You nod, blushing then.

"He did have a bad break up."

"Toru!" You pout. "You didn't tell me..."

"Yeah," as if Satoru wasn't picturing you arched in front of him when he hit it from the back. You look all sweet, all concerned, before Suguru glides right in your cunt, and your eyes roll back in your skull, stretching you out without any play you're so wet.

"S-Sugu! Ah!"

Satoru tugs out his cock, thick and veiny, watching that mess of slick drool down his best friend as h e leans back. Satoru can't help but whine out as he stares at you, riding his best friend's cock, his own hand tentatively brushing your cheek, leaning close as his friend pummels your cervix.

"So pretty," he whispers, feeling your blush heat your skin, you lean close, your eyes all sleepy as Satoru strokes his own cock.

"Can I taste you?" He almost cums from that damn question.

"Yes! I mean... yeah..." He eagerly swipes some of his precum, slipping it between your lips as Suguru bottoms out. You suck Satoru's milky cum off his thumb while you whine out, cheeks hollowed.

"Wanna suck his cock, Princess?" Suguru asks, it's hard to speak looking at you like this, when you turn back and he sees his friend's cum on your lips, he can't help but flick his tongue against them, tasting it and moaning, his cock pulsing inside.

"Yes... please..." You cry out when Suguru pulls out with a mess falling, laughing at just how wet you are.

"Then get on your knees for us."

You eagerly obey, knees sinking into the cushions of the couch, mouth open and eager to take Satoru's pink tip, you feel his hands grip your hair tight, hear his gasp. "Oh f-fuck... your mouth is s'good, sweetheart..."

"Isn't it?" Suguru asks, lining his tip back up and filling you, all while you look up at Toru whose glasses are fogging with his breaths, his hands trembling just a bit when they pull too hard, making you whine around his cock, pretty tip soft like velvet on your little tongue.

"M'sorry... too rough I..."

"She loves it," Suguru murmurs, gripping your waist to drag you down his cock, his balls smacking your neglected clit, shoving Satoru's cock so deep you choke around it. "Don't you, baby?"

"Mmm," you pull back with a messy pop, lips coated in spit. "I do."

Satoru thinks he's in love with his best friend's girl once she makes his goddamn cock dissappear - all eight inches, too, nose nestled against the little light smattering of white hair. You're drooling down his heavy balls, tight and ready to pump you full - as him and his best friend take turns fucking your holes, using your body between them faster and faster.

Satoru doesn't make it long, he pulls back and sucks in a breath, but the way your throat is reflexively pulsing while Suguru pounds your messy cunt is too fucking good.

"S-sweetheart... m'close...." He goes to pull back when you grip his thigh, nails pressing into the bare muscle where his pants are shoved down, looking all lovingly and pretty up at him.

"She loves swallowing," Suguru says, all proud of you clearly, his cock slamming inside so deep it kisses your cute lil cervix. His long hair falls against your skin as he hovers over you, fingertips trailing down your spine, while Satoru's whimpering. "Go ahead and show him how good you take it. You're such a good girl like this, isn't she?"

"She i-is," Satoru tries to pull back, worried about hurting your throat with the flood of cum about to pour from his pink tip, but you suck harder, lips wrapping so goddamn pretty, he moans your name, head falling forward, gripping your hair till he's pulling at the strands.

You do love to swallow, and Satoru is salty but somehow there's a little sweetness, it coats your mouth as you gulp, shattering around Suguru's length that's curving just write, piercing dragging on your sweet spot just so, till you're a gushing little mess between them.

Suguru's following Satoru, pumping your cunt so damn full it's already trying to spill out with it, white coating your spread wide lips. He leans back to watch, groaning as he slowly fucks it back into you, and Satoru eases out, cupping your face and damn near collapsing on the couch.

"Feel better about the breakup?" You whisper, he moans and gives you a little nod, leaning down as Suguru pulls you up to your knees, wrapping an arm around your waist, kissing up your neck.

"Much better," Satoru leans forward and kisses himself off you, blushing. "S'that okay?"

"I just swallowed your cum, you can kiss me," Suguru snorts, but you find it adorable when he kisses you again and again, moaning as Suguru's release pours down your inner thighs, and Satoru's fingers slide down, shoving it back on. He's filthy with it as he licks his own cum off your tongue, and Suguru's lips are just a breath away from Gojo's.

"Could we share her, Sugu? Pretty please?"

"We just did-"

"No like... be my girlfriend too?" He's all pouty and cute, but Suguru scowls, tugging you back, just for Satoru to finger more cum in your sore cunt, his cock already throbbing and hard again. "I said please!"

"No!?"

"You never shared when we were kids, you're selfish!"

They bicker as they fuck you again, until you're so full of both their cum in all three holes that you give up and go to sleep.

*****

The way he said it, so casual, so dismissive, should have made you shut your mouth. Instead, it acted like gasoline on a fire. "Maybe," you retorted, trying for bravado and landing somewhere in the vicinity of pathetic. "What's it to you, anyway?"

He set the rifle down with deliberate slowness, the clatter of metal on wood sounding like a gunshot in the small room. He pushed off the wall and crossed the space in two long strides. He was a tower of muscle and barely contained violence, and you were suddenly aware of how small the bed was and how close he was.

