he'd wonder about that 'spark' that some people talked about feeling when they kissed someone, unsure if he had just missed it in previous kisses.
But here in this moment with you it all made sense. The feeling of your lips moving against his, the sound of the sigh you let out as you pressed yourself against his chest, it was all perfect. His arms wrapped around your waist, holding you in place as you craned your neck to kiss him deeper. He smiled into your mouth as your fingertips tugged at the small amount of hair that was now sticking out of the bottom of the balaclava.
You had to be the one to break the kiss, because Simon would have suffocated to death if it meant he never had to detach from your lips. So when you pulled back and took a breath in and giggled at him, his brows furrowed.
"What?" he asked, unable to help the smile on his lips as you grinned. Your hand moved around to the side of his face, your thumb swiping along his bottom lip.
"I got my lip gloss on you," you giggled, making him roll his eyes.
"That's fine," he said, pulling you back up to him so he could kiss you again, "I'll get it at home." he said into your lips. The way you laughed into his mouth went directly to his groin, and this time he was the one to break the kiss as he tried to control himself. Though you were responding in kind to him, you were still drunk and in no shape for any type of sex. This time when you pulled back you just stared up at him.
"You have such a nice smile." you said, voice reverent and fingers still exploring his jaw, "You sure you don't wanna stay?" you added coyly, batting your eyelashes and tilting your head to the side. He almost groaned at your tone, clearly wanting him to come inside and fuck you.
You weren't making this easy.
But he was a man of morals, and he was not John Carter.
"Course I do." he said, his thumb rubbing at the skin above the top of your skirt, "But you're still drunk, my darling." he laughed at the way your bottom lip poked out in protest.
"Oookaaay," you sighed sweetly, drawing the vowels out, "You're missin' out though."
He cocked an eyebrow at you, though he knew you couldn't see it, "Oh?"
"Mmmhmm," you nodded, one of your hands sliding along his arm as he still held you in place, "I've been told I'm a lot of fun when I drink tequila."
"That's good to know," he said, leaning down to speak lowly in your ear, "But the first time I fuck you, you will have your head on straight. Okay?"
He smirked to himself when he heard your little breath, coming out in a huffed laugh. When he stood back up to full height, your pupils were dilated as you nodded up at him.
"Okay." you said, the obedience in your tone and demeanor making his mind go a little fuzzy.
He planted one more kiss on your lips, before the two of you said goodnight and he started to leave. He turned to make sure you were getting inside, both of your heads snapped up to an argument happening a few yards down the road. From what he could see, a man was in the street arguing with someone in an apartment, throwing things up at the windows and kicking bins around in the street. He looked at you and you were already looking at him, all flirtation gone from your eyes.
"Are you sure you can't stay? At least for a little?" you asked, your voice laced with fear. Once Simon heard the waver in your voice he already had his answer. There was no way he could leave while some drunk asshole was causing a problem on your street. You looked relieved as he didn't hesitate to walk back up to your door, gently pushing you inside as he followed you in.
"You don't have to stay long I-" you started, but he waved you off as he locked your door, frowning a bit when he slid the flimsy chain lock that added almost nothing to the actual lock on the door.
"M'not leaving now." he said, pinching your chin between his thumb and forefinger as he placed a quick kiss on your lips. He took a brief moment to savor the casual nature of the peck, satisfied that the two of you had finally crossed that particular line and he could take all the kisses he pleased from now on.
You nodded at him and asked him if he did intend staying the whole night, which he pondered for a moment. It was already pretty late, and neither of you had to be on base tomorrow. So there was really no reason why he would have to leave, nor was there any way he would be able to leave without knowing that you were completely safe. But if you kept telling him how much fun you were on tequila he was in for a difficult night.
"As long as you, young lady, remember that-" he started, and you rolled your eyes and groaned before interrupting him.
"Okay, okay," you said, waving your hand before heading through the living room and into the kitchenette, "I'll stop trying to fuck you. Fine."
As he watched you kick your heels off and pad to the fridge, he wasn't sure he'd ever heard you curse before. He followed you, his boots suddenly sounding heavy on the linoleum.
"You don't gotta stop," he said as you grabbed the water pitcher from the fridge and poured two glasses of water.
"No, no, no. You lost your chance Lieutenant Riley." you teased, and he sucked his teeth as he heard his rank fall from your pretty lips.
"Lieutenant Riley?" he questioned, caging you in against the counter as you turned back to him. You hummed in satisfaction as he pressed his lips on yours again, smiling into the kiss. When he pulled back, you handed him the cool glass in your hands, silently urging him to drink it.
"Unsure where you're gonna sleep though," you pondered, "I don't have a guest room, and that couch is way too small for you, but if you can't control yourself..." you trailed off, making him chuckle.
"I can control myself. Dunno if I can say the same for you, though." he laughed as your face scrunched up at him.
"Hmmm," you hummed, eyes looking him up and down before responding, "Maybe. I don't even know what you really look like. Maybe I don't want you to sleep in my bed."
This earned another laugh from him, but he knew that this day was coming sooner rather than later. So as he felt your eyes on him, he lifted his free hand up and gripped the top of the balaclava. He pulled it off, the skin on his face relishing in the cool air of your flat. He blinked down at you, your eyes wide. He didn't say anything, just cocking his head to the side to prompt a response from you.
"I want you to sleep in my bed." you said, your hands coming up to clasp the sides of his face as you pulled him into another kiss. He smiled against you and reminded you about control, making you groan, "You're so mean. It better be worth the wait."
"Oh it'll be worth the wait. I can promise you that." he chuckled.
After the two of your finished your water, you led him up the stairs to the second floor and showed him your bedroom, and he was mindful to act as if he had never seen it before. You left him alone as you went to wash your face, and as the door to the bathroom closed he peeked around your bed frame at the bug he had placed forever ago. He had listened to so many of your most intimate moments through this tiny piece of technology, and soon enough it would send the sounds of your first time with Simon to the recording device he had in his truck. Something he intended to come back to when he was away on missions, a reminder of his pretty dove back home.
He sat on the side of your bed, untying his boots and slipping them off. As he undressed down to his undershirt and pants, he chuckled softly to himself at how he was really here in this moment. Months of waiting, months of work, and the first time he'd in bed with you Simon was white knuckle-ing past your attempts at sex. He had sat back down you came back in the room, bare faced and absolutely beautiful. You smiled warmly at him before turning to your dresser, fishing some pajamas out of the bottom drawer.
"You want me to change out there?" you smirked, nodding to the hallway.
"Your house, love." Simon replied, feeling the way his eyes darkened as he eyed you. You shrugged and placed the pajamas on the top of the dresser. It felt like the world was moving in slow motion as he watched you peel the tight mini skirt off your hips, exposing the lacy blue thong that barely covered your ass crack. Your arms crossed as you lifted your top off, and Simon couldn't see the smirk on your face but he knew you were sporting one as you reached back to unclasp your bra.
"Y'could at least turn around." he heard himself say lowly, his words met with a giggle from you. You opted to pull your panties down unbelievably slow, bending at the waist so Simon had no choice but to watch the way the gusset peeled off of your pussy. By the time your hands were at your ankles, your rear was spread open just enough for him to admire both holes. They were practically screaming for Simon to reach out and touch, for him to sink his tongue into them.
When you straightened up, you continued his torture, turning around and giving him his first look at your naked frame. You let him drink in the sight of you, his eyes traveling over the swell of your breasts, your hips, thighs, everything he had never been able to see in your smart work clothes. Simon's cock leapt to attention when his eyes focused on the hard peaks of your nipples, each decorated by a silver bar pierced through them. There was a glittery piercing hanging from your bellybutton as well. When he met your eyes again you were still smirking, but this time you had an eyebrow cocked.
"What?" you asked innocently, making him try and swallow his saliva to lubricate his throat.
"You have your nipples pierced." he croaked out, making you giggle again.
"You know," you mused, stepping towards him and making his heart jump, "I'm not just some boring secretary who wears ugly skirts all the time." you crooned, settling between his spread legs and carding a hand through his hair. Simon's eyes fluttered shut at the touch, but he didn't dare let them close fully when your breasts were being presented inches from his face.
"I didn't think that." he said, voice coming out as nothing bit a whisper as he looked up at your smiling face.
"Better not have." you responded lightly, bending to kiss him briefly before standing back up and gently gripping his jaw in your hand, "And if you tell Johnny that I have my nipples pierced, you will never fuck me."
Now that made him laugh. You giggled along with him, turning and going back to the dresser and slipping the pajama set on and ending his show.
"He'd be drooling into a pool on the floor." he said as you made your way back to him.
"He would have fucked me." you teased, making him roll his eyes.
"True. But he's no gentleman." Simon retorted, not meaning for the words to come out as stony as they did. You hummed, pressing his chest back slightly as you climbed into his lap, making him lay back as you straddled his hips.
"That's probably true." you mused, and Simon relished in the feeling of your hands exploring his chest. He watched your eyes as you traced your fingertips lightly over the scars on his chest. After a few silent moments you gazed at his face and giggled again.
"What now?" Simon asked.
"Nothing," you said, leaning down so your face was above his, "There's just something sweet about big bad Simon Riley lounging on my pink sheets."
He rolled his eyes at that, but the sentiment did warm something in his chest. Now that he was here in your bed, no mask on, guard down for you, Simon realized that he had never been this way in his life, not romantically at least. The rest of 141 had seen his face on occasion, and he had a few little flings in the past, but nothing like this. No one like you.
So instead of saying anything, he reached up to cup your face with both his hands, pulling your face down to his so you were laying down on top of him while he kissed you. For a while he just held you there, and you seemed to have no intention of doing anything but be held. Eventually he moved you both onto your sides, wrapping his arms around you without breaking the kiss.
"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," he murmured into your lips, greedily drinking in the sigh you let out as your fingers tightened where they were perched on his biceps.
"Don't say things like that to me," you groaned as he pulled back and frowned at you.
"Why not?" he questioned, his serious tone lost on you as you looked up at him longingly.
"Because I really want you to fuck me." you whined, the sentiment going straight to his already aching cock.
"I will baby," he crooned, "Just not tonight. I have morals."
"So you'll never fuck me drunk?" you asked, and he smiled at your little pout.
"Not for our first time." he said, shifting his body so he was perched above your flat frame on the mattress, "Like I said, the first time I fuck you, you will have your head on straight."
He kissed your pouted lips, moving to get up and out of the bed. You whined again, asking him where he was going, and as he told you he was taking a shower he couldn't help but smile to himself.
Simon had gone over this almost a thousand times in his head, this moment where he finally crossed the line from your friend to your lover. He had thought through every scenario his mind could conjure up, thinking of ways he could get you to depend on him, to need him. As he'd already proven there wasn't much Simon wasn't willing to do to ensure he steered you in the right direction, whether you knew it or not. He'd been prepared to tap your phone, follow your every step, go through your mail, or hack your laptop. Hell, when there was discussion of John Carter staying on base he was prepared to kill the man.
Nothing was going to stop him from having you.
But he hadn't expected it to be so simple. There was no convincing you, no need for added external pressure, none of it. And yet here you were, mewling for him like a pathetic kitten desperate for his affection. He'd been in countless upturned regions, been tortured for information, been through things and made decisions that would keep most people up at night. But turning away from you, lounged out and gazing at him from those pink sheets, was the single hardest thing he'd ever had to do.
You mumbled a direction, sleepily telling him where the bathroom was, not that he needed it. Simon hopped in the shower to douse himself in cold water, trying anything to quell the ache of his throbbing cock. Once he had calmed down, he dried off and put his clothes back on.
Back in the room, you had tucked yourself into your side of the bed, and had left the blankets open on the other side in invitation. Simon shut the light on your bedside table off before he climbed in behind you, wrapping his arm around your midsection to pull you close to his chest. You hummed sleepily, adjusting yourself a bit so you were peeking over your shoulder at him in the darkness.
"I don't think I've ever done this," you said, laughing softly, "Sleeping with someone before, y'know, sleeping with them."
Simon smiled, pressing a light kiss to your forehead before giving you a squeeze and wishing you goodnight. You turned back over, settling into your spot and bringing his hand up to your chest. You laced your fingers with his and it didn't take long for him to recognize your breathing pattern to know you had fallen asleep.
Sleep wasn't typically easy for Simon, but as your breath danced on his knuckles and his nostrils filled with the sweet scent of the perfume in your hair, he felt it creep up on him sooner than expected.
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
When Simon awoke, he swore he was still dreaming. He wasn't the best sleeper, between nightmares and muscle aches he usually woke up a few times every night. But with you by his side apparently you were the perfect cure, as he had slept deeper than he could ever remember.
Cracking his eyes open was when he was convinced he was dreaming. The sun rays were shining through your cracked blinds and washing over the both of you, still tangled together amongst the soft sheets. You were still sleeping flush with him, but you were turned to face him now, cheek smushed against his bicep as the light danced across your face.
Simon had never laid his eyes on anything more beautiful.
So he laid there until you stirred. He drank in every second that passed, every shallow breath you took, focused so hard like he was memorizing the particles of dust in the air. With a deeper breath, you finally stretched as you woke up, not opening your eyes quite yet. You hummed to yourself when you reached out and your hands discovered his chest, finally opening your eyes to look at him. Before he could say anything, he watched a shy smile creep up on your features before you quickly looked away from him, making him lift an eyebrow at you. A small part of him was a bit concerned that you had sobered up and regretted the things you had said and done last night.
"Morning," he said, his voice still thick with sleep. You echoed him with a shy 'good morning' before sitting up and rubbing your eyes.
He quietly watched you, trying to study your body language before he asked what was on your mind. When you turned back around, he caught your eye and tilted his head a bit.
"What?" you asked, brows furrowing in worry.
"Why ya acting shy?" he asked, trying his best to sound playful, hoping he wasn't coming off accusatory. You laughed lightly, laying back down beside him before sighing and looking up at his eyes.
"Honestly?" you started, chewing on your lower lip before continuing, "I'm a little embarrassed."
"About what, love?" he said gently, clasping a gentle hand around your wrist and pressing his thumb on your pulse point.
"I kinda...threw myself at you, huh?" you laughed sheepishly, peeking at him as if to gauge his reaction. He offered you a soft laugh, pulling your body closer to press a kiss on the side of your head.
"You don't need to be embarrassed." he said softly, "Do you remember what I said to you last night?"
"Some of it." you said, brows furrowing in concentration.
"I told you that you have no idea how long I've wanted this," he said, moving his head so he was looking at you at you eye level, "And I meant it." he affirmed, satisfied when the crease in your brow softened a bit.
"So you don't think it was, like, completely pathetic?" you asked, and he smiled.
It was a little pathetic.
"No." he lied, pressing a gentle kiss on your lips as you giggled.
"Just don't tell anyone how desperate I was," you groaned, smiling up at him.
"Never." he nodded earnestly.
"Thank you." you sighed, "I would have to quit if Johnny and Kyle had that ammo on me."
