ShadowStar123

BANG!

BANG! 

CRACK!

You jolted up out of bed, blinking rapidly, unsure if the ship-shaking sounds had been real or part of a dream.

BAM!

“What the hell?” You mumbled under your breath and pushed the blankets off of yourself.

BAM! That one was way louder. You started to get a little nervous. These were not good sounds. You opened your door and immediately, more sounds joined the banging: Yautja voices, roaring and snarling.

Really not good. 

You took off towards the source of the noises, cold fear already spreading through your veins. Perhaps some creature had gotten into the ship and was attacking Kwei and Dek, or maybe it was a raid by other sentient space-explorers. What really worried you, though, was the lack of noise coming from Bud. If there was a fight, the kalisk would most certainly be doing everything in her power to defend her clan.

Unless she was dead. 

You burst into the central room of the ship, only to see Bud lounging peacefully on the floor, Thia leaning against her side, several other clan members with her. In the center of the room were Kwei and Dek. The Yautja brothers were both slick with sweat, green glowing blood seeping from many cuts, but you saw the distinct upper mandible tilt that signified big grins on both their faces as they punched , wrestled, and took turns slamming each other into the walls or floor. At one point Kwei even picked Dek up and flung him into the ceiling.

“What’s– happening here?” You asked Thia, eyes wide with both curiosity and worry.

“It’s the Yautja winter celebration, remember?”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t explain why Dek and Kwei are treating each other like punching bags.”

“The holiday always starts with wrestling and sparring at dawn,” the synth informed you, then gestured at the pair. “So… that’s what they’re doing.”

Dek punched Kwei right in the mandible, and he staggered back, blood splattering to the ground, but laughing all the same. 

“We’re sure this is sparring? Friendly sparring?” Dek punched him twice more as he tried to recover. Kwei stumbled backwards again, slamming into the wall beside you. Ah, so that was the source of the banging.

“YES!” He said, a wild, joyful gleam in his pretty yellow eyes. “Sparring with my brother! We are showing each other what we have learned and what we can do and showing you how strong we are and how we can protect our clan!” By “you” he’d probably meant the entire clan, but you let yourself imagine he was showing off for you alone, just for a minute. 

Kwei leapt back into the fight and smashed Dek’s face into the opposite wall. You cringed as yet more blood turned the metal green, but the brothers were laughing so gleefully you couldn’t help but smile too.

You watched Kwei pick Dek up and hold him over his head triumphantly. His eyes met yours, and you realized that he was in fact showing off mostly for you. Then, he let Dek drop to the floor. The younger Yautja lay there for a minute, breathing deeply, as if trying to remember how.

A very long and worrying minute passed. You started to move forward, to get a medkit, to check on him, before Dek sprang up again, full of energy, as if he’d fully healed in that single minute. You expected something after that. Conversation. Maybe Kwei offering Dek a comforting shoulder pat. Maybe Dek saying something congratulatory. 

Nope– he just pounced on Kwei. The fight resumed.

You raised your eyebrows before sinking down to the floor beside Thia, your back against Bud’s warm body. The kalisk let out a low rumble and nuzzled you.

“I’m surprised you slept as long as you did,” Thia said. “They woke me an hour ago. While I was recharging! And you know how hard it is to accidentally wake a recharging synth!” 

“An hour?” You winced again. They’d gotten up early to beat the crap out of each other. It was barely seven.

Dek, meanwhile, executed a particularly nasty move and yanked one of Kwei’s tendrils. Kwei shrieked– the sound made you flinch– and wheeled around to knee his brother between the legs. Dek yelped like a kicked puppy but gave no other indication of pain before he grabbed Kwei’s predlocs again– this time a whole handful– and brought his own knee up directly into Kwei’s face, once, twice, three times–

Kwei collapsed with a groan and Dek roared to the ceiling, looking awfully proud of himself. 

You waited for Kwei to spring to his feet like Dek had, but it was more of a slow stagger, and he was clutching his upper right mandible. Dek cocked his head.

“Alright, brother?”

“You beat me, Dek,” Kwei replied, lifting the unhurt mandible in a half-grin. “I think I am done.” 

Dek cackled maniacally while you stood, approaching Kwei.

“You okay?” You asked.

“OW,” he replied eloquently. 

“Can I take a look at your–” he was covered in little cuts and bruises. “--everything?”

A smug light entered his eyes and he let out a little laugh. “I’d greatly like you to look at my everything.”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed a medkit off the wall, then started to look the Yautja over as he sat on his haunches in front of you. You were no doctor– well, not a medical doctor– but you would at least try to take care of your–

What was he to you? Your boyfriend? That seemed too human, to simple for what this was. No, some other word was needed. You had no idea what kind, though. 