"You sound like a bloody teenager," he rumbled, his voice low and dark. "It's just a fuck. It's not a holy grail."

And that's when it happened. The words tumbled out, a drunken, shameful confession that you couldn't claw back even if you tried. "Well, maybe I wouldn't know, would I?"

The air in the room changed, going from thick with tension to frozen solid. Simon stared at you, his expression unreadable, but you saw the flicker of surprise, the slow-dawning realization, and the subtle shift in his posture.

"Say that again," he commanded, his voice quiet, cutting through the whiskey haze.

You shook your head, a wave of intense heat rushing to your face, your stomach twisting with a mortification so acute you thought you might be sick. "Forget it," you mumbled, trying to look anywhere but at him.

He crouched down in front of you, bringing his face level with yours. His gloved hand reached out, tipping your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. Those eyes were searching, dissecting you.

"You're a virgin." It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with a kind of breathless awe that was somehow worse than mockery.

"Shut up," you hissed, trying to jerk your head away, but his grip was firm. The shame was a living thing inside you, clawing at your throat. You felt exposed and raw, like he'd peeled back your skin and found something soft underneath.

He let go of your chin, but he didn't move away. He just stared, his mind clearly working behind those dark eyes. You expected him to laugh, to call you a kid, or to tell you to get the fuck over it. Instead, he said something that shattered you completely.

"You want me to fuck you."

It wasn't a question either. It was the most terrifying, exhilarating statement you'd ever heard. Your denial was automatic, a knee-jerk reaction to the unbearable vulnerability. "No! I didn't say that. I just..." You trailed off, because what could you say? You did. You wanted it so badly it hurt. You wanted him. The terrifying, scarred, lethal man who now knew your most private secret.

His lips quirked into a ghost of a smile. It wasn't mocking; it was hungry. "You're a shit liar," he murmured. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that made your skin pebble. "Is that why you've been lookin' at me like a lost puppy? Hoping I'd bend you over and show you the ropes?"

The crude, direct language sent a jolt straight to your core. You squeezed your thighs together, a pathetic attempt to relieve the sudden, throbbing ache. "Fuck you, Simon," you whispered, but it sounded weak and breathless.

"That's the idea, sweetheart."

So it had started as a joke, a stupid, whiskey-fueled slip-up that you'd both tried to bury under layers of snark and forced professionalism. For a few days, it was like a bizarre, unspoken truce. He didn't mention it, and you tried to pretend you hadn't basically offered up your virginity on a silver platter. You trained harder, kept your head down, and avoided his eyes like they were the abyss.

But the world had shifted on its axis, and you couldn't unsee it.

You started noticing things. The way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he reached for a high shelf, the fabric straining over the solid muscle of his shoulders. The way his tactical gloves creaked when he balled his fists. The scent of him that seemed to linger in the air long after he'd left a room.

His eyes were the worst. Before, his stares had been assessing and analytical. Now, they were heavy, weighted with a new kind of intent. You'd feel them on you during a briefing, a heated, lingering sweep from your boots to your face that made your breath catch and your cunt throb. He was looking at you like he was picturing you naked, and the constant, low-level humiliation of your secret acted as a toxic aphrodisiac.

He was harder on you, too. His critiques in the field were more cutting, his expectations higher. He'd push you during PT until your lungs burned and your muscles screamed, his voice a low, relentless bark in your ear. "Again, Sergeant. Is that all you've got?" It felt like a punishment, or maybe a test, and every time you pushed through it, you felt a flicker of pride, followed by the hot rush of imagining what he'd do to you if you really impressed him.

The tension coiled tighter and tighter, a wire vibrating at a frequency only you and he could feel. It was only a matter of time before it snapped.

It was a normal enough afternoon. The whole team was sprawled in the common room, the low hum of the TV and Price's cigar smoke filling the space. Johnny was recounting some wild story about a bar fight in Prague, his voice boisterous and animated. You were trying to laugh, trying to be normal, but all you could feel was Simon's presence on the other side of the room. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a beer bottle in his hand. He wasn't looking at you, he was looking at Johnny, but you could feel his attention like a physical touch.

Then Johnny, the glorious, oblivious bastard, said something that twisted the knife.

"Aye, but you know what it's like, Si," he said, grinning. "Sometimes you just gotta get in there, get the job done, no matter how tight the fit is. Am I right?"

A beat of silence. Your heart stopped. Simon's eyes, slow and deliberate, slid from Johnny to you. The corner of his mouth twitched. "Yeah, Johnny," he said, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that seemed to be directed only at you. "Sometimes you just have to be patient. Make sure they're ready before you... make your move."

Johnny laughed, clapping Gaz on the back. "See? The man's a poet."

But you weren't hearing it. Your blood was roaring in your ears. He was going to tell them. The paranoia, the toxic cocktail of shame and fear, exploded in your chest. He was going to expose you, right here, in front of everyone. He'd tell them you were some pathetic virgin who'd begged for it, and they'd all laugh, and you'd have to leave the task force.

Your chair scraped against the floor as you stood up, your movements sharp and jerky. "I need some air," you mumbled, not meeting anyone's eyes.

You didn't make it two steps before Simon's voice stopped you. "Sergeant. A word."