Simon chuckled at that, aware that if he did share details of your behavior (and physique) with his team you would never hear the end of it. Price wouldn't tease you about those details he was sure, and Gaz would give up eventually, but Soap would be relentless. But if Simon had it his way, no man would ever know the beauty of your naked form ever again, even if it was just through his own word of mouth.
"They won't." he assured you, greedily taking yet another kiss from you. This time you held him there, and as you shifted your weight to tuck yourself as close to him as possible, something in Simon snapped. The feeling of you underneath him, kissing him so very needy, it was enough for him to move his own weight around so he was on top of you.
"I'm sober now. Scouts honor." you said softly, clearly not wanting him to pull away like he did last night. He laughed into your mouth and opted to bite your lower lip gently.
"Oh I know." he said, the desire rumbling in his chest obvious in the way his tone dropped. You whined at him as his mouth traveled from your lips down the column of you neck, smirking into you when he found a spot that made your hips buck up into him a bit. He bit you gently there, licking the skin to soothe the pain as your hands gripped his shoulders as if he was going to get up off of you and leave.
Simon moved his knee and brought your leg up with it, opening you up so he could settle his hips between your thighs. You opened up so beautifully for him, your obedience once again making his cock twitch. You were finally settled beneath him fully, hands cradling his face as your legs were wrapped around his hips to anchor him in place. Though he wanted so badly to rip your pajamas off you and devour you for breakfast, he stayed put, mesmerized when you moved his face back up to yours to kiss him.
The two of you stayed there for a while, lost in a deep kiss that had been brewing for months. It wasn't until you shifted your hips and rubbed against his crotch that he broke. His hands left your hair and moved your sleep shirt up and off of you, quickly followed by your shorts. Simon did not climb back over you like you thought he would, he was frozen in place by the sight of your glistening pussy, spread open and so fucking pretty. Lowering himself onto you, he heard your breath catch as you watched him descend on your sex, painting a long stripe with his tongue flat to catch as much of your flavor as possible.
The second your arousal hit his taste buds, he knew nothing would ever compare. No drink, no food, nothing would ever be this good. He ate you as if he was on death row being served his last meal, hungry and desperate for more. The sounds coming from you were music to his ears, spurring him on as he teased your clit with his flicking tongue, sucking it in and teething it every so slightly. The feeling of your soft, wet flesh in his mouth felt like forbidden fruit and he suddenly understood why Eve bit the apple.
Pulling back only to take another look at you, he watched your hole clench around nothing, so he obliged, inserting his middle finger and exploring your walls as he sucked your clit back into his mouth. You gasped, your hands somehow finding purchase in his buzzcut, hips bucking up into his mouth. He cursed under his breath at how tight you were, massaging every inch inside of you to gain the reward of more juices leaking from you for him to lap up. Another finger and you were moaning his name this time, and Simon could feel his cock wetting the front of his boxers at the sound of it.
He worked you open, pumping his thick fingers in and out of you, stretching you as much as he could before he even thought about notching his tip inside you. Simon's other hand came up to spread your lips open, allowing him better access to the red bundle of nerves that was making your thighs twitch when Simon so much as breathed on it. The way you were clamping down on him, your back arched and your hair messy, he knew you were close.
With his eyes trained forward on you, he watched your orgasm seize you, all your muscles going tense before you lost control of your body. Your tits were bouncing with how much you were squirming on him, and the way his name was coming from your mouth made him hum into you to cruelly overstimulate you through your peak. By the time he let you pull him off, you were panting, sweaty, and your eyes were glazed over as you watched him stand up.
He licked his lips, and sucked his fingers clean as he stood at the foot of the bed before you. He wished he could take a picture of you in this moment, and you were probably still in such a blissful high you might even let him. He finally took off his shirt and underwear, feeling a bit smug as he watched your eyes widen at the sight of his cock. Your lips parted ever so slightly as you watched it swing heavily between his legs as he climbed back on top of you.
"You're so big," you said hoarsely.
"I'll go easy on you." he assured you, planting a kiss on your lips as he lined himself at your entrance. All it took was the tip and your brows furrowed at the stretch. He planted his foreword on yours to watch your face as close as possible as he pushed in, you pretty features scrunching so cutely as he split you open. He fucked you with a few inches at first, adding more and more as he worked you open gently.
It wasn't easy, going slow. Simon wasn't used to slow. He was used to fucking, hard and fast and dirty. But this wasn't fucking, this was making love. And he intended to make love to you to prove that he was worthy of your affection, worthy of your time, worthy of your pussy.
You seemed to think he was worthy, clawing at him and begging for more as he slid in once again. "Fuck, please, Simon! I can take it I promise!"
Who was he to deny his woman?
So he sank into you fully, both of you relishing at the feeling. Your walls were pulsing a hypnotizing rhythm around his shaft, enticing him to plant his seed directly where he was sat at the door of your womb. Your face went blank for a moment, eyes closed in bliss as he let you adjust to his full length. When you opened your eyes and looked back up at him all Simon could hear were wedding bells. You were looking at him like he had hung the fucking moon, like he wasn't just some cold blooded killer, like he was a man.
So he fucked you like a man should. Deep and slow and passionate, one of his arms around the small of your back to hold your soft breasts flush with his chest and the other arm cradling your head so he could hear every hiccup and moan that left your sweet lips. Your hands were back around his neck, hips rocking with his as he sent his cock straight into your center. He'd listened to you so many times, but these sounds were new somehow, and it pleased him that he was making you feel like you'd never felt before. One long, drawn out whine in particular almost sent him over the edge.
"Y'like that baby?" he grunted in your ear, your head nodding immediately.
"God yes! Fuck, m'so full, Simon,"
"Takin' me so well, you were made for me."
Simon was sure of that. The way he was sliding in and out of your wet pussy so easily, you were practically sucking him back in. And fuck it felt good. Better than he could have ever fantasized about. You were wet and warm and fucking heavenly. Shifting slightly to angle deeper, your walls clenched down on him in desperation, another orgasm tantalizingly close. He didn't speed up, didn't switch positions, he just kept up the pace that had you whimpering like a bitch under him, begging him to keep going because you were so so close!
He only moved right as it crashed over you, shifting back so he could watch your face up close this time. You were such a vision, orgasmic pleasure suited your features so well. He'd give you 100 if you could handle it, just to see your lips fall open in that cute little 'o' right before you threw your head back and moaned his name. The pulse in your cunt had picked up, urging him to release his spend inside of you.
"G'na fill this pretty pussy up." he grunted, finally speeding up his rhythm to chase his own high. The want, the need to cum deep inside you was making him feral. You held on to him and talked him right to the edge, your pretty voice begging him to use you and fill you. He felt your eyes on him as he felt the rubber band inside him break, his balls flexing as they sent his cum through his shaft and out into your welcoming walls.
You whined out at the feeling, and he dropped to his elbows to cage you in as he fucked you through his release. Your fingernails were absolutely leaving marks as you clawed at his back, and the thought of being marked by you elicited a groan deep from the back of Simon's throat. Once his cum finally stopped flowing, he pressed himself down on top of you and lazily fucked into you as he gradually softened inside you.
He felt you sigh under him, followed by a soft laugh. "You were right." you said, voice slightly muffled by the muscle on his shoulder.
"About what?" Simon asked, lifting himself up to look down at you.
"It was worth the wait." you said softly, pulling his face down to yours and planting a soft kiss on his lips. The softness felt like it was eating Simon alive. He wasn't used to this, and his head was swimming with the knowledge that this wasn't the only taste he was ever going to get.
After a few nice moments of the two of you catching your breath, still tangled together, you groaned and tried to shove him off of you. You dangled the prospect of breakfast in front of him, laughing when he jumped on the opportunity and finally released you. Simon made a point to toss you his shirt, just because he wanted to see you cooking in it.
If you caught wind of his reasoning, you stayed quiet, slipping the garment over your head and smiling as you dug in your drawer for a pair of underwear. After slipping his boxers back on, he followed you down the stairs like a puppy.
You shooed him away once you were both in the kitchen, and knowing he'd be no help to you anyway Simon took a seat on one of the stools by the kitchen island. He let his mind wander, chuckling to himself over you pleading to not disclose your rendezvous with the other team members. They'd know he fucked you, that's for sure, but now that the topic was on his mind he wondered how much ribbing he was going to get. He could hear that stupid Scot's voice in his head, singing your name along side Simon's and an obnoxious
K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
"How do you like your eggs?" you asked, snapping him from his thoughts.
"Runny." he said, smiling at you like a fool. You nodded and made your way back to the stove, putting a new pan on the element to heat up some oil.
You finished making breakfast, offering him a tea in the middle of cooking eggs. As Simon leaned on the counter and watched you, his eyes zeroed in on your nipples poking through the soft fabric of his shirt. Seeing you cooking after listening to it for so long had his chest buzzing at the domesticity of it all. You were humming a song he didn't recognize, and as you were putting food on two plates he was suddenly hit with an unexpected and vivid image of you tutting around his kitchen pregnant. His balls twitched in his boxers at the thought of you swollen with his child, breasts heavy and full.
Simon had never considered children, not with this work and his upbringing. But he had also never found anyone that triggered a thought like that in his mind. But clearly his feelings for you were stronger than even he understood, because the thought of filling you up so much that it takes was so clear in his mind. He could almost hear you shuffling around, whining about your back and begging him to help you put your shoes on. Completely reliant on him.
The sound of you setting the plates on the table snapped him from his albeit perverted daydream. You grinned at him knowingly, rubbing his shoulder.
"Whatcha thinkin' about?" you mused.
"Fucking you." he said plainly, relishing in the way your expression dropped into a shocked open mouth one before he walked to the table and sat down.
"You're insane." you said, shaking your head as you followed his lead and sat across from him. He smiled at you, popping a piece of sausage in his mouth. With the amount that he knew you preferred to cook vs order takeout it shouldn't have been a surprise that you were such a good chef. He complimented your skills anyway.
"It's just eggs and sausage." you said and he shrugged
"I'da burnt the fucker." he lamented, making you laugh loudly.
"I'll teach you, don't worry." you said, reaching out to pat his forearm.
After a while you spoke up again, softer this time, more serious.
"Thank you for staying."
"Course, sweetheart." he said, noting the way you smiled at the pet name.
"I mean it. You didn't have to," you said before smiling cheekily, "You didn't even know your reward was gonna be so good."
"No I didn't," he laughed, "But between that drunk cunt down the street and your neighbor I wasn't leaving. Especially with that piss poor lock y'got."
"Hey! Listen I rent," you giggled, "I can't just install a huge deadbolt because my - you don't like my chain lock." Simon didn't miss the way you stuttered over the possessive, but he decided to let it sit for a while. He let you eat for a while, lulling you into a false sense of security before he sprung something on you.
"You should be my girlfriend." he said, once again very plainly. You coughed into your orange juice, and looked at him wildly.
"Huh?!" you asked, making him smirk.
Simon repeated the sentiment, rewording it just a bit, "I want you to be my girlfriend."
You blinked at him, brows furrowed in confusion. He desperately wished he could read your mind to know what was going on in that pretty little head.
"I didn't know you did things like that." you said finally, eyes flickering from his face down to your plate.
"Did things like what? Date?" he asked.
"Girlfriends and stuff." you shrugged, pushing a piece of egg around with your fork, "I thought you just wanted...y'know."
"To fuck?" he offered, to which you nodded. He paused a moment, opting to just give you the flat out truth.
"I've never had an actual partner, to be fair. So you're not wrong." he mused, "But how I feel about you is different. It's more."
This seemed to settle you a bit, "Okay. I mean I really like you. Like a lot. So if you're sure that's what you want I'd really like to be your girlfriend, Simon. But I wanna make sure you really want that... don't want you do it just for me."
He smiled at your flustered expression, clearly a bit embarrassed at how you were rambling on. It was almost funny, how little you knew about his feelings for you. Those drastic measures still unnoticed.
Sure, Simon had absolutely no idea what he was getting the two of you into, but in his gut he knew it was right. He had a lot of learning to do, and a few HR conversations to have that were sure to make Price grumble.
But for now, he had you, a full stomach, and the morning light.
Taking your hand and bringing it up to his face, he brushed his lips across your knuckles.
Guilty By Association
Commission from the very sweet and patient @soleilak
You (Callsign: Giggles, Gigs for short) are a medic on temporary assignment with the 141. The only problem? You're a former member of Graves' Shadow Company.
Content:
Injury, angst, power imbalance, fingering and oral (reader receiving)
“Get your arse in gear, Gigs!”
Already exhausted and aching, the rough bark of your temporary captain urges your heavy feet faster. Gunfire sprays all around – you’re so addled you can’t tell if it’s enemy or friendly. All you know are your orders, a cry of survival in the uneven pounding of your heart. A bullet plows into the ground dangerously close to your foot.
Just a few meters ahead, Gaz curses and tumbles to the ground, hat lost. It’s not even a decision to alter your course. You can’t tell instantly what the damage is; if he’s been hit or just tripped. So you tuck and dive, grabbing an arm and leg as your back rolls across his chest. The momentum gets the two of you up and moving again, adrenaline taking the edge off his weight.
“Get us to the trees and I can run again!” he shouts in your ear.
You settle your blurry vision on the forest line ahead. Blessed cover – and your extraction point just a mile further. Goal set, you push through the pain of bruised ribs, a wrenched arm, and the ricochet of a bullet across your thigh. You wheeze your way well past the tree line, weaving between trunks until Kyle’s palm smacks at your side.
“We’re good, we’re good,” he says.
You grunt as you set him down, give him the quickest onceover in the history of medics. His calf is bleeding, just above the tops of his boots. It’s an ugly wound; it’ll need packing – but he can survive until exfil.
“Where the fuck are you two?!” Price growls through your headset.
Kyle pats your shoulder and takes off again, only the slightest limp indicating his injury. You grit your teeth and try to follow his example.
No one helps you into the chopper when you’re the last on the ladder. You’re not surprised, but it still stings. Salt on the day’s wounds.
Once the heli is up in the air, you scoot over to help Kyle with the wound on his calf. It’s almost hypnotic, the press-wind-press-wind of packing the deep gouge. Almost like unspooling your own tension through the care of a teammate. Every inch of bandage seems to amplify your own pains, though, as the mission high ebbs.
You hurt.
When Kyle’s done, you sit back a bit to assess him for any other wounds. The twitch of his mouth and slight bob of his head tells you he’s sorted, though – and it’s more thanks than you usually get.
“Where the hell were you?” Price demands.
“I got held up, sir,” you admit. Had been ambushed by two men you thought were on another floor. Bad luck, that. Or just poor preparation on your part. Your side twinges as you ease yourself into a seat. “Won’t happen again.”
Price grunts, mollified. “See that it doesn’t.”
You get maybe thirty seconds of peace before Soap’s voice cuts through the tentative peace.