Anyway.

His little cuts and bruises were easily fixed with time and some magic Yautja medkit healing glue. He had no broken bones that you could feel, and other than that, the only issue seemed to be sore predlocs and that mandible.

You poked at it and he let out the saddest, smallest little noise of pain at the touch, his eyes instantly darting away from you.

“That hurts?” You asked. He hesitated, then nodded, as if unsure whether or not to reveal his weakness. “Hm. Looks twisted.” The mandible seemed out of place, abnormally shaped at the first joint. “I think it’s dislocated.” 

Kwei grunted, covering the mandible with his hands, nose bridge wrinkled in a snarl. “Stupid Dek.”

Dek, across the room, whipped around and glared. “It is not my fault you have weak, dislocate-able mandibles!”

Kwei glared back at him for a minute before turning back to you, eyes shadowed in a way that you knew meant he was wary, nervous, about to run away, like a cat trying to hide an injury. You rarely saw the expression but it was hard to miss when you did.

“It’s okay. I’ll fix it,” you said, shuffling closer to him on your knees.

His eyes met yours, their piercing yellow abnormally soft. “Thank you.” The rumble of his voice was so low-pitched you could barely hear it. 

“It’s gonna hurt, though. How about I count to five?”

He let out a soft growl. “I am not a pup.”

“Please?”

“Fine.” He’d given in remarkably quickly. Even Dek had picked up on it, one eyebrow raised in curiosity as he tended to his own wounds and Thia teased him.

You gently gripped the mandible. “One… Two... Three–” You gave the bent mandible an almost-gentle yank and it popped back into place.

Kwei let out a loud, clicking hiss, pressing his hands over the mandible as if to guard it from further pain. “You are a liar. You said count to five, not three.” 

“The anticipation is the worst part.”

The big Yautja narrowed his eyes at you, but did not argue. “My… mandible feels better.”

“Good,” you said, patting his thigh, which was only inches from your own. “I’m glad.” 

His eyes met yours again and you were suddenly very aware of your position and proximity. Your legs were between his, your breaths mingling, your bodies close.

The room became very quiet before the two of you picked up on the muffled laughter of the others. You quickly stood. “Um, anyway, Dek, what’s the next part of the holiday, after sparring? What else do Yautjas do?”

Dek and Kwei both grinned in perfect sync. “I hope that you are hungry, ooman,” the older one said.

“I am, yeah. Why?”

“FEAST!” They chorused, then marched out of the ship’s main room. You traded looks of amusement with the other clan members before following them.

Outside, Dek was lighting a fire in the huge pile of sticks you and Thia had made yesterday. He sprinkled something into the flames and they flared up, taller than even Kwei, before calming to a relatively calm Dek-height.

Dek then scampered back to the underbelly of the ship, beckoning some of the more muscular members of the crew to follow. They did, while you and the others were left to cultivate the fire. 

This planet was not like Yautja Prime. Where Yautja Prime never had less than six hours of sunlight at any point, this planet’s winter solstice (which coincided perfectly with Yautja Prime’s) meant a miniscule four hours of sunlight, meaning that the slightest light from the star was not yet visible on the horizon despite the time being nearly ten in the morning. Therefore, the bonfire was not only a tradition, but a great help in being able to see at all.

The other crew members returned from the meat freezer and you picked up the scent of thawing alien meat, which you’d become quite familiar with since living with Yautja. All of the crew members were carrying some kind of food. Kwei himself was somehow carrying a container of  it bigger than yourself and an animal leg. You squinted a little, then realized: the leg was that of the Has-os the two of you had hunted.

Kwei dropped the container and the leg beside you, giddiness in his eyes. “This is yours.” 

Your eyes widened. “All of this?”

“Yes. You killed it. So you shall eat it tonight.”

“I can’t possibly eat all of that,” You replied nervously. “I mean, it’s at least twice my body weight.” 

He paused. “I forgot how little oomans eat.”

“You helped kill it too,” you started. “Why don’t we both eat it?”

Kwei froze, eyes darting across your face. You hoped that wasn’t an insult in Yautja culture. What if that meant you thought he was incapable of feeding himself and you’d just called him useless, or–

“I would be delighted to share this meat with you.” His purr rumbled at such a low pitch you were sure it traveled through the ground. 

You took a breath of relief, then glanced up to see Dek staring at you with an unreadable expression.