Your stomach dropped. You turned to see him pushing off the wall, his expression unreadable. He mystic jerked his head towards the hallway. "Now."

The others were already back to their conversation, but you felt their curious glances as you followed him out of the room and down the hall, your boots feeling heavier with every step. He pushed open the door to his quarters and you followed him inside, the door clicking shut behind you with a terrifying finality.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" you hissed, the words tearing out of you the second the door was closed. "Are you going to tell them? Just get it over with and humiliate me, you bastard!"

He turned to face you, his eyebrows raised in genuine surprise. "Tell them? What the hell are you on about?"

"Don't play dumb!" you shot back, your voice cracking. "You're going to tell them I'm a... that I'm... that I don't know what the fuck I'm doing!"

His face softened just a fraction. The anger bled out of him, replaced by something that looked uncomfortably like pity. "Jesus," he muttered, running a hand over his masked face. "I'm not going to tell them anything. That's your business, not mine."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?" you demanded, your breath catching in your throat. "Why are you always fucking looking at me?"

"Because you're driving me fucking insane," he ground out, taking a step towards you. "I'm trying to give you space, trying to be a fuckin' gentleman, and you're over here thinking I'm about to announce your sexual history to the whole squad?"

The sheer absurdity of it, the relief mixed with the lingering fear, was too much. The words you'd been holding back for weeks finally burst free. "Just fuck me and get it over with!" you blurted out, the words sounding pathetic even to your own ears. "Just do it so I can stop thinking about it!"

He stared at you, his chest rising and falling with a deep, controlled breath. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then he spoke, his voice quiet, cold, and utterly commanding.

"No."

Your heart plummeted. "What?"

"I said no." He took another step closer, crowding you, his presence overwhelming.

You stammered, your brain short-circuiting. "I-I don't understand. You... you want to, don't you?"

His eyes flashed, a dark fire igniting in their depths. "Wanting to and fucking you are two different things, Sergeant. I'm not going to take your virginity because you're having a fuckin' panic attack. You'll wait."

"Wait?"

"You'll wait until you're sure. Until you can ask me properly." His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back up, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. "And you'll ask me in my bed, after everyone's asleep. Then, and only then, I'll consider it."

The shift in power was dizzying. He wasn't rejecting you; he was setting the terms. And God help you, you wanted to agree to every single one.

"Okay," you whispered, your voice trembling.

He tilted his head, a gesture of both command and curiosity. "Okay, what?" His gaze was piercing, demanding.

You swallowed hard, your mouth suddenly dry. The old shame was there, but it was being drowned out by a new, more powerful feeling: a desperate, clawing need to please him. You sank to your knees on the cold, hard floor of his room, the movement feeling both shameful and right. You looked up at him, your heart pounding against your ribs.

"Please, Simon," you whispered, the words barely audible. "Please... fuck me."

A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face, visible even around the mask. He reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with a surprising tenderness.

"Good girl," he murmured. "Now get up and go back to the others. Act normal. I'll see you later."

You didn't remember much of the rest of the evening. You sat through the briefing, you ate dinner, you even managed a few stilted laughs at Johnny's jokes. But all of it was a blur, the background noise to the roaring in your head. You were going to Simon's room tonight. The thought was a live wire in your stomach, sparking terror and anticipation in equal measure.

Hours later, the base was quiet. The hallway was deserted, the only light coming from the red glow of the emergency exit signs. You moved like a ghost, your bare feet silent on the linoleum as you made your way to his door. You didn't knock. You just turned the handle and slipped inside.

He was waiting for you. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his mask illuminated by the single lamp on his bedside table. He'd taken off his tac vest, leaving him in just a tight-fitting black t-shirt and his cargo pants. He looked human, and terrifyingly sexy.

"Lock the door," he said, his voice soft but firm.

You did, the click of the lock sounding like a gunshot. You turned back to him, your body thrumming with nervous energy. And then you noticed the room. It was different. The usually stark, military-neat space was softened. The bed had clean, crisp sheets on it. And there were candles, a few simple tea lights flickering on the windowsill and the dresser, casting a warm, gentle glow over the room.

"You... lit candles," you said, your voice small.

"I wanted you to be comfortable," he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He patted the space on the bed next to him. "Come here."

You went, your legs feeling unsteady. You sat down, a careful distance between you, your hands twisting in your lap. He didn't rush you. He just watched you, his dark eyes patient.

"You don't have to do this," he said quietly. "If you've changed your mind"

"I haven't," you said, a little too quickly. "I want this. I want... you."

He nodded slowly. "Good." He reached out and took one of your restless hands, his grip warm and steady. "We'll go slow. We'll go as slow as you need. And you tell me to stop if you want to stop. Understand?"

You nodded, your throat tight. "I understand."

He leaned in, and for the first time, you thought he was going to kiss you. But he just pressed his forehead against yours, a gesture so unexpectedly tender it made your eyes sting. His hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing your skin.

"Relax," he murmured. "Let me take care of you."

Then he did kiss you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It was slow, soft, exploring. His lips were warm and firm against yours, and the fact that you could feel them, that the mask didn't cover them, made it incredibly intimate. You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping out to taste you. He tasted like mint and the faint, bitter hint of coffee, and it was the most intoxicating thing you'd ever experienced.