“Gonnae take care o’ that or keep bleedin’ all over Nik’s seat?” he teases. Or at least it would be, if not for the sharp glint in his eyes.
What’s that saying about sins of the father? Well, Phillip Graves was definitely not your father, nor was General Shepherd – though he was old enough to be. In their absence, it seems you’re paying for their crimes regardless.
“Right,” you sigh, tearing off the bottom of your shirt, “sorry, Nik.”
“Just stay alive to clean it up, eh?” he replies jovially.
It’s not much of a joke, but you laugh anyway. You don’t live up to your callsign much nowadays, so you’ll take the levity when you can.
You tie off the makeshift bandage with a grunt and lean your head back, too uncomfortable to doze off.
At least the infirmary is a friendly sight. The staff are always grateful for an extra set of hands – even if they once belonged to a Shadow. And you have a lot of time to help since you’re not encouraged (never mind invited) to any non-professional activities with the 141. Working with the nurses during all that extra time has gained you some friends at least.
Dana is on call when you limp in. She fusses about you looking like the walking dead – then goes on to tell regale you with details from her current first-time watch of the show. The stream of words soothes you in the quiet little treatment room.
“Think we need an x-ray, dove?” she asks, prodding at your already discolored ribs.
“Wouldn’t help,” you sigh, “we can just wrap ‘em and call it.”
“Alright, dear, but you know what to do if it gets worse.”
“’Course,” you answer, summoning a grin, “can’t be keelin’ over before your nephew leaves that tart.”
“Oh, don’t even get me started – you know what she said at Sunday dinner?”
You giggle through her undoubtedly embellished story until she gets to your thigh – and the terrible bandaging.
“A piece of your shirt,” she scolds.
“My bag was too far, and my ribs hurt,” you complain.
“And what are all those big burly men for then, eh?” she huffs.
You shake your head. “I can’t ask them to help.”
Dana scowls past your hip. “Just because you’re the medic—”
“Pardon.”
You jolt in surprise at Captain Price in the doorway. Christ, he takes up the breadth of it too, shoulders brushing the jamb on either side. Even mission-dirty and stern-looking, he’s a hell of a welcome sight – though an unexpected one.
You try to sit up at some semblance of attention, but he waves you off. Can’t say you’re not grateful, unable to help wincing as you lie back.
You don’t notice him pause as Dana washes the wound, too busy sucking air through your nose.
“What’s… the damage?” he asks carefully.
You open your mouth to answer, but Dana beats you to it.
“Contused ribs, sprained shoulder, and a bullet wound to the thigh,” she rattles off. You’re always impressed by the undercurrent of disapproval and accusation she manages to weave into each word. “Not to mention dehydration and sleep deprivation. You’ve been staying up again, haven’t you?”
You clear your throat and turn your eyes skywards. “Oh, look at the ceiling. What a lovely ceiling.”
She clicks her tongue and begins packing the wound as you had for Gaz.
“Bullet wound?” Price asks sharply. Your eyes flick guiltily to him. “Why the hell am I hearing about this now?”
“It’s just a graze, sir,” you reply. “Sergeant Garrick’s was worse.”
His jaw does that thing you secretly (ashamedly) drool over, where it tightens and jumps. You know it’s not good but hey, silver linings right?
He doesn’t ream you out though. Just crosses his burly arms and lets out a long, heavy breath. You’re… not really sure what that means.
“Debrief at 0700 tomorrow, Gigs,” he says, voice unusually subdued.
“Yessir,” you reply dutifully.
As always, a strange mix of relief and disappointment twists in your chest as he walks away. Talking to him is a bit like being under a microscope – if that microscope was ready to brand you a low-down, no-good, dirty, rotten traitor at the first hint of suspicious activity.
You get it, you do. Graves and Shadow Company tried to kill Soap and Ghost, Los Vaqueros, and committed unspeakable atrocities. As much history as you had with him, he deserved what came to him, and Shepherd will deserve the same when he’s found.
Not that your hands were clean before Las Almas, but you drew the line when the orders came. Couldn’t bear to detain or shoot the friends you’d made in Los Vaqueros, or join the hunting party for Soap and Ghost. You’d been labelled a turncoat by your own teammates, thrown into a cell to be “court-martialed.”
Kate Laswell coming to your rescue was a second chance, a small-time miracle that you’ve been determined to earn ever since. In your more pathetic moments, usually in the small, dark, lonely hours of sleepless nights, you wonder how much it will take. How long you’ll be guilty by association.
At least this isn’t shaping up to be one of those nights. You’re half asleep by the time Dana sends you off, arm chilly from the IV fluids she bullied you into. For once, you might get a few decent hours.
Your second surprise of the night comes just outside your barracks door. Soap is leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, head back and eyes closed. Awake, though. His index finger is tapping a steady but rapid pace on his bicep.
“Soap?” you say, alerting him. “Did you… need me for something? You’re not injured, are you?”
He straightens up, drops his arms to his side. You pause a noticeable distance away, uncertainty leashing you to the safety of space. Not that you feel threatened. His posture is the loosest it’s been around you since… well, since before Las Almas went to hell.
“’Course no’, I woulda – tha’s not why I’m here.”
“Oh…” You process the strange wording. “Why are you here, then?”
He shifts his weight, a little line appearing between his brows as he seems to gather himself.
“I’m here to apologize.”
You blink. “Huh?”
“Look, what I said during exfil – it was bang outta order. You’ve been nothin’ but good to us ‘n I’m still holdin’ on to old shite.”
You shift, adjust the stupid flimsy sling for your sore shoulder. “It’s… not that old,” you reason, “and I don’t blame you, either. Not after everything.”
“Still, ya did the right thing back then – and ya’ve proven yourself half a dozen times over, besides. I’ve got no reason to treat you like an enemy.”
You swallow past the lump in your throat. It feels like you’ve swallowed a grenade; any moment the pin is going to come out and an explosion of gory emotion will splatter the walls.
“Thanks, Soap.”
He grunts something about “not thanking him” and ducks his head, shuffling past you.
“Seriously,” you say, voice strained from keeping it even. “I really appreciate it.”
He pauses, gives you a genuinely kind look. “Rest up, lass.”
It’s the best you’ve slept in a long while – after you cry into your pillow, that is.
At 0700 the next day, you’re in Price’s office, sore but in high spirits. Gaz sat next to you and Soap said good morning at breakfast. Even Ghost seemed less frosty than usual, grunting at you in acknowledgement when you’d sat down.
Of course, the good luck couldn’t last.
The debrief itself is fine. You speak when it’s your turn, listen when it isn’t. About as normal as it gets for a special ops squad.
It’s as the rest of the task force is filing out the door that the other shoe drops.
“Gigs, a word,” Price calls.
You freeze mid-step, shoot Gaz a panicky glance. He glances over your shoulder, snorts, and pats your arm in solidarity. Not as helpful as he thinks.
With a deep breath, you pivot back around. The door closes behind you with a damning click. You can’t even hide your hands behind your back to fidget at parade rest – your arm needs to stay in the sling for the rest of the day.
“We need to discuss yesterday,” Price says, palms flat on his desk.
You tilt your head. Wasn’t that what the debrief was for?
“Sir?” you ask. “If I – did I do something wrong?”
He deflates a bit, big shoulders dropping before he pushes himself up and rounds the desk.
“No, you’re not in trouble,” he explains, “but I have concerns.”
When he gestures for you to take one of the visitor seats, you do. You’re a bit surprised when he takes the other – though you can’t help an appreciative glance while his attention is elsewhere. He practically dwarfs the stupid little chair, and the way he spreads his thighs trying to get comfortable…
“Concerns, sir?” you parrot, trying to corral your scrambled braincells.
“What you said in the infirmary,” he begins, expression solemn, “is that really how you feel?”
“What I said…?” You try to recall anything of note from last night, but most of what came out of your mouth is a blur at best. “What did I say?”
He leans forward, lacing his scarred fingers together. You try not to stare, though the way he rubs at the knuckle of one thumb with the other is distracting. It’s an unusual gesture for the disciplined, determined man you’ve been honored to call captain for months now.
“That you can’t ask us to help you.”
A block of ice drops into your stomach.
“That’s not – I know you guys would help me if I needed it,” you hurry to say.
He gives you a long look. “Then why don’t you ever ask? You were shot and didn’t say a bloody thing.”
You shift, unable to meet his eyes. Can’t find the words to answer. It’s not that you didn’t think you could ask. It just didn’t feel right with the bad blood between you, Soap, and Ghost. Besides, you’re the medic, you’re supposed to be the one fixing everyone else – not the other way around. What use are you otherwise?
You try to explain this to Price, but you sense (from the grim set to his handsome features) that it’s not helping.
“I’ve been a shite captain to you, haven’t I?” he sighs.
You jump. “No, sir! You’re a great captain. I trust you with my life.”
He chuckles, but it’s devoid of humor. Sounds almost self-deprecating.
“I’ve not done a bloody thing to earn it.”
You shake your head. “Sir, you’ve kept me alive for months now. That’s plenty.”
Beyond that, he’s always been fair with you. Doesn’t give you shit assignments or the most dangerous roles in missions. Always makes sure you’re alive and accounted for. Calls you out for mistakes and faults, sure, but it’s for the sake of you and everyone else. He’s been just as ready to pat your shoulder for a clever maneuver or praise a good shot.
“You know damn well it’s not,” he scolds.
You huff, almost amused. “Sir, with all due respect, get off the cross we need the wood.”
His eyebrows jump up nearly to his hairline. Normally, you wouldn’t dream of being so cavalier with Price of all people. Soap’s truce last night gives you the confidence to continue.
“I know you didn’t trust me as a former Shadow at first,” you say, “but you looked out for me anyway. After the first few missions… it seemed like things evened out.”
He sighs and sits back, running a hand down his face.
“Laswell vouched for you – it’s the only reason I didn’t send you right back on that plane,” he admits. A small but genuine smile curls his mouth. “And then you put your life on the line for my boys time and time again.”
You mirror him, the tension in your shoulders easing away with each word.
“I knew things weren’t great with the others, but I thought it was best if I kept out of it. Let you lot sort it out so long as you all cooperated when it mattered,” he continues. “I didn’t realize how bad it got, and that’s on me. I’m sorry.”
You shake your head and lightly tap your boot against his. “It wasn’t the wrong call, sir. I think things are going to get better from here on out.”
He hums, eyes searching your gentle smile for any hint of insincerity. But you believe it, and it must show, because his eyes crinkle as he smiles back.
“Speaking of better,” he says, clearing his throat. “Mind if I take a look at those ribs? Dana had some choice words for me this morning.”
You giggle and tug your shirt from your waistband, hiking the hem up high to show the reddish-purple mottling all over your left side. Price makes a noise of sympathy, easing out of his chair to the carpeted floor. On his knees, he inches closer, leaning in to inspect the damage.
“How’d this happen?” he asks, voice lowering.
His fingertips skim over the edges of the bruises, featherlight. Your voice gets strangled in your throat as tingles race across your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake.
“Um, hostile kicked me. A lot.”
His eyes flick up to yours, hard as ice. “Dead?”
“Yessir.”
His gaze softens, a proud, smug quirk to his lips. “Atta girl.”
You can’t fully suppress a shiver. It’s not just the gentle, considerate touches. It’s the purring praise from a man you’ve admired and harbored a sizeable crush on.
“Cold?” he asks.
This is your chance to wave it off. To pretend you are not so inappropriately infatuated with a man you thought only tolerated you until a minute ago. A little white lie, you could smooth your shirt back down, and be on your way.
But you don’t want to do that. Not really.
And from the way his pupils are slowly, steadily subsuming his irises, neither does he.
“No, sir,” you whisper.
His slow exhale caresses across your tender ribs.
“Then would you be comfortable if I checked on your ‘little graze’ as well?” It’s a tease, but also a genuine check of your boundaries. Another out, freely and openly given, that only solidifies your resolve to see where he’s going with this.
“Yessir,” you answer, shifting to get at your belt.
Price tsks, though, big hands spreading across each thigh and urging you down again.
“Now, now, don’t aggravate that shoulder,” he murmurs. “Let me help like a good captain.”
You swallow back an embarrassing noise as deft hands unbuckle your belt, thumb the button of your pants open, and drag the zipper down tooth by tooth. His thick, warm forearms rest on your thighs the entire time, keep them spread to accommodate his wide shoulders. He’s in no rush to continue his “checkup,” toying along the length of your waistband before easing it down.
“Lift up for me, darling, there we are,” he murmurs. You gasp softly as his palms brush your ass while sliding your pants down. Then outright squeak as he squeezes a cheek in each hand, a low noise of admiration rumbling in his throat.
“Gorgeous girl,” he chuckles. “Gorgeous arse.”
Your face feels hot as he tugs your pants down to your ankles, though the square of gauze and tape on the back of your thigh is long revealed. It takes conscious effort not to squirm under his hot gaze, praying a wet spot isn’t already visible on your panties.
“Let’s just get this one free…” He works the pantleg over your boot, leaving the other pooled around the laces. “Now then.”
You bite into your lip as he hauls your calf up into his shoulder, propping your leg up to get a clear view of your thigh.
“Not bled through,” he notes, tracing the neat edges of the medical tape. “You’ve been taking good care of it. Well done.”
You can’t help the little twitch that evokes, your whole body reacting to the deep timbre of his voice. He’s not oblivious to his effect on you, a glint in his eye as his bristly jaw brushes the inside of your knee.
“T-told you, it wasn’t too bad,” you manage weakly.
He hums and your pussy clenches helplessly around nothing. His eyes flick down and you know it’s all over.
“And what about this, hm?” he asks. You whimper as his thumb skims the lace edge of your panties. “Have you been taking care of this?”
Flustered and yet so, so turned on, you can only shake your head. He coos in mock disappointment, rubbing slow circles across your labia, closer and closer to where you’re aching and needy.
“It’s alright sergeant,” he soothes, “your captain will take care of you.”
Except he only rubs you through your panties A maddening pressure back and forth along the wet seam of your cunt, never delving deeper. You break down in hardly any time at all.
“Sir, please,” you whine, wriggling. He’s quick to brace you still again, leisurely movements never faltering.
“Please what, darling?” he teases.
“I-I need…” You whimper with embarrassment, squeezing your eyes shut. “I need you to take care of me, please, captain.”
He practically growls as he tears through the hip of your panties, tossing them aside in a sodden heap on the ground. With two fingers, he parts your labia, eyes hungrily drinking in the cream shimmering between them.
“All this and I’ve barely touched you,” he rasps, awed.
You nearly sob with desperation for something, anything. He shushes your fussy little noises with his thumb, dipping into the pool of slick at your entrance. Gets the pad soaked before drawing a line up to your swollen, sensitive clit. Your mouth falls open as he starts drawing tight, firm circles over that bundle of nerves.
He treats your body and your pleasure with all the confidence and competence you’ve come to expect of John Price. It takes shockingly little time for him to learn just how to press, how fast to rub, the patterns and circuits that get your legs shaking. And that’s before he twists his wrist and sinks a finger inside you.