“What?”

He looked away. You shrugged and turned your attention back to Kwei.

He was crouched, sorting through the meats in the container. “I know oomans enjoy meat that is tender. Not tough. So I brought the most tender parts of the Has-os for you.” He held up a strip of it, eyes wide, looking up at you for reassurance. “It is above the ribs, From the back. Not used often by the Has-os. Very tender.”

“Thank you, Kwei,” you said softly.

His mandibles lifted– the right one less so, because it was probably still aching from being dislocated. He speared the meat on a metal contraption, kind of like a metal marshmallow roasting stick specifically for meat, and planted it in the dirt near the fire.

“We shall wait, then feast.” Kwei nodded proudly, before setting up his own meat skewer.

Across the fire, other crewmembers were roasting their own meat. Bud was eating some raw… you didn’t know what animal part it was, but it didn’t look appetizing, and Dek was trying to convince Thia to try some meat, just a little. You knew he knew she was a robot but apparently it hadn’t yet sunk in that she physically could not consume biological material.

The sky above turned gray, then pink, then orange, and you turned to see perhaps one of the most gorgeous sunrises you’d ever seen, one that lit the clouds on fire and reminded you that this was not just a sun, it was a great body of nuclear fusion that allowed the life of every living being on this planet.

Something smooth and warm touched your arm and you glanced over to see Kwei leaning against you nonchalantly. He spotted you looked at him and pulled away like a cat caught doing something naughty– but you leaned against him in turn, and he relaxed and began to purr. 

You weren’t sure how long the two of you sat there, ignoring the chatter of the others, before Kwei’s purrs cut off and he turned back to the fire. 

You followed suit, only to come face to face with the Has-os meat. 

“Feast,” Kwei said intensely, eyes bright. 

You took the skewer from him and, without hesitation, took a bite. It was obviously hot– why didn’t you let it cool off?-- but it was also so incredibly delicious. Gamey, salty, filled with flavor, it was the best thing you’d ever consumed, hands down.

Kwei let out one of his deep laughs and took is own bit of Has-os to eat. You watched him hold it up to his face before his inner jaws stripped off little bits of it to swallow whole, occasionally pausing to lick it with his forked tongue, which you noted had papillae like cat’s a tongue. This was so much more interesting than just reading about Yautjas in scientific studies.

So oral sex might be tricky. But we’ll find a way. 

SHUT UP!

You finished eating your Has-os a little quicker, before Dek summoned you towards the ship with a bark of “science ooman! Come! Assist me!.” Kwei just shrugged, refusing to let go of his food. 

You trotted over to Dek. “What’s up, big guy?”

“Assist.” He pulled you up the ramp of the ship and into the storage room.

You stood awkwardly in the middle of the room while he went shuffling through boxes. Finally, he pulled out a big metal square with one textured side and buttons on top and a few other contraptions that reminded you of… instruments. A drum, a sort of string instrument, and others that you didn’t recognize. You weren’t a music person.

“So, you want me to… carry some of these out?” You asked.

Dek didn’t respond, just walking towards you, then… continuing to walk towards you, even when you were nose to mandibles. He didn’t stop until you’d yielded and backed up until your shoulders were against the wall.

“You will treat my brother well,” he growled. “Or I will flay you and wear your skin as a cloak.”

Your eyes widened and you forgot how to talk for a moment. “Um. Uh. Yes– yes sir, Dek sir.”

“Good.” He threw the metal box into your arms and you yelped. It was really heavy. “Now assist me. These must go outside.”

After you dropped the metal box by the bonfire, you glanced around for Kwei so you could sit next to him. To your surprise, though, he was missing. You sat down beside Thia instead.

“Don’t worry about Kwei,” she replied cheerily, as if reading your mind. Or maybe you were just that obvious. “He’ll be back soon.”

“Hope so,” you replied, missing the warm weight of his shoulder against yours as if he’d been missing a thousand years. 

Hmmm. That was not a normal thing to feel about a guy you’d only known a few months.

You were startled by Dek’s shadow falling over you. He placed the contraptions on the ground beside the metal thing.

“We shall play music,” he said, and tossed the string instrument to Meloi, an alien crew member, who was three-armed when the rest of her species typically had four arms. 

“Music,” you echoed. “I didn’t know you liked music.”

“Kwei and I both. Our mother taught us to play many instruments when we were pups,” he replied. “Njohrr did not approve.” A growl rippled through him at the name of his father, and your jaw tightened, the image of Kwei’s prosthetic arm springing into your mind. “But Njohrr is dead. So we shall play.”