You kissed him back with a clumsy, desperate enthusiasm, your hands coming up to clutch at his t-shirt. He let you, his own hands moving to your waist, guiding you. He pulled you closer, until you were half in his lap, and you could feel the solid, hard plane of his chest against yours.

"Simon," you breathed against his lips, his name a prayer on your tongue.

"Shhh," he soothed, his hands sliding under your shirt. His fingers were calloused, rough against the soft skin of your back, and you shivered at the sensation. "Just feel."

He kissed his way down your jaw, to your neck, his lips and tongue tracing a path that made you arch into him. He pulled your shirt over your head, his eyes drinking in the sight of you in your simple cotton bra. He reached around and unhooked it with practiced ease, letting it fall away.

"Fuck, you're beautiful," he groaned, his hands coming up to cover your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. The praise, so sincere, so raw, sent a bolt of heat straight to you. You'd been so focused on your own inexperience, you hadn't considered that he might actually want this, want you, with the same desperate hunger.

He laid you back on the bed, his body hovering over yours, and continued his exploration. He kissed every inch of your exposed skin, his touch reverent. He was taking his time, so much time, working you up with a maddening slowness that had you writhing beneath him.

He started kissing your tits, his mouth hot and wet as he closed his lips around one nipple, flicking it with his tongue. The sensation was electric. And in your head, the old, ugly thought surfaced: He's done this a hundred times. He knows exactly what he's doing, and you're just another body in his bed. The thought made you squirm, a mix of jealousy and insecurity twisting your gut.

He must have felt the change in you, because he pulled back, his eyes searching your face. "What is it?" he asked. "Talk to me."

"I just..." you couldn't say it. It was too embarrassing. But he just waited, his gaze patient and unwavering. "I just... I know you've done this before. With people who know what they're doing."

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his face. "Yeah, I have," he said, his voice a low, dark rumble. "And do you know what I've learned?" He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "I've learned that nothing is hotter than watching someone fall apart for the first time. I've learned that I fucking love being the one to make it happen."

He moved down your body, his hands hooking into the waistband of your pants. "I'm going to eat your pussy now," he stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And you're going to let me hear every single sound you make. No holding back. Understand?"

You nodded, your breath coming in short, shallow pants. He pulled your pants and underwear down in one go, leaving you completely bare to him. He settled between your thighs, his broad shoulders pushing them apart. He looked up at you, his eyes locked on yours as he slowly lowered his head.

The first touch of his tongue on your cunt was like a lightning strike. You cried out, your hands flying to his hair, your back arching off the bed. He groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body.

"Fuck, you're wet," he rasped, his tongue lapping at you with long, slow strokes. "So fuckin' wet for me."

He ate you out with a devastating skill, his tongue finding your clit with unerring accuracy, circling and sucking until you were a whimpering, moaning mess. You could feel his spit mixing with your own slickness, the obscene, wet sounds filling the room.

While he worked, his hands found yours, his fingers lacing through yours, pinning them to the mattress on either side of your hips. It was an anchor, a connection in the midst of the overwhelming pleasure. He held your gaze, letting you watch him, his eyes dark with lust as he showed you exactly what his tongue was doing to your swollen, aching clit.

"Tell me how it feels," he commanded, his voice muffled against your flesh. "Talk to me."

"It feels... so good," you gasped, your nails digging into the backs of his hands. "Your tongue... fuck, Simon, don't stop."

His grip on your hands tightened, a silent acknowledgment of your plea. Your pussy was burning, a deep, throbbing ache that demanded more. You felt a fullness in your belly, a tightening coil of pleasure that was wound so tight it was almost painful.

He slid a finger inside you, then another, curling them just right. The stretch was intense, a dull burn that quickly melted into pleasure. He was watching your face, reading your every reaction, ensuring you were with him every step of the way.

"You're taking my fingers so well," he praised, his voice thick with arousal. "Look at that. So fuckin' tight." He pumped his fingers in and out of his mouth, his tongue still working your clit.

The dirty talk, the sight of him between your legs, the feel of his fingers and tongue, it was too much. The coil in your belly snapped, and your orgasm crashed over you in a blinding wave. You came with a loud, broken moan, your thighs clamping around his head as he worked you through it, drawing out every last shatter of pleasure.

He finally released you, crawling back up your body and kissing you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his lips. You could feel his erection, a hard thick line pressing against your thigh, and you were suddenly desperate to feel it, to feel Ghost.

You reached down, your hand palming his cock through his pants. He hissed, his hips jerking involuntarily. You wanted to make him feel as good as he'd made you feel. You wanted to show him how desperate you really were.

You pushed at his shoulders, surprising him. He let you roll him over, until you were straddling his thighs. You quickly undid his belt and fly, freeing his cock. It was even more intimidating up close, long, thick, and flushed dark red at the tip. A bead of pre glistened there, and you leaned down, licking it off on a whim.

"Fuck," he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide. "Show me," you whispered. "Show me how you like it."

His eyes snapped open, dark with lust. He wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking it slowly from base to tip. "Like this," he said, his voice strained. "Spit on it."

You did, your saliva glistening on the head. He used it as lube, his fist moving in a smooth, steady rhythm. You watched, utterly mesmerized, as he pleasured himself.