“Practically sucking me in, love,” he murmurs, petting at your walls. You shudder and wordlessly beg for more, rocking your hips. “Need another already, greedy girl?”
He doesn’t even wait for your nod before stuffing you with another, curling and scissoring, exploring. You keen as he finds a sweet, sensitive spot inside you and begins toying with it, his thumb still swiping relentlessly at your clit.
He settles into a rhythm that has you moaning and keening, the heel of your boot digging into his shoulder blade. All the while he showers you in praise and encouragement, the dirtiest compliments that make you clench down tightly on his hand. Your body feels like it’s on fire, every nerve ending lit up with pleasure.
It’s builds and builds and builds, never quite cresting. You’re near tears when you moan his name, trying to find some leverage or angle to finally tip you over the edge.
“Do you need to cum, doll?”
“Yes, yes,” you cry, “please, sir, I wanna cum for you. Please, I’m s-so close.”
He hums, bracing your thigh with his free hand as he leans in. Your foggy brain doesn’t have enough time to process before he latches onto your clit and a third finger bullies into you. You wail. Your thigh twinges from the dull pressure of his shoulder, but the slight pain only adds a delicious edge to the pleasure.
His tongue swipes across your puffy clit once, twice, three times and you’re gone. You gush all over his hand, his beard, onto the chair. Your hips jerk as he works you over, fingers abusing your g-spot relentlessly despite how tightly you clamp down. Your body feels nuclear, nerves popping like firecrackers.
He only relents when the waves of ecstasy threaten to drown you in overstimulation. He eases his fingers from your twitchy hole, making room for him to lick you clean. It’s loud and obscene, yet there’s no room left for embarrassment anymore. You shiver and pant in the aftermath, your body unravelling into a puddle.
“Wh-what about you?” you ask as he begins straightening out your clothes. There’s an absolutely delectable-looking bulge in his fatigues that you’re dying to get your tongue on.
He chuckles and shakes his head. “If you want more –” (“I do.”) “- then you’ll have to wait until you’re healed up. Non-negotiable.”
You try to pout, but the effort is thwarted when he chucks you gently under the chin.
“C’mon, let’s have a lie down.”
He steadies you as you wobble to the couch off to the side, lying down first and letting you cuddle up between his legs. It’s a comfort more than you would have expected from a clandestine little triste, but you should know better than to doubt your captain. Head resting on his chest, you let yourself drift for a while, lulled by his fingers carding through your hair.
“Price…?” you ask after a while.
“Hm?”
“You didn’t do this just to… I dunno, make up for something, right?”
He huffs. “No, sweetheart. I’ve been arse over teakettle for a while. Staring like a complete muppet when you train.”
You hide a grin against his collarbone. “Good. I thought I’d have to start making things up for you to owe me.”
His chuckle rocks through you, and for the first time in a while, it feels a bit like home.
I’ve been writing Yautja stuff on and off for a while but I’ve never had the guts to post it before. I hope people enjoy it as much as I do🤞🏻🖤
The names are just made up and I hope they sound Yautja enough
This is a short fic however I’m working on another one that will include Yautja x Human Smut
You had been living here for almost 2 years now and you’re finally at the point of being accepted by the clans. The Elder that you lived with, Zoka’ran, had unintentionally saved you from the men that he murdered and in return you shot the man that was about to slice his head off with a machete. Zoka’ran took you with him back home and gave you a place to sleep and eat and in return you helped with his household-mostly taking care of their “pups” or “sucklings” (who all adored you-all the pups on Yautja Prime did-loving to play with your hair and snuggle into your warm blooded body).
It took a while but you were comfortable with your life and you actually loved it, having made friends here and learned healing with the clans own healers which often came in handy.
It was pretty obvious to say that regardless of how long you’d been here you never once expected to become a true member of the tribe. Yes, there were Yautja who loved humans and had mated them, (more than you expected when you came here) but all of those women were human warriors and you…weren’t…at all.
As always you attended the ceremony welcoming the newly blooded members into the clan. You were relived to see some of the young newly blooded members that you’d gotten to know before they went hunting were alright and didn’t die on their first solo hunt, many of them even coming and showing off their first trophy to you. Praise wasn’t a concept that Yautja subscribed to which you’d noticed as soon as you arrived on this planet, often trying to give the younger Yautja a little bit of praise which you believed made people work harder. You didn’t know what any of the alien skulls were that they were showing you but you made sure to look impressed anyway as you could tell how proud these teenagers (kids really) were of their first hunt.
The celebration was mostly for the newly blooded however they also celebrated the members of the clan that had killed the most impressive prey so there were many Yautja being honored and you as a part of an Elders family (even if you were what most Yautja saw as a “Pet”) welcomed them all.
As expected you had seen quite a few Yautja that were now home honoring a female with a token and making their intentions to mate them known. You didn’t actually expect to receive a skull from anyone but as you put the youngest pups down in their hut for the evening you walked back to the party to see most of the Yautja’s eyes on one member of the clan-Va’kasha.
Va’kasha was blooded years ago and was well on his way (probably very close) to becoming an Elder at this point and it was surprising that he was still unmated but as you saw him in the center of the celebration with a good sized skull from an alien with huge horns in his hands, you realized that he had chosen and you were happy for him-he had always been kind to you…well…as kind as Yautja get.
To say you were shocked when he walked up to you would be an understatement, you actually moved a bit to your left assuming he’d been looking at someone behind you but his stare remained upon you before he knelt to the ground and held the skull above his head for you. You glanced back at your Yautja ‘family’ and you could see the smiles on their faces (having learned to decipher Yautja expressions after 2 years here).
‘You…you’re giving it to me?’ You asked softly and you received a series of clicks and growls in response, the earpiece you had been gifted translating in real time in your ear.
‘I honor my intended with a worthy kill. I will wear the scars of this battle forever with pride as I hope you will keep this trophy with pride in your mate for all our years to come.’ It was a lovely speech, way better than half the others you’d heard before, he’d actually put some effort into speaking to you.
‘I’m no warrior…’
‘No. You are not. I do not seek a warrior, I enjoy the comfort you bring after a long hunt, enjoy your soft heart when caring for sucklings, I wish to come home after every hunt to my mate waiting for me with our own sucklings. I will bring you a kill each time that I return that you may be proud of.’
She hesitated only a second before reaching out and taking the skull from him, accepting his mating gift. It was only a second before he stood up and swept her up into his arms making her squeal and all the Yautja at the celebration to cheer as he carried her off down the road and to his hut. It was a bit away from the rest and a decent size-she could tell he put effort into it for her, knowing that humans need certain things like comfort and warmth. The bed was comfortable layers of animal pelts and there were blankets from her own planet around the space to keep her warm as well as a small kitchen area for her to bake the sweet treats that every Yautja loves.
‘This is lovely, and cozy…Thank you. Do you mind if I make it more homey?’ She wondered.
‘It is your home my mate. You do what brings you happiness.’ He told her and she was instantly picturing how to make it more comfortable and less formal. ‘You are tired. Humans must sleep, come.’ He insisted, lifting her once again and carrying her to the bed.
‘I don’t need to sleep yet.’
‘You yawn. My mate will be taken care of, I did not ask you to mate with me without knowing what humans need.’ He insisted, laying her down and pulling a think animal pelt over her to keep her warm.
‘Lay with me.’ She told him, holding onto his hand as he went to leave. ‘Humans cuddle, it’s a normal thing. Come here.’ She told him and he did, crawling into the bed and allowing her to cover him with the pelt.
‘Human customs are strange.’ Va’kasha admitted before wrapping his muscular arms around her body and pulling her close, laying another blanket over his new mate to keep her sensitive body nice and warm as she laid her head on his chest. ‘It is nice though…’ he took a deep breath, laying his head on the pillows and pulling his new mate closer.
Humans may be overly emotional and wrong about a lot of things…but he could get used to cuddling.
This is a Valentine’s Day Special chapter of my OC Keth'raal and his human companion 🩷 I miss Keth’raal dearly and I hope this chapter brings you some joy on this special day 🥰
“Oh… oh no,”
you mumbled, horrified at the sight of an enormous heart sitting right in the middle of your kitchen table.
It had been ten days ago when Keth’raal first noticed you casually, far too casually, looking up Valentine’s Day decorations.
You hadn’t planned on making a big deal out of it. There wouldn’t be guests anyway. Just him.
And explaining Valentine’s Day to him beforehand felt… wrong. Like it would ruin the whole point of the surprise.
So instead, you had found yourself scrolling through the internet late at night, looking for ideas that didn’t involve the usual heart-shaped everything and overpriced chocolates. Something subtle. Something different.
And yet, every single time your screen passed a heart-shaped plate, or pink confetti, or something painfully cliché, your eyes lingered.
You sighed at yourself more than once.
Hell, you even giggled at the dumb Valentine’s quotes you swore you hated.
“Roses are red, your clicks would scare my friends. But I’d still choose you, because you are the best.”
You scribbled it down on a Post-it note before you could stop yourself, sticking it on top of a book like it might escape otherwise. You stared at it for a moment, your fingernail scratching idly over the little square of yellow paper.
“Maybe I should just celebrate it normally,” you murmured to yourself.
That was when a soft creak sounded from the other side of the living room.
You snapped your head toward the sound, jolting up from the couch as panic hit you immediately. You grabbed the book you had stuck the Post-it note onto and pressed it tight to your chest, already halfway to your bedroom.
“AGH—!”
Your scream tore out of you as an invisible force caught the hem of your pajama shirt, yanking you backwards. Your feet left the floor for half a second before you crashed into a cold, solid chest, arms closing around you in an impossibly tight hug.
“Are you running away from me?”
The mechanical distortion of his helmeted voice sounded just above your head as he slowly materialized behind you. His arms draped over your shoulders, protective and heavy, while long, rubbery dreadlocks fell forward, half-burying your face.
You looked up and your heart stuttered painfully at the sight of his mask angled down at you.
“Hah,” you let out a very fake giggle.
Then you bolted.
You ducked just enough to slip out of his hold and made a break for your bedroom again—
“Oomph!”
The air left your lungs violently as you ran straight into another invisible barrier. You stumbled, nearly falling, before strong hands caught you once more. He materialized in front of you this time, fingers squeezing the fabric of your shirt as he pulled you closer, closer, until you were almost nose-to-mask.
“Na’kai.”
The word rolled out of him in a teasing, singsong tone you had never heard before. So rare and so unexpected, your eyes flew open in shock.
…or maybe excitement.
“Do you wish to be chased?” he murmured, drawing you in another inch. You could hear the faint clicking of his mandibles beneath the mask now. “I will chase you. But first you will tell me what is on that book you are holding.”
His head tilted, attention flicking to the book crushed against your chest.
A soft purr began to build in his chest, low, coaxing, almost persuasive.
Your limbs betrayed you first, going slack as your breath deepened. You leaned toward him without thinking, your forehead finally resting against the cool skin of his torso. You dragged your cheek slowly over it as you caught your breath.
Whatever that sound was, it wasn’t just a call.
It sank into you, warming your body from the inside out, tangling your thoughts until they scattered uselessly. There was only one thing left in your mind, one name echoing loud and relentless.
Keth’raal.
He was all that existed in that moment. Your focus, your need, your gravity. You wanted his hands on you again, wanted to disappear into their cold strength, breathe in that musky scent that was only his.
Your body leaned into him, already asking for more, even before you realized you had stopped trying to run at all.
“Keth’raal,” you breathed his name, your voice barely more than air as your lips pressed against his skin, right under where his heart was beating.
His grip tightened in your shirt, pulling you closer, making sure you couldn’t escape this time.
“Please, Keth’raal,” you whined, his name leaving your lips like a plea.
His body went utterly still.
His chest stopped moving altogether as you whispered his name one last time, the silence stretching so thick between you, it made your skin prickle. Then his grip loosened, one hand lifted, finding your face. His palm was cold against your skin as he cupped your cheek, tilting your head up until you had no choice but to look at him.
“Yes?”
The translator echoed softly through the mask, his thumb hovering, almost tracing circles against your cheek.
You breathed him in, eyes fluttering shut as you leaned into his touch. His other hand slid to the small of your back, drawing you closer until your sternum brushed his torso.
“You’ll never catch me,” you whispered.
And then you ducked.
You slipped out of his hold again, somehow escaping his grasp and that damn purr that threatened to melt you completely. You didn’t even know how you managed it. Only that adrenaline carried you forward as you sprinted for your bedroom.
You slammed the door shut behind you and locked it, your back sliding down the wood as laughter bubbled out of you, breathless and giddy from your little victory.
But that didn’t last long…
Keth’raal was already there.
Materializing at your side, towering over you, as if the door had never existed at all. Your eyes widened in pure shock as you scrambled to your feet, instinctively trying to bolt again.
Too late.
The door was locked. And his arms were already around you.
He grabbed you by the waist and hoisted you effortlessly over his shoulder. You burst into laughter, slapping at his back and begging him to put you down, though you both knew you were enjoying every second of it.
This was exactly what you had expected.
And you weren’t disappointed.
He tossed you onto the mattress, the bed bouncing beneath you as his hands closed around your wrists, pinning you down. You stared up at him, breathless, as he straddled you, one knee on either side of your torso, his shadow swallowing you as he leaned closer.
“You will either start talking,” he said, his raspy voice vibrating beneath the mask, grazing your ears, “or I will do the thing that brings you to tears.”
“No—no, please, not the tickling,” you squealed, already trying to squirm free, laughter building up as panic set in.
Because he knew.
He knew exactly where to press. Exactly how much. Exactly how to make you beg.
Even in play, he was a true predator, sharp, attentive, unfairly skilled. Reading you like an open book, every reaction written plainly across your body.
Almost unfair.
But not for him.
He was Keth’raal.
And in your eyes, he was so perfectly, devastatingly himself that you couldn’t deny him even this.
“Speak, Na’kai,” he encouraged, his mask resting against your forehead now as he spoke.
He knew how to do this. How to lower his voice just enough, how to make your body buzz with it. He had learned long ago, back in the lab days, how sound alone could calm you, steady your heart. And he had figured you out frighteningly fast.
But to be fair… you had done the same to him.
“Alright…” you sighed, closing your eyes and drawing in a deep breath.
“So… like Halloween. Or New Year’s Eve,” you began, your voice careful. “Humans have… more celebrations.”
You swallowed, keeping your eyes shut as if that would make it easier.
“And—” you pressed your lips together, hesitating.
You felt him shift closer instead. His mask nudging the side of your face, his breath heavy beneath it, warm enough that you almost imagined you could feel it through the metal.
“Well,” you continued quietly, “we have another one coming up soon.”
Your eyes fluttered open just as you felt his grip loosen, your wrists freed at last.
“Yeah?” he asked, curiosity obvious on his tone as his hand immediately returned to your face. His thumb settled against your bottom lip, holding it there while you looked up at him.