He pressed a button on the metal box and instantly music blared from it. Oh, it was a speaker. Duh. The music reminded you a little of Mongolian rock, with drums and electric guitar and throaty singing, except in Yautja.

Meloi’s six beetle-black eyes fixed on the speaker and she immediately began to gently pluck at a free strings before somehow joining in to the playing music flawlessly. “I-was-taught-to-play-too!” She chirped. “My-people’s-instruments-were-made-for-four-arms. Hard-to-learn-with-only-three. Yautja-music-and-instruments-are-much-easier!”

Dek set out the animal-hide drums and joined in, too. The others seemed to be inspired. A few made for the remaining instruments and others– including Thia– decided to dance.

You were, again, not a very musical person. Thia didn’t seem to care. She grabbed your hand and pulled you into the wild dancing around the fire, and to your surprise, you let her. Time seemed to disappear as you lost yourself in a feeling of companionship and joy that you never had experienced and likely never would experience while working with Weyland-Yutani. You wouldn’t have experienced these feelings ever, period, without this clan.

You’d had no alcohol at all, but you still found yourself giggling giddily into Thia’s shoulder, detached from reality, as she spun you around with strength only a synth could have. Why didn’t humans ever do this? Why did humans care for nothing but money? You knew then that you could never go back to Earth. It would be like putting a bird in a cage after it had a chance to fly free.

It wasn’t until the sun had touched the other horizon that you slowed and finally went to go sit, exhausted. You didn’t know if the celebrations would stop early in the “night” despite the sun having risen only a few hours ago, but you could certainly keep dancing after a bit of rest and could definitely afford to eat more of that Has-os.

You were thinking of going to get some more of it when the music from the speaker suddenly stopped. You glanced at Dek and saw that he had abandoned the drums and was gathering all the instruments. No more music, apparently. You frowned, disappointed. 

Dek waved his hands at everyone with a few clicks, demanding they all sit down around the bonfire, like you were. It seemed you were moving on to the next phase of a Yautja winter solstice holiday.

Or maybe not.

Thia had sat down next to you and had refused to make eye contact with you, trying (and failing) not to smile. That was weird. That was very weird, actually.

You glanced around and saw that Dek wouldn’t meet your eyes either, despite his earlier snarling in your face, and he kept clicking quietly as if nervous. That was super weird. 

The sun finally dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky a pale gray, reducing the lighting among the crew to the bonfire alone. The chatter of the others cut off, too, and you began to wonder why, before a familiar Yautja roar cut through the fresh darkness. 

You’d know Kwei’s roar anywhere.

He was striding purposefully from the ship, his armor covered in bones and hides, teeth and claws, as well as gold and jewels and precious metals of all sorts. Chains hung from his tendrils, swinging and glittering in the firelight. As he came to a stop across the fire from you, you saw that he’d painted his mandibles and scales with a shiny paint, too.

He looked incredible. 

You wondered why he was dressed like that.

Beside you, Thia let out a tiny giggle and leaned over. “Probably should’ve told you. The winter solstice is typically also when Yautjas chose their mates.”

Oh.

He was going to choose you– no. That wasn’t how Yautja culture worked. He wanted you to choose him.

Kwei began to click and, in a familiar gesture, puffed up his chest like a proud bird. He paced back and forth around the fire, showing everyone (you) his trophies (impressive) and his wealth (where’d he get all those gems and gold?) and the strength of his body (you paid particular attention to that). 

Finally, he slowed and approached, his eyes fixed on you. 

His prior gestures had been Yautja custom, but you realized he was combining his practices with human ones when he crouched down before you and offered you his hands. In the dim light, it took you a minute to see what he held, what he was giving you.

It was another gift.

Another ornately carved bone, this time with the center drilled open–

A ring. 

You could not have misinterpreted this if you’d tried. He wanted to be your mate. 

“Let me be yours, m-di h'dlak.” No fear. He was calling you no fear. His fearless one. 

Your answer was out of your mouth before you could even plan a dignified response. “Yes. Yes, Kwei.”

You’d never seen a Yautja smile so wide, never heard your crew cheer so loudly. Kwei wasted no time putting the bone ring on your finger (the wrong finger, but that wasn’t important) before he yanked you into a big hug, purring and clicking into your ear and swaying you back and forth.

“You guys are so cute,” you heard Thia say. Dek gave a few approving clicks behind her.

After a moment, Kwei let you go and you dropped to the ground (literally– he’d been holding you a few inches in the air). He pulled away, met your eyes again, and then… glanced down. You knew what he wanted, and you wanted it too.