"Your turn," he grunted.

You replaced his hand with yours, your grip tentative at first. You mimicked his movements, and he let out a low, encouraging sound. "Yeah, just like that, love. Tighter. Squeeze the head when you get to the top."

You followed his instructions, your confidence growing with every groan you elicited from him. He was leaking steadily now, his pre-cum making your hand slick.

You leaned down and flicked your tongue over the head again, tasting the bitter saltiness of him. He twitched in your hand, a guttural sound escaping his lips. Emboldened, you took him into your mouth, just the tip at first, swirling your tongue around him. The taste, the feel of him on your tongue, the power of having this strong, dangerous man at your mercy, it was intoxicating.

"Jesus, fuck," he gasped, his hand flying to your hair, not to guide you, but just to hold on. "You're gonna make me come, you little minx."

You smiled around his cock, a surge of feminine pride washing over you. You cupped his balls, rolling them gently in your hand, marveling at the weight of them. You even ran your fingers through the coarse, dark hair at the base of his cock, finding the fact that he was unshaven, so naturally and undeniably male, incredibly hot.

"Christ, stop looking at me like that," he groaned. "You're gonna make me blow my load before I even get inside you."

You pulled off him with a wet pop, grinning. "Sorry."

"You're not," he said, sitting up and kissing you hard. He flipped you over again, pinning you beneath him.

He reached over to the bedside table, grabbing a condom and ripping it open. He rolled it on with practiced efficiency, his eyes never leaving yours. He positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock nudging against you.

"Last chance," he said, his voice serious. "Tell me to stop."

"Don't you dare," you breathed, your legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him closer.

He pushed forward, slowly, so slowly, the stretch immense. You gasped, your hands clutching at his shoulders. It burned, but it was a good burn, a sign of the connection you were making. He paused, letting you adjust, his forehead pressed against yours.

"You're doin' so good," he murmured, his voice strained. "So fuckin' good. Just breathe."

You did, and as you did, he slid in deeper, inch by incredible inch, until he was seated fully inside you. The feeling of fullness was absolute, overwhelming. He was so deep, so much a part of you, it brought tears to your eyes.

He kissed them away, his lips gentle. "You okay?" he asked, his voice thick with emotion.

You nodded, unable to speak. He started to move, his thrusts shallow and slow. He held your hand, his fingers interlaced with yours, anchoring you as he began to fuck you. It was nothing like you'd imagined. It wasn't frantic or rough. It was deep, intimate, and devastatingly slow. He kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breasts, his lips worshipping your body as his cock worshipped your cunt.

You could tell he was holding back, his body trembling with the effort of not pounding into you. His thrusts were angled perfectly, stimulating a spot inside you that you didn't even know existed. The pressure built again, a slow, rising tide of pleasure that was even more intense than the first.

"That's it," he panted in your ear. "I can feel you gettin' tighter. Are you gonna come on my cock, sweetheart? Gonna come all over me?"

His words, combined with the relentless, perfect pressure, sent you over the edge again. You came with a silent cry, your inner walls clenching around him, your body shaking with the force of it.

"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his rhythm finally faltering. "I can feel you comin'. So fuckin' hot. So goddamn perfect." He slammed into you once, twice, three more times, and then he was coming with a hoarse shout, his cock pulsing inside you as he filled the condom.

He collapsed on top of you, his weight a welcome, heavy blanket. You lay there, tangled together, your breathing slowly syncing up as you came down from the high. After a long moment, he rolled off you, disposing of the condom before pulling you back into his chest.

You were silent, your mind reeling. You felt different. Changed. The shame, the insecurity, it was all gone, replaced by a deep, bone-deep satisfaction.

Simon pressed a kiss to the top of your head. "Stay," he murmured, his voice already heavy with sleep.

You didn't need to be asked twice. You cuddled closer, your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. In the morning, things would be different. But for tonight, in the warm, candlelit glow of his room, you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

The only thing more shocking than the fact that you'd just lost your virginity to Simon 'Ghost' Riley was the realization that you wanted to do it again. And again.

The first few days after were a weird, hazy blur. You moved through your training exercises on autopilot, your body aching in places you didn't know could ache. A deep, pleasant soreness that was a constant, throbbing reminder of the way he'd felt inside you, the way he'd held you, the sounds he'd made. Every time you caught sight of him across the compound, a dark, imposing figure against the grey concrete, a jolt of heat would shoot straight to your core.

You expected things to be awkward. You'd braced yourself for smirks from Johnny or a pointed, knowing look from Gaz. But there was nothing. Simon was the consummate professional on the field, his commands sharp, his demeanor as unreadable as ever. If anything, he was a little more distant, a little more controlled, as if he was holding himself back with a supreme effort. And Johnny just thought you were hungover.

That first night back in the safety of your own room, you'd slid your hand into your panties and touched yourself, trying to replicate the devastating pleasure he'd given you. It was useless. Your own fingers were a poor substitute for the thick, insistent stretch of his cock, the expert roll of his hips. You came, but it was a hollow, fleeting thing, and it only made you miss him more.