For a split second, the voids of his mask flashed red.
You weren’t sure if it was instinct or intention, but it made your thoughts stumble all the same.
With his thumb still resting on your lip, you spoke again.
“We sort of… celebrate love,” you murmured.
His head tilted.
“The feeling here?” His thumb traced slowly downward, from your lip to your chin, then lower, gliding over your throat until his palm settled against your chest.
You nodded.
And somehow, now that you had said it, breathing felt easier. Like the hardest part was already over.
Except…
You weren’t done yet.
“How do you celebrate love?” he asked then.
His palm spread wider over your chest, where your heart beat out of rhythm . His mask remained fixed on the rise and fall of your breathing, tracking it as his hand subtly moved with you.
“It’s silly, you don’t have to—”
“I do,” he interrupted. “Humans do it. So it’s important to you.”
“It’s not,” you chuckled, the sound small and unconvincing.
Because in all honesty… it was.
It mattered more than you wanted to admit. You had spent the whole morning looking at Valentine’s decorations, after all. You had been picturing it. Him, here, with you.
Who were you kidding?
“Fine…” you sighed, giving in at last. Being honest was a little easier than pretending again.
Besides, you never really knew when he would leave. Or when you’d see him again.
“So,” you began slowly, “we get heart-shaped decorations. We wear red, since it’s the color of love. We…” you hesitated. “…we exchange gifts.”
Your voice lowered, unsure, and your eyes refused to meet his mask.
Because there was something else. Something humans usually do on Valentine’s Day. Something you wanted, but didn’t know how to explain. Or if he would even want it.
“What else?” he asked quietly.
He had said it so calmly, as if he already knew there was more. Or maybe he was reading the way your pulse faltered, the way your breath caught when you avoided looking at him.
His palm left your chest and rose slowly to your cheek, fingers tracing your heated skin.
“You are turning red,” he observed under the mask. The translator carried the words more clearly than his voice, making you jolt.
“Does that mean you feel love?” His head tilted as he hovered over you, rubbery dreadlocks spilling over his shoulders like a river of ink.
“What?” you stuttered, your face burning now.
“You said it is the color of love,” he replied simply.
Damn it…
Every thought of his followed a clean, relentless logic. You couldn’t argue with him even if you tried, he was too precise, too thoughtful with every conclusion he reached.
“And embarrassment,” you blurted out, pressing the backs of your hands to your cheeks in a useless attempt to cool them.
“Aah.” His chest rumbled softly, the sound vibrating beneath you. “And embarrassment,” he repeated.
It sounded thoughtful.
It also sounded just a little too amused.
He slowly eased off you, finally giving you room to breathe. His hand never left yours as he helped you sit up at the edge of the bed, his grip tight. Then he lowered himself onto one knee in front of you, still holding your hand.
You couldn’t see his face, not behind the mask, but you were certain of it anyway. That cocky, wide grin. The one that always showed up when he thought he had you cornered.
You dragged a hand down your face, hoping, foolishly, that you could erase the heat in your cheeks, the frantic rhythm still drumming in your chest.
“So?” he prompted.
His thumb brushed softly over the back of your hand. You focused on that instead of his mask, suddenly far too aware of yourself to meet his gaze.
“We, uh…” You swallowed. “We show our love through touch. I guess.”
You clenched your jaw, then finally forced yourself to look at him.
He nodded once. Then again.
“How?” he asked.
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs, before it spiraled back into that wild, uncontrollable rhythm.
“It’s a human thing, you wouldn’t—”
“I learn fast,” he cut in.
There it was. The pride. You could practically see it in the way he straightened, chest subtly puffing out beneath the armor. And damn it, he wasn’t wrong. He did learn fast. Faster than anyone you had ever known.
Always adapting. Always reading you.
“Keth’raal…” you sighed. “Stop messing with me. I know you don’t want to do any of the human things—”
“Says who?”
He rose from his kneel in one smooth motion, suddenly towering over you. His armor caught the faint moonlight creeping through the window, metal shining softly in the dark. He looked even bigger like this, bigger than he ever had in the lab.
You weren’t sure you would ever get used to his true size.
His hand came down to your head, long talons gently scratching at your scalp, exactly where he knew it would make you melt. Your shoulders relaxed without you even realising it.
“Says who, Na’kai?” he repeated.
You smiled despite yourself, something shy and helpless painting your face. “Me.”
“Can I have a say in this?” he asked quietly. “Or will you pull another trick on me?”
His head tilted just slightly.
And your stomach dropped.
You knew what he meant. The lab. The lie. The moment you told him you would follow, but then shoved him out instead, forcing him to escape without you.
He would never let that go.
And if you were honest with yourself… neither would you.
“Keth’raal…” you said softly, your gaze dropping to the floor as guilt welled up in your chest.
He didn’t let it linger though.
His index finger curled beneath your chin, lifting your face gently until you were looking up at him.
“I am sorry,” he said quietly. The translator rendered the words rougher than the way they actually left him, stripped of the care in his voice.
You blinked up at him, surprised.
In all the time you had spent together, he still managed to surprise you with his gentleness.
With the way he read you without you ever needing to speak.
He felt you. How your body reacted, the way your breath changed, how your chest grew heavy whenever your thoughts drifted back to the lab. That memory never truly left you. The guilt nested there, quiet but constant, swelling around your heart no matter how much time passed.
And in that moment, he chose to apologize instead.
For bringing it up.
For even brushing against that wound, even playfully.
Keth’raal might have been an alien lifeform, born of pure violence and survival, but he was the most humane being you had ever known. Always willing to soften, to mend what hurt between you, especially in the moments that felt the most uncomfortable, the most fragile.
And that, more than anything, was what made it impossible not to love him.
“Then…” your lips turned into a small smile, “…you can have a say.”
He shifted then, moving around the bed before lowering his weight onto it. The mattress dipped beneath him (the new one you had bought after the last had very tragically not survived another incident, one you’d rather not think about right now.)
His hand patted the space beside him.
And you didn’t hesitate.
You crawled onto the bed and his arms opened for you as they always did, wordless and welcoming. You settled against him easily, your head finding its place over his chest, solid and strong beneath your cheek.
“So,” you began, voice softer now, “basically, on that day… you choose who you want to be your valentine. Someone you like a lot. You ask them, you get them a gift, something cute, or heart-shaped, and then you spend time together. Romantic time…”
You muttered the last two words, your index and middle finger tapping lightly against his stomach, firm under your touch.
He didn’t seem fazed in the slightest.
“And what does that mean for humans?” he asked.
His fingers mirrored your rhythm, tapping gently over your shoulder, talons grazing the fabric of your shirt, making your skin prickle wherever he touched.
“You know…” you said, swallowing. “We kiss and… we cuddle…”
You bit your tongue before you could say anything more.
“So you do not mate?” he asked and his fingers froze completely.
Slowly, you turned your head to look up at him, only to notice his shoulders moving. Just barely.
A low, sneaky laugh rumbled beneath the mask.
And just like that, the tension snapped between you, replaced by warmth, mischief, and that familiar, infuriating affection that only Keth’raal could pull out of you.
Your face twisted into a frown before you smacked his chest, the sound echoing in the room and that was what made him lose it.
His laughter burst free, deep and unrestrained, strange in the way it rolled from him yet endearing, muffled beneath the mask. It vibrated through his chest, through you and your irritation didn’t stand a chance against it.
The frown melted into a reluctant smile as you looked up at him, watching him enjoy himself far too much at your expense.
“Why are you asking if you already know?” you huffed, pushing at his chest.
He barely moved. Instead, he caught you and pulled you back, flattening you against him once more as if you weighed nothing at all.
“Why not?” he shot back, talons slipping into your hair, combing through it as he kept you pressed to his chest.
“So,” he continued, tone thoughtful now, “hearts. And the color red.”
It wasn’t a question, but it felt like one, as if he was double-checking the rules of this strange human ritual.
“Sounds like a ceremony of my kin,” he added with a shrug.
“And kissing,” you said, lifting your hand up to catch one of his dreadlocks where it brushed against your cheek.
“No.”
The word was quiet but demanding.
His hand closed around your wrist and you let go of the dreadlock.
“You do not touch me until that day.”
Your head snapped back in shock. “Valentine’s Day?!” you yelped. “That’s in, like, ten days!”
“Correct.” He sounded pleased. “Ten days are enough.”
Before you could even argue, his arms tightened around you one last time and then he let go.
You barely had time to process it before he straightened, grabbed his spear in one smooth motion and turned back only once.
“See you in ten days,” he said, the mask’s eyes flashing red.
And then he was gone, vanishing into thin air just how he had appeared.
“What the hell?!” you shouted after him, but the room was already empty.
You stood there for a moment, stunned.
…Well. You had never seen him this excited before.
Leaving you behind without hesitation to go, wherever it was he went when he disappeared like that.
You sighed, grabbing your phone again and scrolling with renewed determination.
“I’m getting the heart-shaped cupcake tray,” you muttered to yourself. “I don’t care.”
And ten days passed faster than you thought they ever could.
Almost every day, new packages arrived at your door, pink, red, heart-shaped, wrapped in glossy paper that screamed Valentine’s Day. Anything that looked like love, smelled like sugar, or felt vaguely ridiculous somehow ended up in your hands.
You didn’t even know if you would actually spend the day with him.
But you chose to believe you would.
And in the worst-case scenario… well. You would eat all the heart-shaped chocolates by yourself.
Had he ever even tried chocolate?
You had no idea what he would think of the decorations either.
Or your clothes.
You planned on wearing red and pink all day, colors that were definitely not you and that alone made your stomach flutter with nerves. Would he tease you? Stare too long? Pretend not to care and then care far too much?
By the morning of Valentine’s Day, your house smelled like cupcakes and warm chocolate fondue. Little heart decorations hung everywhere, subtle at first glance but unmistakable once you noticed them. On the kitchen counter sat a small heart-shaped box, on top of a handwritten letter.
The same silly quote you had come up with days ago.
You still weren’t sure what he would think of your gift. You only hoped he would understand its meaning, rather than its usefulness.
You were certain he had plenty of that vibrant, blue salve he used to treat his wounds. But this one was different.
This specific salve had saved his life.
Back in the lab, when everything went wrong and fear had driven your hands faster than your thoughts, that balm had kept him alive. It had cost you something, your hand never fully recovering, never quite able to close all the way again, but you had never once regretted it.
It was the reason he was still here.
So you took your time.
Carefully, methodically, using every proper tool you had as a biologist this time, you transferred the salve into a glass locket meant to be worn around the neck. The substance still glowed neon blue, cold and luminous, unchanged by time.
You chose a sturdy chain, thick enough not to snap easily. Something that could endure movement. Combat. Him.
Lifting the locket, you stared at it for a long moment.
The blue still shone the same way it always had, a reminder that nothing had truly changed.
And yet… everything had.
That balm no longer lived in a sterile lab or your trembling hands. Now it rested inside something delicate, something pretty.
A Valentine’s gift.
If someone had told you years ago that this would be its final purpose, you would’ve laughed.
But now, holding it between your fingers, you knew.
There was no other way it could have ended.
So the fourteenth of February was here and you could barely wait to get home.
Your shift wasn’t even that long, but it dragged on endlessly, every minute stretching thinner than the last. Because if luck was on your side, if the universe decided to be kind, Keth’raal might visit you.
On Valentine’s Day.
Keth’raal… on Valentine’s Day.
The thought alone made your cheeks heat, a smile tugging at your lips before you even realized it. One of your coworkers noticed, nudging you with a knowing grin and commenting that someone clearly had exciting Valentine’s plans.
You didn’t even bother denying it.
Your steps felt lighter on the walk home, quicker, almost impatient. Night had already fallen, the sky dark and scattered with stars and you found yourself glancing around instinctively, half-hoping, half-expecting to feel him nearby.
Your hands fumbled with the keys, excitement making you clumsy as you slid the key into the lock and twisted it open.
The kitchen lights were on.
“Oh my god,” you breathed, your smile blooming instantly, your cheeks already aching from it.
Your heart kicked up into a sprint as you hurried toward the kitchen…
And stopped.
“Oh…” you whispered, horror creeping in fast.
“Oh no…”
Your hand flew to your mouth.
Your kitchen table looked like it had been bathed in red and pink, slick, glossy, dripping on the floor. Something large lay at the center of it, heavy and wrong, and your stomach dropped as your eyes locked onto the shape.
You took a cautious step closer, your head tilting slowly as dread tightened in your chest.
It looked like a heart.
A massive, unmistakably real heart lay on your table.
“AH!” you screamed, whirling around as a hand landed on your shoulder.
“It’s me,” came his voice, soft, calm, even the vocoder gentle in its translation.
“Gosh—” you exhaled sharply, your breath shaky as you clutched at your chest. “You scared me.”
You turned to look at him, ready to ask about the massive organ lying on your table, your heart still hammering in your chest, your eardrums pulsing with it.
But you noticed his mask…
It was red.
Something thick and crimson dripped slowly down its surface and your hands snapped up to your mouth, muffling another scream before it could escape.
Oh my god. Oh my god. What have I done?
You had given him instructions for Valentine’s Day, and he had followed them far too accurately.
Red.
A heart-shaped gift.
A literal heart.
Oh my god.
You saw him tilt his head, that familiar motion he always made when you stayed silent for too long, when he was trying to read you and couldn’t.
Your eyes stayed fixed on his mask, your brows knitting together slowly.
“You don’t seem to like it,” he said at last.
The vocoder carried confusion beneath the words. Almost… disappointment.
“No, no,” you rushed out, shaking your head immediately. “It’s very—” you swallowed, glancing back at the heart on the table, then at the red still trailing down his mask, your brain short-circuiting. “It’s very… you.”
He tilted his head again, clearly not following.
“You know what?” you blurted suddenly. “This is all my fault. I am absolutely to blame.”
You stepped toward him before you could overthink it, hands grabbing onto his arms and pulling him flush against you, your own arms wrapping around his torso.
“I love it,” you said quickly, honesty tangled with disbelief. “Thank you.”
You held him tightly, your eyes squeezing shut as you forced yourself to breathe through your nose. He didn’t move while you clung to him, you were sure he wasn’t even breathing for a second.
Then a small laugh left your lips. Soft and shaky. Your face relaxed as you shook your head in disbelief, the sound turning into a quiet giggle against his chest.
“This can’t be happening,” you laughed, the words tumbling out of you.
“You’re laughing,” he said, still unsure, like this was definitely not what he had expected.
“It’s because you’re cute,” you said without thinking and his reaction was instant.
A deep rumble rolled through his chest, a low warning, like something primal and dangerous waking up in him.
“You brought me a heart?” you asked, finally looking up at him, your arms still tight around his body.
He didn’t step back.
Didn’t pull away.
He just nodded.
“It’s a huge heart,” you added faintly, glancing toward the table again.