You’d often found yourself wondering in the past, “how would one kiss a Yautja?” The secret to it is that, when the moment comes, it doesn’t matter. 

You stood up on your tiptoes, gripped his armor, and pressed your lips to his inner jaws. Kwei let out a little noise of surprise before his painted mandibles closed around your face and he leaned into the kiss, eyes closing. 

The rest of the crew started to hoot and wolf-whistle. Kwei instantly pulled away and glared at them, letting out a snarl. Unfortunately Dek knew the threat was empty and continued to tease the two of you, and the others followed suit, until Kwei sighed. You expected him to settle down and rejoin the party, but apparently he had other thoughts in mind. He gave your arm a little tug and when you curiously followed, he started back towards the ship with you in tow. 

cw: nsfw, smut, office sex, pregnant sex, oral sex, vaginal sex, standing sex, nipple play, breeding kink, creampie.

7 years later

The creaking noise of your office chair fills your ears when you shift for the umpteenth time to get comfortable. It seems as though no matter how you position yourself, this chair simply doesn't do the trick.

You sigh, taking a sip of your giant water bottle. You have been trying to do better at staying hydrated, so you recently picked up the huge ‘jug’ from the store—as Leon likes to call it—in hopes it will help you reach your hydration goals. 

The thought of the man makes you smile. He can be such a smartass, but it's nothing you’re not used to. Nine years of friendship, then followed by seven of a relationship, you have now known him for exactly half your life as you reach your thirty-second birthday. 

You still can't believe it sometimes, how you went from purely platonic to now growing old together. But the sparkly ring on your finger serves as a great reminder, its shine catching in the light whenever you move your hand. He got you the perfect one too—just what you wanted.

Thoughts of your perfect husband swirl in your head when you suddenly hear a noise outside in the hallway. It sounds like something rolling on the floor, like a cart perhaps, but you’re not sure. Since it’s usually quiet during this time at the FOS department on a Friday, your curiosity is peaked.

You don't have to wonder for much longer when a soft knock comes at your door. Four rhythmic taps, two slow ones, then two consecutives. Leon.

“Come in,” you murmur, a grin already spreading on your face. You find it sweet that he goes out of his way to knock, even though you will always let him in.

The door clicks, and in comes the man himself. He’s sporting his usual work attire—a suit, a tie, and dress shoes. Except now he’s forced to wear reading glasses while using the computer—to his great dismay and your great pleasure. You think he looks incredibly cute, while he insists it makes him appear older. But it's not like his age was ever a problem for you anyway.

“Hey, kiddo,” he smiles, looking a bit disheveled, and that's when you see the big leather chair he’s pulling behind him and into the room.

“What is that?” you frown in confusion as he shuts the door. “Is that from your office?”

“You said yours was uncomfortable, didn't you?” he mutters sheepishly.

“Yeah… But I didn't expect you to roll a chair all the way from the other side of the building!”

He chuckles, pushing the seat closer until it's positioned right next to yours. “One of the few downsides of you changing departments, I’ll admit.”

“Well, since you brought it all the way here…” You move to switch spots, then sink into the comfy cushion with a relieved sigh. “Damn. It’s so much better than mine.” 

Leon grins in satisfaction, then leans down to kiss your forehead softly. “Good. Wouldn't want my lovely wife to suffer while her body is working so hard.” He places a hand on your round stomach, his thumb rubbing a soothing motion.

“You’re spoiling me too much… Makes me wanna stay pregnant forever,” you giggle and place your hand on top of his.

“Well…” he bites his lip with a barely suppressed smirk, “I wouldn't complain.”

With that, he goes in for a kiss, groaning softly into your mouth from the contact. What starts as sweet and chaste quickly morphs into something needier when your tongues meet. It makes your head spin the way he cradles your face to deepen his access, his lips molding to yours like they were made for each other.

“Leon, we’re at work…” you pant once you pull away. 

“Never stopped us before,” he retorts, pecking your mouth again. “On this very same chair, too,” he adds with a grin.

Feeling your face grow hot, you huff as you pinch his cheek, his stubble tickling your fingers. “Yeah, but never in my office. You know it's way too quiet here, unlike your side.”

Leon pauses to look around the room, as if confirming if it's truly as noiseless as you claim. But then, he looks back down at you, and he can no longer suppress himself. You’re just so unbelievably pretty with his baby in your belly. He waited so long, even after proposing one year into your relationship, with a wedding held during the spring of 2017—he never wanted to rush you.