It took three days of this simmering tension before you snapped. You were in the gym, pounding away your frustration on the treadmill, when he walked in. He was wearing a tight-fitting black tank top and sweatpants, his hair damp from a shower. He didn't look at you, just gave a curt nod and headed for the weights. But you saw the way his jaw ticked, the way his hands flexed at his sides.

You hit the stop button on the treadmill, the machine's whine cutting through the quiet hum of the room. "My room," you said, your voice sounding more confident than you felt. "Ten minutes."

He didn't even turn around. "I have a briefing."

"You'll be quick," you retorted, a sharp heat rising in your chest. You saw his shoulders shake with a silent, dark laugh before he gave you a single, sharp nod.

You were waiting for him, your heart pounding when your door creaked open. He slipped inside, closing and locking it behind him with the same quiet efficiency he did everything. He didn't say a word. He just crossed the room, cupped your face in his hands, and kissed you.

It wasn't sweet or slow this time. It was a kiss born of days of frustrated denial. His tongue was in your mouth immediately, claiming, possessing, and you met him with equal desperation. You clawed at his tank top, pulling it over his head, and he did the same to yours, his hands rough and impatient on your skin.

"Couldn't stop thinking about you," he growled against your lips, backing you towards the bed. "About this tight little body. About how you felt squeezing my cock."

His filthy words sent a rush of wetness between your thighs. You whimpered, your hands scrambling for the button of his pants. He shoved his trousers down, kicking them away, and then he was on you again, his naked, scarred chest pressing you into the mattress. He was already hard, his cock heavy against your stomach.

Si was tearing at your pants, and you lifted your hips to help him, kicking them away along with your panties. He was between your thighs in a second, his cock nudging at your entrance. You felt the tear of a condom packet and you grabbed his wrist, stopping him.

"Don't," you said, your voice breathless.

He stilled, his eyes searching yours. "You sure?"

"I'm on the pill," you rushed out. "And I trust you. I just... I need to feel all of you. Please, Simon."

He stared at you for a long, tense moment, something raw and vulnerable flashing in his eyes. Then he crushed his mouth to yours, the condom forgotten. He pushed into you in one long, smooth stroke, and the sensation was overwhelming. No thin barrier, just the hot, silky feel of him, every vein, every ridge. He was so deep, so impossibly deep, you could feel him everywhere.

"Fuck," you gasped, your head falling back. "You feel so good."

He set a brutal pace, his hips snapping against yours, the bed creaking in protest. "You feel like fuckin' heaven," he gritted out, his face buried in your neck. "So wet, so bloody tight for me."

You wanted more. You needed to be in control, to set the pace, to take what you needed. You pushed against his chest, and he let you roll him over with surprising ease. You straddled his hips, his cock still buried deep inside you, and braced your hands on his chest.

The sight of him below you was breathtaking. His chest was heaving, his muscles tensed, his eyes fixed on you with a burning intensity. And his mask, it had shifted slightly during the tussle, riding low on his nose, revealing more of his face than you'd ever seen. The sharp cut of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the scar there. He looked wild, untamed.

You started to move, rising and falling on his cock, setting a rhythm that had you both moaning. His hands found your hips, then slid down to grip your ass, his fingers digging into the flesh as he guided you, helping you take him deeper.

"Simon," you panted, your head lolling back. "I can't... I can't stop thinking about you. You've done this to me. I'm obsessed."

His grip on your ass tightened, his eyes blazing. "Yeah?" he rasped, his voice strained. "Tell me what you're thinking about, sweetheart."

"Thinking about how full you make me," you whimpered, feeling another orgasm coil low in your belly. "How you stretch me so good. Si, please... please don't stop filling me up."

That was what broke him. With a groan, he sat up, wrapping his arms around you and crushing you to his chest. His mouth was on your neck, sucking and biting as he drove up into you, meeting your downward thrusts with powerful, desperate strokes of his own.

His mask was pushed down further, and you turned your head, your lips finding the corner of his mouth, kissing the scarred skin there. "You feel so good, LT," you whispered in his ear. "So fuckin' good inside me."

He came with a roar, his hips jerking erratically as he emptied himself inside you, the hot, thick flood of his cum triggering your own release. You came with a silent scream, your whole body clenching around him, milking him for every last drop. You collapsed against his chest, both of you slick with sweat, trembling with the aftershocks.

For a long time, neither of you spoke. You just held each other, your breathing slowly returning to normal. He was still inside you, softening but not gone, a warm, comforting presence. He reached up and gently adjusted his mask, pulling it back into place. The intimacy of the gesture, the quiet trust it implied, made your heart ache.

"Now you stay the night," you murmured into his neck, not a question, but a statement.

He didn't answer. He just held you tighter, and that was answer enough. You knew, with a certainty that this was no longer just about getting rid of your virginity. This was something else entirely.

kita looked at her confused, then took the takoyaki with his usual polite nod. "that's kind of her to say."

"she meant it! kita-san."

you felt your eye twitch. the paper fan in your hand snapped open with more force than necessary, stirring the humid air.

kita stepped back, joining you again as you both moved away from the stall. he was quiet for a moment, until you decided to break the silence.

"she said your wife would be the luckiest girl in the district."

"her grandmother did."

"...right."

kita hummed

"how so?" he asked.

"she was so obviously flirting with you."

"her grandmother?"