He nodded once more, dreadlocks sliding over his shoulder with the motion, overly confident in his choice.
And even though he was three times your size, he let you squeeze him tightly, never protesting, never making a sound.
“It’s a trophy,” he said quietly.
Your eyes widened instantly.
“You hunted this thing?” Your voice lifted, excitement replacing the shock.
“Was it hard to kill?” You grinned, tilting your head up just enough to catch his mask looking down at you.
“It’s not my heart on the table,” he replied, his voice steady through the vocoder. “But it took me seven days to find it.”
“You… gifted me a heart.” you said softly. “On Valentine’s Day.”
Your smile faltered into something gentler, your brows knitting together with a bittersweet warmth.
You couldn’t quite believe it, a being like him, a menace to entire worlds, had softened. Had listened. Had taken a stupid human celebration of love and answered it in the most him way possible.
And somehow… it was perfect.
Even if it was dripping onto your floor.
That heart wasn’t just a trophy. It was a statement.
Macabre, yes — but the sheer size of it whispered something intimate, something unspoken.
This is how much you mean to me.
Your eyes lifted to his mask again as you slowly loosened your hold, but he didn’t let you drift far. His hands found you immediately, naturally drawing you back in as his arms wrapped around your shoulders, making you feel small again.
His skin carried a scent you had never noticed before, sweet, warm, alien. You nudged your nose into the inside of his elbow, where it seemed stronger.
“Red looks good on you,” he said, his throat working around the words before the translator followed.
“I can say the same for you,” you smiled.
Your index finger lifted, brushing over the rough surface of his mask, coming away stained with that red sheen. Slowly you brought it to your nose.
You could have sworn it looked like human blood, but it wasn’t. It hadn’t oxidised.
“It smells… sweet,” you murmured. “Like your skin.”
“It’s a fruit,” he explained, nodding toward the table. “From the same planet I hunted that— don’t!” His hand grabbed your wrist when you tried to taste it.
“I don’t know if it’s poisonous for you,” he scolded you, holding your hand up.
“I’m sorry,” you giggled. “It smelled too good.”
“I know,” he answered quietly.
Then he added, almost hesitantly,
“I recognized it had the sweetness humans like, so… I thought—”
Your breath hitched.
“You rubbed it on your skin?” you whispered, stunned. “On purpose?”
He had tried not only to dress in red, in his own savage, unorthodox way, but he had taken it a step further.
Perfume.
“My god…” you sighed, collapsing into his chest, burying your face there. “What am I gonna do with you?”
You hoped he wouldn’t catch the words, or the sweet desperation lingering with them.
But of course he could hear your heart, how it thundered against your ribs, loud and traitorous and desperate to be heard.
You had lost the game of hiding your feelings a long time ago.
Now you were just floating somewhere high, foolish and giddy, held together by his arms and the simple, devastating fact that he had loved you back in the only language he knew.
“I made you something too,” you said softly.
You left his arms, your steps careful as you hopped over the pool of red-pink blood staining your floor. You grabbed the heart shaped box, taking the neon blue medallion out and hurrying back to him.
He hadn’t moved an inch, simply waiting for you.
You lifted the medallion by its chain, letting it dangle in front of his mask so he could see it properly, the blue glow illuminating softly over his helmet.
“Is that…?” he hesitated.
“Yeah,” you nodded. “There was some left in the container. I had forgotten it in my lab coat. I kept it… to remember you.”
“Na’kai…”
Your given name rumbled from his chest heavily, as his hand reached for you. His thumb brushed gently over the scar on your cheek, the one that bound you together through blood and memory.
His thumb stayed there as you unbuckled the chain, lifting it carefully over his head. Your fingers grazed his nape as you tried to fasten it, the contrast between his cold skin and your flushed warmth sending a shiver through you.
His chest went still, as if he hadn’t taken a single breath since you reached for his neck.
Your fingers fumbled with the clasp, the height of him making this simple task suddenly impossible. After a few tries, you gave up, a breathless laugh escaping you as you dropped your forehead against his chest.
“I can’t do it,” you laughed softly, your fingers still resting at his neck. You could almost feel the slow, powerful pulse beneath his skin.
“Want me to help?” he murmured, so quietly even the vocoder struggled to catch it.
You shook your head, lifting your face to his mask.
“You think I can’t handle it?”
You meant it as a joke, but it came out breathless, your fingers still worrying the clasp as you stared up at him, daring him to believe you.
“Na’kai… you know I trust you.”
The syllables came out low and throaty beneath the mask, made audible only by how close you were to him. A deep purr began to build in his chest again, vibrating through his body and straight into yours.
Your lower lip caught between your teeth instinctively as your hands worked faster on the clasp, anything to finish before you completely forgot how to breathe.
“There,” you said at last, stepping back.
Relief flooded you as air finally reached your lungs again, your eyes lingering , the neon blue medallion glowing softly against the deep green of his skin, stark and beautiful.
He lifted a hand toward his chest, looking down at it, his talons clicking lightly against the glass.
“It’s like a reminder,” you said softly, voice catching just a little, “of what saved your life. And you can always have it on… you.”
The last word came out hesitant, almost broken, as you noticed him stepping closer, the way a predator moves when it doesn’t want to startle its prey.
His prosthetic arm lifted, cool metalbrushing beneath the raised line of your scar again.
The touch was careful, feather-light, tracing the old wound like it was something intimate instead of a mark of survival.
“You are my reminder,” he said, the words rumbling low from deep in his chest. “It is you who saved me.”
You blinked up at him, stunned. That simple confession hit like a quiet shockwave, unraveling you in ways you still weren’t prepared for.
Even now, after all these years of knowing him, he could undo you with just a handful of words. No flourish. No poetry. But plain honesty.
His touch lingered, the softness of it so at odds with everything else about him, his lethal, massive frame, his scars that mapped out battles won, his mandibles that could snap bone.
Yet here, with you, all of it softened. You could feel the change, the slow, conscious lowering of defenses he had carried for centuries. Like reinforced gates opening, just enough to let you in.
“Do you like it?” you whispered, fingers fidgeting with the medallion now hanging around his thick neck.
The neon blue glow caught softly against your skin, painting faint light across your knuckles.
He gave a single, slow nod. Then his massive palm settled against the back of your head, guiding you closer until your cheek rested against the cold, scarred plates of his chest.
You leaned in, breathing him in, that strange sweetness still clinging on his skin.
“So when you said ‘hearts,’” he rumbled, “you did not mean literal ones.”
There was real disappointment in his voice. His talons moved through your hair, tracing slow, absent patterns over your scalp.
You shook your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing out loud. A soft huff escaped him, maybe a sigh, maybe a growl, muffled slightly by the mask.
He took two steps forward, carrying you with him, your body still tucked inside the loose circle of his arms.
One hand lifted toward the ceiling, where the little heart-shaped paper lanterns swayed gently.
“Are these supposed to be the hearts?” he asked, sounding genuinely perplexed as he tapped one with the tip of his talon.
You nodded, lips pressed tight, shoulders already starting to shake.
He let out a longer, deeper sigh. The translator wasn’t needed this time, the exasperation was clear, the mild betrayal, the faintest edge of his wounded pride.
“You humans are unbelievable,” he muttered, voice booming louder under the mask, frustration making the words vibrate through his chest. “You take a perfect shape and you turn it into that?”
“So you don’t like humans?” you asked, smirking up at him, the tease obvious in your voice.
His head tilted down slowly, those glowing eyes of his mask locking onto yours.
One set of talons drifted up, brushing over the shell of your ear, tracing the curve before settling there.
“No,” he rumbled, “only my human.”
His fingers slid lower, grazing the side of your neck where your pulse fluttered beneath thin skin.
He stopped there, feeling the quick rhythm and you knew he could hear it, probably even smell the spike of heat in your blood too.
“So I’m yours?” You tilted your head just enough to challenge him, lips curving, daring him to back down.
But he didn’t. Of course not.
Instead he leaned in, the edge of his mask brushing the side of your face. Close enough now that you could hear the soft clicks and rolling guttural sounds he made beneath it, unfiltered, the real language he usually kept locked away from the translator.
“You think I would hunt down a creature and rip out its heart for any other human?” The words came out rough, but the tone underneath them was proud, sincere.
Before he could pull back, you turned your head, catching him there. Your hands rising, cupping the sides of his masked face, keeping him close.
Your lips brushed the thick, corded strands of his dreadlocks as you leaned in.
“So you’re saying I’m special to you?” you murmured, voice soft against the slick dreads.
His throat vibrated with a low, roaring sound you could easily mistake for a groan, before the translator even had a chance to catch up.
“So special,” he said, “I could take you back to my planet.”
Your fingers found one thick dreadlock, rubbing slowly along its length, feeling the strange, living texture under your touch.
“And what if I accept the invitation?” you whispered, lips still ghosting against the strands, your breath warm.
He froze for a second and then leaned closer, until his mask pressed gently against your temple.
“I’d take you right now,” he whispered back, the translator barely keeping up.
The words hung there between you, heavy and electric over your breaths.
“So I made all these preparations for nothing?!” you said, pulling back just enough to break the electric bubble that had formed around you.
Your voice came out louder than you meant, almost theatrical, like you were trying to shake off the sudden, syrupy warmth that had turned your limbs to liquid.
Your knees really had gone weak. The honesty in his earlier words still echoed in your chest, as he was asking you to go with him.
Again.
With that same steady certainty he had carried since the day you met.
“I’ll try whatever… that is,” he said, lifting one clawed hand to point at the heart-shaped tray you had just pulled from the fridge. Rows of pink-frosted cupcakes sat there like little sugar crimes against good taste. “If we indulge in the rest of your human festivities later.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, suspicious and already smirking.
“Which means?”
He tilted his head, the motion slow and purposeful, like he was choosing his next words.
“You need to teach me what humans do before the mating part.” His voice stayed nonchalant , except for the tiniest upward lilt at the end.
“Apparently they kiss. Cuddle. Share food. Stare at each other for long periods without speaking—“
“Okay—okay!” you burst out, throwing both hands up in mock surrender. You tried to laugh it off, even as heat climbed up your neck. “We do not need to narrate the entire courtship manual right now!”
He made that low sound again you knew by now was an amused sound. His broad shoulders shook once, twice and you knew.
He was enjoying this. Way too much.
Extra part 💕
“What is that thing anyway?” you asked, legs dangling off the edge of your kitchen counter as you scrubbed at the stubborn red smears on his helmet. The cloth came away streaked with vivid crimson and you wrinkled your nose at the faint, sweet-tart smell that clung to it.
“Xylos berry,” he answered. The medallion hanging against your chest hummed faintly, translating his clicks and growls into smooth, familiar words.
He sat opposite you on the other counter, too big for the space, his massive frame somehow making the whole kitchen feel smaller.
In one clawed hand he held a cupcake, turning it slowly, inspecting the swirl of pink frosting like it might bite back.
“I wanted to use red xenomorph blood,” he continued. “Finest red in the universe. Bright. Lasting.”
Your hand froze mid-swipe. “You would use xenomorph blood… so you could dress in red?”
He nodded once, content with his answer. Those green eyes of his, usually sharp enough to cut, went wide and soft for a moment, the perfect picture of innocence. Almost believable, if you didn’t know better.
“But it would melt your armor,” you pointed out, eyebrows rising.
“Exactly why I didn’t do it.” His mouth stretched into something dangerously close to a mocking grin, mandibles flexing just enough to show teeth. “You are dressed in red. I did not wish to be less festive.”
He lifted one talon and pointed it lazily at your red sweater, the gesture so absurdly humane that you had to click your tongue to cover the laugh building up. You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.
How did he do that? Sound lethal and look cute at the same time? It shouldn’t be possible. And yet here he was, several hundred pounds of muscle, scars, and killing instinct, pouting over holiday color coordination like it was a matter of honor.
“Okay, that’s the best I can do,” you said at last, setting the helmet down beside you with a soft clunk. The red was mostly gone, what remained looked more like faint berry stains than blood now. Good enough.
He slid off his perch without a sound, graceful as always, and crossed the small space between you in two slow steps.
Then he was there, settling between your dangling legs, cold armored plates pressing lightly against the insides of your thighs.
You leaned back on your hands instinctively, giving him room to crowd in, breathing in that lingering sweet scent of xylos berry still clinging to him.
“How may I repay the favor, Na’kai?” His voice dropped lower, the translator in the medallion doing the work as his actual speech sounded, raw clicks and rolling throat-sounds that vibrated straight through you.
His mandibles clicked softly, close enough now that you could feel the faint brush of them against your cheek. Warm breath ghosting over your ear.
You swallowed, pulse suddenly loud in your own ears. “I can teach you something,” you managed, the words coming out smaller than you intended.
Your gaze kept sliding—traitorously—to his mouth, to the slow flex of mandibles, the gleam of inner teeth.
He made a low, throaty sound, approval, hunger, amusement, all tangled together, and leaned in even closer.
One mandible grazed your cheekbone, his breath fanning hot against the shell of your ear.
“I’ve been told I’m a fast learner,” he whispered.
A shiver raced down your spine, your back arching slightly, out of your control.
You tried to focus on anything else, the coldness of the counter under your palms, the taste of sugar still in your mouth, the ridiculously huge heart still sitting on your table, but your eyes stayed locked on his mouth anyway, caught in the intimate rhythm of his breathing, the quiet clicks that felt like secrets meant only for you.
But you didn’t give him time to linger, to draw the moment out the way he so clearly wanted.
Instead you grabbed the chance, both hands cupping the sides of his masked face, fingers pressing into the cold, ridged edges where flesh met armor.
He made a startled, low click of surprise as you pulled him to you and pressed your lips to the soft inner curve of his mandibles.
The contact was strange and perfect all at once, warm, slightly textured skin that gave just enough under the pressure of your mouth.
You held him there for a second longer than you meant to, then pulled back just enough to watch his reaction.
His eyes, usually sharp and glowing green, had gone wide, pupils blown in what looked like genuine shock.
They darted between your eyes and your mouth, back and forth, like he was trying to solve a game that had suddenly rewritten its own rules. Speechless. Utterly, gloriously speechless.
“And that’s kissing,” you said, voice a little shaky, a little breathless. “For humans. I don’t know if you—”
You never finished the sentence.
His fingers, long, clawed and careful, threaded through your hair in one smooth motion.
He tilted your head to the side, exposing the long line of your neck. Then his head dipped and the flat of his tongue dragged slow and hot over your racing pulse.
Heat bloomed instantly over your skin, a burning trail that raced from the point of contact up toward your ear. Your breath snagged hard in your throat. Every hair on your body stood, the shiver that followed was violent, unstoppable.
His breath ghosted over the damp skin he had just marked, making the sensation loop back on itself until you were trembling in his hold.
He kept your head angled exactly where he wanted it, fingers still tangled firmly in your hair. Your eyes squeezed shut, fearing that if you open them this would vanish like smoke.
Because you had waited so long for something like this. For him.