It's the only thing that truly makes the age gap more pertinent and at the forefront of his mind. He’s forty-five now, expecting his first baby when his peers are long done having kids. But he wouldn't have it any other way if not with you. He wanted you to focus on your career first, which you did—brilliantly. 

He watched you switch paths into an FOS position and slowly gain experience and rise in ranks while he supported from the side, no longer so heavily involved in your work. Even though he misses it sometimes, the shared moments during missions and reports, he still wouldn't change a thing if it means keeping you safe.

You also like to point out how it's healthier to separate some of your lives’ aspects to not grow sick of each other, but that’s where he wholeheartedly disagrees. He could spend every waking moment in your company and never complain. 

Which is why the chair was the perfect excuse to come visit you in your office, just to get another look at your gorgeous face and pretty bump. At six months now, it's obvious through most of your clothes, and it drives him a little feral every time you leave the house knowing people will get to see his claim on you. Yes, he has fully embraced the caveman in him by now. There was no use fighting him anyway the moment you agreed to be forever his.

“Do you think you can be quiet?” he rasps in your ear with a kiss to your jaw. 

You bite your lip, feeling that familiar heat coil in your gut at his proximity. “What do you wanna do?” you whisper, already enticed.

“Oh, wouldn't you like to know?” He moves to lock the door out of precaution. Then, without missing a beat, he comes to kneel at your feet, looking up at you through his black frames with those ice blues you never grow tired of. “If you want… you can open these pretty legs for me, sweetheart.”

“God… Sometimes I can’t believe how much of a freak you turned out to be,” you huff, and yet do exactly as he asks when you spread your thighs.

“Me? A freak? Nah, baby, I’m just in love.”

Ten minutes later, your skirt is hitched up to your waist, pantyhose bunched down at your ankles, with his face buried into your sensitive cunt. His glasses lay long forgotten next to where you're gripping the desk tightly with a hand, the other used to muffle your needy noises.

“Always so fucking sweet,” he grunts between your folds, his tongue incessantly dragging over your clit just to see you twitch. “I miss this little pussy every time I’m not tasting it—could stay here for hours.”

And he certainly has before. You remember distinctly the day he found out you were pregnant and proceeded to eat you out for quite literally hours, until you were a shaking, sobbing mess under him. 

With a suck at your inner lips, you whimper behind your palm, and he takes that as his cue to repeat the motion again and again. Then, he pulls back, spreading your labia wider with his thumbs, and spits directly into your drippy hole just to see it flutter.

“So pretty, and all for me,” he smiles up at you proudly. “Right, baby?”

“Y-yeah… All for you, Leon.”

He moans at your words, then dives right back in, tongue first. With his lips on your clit, he brings a finger to circle your entrance, pulling more sounds out of you, before pushing in. He steadily finger fucks you, starting gentle before increasing rhythm, and he curles his digit inwards with every motion, until you’re completely losing your mind.

“Fuck, fuck— Leon!” Your cry is muted by your palm as your legs shake and convulse around his head, your orgasm overwhelming every cell in your body. You just pray no one hears. 

Leon is not often this daring. Yes, he steals kisses and butt pats whenever he can, but full on sex at HQ is something you have only done a handful of times before—most of them having been during your pregnancy. He just can't seem to get enough of you in this state.

He peers up at you once you come down from the high, his face glistening with your slick and sporting a fucked out smile. You look down at him in your disheveled stare, and simply shake your head. 

“You’re gonna smell like pussy now.”

He laughs, loud and bright, then purposely leans in to kiss you, just to be annoying. “Now we both smell like freaks.”

You hand him tissues with a sheepish smile, then slowly stand to pull up your pantyhose just for him to step in to help. It's such a small gesture, so mundane and forgettable, and yet something about it makes you pause just to appreciate him.

He looks so good with his flushed cheeks and tousled hair, his eyes filled with so much love and lust for you it puts to shame any fleeting relationship you had before him. No one has ever made you feel this loved, this wanted, and it's making you grow as insatiable as him.

“Wait,” you stop his movements with a hand on his wrist. “Think you can be quiet?” you ask the same question he did before.

Leon’s heart stutters at the implied meaning of your words. It is awfully soundless outside, but you have managed to stay mostly silent, so maybe another round wouldn't hurt. Hell, he would do just about anything for another round.

“Please,” the word slips out before he can stop it, then watches your eyes light up with mischief.

“Hm… Everything here makes noise,” you gesture vaguely to the desk and chairs before turning to him. “Maybe you can hold me up instead?”