"no dummy, her."

you looked up at him. the lantern light caught the silver in his hair, the steady calm of his dark eyes. he genuinely didn't know.

"she wanted to be your wife," you said, perhaps a touch too sharply. you looked away, pretending to be very interested in the goldfish scooping game nearby. "obviously."

"did she?" he sounded surprised. then, softer, "you sound upset."

"why would i be upset?" you snapped your fan shut. open. shut. "i'm just saying. she basically called dibs on being your wife in front of everyone."

kita was quiet again. when you risked a glance at him, he was studying your profile with that unnerving focus of his, the same look he gave rice plants when deciding if they were ready for harvest.

"why would she be lucky?" he asked.

you stopped walking. turned to face him fully. the crowd parted around you, festival-goers laughing and chattering, but you were suddenly in a very small bubble with kita shinsuke. "i don't understand."

"i mean," you said, deadpan, "you are a nice guy. you run a successful business. you're... you know. responsible and mature." you gestured vaguely at him, at the whole package of him that you'd been quietly cataloging for months now. "she meant you'd be a good...husband. probably. i don't know. she definitely wanted to be your wife. that's what she was saying."

kita blinked. once. twice.

"she wanted that?" he asked.

"yes."

"someone would want to be my wife?"

"she did," you confirmed, feeling heat crawl up your neck. you were doing a terrible job of hiding your jealousy. you were practically wearing it like a banner.

well was that your fault? the whole village knows you are in love with kita shinsuke a year now, that girl does too. yet she never misses a chance to wrap herself around his arms and now she's obviously saying she wants to be his wife!

everyone on the farm respected and loved him. he'd always been the perfect example of a man, running a succesful business, taking care of his grandma and even everyone near him, always making sure everything is fine and never raising his voice at anything and you, unfortunately, also had a stupid little crush on your friend. it certainly didn't help that he insisted on carrying the heavier crates whenever you were around, flexing his beautiful arms or quietly leaving bottled tea beside your station during summer harvests, or walked you home whenever overtime stretched past sunset, all while acting as though those things were simply something a friend should do.

"oh" kita responses, he looked down at the paper plate in his hands. you definately didn't see that his ears turned pink. you hummed before turning your head away and continuing your little walk with kita beside you.

kita opened his mouth. closed it. then, in a voice that sounded almost puzzled like he was working through a math problem he hadn't expected to encounter , he asked:

"would you want to?"

the world suddenly stopped around you.

or maybe it was just your heart. your mouth went dry. kita's expression shifted from curious to horrified in slow motion, realization dawning across his face like a sunrise he desperately wanted to stop.

for the first time since you'd known him...kita shinsuke looked completely, utterly panicked.

his eyes widened, his shoulders stiffened and colour climbed all the way to the tips of his ears. "i didn't mean-" kita's ears were turning red. you'd never seen him blush before. kita shinsuke, who handled pushy wholesalers and nosy aunties and team crises with the same unflappable calm, was turning the color of the paper lanterns. "that was inappropriate. i'm sorry. i shouldn't have asked like that."

oh?

you said nothing. could say nothing. your brain had apparently decided to take a holiday.

"kita-san!" old man from the hardware store waved from across the path, saving you both from the suffocating silence. "come settle a bet for us! is it true you're planting the new hybrid rice this year?"

kita looked toward the voice as though it'd just saved his life. "...i'll be right back."

then, after only a second's hesitation-

"...sorry."

you watched him disappear into the crowd, your tea had long since gone cold in your hands, yet you couldn't bring yourself to take another sip.

would you want to... be my wife?

surely...

surely he hadn't meant it like that.

maybe he was still talking about miha from earlier.

maybe he'd simply gotten carried away.

maybe he was asking hypothetically.

except...

kita wasn't the kind of person who asked hypothetical questions. every word that left his mouth was deliberate. every sentence had already been considered before he'd spoken it. which only made the image of his bright red face moments ago all the more impossible to understand.

you found him a few stalls away helping make change for one of the neighboring vendors.

from a distance, he looked exactly the same. calm and composed, talking with the old guy about something you couldn't hear. answering customers with the same polite smile he always wore. and it made you realize that -

kita shinsuke didn't make mistakes.

not like this.

your eyes lingered on him a little longer than they probably should have. every now and then he'd glance toward your stall. the moment your eyes met he'd immediately look somewhere else.

you'd never seen him avoid eye contact before.

your knees decided they'd had enough. you sank onto a nearby bench, hands trembling as you pressed them to your burning cheeks. would you want to? the question echoed, relentless. you'd loved him for years, quietly, hopelessly, watching him from the sidelines of his own life like a fool. you knew the exact moment it had started. two years ago, when you'd twisted your ankle on the walk home and he'd carried you piggyback all the way to your door without a single complaint, just steady breathing and the smell of rice and soap. every festival since, you'd prayed for something to change and feared it in equal measure. and now he'd asked, actually asked and you'd stood there like a statue, letting him apologize and run.

your chest ached with something sharp and bright. he wants me too, you thought, testing the words in your mind like they might dissolve. he wants me too. all those years of convincing yourself you were content with friendship, with being the person he asked to help at the shop, he wants me too , with standing beside him at festivals just to feel his shoulder brush yours, they hadn't been one sided. the hope you'd buried so deep it had fossilized was suddenly, terrifyingly alive. you stared at your hands, still shaking, and realized you were grinning like an idiot at absolutely nothing. somewhere across the festival grounds, shinsuke kita was probably having his own crisis. the thought made you laugh, breathless and giddy.

the festival continued around you. you decided to get up and drift through it, buying dango you didn't taste, watching fireworks you didn't really see. eventually the crowds thinned. the stalls began to close, lanterns dimming one by one as the night deepened.

you found yourself at the edge of the festival grounds, where the paved street gave way to a small hill overlooking the village.

you heard footsteps behind you. kita settled beside you, close enough that your shoulders almost brushed. neither of you spoke for a long moment.