Your heart kicked against your ribs like it needed to come out.
And beneath your palms, pressed to his chest, you could feel his own heartbeat, wilder, harder, completely out of rhythm. Like his body had forgotten how to stay calm and keep his coolness for once.
“Keth’raal?” you whispered, barely making a sound.
You were about to beg, to ask him to do it again, chase that burning line back down your neck, when movement caught your eye.
The heart.
The ridiculous, bloody trophy heart he had left on the table.
It was beating again.
Thump. Thump. THUMP.
“Keth’raal!” You shrilled his name, horrified.
His hands left you instantly, snatching up the spear that always seemed to be within reach.
In one fluid motion, he drove the blade straight through the center of the heart, pinning it to the table with brutal force. Your wooden table giving up under the impact.
“What the actual fuck?” you yelped, scrambling to pull your knees up onto the counter, hands flying to cover your eyes. “Is it dead?”
“Should be,” he growled, voice tight with irritation.
You cracked your fingers apart just in time to see it give one final, aggressive throb and then… burst.
A massive puff of deep pink dust exploded outward with a loud, cartoonish pop.
You threw your arms up to shield your face, coughing as the rosy cloud settled over everything.
The kitchen. The counters. The floor. The ceiling. Every surface suddenly looked like it belonged in a fairy-tale, a fever dream coated in soft, iridescent pink that caught the light and threw it back in tiny rainbows.
Keth’raal stood frozen in the middle of it all, spear still embedded in your ruined table, shoulders slumped, head bowed in the most defeated posture you had ever seen on him.
Pink dust clung to his dreadlocks, dusted his armor, even frosted the edges of his mandibles like some ridiculous blush.
He looked… embarrassed.
In the most human way possible.
You stared for a second longer, then the ridiculousness of it all hit you.
A helpless giggle escaped your lips. Then another. Soon you were laughing so hard your stomach hurt, sliding off the counter on wobbly legs and crossing the pink-dusted floor to him.
You wrapped both arms around his waist, or as much of it as you could reach, and pressed your cheek to the cool, now-pink plates of his chest.
He hesitated at first, before his arms came around you in return, enveloping your body gently.
“You know what’s for sure?” you said between giggles, voice muffled against him.
He made a low, questioning rumble.
“I don’t think anyone’s going to believe my Valentine’s Day story this year.”
He huffed, a defeated chuckle.
“Next year,” he murmured against the top of your head, mandibles brushing your hair, “I will hunt something that stays dead.”
You laughed harder, clinging to him in the wreckage of your kitchen, pink dust still drifting through the air like the galaxy’s most ridiculous confetti.
And yet, it felt like the best holiday you had ever had.
a/n: Oh how I missed him 🤭 he’s always been a yearner but he makes me melt in this one 🙂↕️ the way he reciprocated the kiss??? 🫠 where do I sign up for that??
What did you think of this valentine’s special? I’m so excited to see you in the comments 🩷 I missed all of you and I’ll be back with more of the boys soon 🥹
Iroh and V have a small household. While Iroh grows veggies V helps her to take care of animals and he also hunts wild animals.
Wanna share a silly thing with you...
I was hasitating for a while where to place the bottles with milk. V usually milks cows and goats, but there's also a fun part of the life together of these two...
Iroh was in an awful state when V observed her and the babe from afar. She was too thin and too weak, looked almost like a ghost. And at the moment V started to take care of them the first thing he did was making sure both mother and daughter ate well.
If Iroh had not enough milk to feed the child before now there's too much of it.... Too much for one baby. It would be a big waste to throw it all away like a piece of trash. So Iroh decided to cook using her own milk... Yeah.... V loves it btw...........
Edit: I promise I'll draw a piece of meals Iroh cooks one day... I HAVE to
dᥡ᥉gꫀᥙ᥉เᥲ 𓏲ּ𝄢 why suguru’s wife is the best cook in the world!
ᥴꪮᥒtꫀᥒt ᥲᥒd ᥕᥲɾᥒเᥒg᥉ 𓏲ּ𝄢 fluff„ au with no defection„ convenience store meet cute?„ pov alternating„ geto x cashier!femreader„ classic “she gifted me cookies” trope„ about 11 y/o Mimi and Nana„ just go ahead and try to pry awkward!reader from my cold dead hands why don’t you„ slight emeto/discussion of unhealthy eating patterns„ a little blood but not gorey„ healing„ b-day boy geto!
᭙ᥴ 𓏲ּ𝄢 𝟝.𝟛𝕜
“My wife’s cooking for my birthday, actually.”
Like dominos knocking each other into collapse, Satoru, Shoko, and Kento’s heads all swivel to Suguru, their expressions falling in unison, curdling sour with something like distress and hope. Just a smidge of hope— hope that he’d slap his knee and nyuck nyuck them with a “just kidding!”
A silence lazes over the break room, Suguru seated at that little table against the wall looking on at his friends without an ounce of remorse. Prideful, even, at his statement. Everyone else who’s standing has gone still, their attention trained on Suguru, waiting for him to sike them out.
…oh he’s not. He’s still smiling. Oh god.
Even Yu’s ever-present puppy grin coin flips into a faltering press of teeth, sucking in a breath and murmuring out a painful, “oooh…”
Nanami clears his throat, the first to speak.
“Let’s not make her go through the trouble,” He found himself saying hastily, finger hooking to adjust his shirt collar in a rigid series of movements. “You should both relax. Besides, Gojo already offered to buy everyone dinner, it’d be rude to turn it down.”
Nanami? Concerned with disrespecting Gojo?? Suguru’s brows pull together and he glances towards the window minutely to make sure grass is still green.
Haibara’s quick to jump on that train, head nodding exuberantly as he claps his hands together— almost a pleading gesture. “Yeah! Let’s just all go out, chillax, grab a bite n’ few drinks and—“
“—HER FOOD TASTES LIKE HOW RARERAREMON LOOKS.” Satoru gags over Haibara’s placation, an overdramatic shudder causing him to spasm some weird little wriggle.
He squeezes his eyes shut, tongue lolling. “Guhhh, I feel sick just thinkin’ about it. There’s probably some curse out there manifested by fear of her cooking, blegh!”
Shoko pinches him, eyeing him disapprovingly with a scoff. “That’s not—“ True? “—the way you should say it.”
She shakes her head when Gojo poutily mutters something along the lines of we were all thinking it as he rubs his side, folding her arms as her lazily lidded gaze shifted to Suguru.
“Geto, I mean this as nicely as I can put it, because I love your wife more than you do.” She leveled dryly. “Girl can’t cook. Like, at all. Let’s give her a break and go karaoke.”
Nobody argues.
It’s probably not the feedback any husband wants to hear from his closest friends regarding his wife, but it’s not like Geto didn’t entirely expect this reaction.
He knows that— by traditional standards— you’re no critically acclaimed chef.
But in truth, he’s no critic either.
Suguru can’t remember exactly at what point his sense of taste diminished, it’s not one of those things you can pinpoint to an exact memory. It had to have been somewhere in his teens, just one day realizing his miso didn’t taste like miso.
No, now that he recalls, the taste of food had become the least of his concerns at that point, eclipsed entirely by the acrid sapor that was necessary for him to consume.
He used to take a bite, shift it around from one side of his mouth to the other, waiting for it. The comfort of a warm meal, of his most favorite indulgences to ground him. To remind him that just like everyone else he could still be pleased by something so simple. Food looked good, it smelled good. It looked familiar and weighed on a utensil like it was supposed to, but when it met his mouth he felt nothing. It mashed between his molars, diluted with his saliva and clung to the back of his throat like a weak perfume over the stench that was humanity’s worst.
Curses don’t go down like anything natural. They linger, make his body recoil on itself like anything that shouldn’t be inside it would. They coat his tongue, nestle into the soft parts of his mouth, make home in the cleaves of his teeth right near the gum. Smug and permanent. Kissing his taste buds like sulfur.
It’s not something he could ever rinse with water, brush raw, or floss away. They sat stubborn and stagnant as bristles scraped futilely, even when he couldn’t recognize the metallic tang of his own blood until he was spitting it into the cavern of the sink, ruddied foams of white swirled mockingly with a minty blue he imagined was spicy and fresh.
He used to gorge right after.
Shovel in as much as he could to overwrite the residue curses left. Salty, sweet, sour, savory, spicy, umami, bitter. All faint and trapped beneath the flavor of something wrong, until his stomach protested. A fruitless effort, he learned eventually.
It didn’t disappear all at once, but it eroded. Sanded down slowly, until the memory of eating and feeling sated afterward was more akin to something he’d read in a book than something he actually experienced. Rice became a warm weight on his tongue, soup eventually just heat that stung any open wound in his mouth. Salt? Meat was a texture, sweetness existed as a concept that Satoru indulged in constantly, and sourness only if it was aggressive enough to bite through the numb.
And then eating became mechanical. Habit instilled by repetition over days, and weeks, and months, and years— since when he was small and new. But in those days it became action without reward, cruelly melding with his newest habit of taking in curse after curse. Over days. Weeks. Months. Years. Meal and mission were one blurred definition, joint disgust.
But he’ll still eat. If not for fuel, then for the questions to stop.
“Suguruuu, h’ve you lost weight?”
“Woahhhh duuude, you’re thinnin’ out! You look like Nanami—”
“—Hey.”
“You all good?”
“You hungry? Did you eat yet?”
“You okay?”
Ate earlier. Heat fatigue. He’ll eat later.
It all came from a good place, he’s sure. But it feels more like probing fingers than an extended palm.
In a restaurant it was a performance, pretending to savor what he couldn’t remember he was chewing as friends around him still found space for those small, menial disappointments that had become myth.
“This is waaayyy too salty.”
“How many calories do you think is in this?”
“Ughhh, I wanted something sweet!”
“What’d you wanna order again, Geto?”
At his name, Suguru’s head lifted from where he’d been blankly staring at the menu— pages of symbols and pictures all running together that might as well be the same word printed in a threat.
EAT.
But there was Haibara, grinning and staring expectantly for his choice. He smiled, a stretch of lips rehearsed for moments like these.
“Choose for me. Anything’s fine.” Everything was a varying shade of tolerable. After a moment’s thought, he added, “something sweet, maybe.” Satoru would probably end up picking off his plate.
All of it made him acutely aware of his own charade, how far away he was from the people he was sitting right next to. People who’ve never tasted a cursed spirit, who were still human enough to eat, and enjoy it. Praise or complain about what was on their plates.
No matter what was sitting before him, on smooth ceramic or in his hand, on a fork, pooled in a spoon, between his chopsticks. All of it was beginning to provoke the same reaction within him.
Just gaping his jaw with the intent of filling his mouth with something rancid disguising itself in different textures and colors and ‘flavors’ was starting to make his gut churn. Lazy, nauseous rolls beneath his ribs, sloshing, trying to prod and rise up his throat in a rush as if to punish him a second time.
He didn’t feel particularly nourished anymore. Food sat like a pile of stones when he could remember to eat it and managed to keep it down. Every swallow was a mistake, absorption or meal, it didn’t matter. He dreaded both with exhaustion, with the heavy clarity that nothing good waited for him at the end of either one.
So what was he doing this for?
For people, non-sorcerers that would never know the cost or the day to day toll. Who would keep committing horrible acts under his protection, at the cost of his struggle and the lives of sorcerers around him.
There was no longer really a question of what he would eat, just the why.
Why was he doing this? For who?
You, of course, were none the wiser to the depth of this turmoil.
A dull clunk! reverberates throughout the aisle.
You muttered some curse under your breath as you dropped a can of soda, shiny red aluminum rolling beneath the shelf you were stocking. The last month or so had been a blur of hazy summer days with a persistent sun and by night even harsher fluorescent lights buzzing overhead with the sharp scent of floral disinfectant biting at your nostrils.
You’d been working a lot of nights at this little 24-hour convenience store, donning the hideously patchwork-colored polo shirt because you needed a summer job to keep you busy and rack up some cash. But sometimes you debated whether or not the ¥1,075 wages were more worth than lounging around in your fuzzy socks binging movies and shows to your heart’s content.
You mourned such as you lowered yourself to your hands and knees, one elbow digging into the grout between the cool tiles as you stretched the other below the shelf and— yeesh, maybe you really should clean under here instead of skipping it every few nights.
A couple frustrated grumbles escape you as you peered under, cheek hovering dangerously over the un-mopped floor and fingers groping just the air before the can, when the little ring ring! of the storefront door’s bell chimed. Beyond this shelf and the next’s, you see a familiar pair of socks and sandals lay foot on the doormat.
With a final stretch you graze the side of the can into rolling towards you, snatching it before it can stray again.
“Gotchya,” you mutter to no one as push yourself back to your feet and set the thing back on the shelf, fleetingly considering how shaken up it was. Someone was sure in for a surprise when they opened that.
Only then do you swing your head around the shelf to glance at the customer that had ambled in.
You’ve seen him here several times before, always at varying times of night during your shift. Tall, broad-shouldered, with deep ebony hair sometimes loose, sometimes loosely tied back with stubborn strands slinking out and crowding his temples. Head hung slightly downcast like keeping it upright was becoming too much an effort, white shirt hollowed a bit around his collar bones, as if it was a size or two too big. He’s handsome, don’t get it twisted, but every visit he just looks more worn.
The man’s narrow eyes befall the hot case, drift to the drink coolers, and then briefly to you.
“Welcome in,” you chirped automatically upon eye contact, like you always did after staring at him a bit too long (which happens often.) He muttered some noncommittal thanks with a nod before wading into the store, towards the refrigerated section.
Your interactions always followed a sort of formula.
He comes in, you welcome him, he wanders around the store for a while, and turns up with some items at register. There you make a little small talk that’s become increasingly less awkward, and you bid him a good night.
Which, arguably, is about the normal routine for any store regular, but you guess you pay special attention to him.
When you first noticed his visits he used to approach the counter bearing tons of snacks, a slurry of different flavors. Just a splurge of low effort indulgences that were pre-prepared, things you could eat and enjoy without really thinking much of it. You’d make a bad joke about it being one of those days that you felt terrible for making him pretend to laugh at, and send him on his merry way with handfuls of plastic bags.
But that was quite some time ago. Now his visits were more spotty, and he never brought more than an onigiri or nikuman to the counter. Maybe it was rude, but you wondered, from the looks of him, if he ever ate more than what he bought from here. It was like he showed up now only when he either remembered or was reminded by his body that he needed to eat at least something, and chose this sucky konbini for his collations.
You’re staring again, you realize when he finally chooses something that he doesn’t seem like he’s particularly interested in and starts walking towards the register.
“How’s your night going?” You blurt conversationally as he approaches, finding yourself behind the counter before he could beat you there. To which he hums.
“How it usually goes,” like usual, smiling a pull of lips that’s practiced. He places a pork bun on the counter. “Just this, please.”