He removes his jacket before you can even finish your question. “Fuck, yes. Anything.”

It takes a moment to shuffle around until you figure out the position you want as it's not exactly a simple one. He stands behind you with your back to his chest. His pants are down at his ankles when he holds up one of your legs with a hand under your knee, and his other arm encircles your waist. You brace a palm on the chair’s backrest for balance despite his secure hold, and then look down. With your thighs spread, there's enough access for you to reach between them for his painfully hard cock, and carefully slip it inside you.

You moan in unison at the feel of his first inch breaching you, then, he slowly slides in further so you can feel his thick length filling you up. He kisses along your neck to muffle his noises, the hand on your waist shifting to lift your sweater and reveal your bra. 

Your breasts haven't gotten that much larger so far, though you know that change will probably happen when your milk comes in. However, what has changed is the darkening of your nipples, something you were feeling a bit insecure about until Leon proved you otherwise—he’s obsessed.

Pulling your bra cups down, he starts to pinch and squeeze at the peaks the moment your breasts spill out into the office air. His hips don't stop gyrating, fucking into you in a stable rhythm while keeping you steady on your foot, all while the chair you’re holding onto rolls with every thrust in a coming and going motion. He loves being strong enough to take you in every position you want.

“So tight,” he whines in your ear, his fingers digging into your skin and making it dimple between his digits. “Feels so good, honey—ngh— Prettiest little mommy… Fuck.”

You turn your face just to kiss him, whimpering into his mouth as quietly as you can while he splits you open. The word ‘mommy’ does something to you, and you feel that familiar build of pleasure every time his cockhead nudges your cervix. You could stay impaled on his length forever.

“I can feel you so deep…” you whisper between sloppy kisses. “Right where you belong.”

Leon makes a pathetically needy sound, because yes, this is where he belongs. With you, inside you, loving you, and giving you his all—this is where he wants to be. 

“Yes, sweetheart, thank you,” he bites your lip and it makes your cunt clench around him. He’s thanking you for this as if he isn't the one holding you upright and drilling into you as hard as he wants. It makes your heart warm and your walls quiver.

“I’m so close…” Your voice comes out broken, like you’re tethering on the edge and just need an extra push. “Cum inside me—wanna feel it.”

He has to close his eyes to keep his composure as he rests his forehead against yours, his thrusts never stopping. He can feel himself fully losing it, and can't manage to stay calm anymore when he tugs at your nipple until you gasp.

“Yeah? Want my cum? Want me to breed you more?” he rasps in your ear, the obscene sound of his balls slapping your skin filling the room. The caveman is fully out. “You didn't get enough, babe? Look at you… Shit, you're so fucking stunning with my baby inside you… But you want more, huh?”

“Yes! Fuck!” you curse loudly when he slides his hand down, grazing past your bump, and then cupping your mound like he owns it. And damn it, he does.

“Shhh… What did we say about being loud?” He kisses your cheek tenderly, a complete contrast to the way he’s rearranging your insides. “I’ll give you what you want if you stay quiet… Just, fuck— Just stay put and let me fill you up. Gonna pump you so fucking full I’ll put a second kid in there before the first is out.”

That does it. 

You clamp a hand on your mouth, nearly screaming of pleasure when your climax hits you hard. His fingers work your clit, his cock fucks you fast, and his lips press kisses along your neck, all while you lose yourself completely in his grasp. You know the only reason you’re still standing upright is his arm under your thigh and his hand on your pussy, like a portable little thing he can rut into even as your limbs turn to jello.

“Good mommy,” he praises, suckling along your neck, then preparing to let himself go too. It's not hard when you're gripping him so tight post-orgasm his dick is nearly choking. “You're perfect,” he adds in a whisper.

Soon enough, his rhythm stutters, his grip tightens, and he’s moaning incessantly in your neck as he shoots his load right into your already filled womb. Then, when his own limbs turn to mush, he sets you down on the chair where you can catch your breath while he kneels with his head resting on your thigh.

“Shit, I need a minute,” he pants tiredly.

When you look down at him to find him flushed, sweaty and disheveled, his pants still at his ankles, the sight makes you giggle. “Are you beat, old man?”

He huffs, giving your thigh a light bite in protest. “Shut up…”

You laugh again, your eyes crinkling at the corners in fondness. If there's one thing that has never changed between you, it's the endless teasing and playful banter.

Through his exhaustion, Leon stands up with a grunt—forty-five has him making noises with every movement—then quickly pulls up his slacks to help you fix your clothes too.