"it's beautiful," you said finally, looking out at the view. "i never get tired of it."

"neither do i," kita said. but when you glanced at him, he wasn't looking at the village. he was looking at you.

you turned back to the view, heart hammering. the silence between you wasn't uncomfortable anymore, but it was heavy with everything unsaid.

"y'know" you said softly, watching the distant lights of his rice shop, their rice shop, you realized, because you'd helped there enough weekends that it felt like yours too. "i think i wouldn't mind being mrs. kita either."

you didn't look at him. couldn't. but you heard his breath catch, heard the small, wondering sound he made in the back of his throat.

"[name]," he said, and his voice was different now, still shy, still uncertain, but hopeful. hopeful in a way you'd never heard from him before.

you finally turned. he was red again, that lovely flush spreading down his neck, but he was smiling. small and real and a little bit terrified in a way that made your chest ache. "was that-" he started. "are you-"

"someone had to say it," you said, bumping your shoulder against his. "since you ran away before i could answer."

"I panicked," he admitted, sounding scandalized by his own behavior. "I've never panicked before."

"kita shin, panicking." you smiled. "i'd like to see that again sometime."

"you'll marry me, then?" the words came out rushed, half-disbelieving. "i mean- i haven't- i don't have a ring, i didn't plan this, this isn't how i would have-"

"shinsuke."

he stopped. breathed.

"yes," you said. "you ridiculous man. yes."

the festival lights flickered and dimmed behind you, but kita's smile - shy and red and utterly unlike his usual composed expression, burned brighter than all of them combined.

you were going to marry him. you are going to marry him, and you would never, ever let him forget that he'd been the one to panic first.

Maybe it was all the teasing during the day, him calling you into his office every 20 minutes to lecture you about the error in the report that was fine an hour ago when you gave it to him, the way you brewed his coffee or how your uniform was innapropriate even if you've been complaining for weeks that they gave you the wrong size.

The tension has been accumulating for a while, all the little comments and the mocking glances towards you every time it was your turn to do something. Making you feel like you needed to prove that you actually deserved your place amongst them and when you did it again and again, it was treated like some happy accident. All your qualifications and years of experience on the field pushed aside and ignored. It was infuriating, every chuckle making you grip the handle of the gun so tight, you were afraid it was gonna snap. Laswell warned you before your transfer that even amongst the elite task forces where everyone's talents were proved by their presence alone, you were gonna be pushed aside. "Grown men playing it like it's a boys' club" she said disdainfully.

Maybe it was naive of you to still hope for people to be reasonable, but the first time during briefing before a mission when Price said that a coffee would be nice and pointendly looked at you, it was hard to hide your dissapointment. All the moments when you would speak up and have your ideas and suggestions ignored only for Gaz or Soap to say the same thing a few minutes later and get an approving smile and a pat on the back from the captain. It didn't matter that you could hold your own during missions, your sniper skills on par with Ghost's, they would give you an indulgent smile at best or an exasperated sight at worst like you were some small dog barking at them and it was starting to go from cute to annoying.

You curse yourself for falling so easily into this trap, perhaps all the days of having to stay overtime to make up for errors that weren't yours, all that frustration and loneliness finally culminated to this moment. Mistaking Price's change in attitude for acknowledgement, desperately clinging to every crumb of approval tossed your way just to end up with your pants around your ankles and Price behind you in the supply closet.

His talk about you finally stopping trying to play soldier and behaving like a proper cunt sending a wave of shame all over your body and something else. All that fury that was buried under clipped smiles, pushed aside for the sake of keeping the peace at your expense. It's in the bits of old paint gathered under your fingernails, the grind of your teeth as your jaw clenches, the bitter taste in your mouth that you've gotten tired of swallowing.

When you hear him saying that he's getting close, your body moves on its own. He isn't ready for your hand pushing him away, stumbling on his ass on the cold floor. Before his shock could make way for anger, you press your boot over his cock, not outright painful, but firm and start moving your foot.

"Come on, didn't you say you were close? Go ahead and finish like this."

Price looks like he's about to argue, but when he opens his mouth all that comes out is broken moan. A smirk starts streching on your face when you see him moving his hips against your boot, groaning all the way as spurs of cum get all over his uniform. His breath is heavy, a dust of red covering his cheeks. The small sound escaping his lips when your hand goes to the back of his head, fingers interlocking through his hair and pulling hard, only encourages you further, bringing his head closer to the concrete floor.

"Clean it up." You say it almost bored, the meeting is in 10 minutes, you should probably finish up here quickly and go.