As you ring him up, you sift through a catalog of mundane conversation topics to fill the silence between clacks of the cash register and rustling of coins. The weather maybe? Or how his troublesome egomaniac friend’s doing that he’d brought up in a couple past talks— him or that peppy kōhai he seemed to be fond of and worry over.
Somehow you find the gull to ask, “do you like cooking?”
You bite down on your tongue the second the question stumbles out your mouth. Hopefully it doesn’t sound as probing as you actually mean it to be. You can’t help it, really. Watching him meander around the store like a half rotted corpse so many times has really started twisting some anxious little knot behind your ribs. You suppose it’s a bit better than blurting out “who died?” or “are you okay??” like you really wanted to.
His glazed eyes slid up from the greasy quartz to your face, regarding you with the curiosity of an unamused feline. Okay, so today definitely wasn’t a small talk day. But he humored you still.
“Not often,” he admitted, in a blink his eyes on the counter again. “I suppose I don’t find the time to.”
“Ah.” Without thinking, you respond. Mostly because you know if you don’t, the conversation will die here. “I do. I mean, I’m trying to learn.”
Your cadence is crooked somehow, sounding like you meant to add something then lost the nerve as you spoke. The air feels as stiff as your holding your shoulders— with painful, unnecessary awkwardness that you’ve brought upon yourself. You’ve really got a knack for talking your way into a proverbial corner.
“I’m bad at it,” you add quickly, falling back on self deprecation to hopefully smooth over this situation. “Like, bad bad. Like burn water bad.”
His lips twitch, not into what you might call a smile, but the tightness behind his expression definitely eases a tad. When he blinks, interest flickers in the inky hues of his eyes. He huffs a breath through his nose.
“Is that so?”
You nod, a bit too eagerly, a whole lot relieved that he didn’t just push the steamed bun back across the counter and walk out the door to escape the situation— which you totally wouldn’t have blamed him for.
“Yeah. But it’s pretty fun. I think if I keep trying at it I’ll, like, get the rhythm down, y’know?” You prattle, fingers tapping at the counter as the receipt prints. When it does, you tear it and secure it over the pork bun’s packaging— no bag, because you remember he’s politely declined it in some previous visit, and slide it towards him.
“Even when it turns out bad, though, at least I can say I tried,” you continue like you’re talking yourself into that affirmation. “Like, it’s slop, but it’s my slop…plus I kinda need to cut down my spending, and it’s cheaper than take-out, sooo…”
He hums again, not particularly dismissive or indulgent. “I’m sure.”
You’re just saying “Yeah.” another one too many times when the bell jingles, signaling another customer walking in, the moment stretching thin.
“Well,” you default back to script, self-consciousness cresting on you ten times stronger now with some stranger milling about. “You have a good night.”
He looks like he hesitates a second, like he might apologize for something or explain himself or— god forbid— force you to make more awkward attempts at small talk. But mercifully, he turns to leave.
“You too,” he replies automatically, and the bell tolls again with his exit.
Without him realizing, his visits start taking an incline into earlier hours of the night, while the sky is still bruised purple instead of ink black. Sometimes you’re there, and sometimes you’re not. Absurdly when you’re not, he feels cheated, somehow.
When you are there, though, you talk. And he means that in a very one-sided manner.
You tend to talk a lot when you get nervous, but he doesn’t mind that about you. Rather likes it, actually, it’s nice. It’s like putting a few yen into a guarantee-win pachinko and watching the little marbles spill out tumbling over one another. He’d only ever have to say a couple words at a time, sometimes surprise you with a full sentence or two. He listens more than he responds, and you babble more than enough to fill in the spaces between without expecting too much of him, or ever questioning his purchases despite it being so painfully obvious you wanted to ask.
You regale him with tales of annoyingly ardent customers with expired coupons, how you have to poke a hole in the buns before you microwave them, because last week you found out the hard way when one exploded in the microwave. And of your cooking exploits— which admittedly, sound less than lackluster. Or dare he say plain disastrous, but you aren’t ever without a new story somehow.
When he jokes about paying respects to your poor kitchen that takes the brunt of your chef’s journey, you groan in embarrassment and press your fingers over your eyelids and palms over your burning face as you sputter something about how if you keep trying you’re bound to get better, practice makes perfect and all that.
Like he said, it’s nice. It’s cute. It turns into something similar to routine.
Until one day you produce a small, carefully wrapped box from under the counter. Your palms look tacky, like they have to peel away from the packaging when you set it down.
Despite your stilted motions and intense expression about yourself, you seem…proud? Or maybe just more anxious than usual.
“I made these,” you say too fast. It’s almost too easy to watch you and tell where you’re derailing from lines you’ve rehearsed in your head. It lightens the threat the cutely wrapped package on the counter between you imposes on him. “For you. Or I guess— I tried to make them. This batch looked pretty edible. I think, so, yeah.”
He stares at the box, something vile twisting low in his gut. Not hunger, but trepidation.
He should refuse it, and he knows that. Accepting it means performing, pretending to enjoy something he knows he can’t, to revisit the familiar hollow disappointment he so often did. He’d like to smile, deflect, retreat back into indifference.
But he doesn’t need to look at your eyes to read your thoughts.
You’re watching him with wide eyes he can feel like spotlights, your braced patience already half way to disappointment regardless of the way you're trying not to make it completely obvious. Like you already anticipated his rejection, convinced yourself you misread something or overstepped somewhere.
Distantly, the questions that’ve been gnawing at him for months loom overhead.
What was he doing this for? Why was he doing this?
“They’re cookies. You don’t have to take them. They’re kinda okay?” You blurt in a rush, not allowing his contemplative silence to settle lest you cave in on yourself completely. “I think I used tablespoons on accident when I was measuring the baking soda. Or is it baking powder?— whatever the one is that’s supposed to be in cookies. I hope.”
His hand moves before he has the chance to finish the thought.
The pads of his fingers brush the soft fibers of the cloth wrap, tracing where it creased at the corners.
“…Thank you,” he murmured quietly, and the look on your face is worth the wave of nausea gaining traction in his stomach.
You’re grinning like you’ve just been handed a passing grade you weren’t expecting, relieved and crooked. Like he’s doing something for you rather than you for him. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”
He doesn’t eat the cookies right away. And honestly, didn’t plan to eat them at all.
He’d just dump them out, pretend he did, and tell you they were good. It’s an easy lie he tells himself, he’s practiced at it.
He cements the actions in his mind despite the way he walks through the streets with the box gingerly tucked under an arm.
At home he sets the box on the table as he strolls by it, and lets himself forget about it.
He showers, rinses the day off his skin until the water runs lukewarm and the sensation between clean and numb blurs. He changes, tries to tend to some things. Plants he needed to water, a surface he hasn’t dusted in awhile, texts that feel so burdensome to respond to. The trash isn’t full enough to take out. Nor are there dishes to be done in the sink.
However when he circles back around to the kitchen, the cloth clad cookie box is still there. A pop of color in the dim space, patient and unassuming on the tabletop. And he just can’t seem to distract himself from it, not when the image of you standing there behind the counter wringing your fingers that were so obviously riddled with little burns from hastily grabbing a baking tray, claiming that you’d made them for him was so fresh in his mind after hours. For him.
When he opens the cloth wrap, it’s out of guilt rather than hunger.
And when he opens the box he finds…cookies?
Objectively, they’re bad. Just looking at them he can tell— lumpy little discs that are darkened a hideous brown at the edges and a gooey, sickening pale in the middles. Chocolate chips are measured by heart and distributed by an oligarchal system, some ‘cookies’ with more chips than dough and some with none at all.
Everything about them looks wrong, and muddled, and…frankly a bit pathetic.
He exhales from his nose. You really, really tried. At least these ugly cookies don’t look at him like they’ll pretend to taste good.
As he lifts one to take a bite, he can almost see it: you overmixing, using the wrong measuring cups. Apron smudged white and puffed cheeks flour dusted too, frowning as your head whipped between a bowl and instructions, muttering curses directed towards whoever made their recipe blog ridiculously impossible to navigate, refusing to quit when the first batch failed.
When he finishes the cookie, and then another, terribly unique, simultaneously crumbly and goopy texture dissolving away in his mouth, they don’t taste good. I mean, duh, just look at the things.
But the putridness of curses that always so eagerly latched onto whatever landed on his tongue is white noise. There and constant, but not overwhelming for once. Sickness doesn’t even curl beneath his ribs. They taste just like everything else he’s eaten in the past several months, but there’s sentiment in them that makes them bearable, dulling the worst of the taste.
He ends up wrapping the rest up, slow and more reverent than necessary, and sets them aside. They stay where they are on the table, a visible and intentional reminder.
“I liked them.” Suguru graces you with a smile on his next visit. His clothes still hang a bit awkwardly but at least the darkness beneath his eyes is not so harsh, though maybe that’s because of how immediate his grin reaches them. Unpolished and wide, a kind of smile that made him look boyish. “They were good, you did a wonderful job.”
He really expected you to fluster under the praise, but much to his surprise you angle your head and squint, giving him a sideways glance. “…you’re lying.”
He sputtered, his eyebrows hiking up his forehead as he blinks. “I’m not?”
“There’s just no way you actually ate those!” You accuse with folded arms, incredulity tugging your bottom lip forward. “I tried one and even I thought they were bad, you’re so lying.”
“I’m not!” Suguru repeats again, this time his words filtering through a chuckle as he leans forward against the counter, elbows planted on the surface and palms loosely clasped. “I’m not lying. Believe me, you’d know if I was lying.”
His eyes drift a bit as he makes that statement. That’s a lie in and of itself. He thinks himself a fairly good liar.
Your eyes narrow though, so maybe you did catch on to that scant hint of arrogance. Maybe you truly would know if he was lying.
“I did like them. Please,” He drapes himself a bit more over the counter, lips spelling your name for possibly the first time since you’ve met him, and it sounds so pleading, too. A shock darts through your system, at his cadence, sure, but also because you completely forgot he even knew your name. That he cared to remember it from your first introductions months ago. (Later you’ll realize you’re very clearly wearing your name tag.) “You’ll make me more, won’t you?”
“…I mean— I guess.” You murmur, your nail digging at some worn price sticker that’s been stuck to the oily counter since forever, eyes bouncing from one corner of his face to the gauge in his ear to his shoulder and back again. Anywhere but his eyes. “I guess we’ll see how long it takes for my food to kill you.”
He smiles softly at that, and it makes you feel unchecked warmth everywhere under your skin. “We will, won’t we?”
It’s not that you held some miracle cure— you didn’t make rice taste like good ol’ bland rice again. Didn’t bring sweetness back to mochi. Didn’t take away the mildewed tang of curses. But you gave him a reason to want to keep trying.
Instead of laying awake at night dreading, am I going to have to eat again? How soon? He could close his eyes musing, Oh god, what’s she going to try to make next? Burnt or undercooked? Both?? a smirk ghosting his lips.
Because if you’re going to put in the effort to try to make a meal for him, just for him, the least he could do was try to eat it. And he’d like to wager he’s maybe the best at eating your food. If nothing else.
You’re worth the effort.
That’s why when he pushes himself up from the table and turns fully to his friends all gathered in the break room, his eyes are upturned in tight little crescents. Mouth curved in a sharp sickle of a smile that just really radiates love for his wife.
Love for his wife, and sinister intent directed towards whoever dares to oppose him.
“You’re all invited to my birthday dinner,” Suguru reasserts calmly, the tranquil rumble of his voice seeming to leer like a warning. “You’ll eat it, and you’ll like it.”
“Scary,” seems to be the telepathical thought that links Shoko, Satoru, Kento, and Yu. Suguru could be that way when he wanted to be.
So they all turn up on the 3rd of February to the Geto household's doorstep, knocking at 6:00pm sharp.
Mimiko stands there to greet them, a doll stuffed in the hollow of one elbow and other hand on the door handle. Nanako’s next to her, head craned down to the tablet between her palms, tip-tapping away at the screen and barely sparing them more than a glance. The collar of her shirt is hooked up over the tip of her nose, a makeshift mask.
What’s truly noteworthy however is the fog, billowing out the opening the door made, thick and stinking like something evil just died in this house.
“Dad let Mom into the kitchen. Again.” Mimiko monotonously supplies the explanation that’s really not needed, but it doesn’t fail in inducing a fresh wave of apprehensive terror anyway.
Though it deters them, it doesn’t stop the group from depositing their shoes near the door. They’ll still find seats around the table, try to smile and not cry when you dish out servings of what looks like the uncensored version of dubious food from some video game.
It truly is impressive how consistently borderline inedible your cooking is even after years. Endearing to some, dreaded by others.
“Sorry, it’s not the best.” You apologize preemptively before they even lift their utensils, but that’s not gonna make any of the ‘food’ go down easier.
Everyone still thanks you, Nanami and Ieiri maybe a bit better at feigning gratitude than Haibara and Gojo. Yu tries, honestly really tries to look appreciative, but he looks more like he’s just been issued a suicide mission and trying to put on a brave face about it.
Satoru meanwhile tosses his eyes dramatically, muttering “no kidding,” under his breath— right before hissing sharply. Under the table, Shoko and Kento have crushed all ten of his piggies.
The girls duck under the table when neither you or Suguru are watching to scrape their portions off their plates and into the gaping mouth of the worm curse wriggling around on the floor, weaving through table and chair legs.
And when you threaten everyone with cake wearing a gentle smile, Satoru starts praying. Not for grace to any god, but that maybe by some slim chance the aforementioned dessert might be store bought. (It’s not.)
But it doesn’t really matter that by the end of the dinner everyone is looking green around the gills or that Nanako is already plotting her and Mimiko’s secret take-out order later in the night.
Suguru’s happy. Sitting at the head of the table like he’s hosting a perfectly ordinary birthday dinner and not an active biohazard. The way he’s situated with lax shoulders and chin propped in a palm after polishing off a second serving of what everyone else could barely stand to stomach a first of, speaks of fondness. And a touch of smugness, somehow.
He seems perfectly content letting everyone else at this table battle their own digestive systems, like he doesn’t even notice it.
But when Satoru’s literally muttering his first prayers (since last year’s birthday dinner at least) under his breath, you can’t help but notice. You lean towards your husband slightly, grimacing a bit in concern as you whisper.
“It’s not that bad this time, is it?” You wince. “…too much salt?”
The warmth of his hand covers yours, and without hesitancy he affirms, “it’s perfect,” tone gentle and sure, infinitely appreciative. “Thank you.”
ᥲᥒ 𓏲ּ𝄢 geunyang pogihae eochapi— eat it up, eat it eat it uuuup! I super headcanon geto having dysgeusia or hypogeusia (or combo of the two?) so I hope u enjoyed and see my vision! happy late birfdai to the princess himself <3
late + not proofread + I’m sick if this sucked pls dont kill me im new gennnn ૮ ྀིྀ◞ ⸝⸝ ◟ ა but do not shy from sharing your thoughts, im eating the feedback like Geto ate those rank & stank cookies