His eyes glimmer when he slides your panties in place, knowing they will collect his spend that will steadily leak out of you during the day. The thought of that alone could have him ready to go again if not for his protesting back. 

He fixes your bra and sweater, but not without giving both of your darkened nipples a wet suck each—just because he can. Finally, he fixes your hair to the best of his ability and kisses you on the cheek when done.

“Yeah, no, people are definitely gonna tell we were up to something,” you conclude when you catch your reflections in the turned off monitor. 

He laughs, then tucks his shirt with a grin, the thin fabric clinging to his muscles with every movement. “Well, I consider it hazard pay for all the shit they’ve put us through.”

“Amen,” you chuckle.

Leon’s grin softens into a small smile, a hint of sadness flickering through his ice blues when he notices the light tremor of your hands where they rest on your bump. He knows he should be used to it by now, but it never stops hurting knowing you continue to suffer from the consequences of that night. He’s just grateful he never has to worry about you being put into that kind of danger again.

“Water?” you interrupt his thoughts when you offer him your comically large bottle.

He takes it with a renewed smirk, shifting his focus on teasing you. “Thanks, kid. You know me, I love jugs.”

You roll your eyes at his awful joke while he grins with pride, then takes a loud sip of water as his gaze drifts to your desk. It lands on the little corkboard you keep on your wall for personal mementos and pictures, and he feels butterflies when all your cherished moments seem to be related to him.

Binx doodles, photos of Leon and you on your dates, in addition to sonograms of your unborn baby—he could cry at how adorably sweet you are.

“You put those up,” he points to the black and white ultrasound images. Those were taken almost a month ago during your twentieth week appointment. You had both been excited to find out the gender of the baby, only for them to keep their legs closed and render the task impossible for the nurse.

“Mhm. I wanted to hang pictures of the stubborn little weed.”

“Reminds me of someone,” he teases, kissing your cheek before you can pout.

Leaning into his touch, you look at the clock on the wall and remember something. “Oh, Claire texted, by the way. She wanted to confirm tonight's dinner. We’re still on, right?”

“Yep. Seven was it?”

“Yeah,” you nod, readjusting in the comfy chair you will undoubtedly never return. “I’ll probably meet you there a bit later, though. I have some extra work to do today after lunch with Sherry.”

“Don't overwork yourself, kid,” he frowns as he tucks a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. “Call me when you're on your way, alright?”

“Will do… And I can't believe you still call me kid even now,” you huff as you gesture to your pregnant belly, though an evident smile tugs at your lips.

He laughs, pecking your lips one more time, then grabs his glasses as he prepares to leave your office with a deliberately unhurried step.

“Told you. You’ll always be my kiddo. Even when you're old and wrinkly with dentures.”

As Leon settles on the plush sofa next to Jill, he lets out a contended sigh. It's been a while since he gathered with friends, and it's always nice to be surrounded by those closest to him.

“You said your lovely wife is running late, yeah? I think Sherry is too,” Claire addresses him as she sinks into the armchair opposite him.

“Yeah, they're probably working together on reports,” he answers with a smile, the mere thought of you bringing one to his face. “I’m sure they'll get here as soon as they can.”

“Look at you, Kennedy!” Chris grins as he sits on the armrest beside him, giving him a loud clap on the back. “If I didn't know better, I'd think you’re the pregnant one with how much you're glowing.”

Jill and Claire snicker, with the latter agreeing from her spot. “I have to agree, you look absolutely radiant.”

Leon has gotten used to the siblings’ incessant teasing, especially since he married you and they like to remind him how much happier he is now on every possible occasion. After all, they have witnessed him during some of his darkest moments, so to see the change in him is a welcome sight. 

He remembers how nervous he was to announce you two had gotten together, only to be met by their overwhelming support. They said they trusted him to take good care of you, and it felt like the best compliment in the world.

“Fuck off, both you,” he huffs in response to their teasing, giving Chris a nudge before turning to the brunette beside him. “Jill, back me up here, they're doing their evil duo shit again.”

“I got you. We’re not letting the Redfields defeat us,” she raises her hand for a high-five that he gleefully returns. 

“Hey, you’re a Redfield too!” Chris scoffs at her, but he’s only met by a dismissive hand wave.

“I married you, sure, but no way am I dropping Valentine. Jill Redfield sounds weird.”

The buff man can't help but laugh, clearly not truly upset that she has kept her surname all these years. They never planned on having children anyway, so there was never a need for them to unify their last names.

“Where’s the little one?” Leon suddenly asks when he notices Gabby missing. 

“Oh, she's with her dad, they went to the store to grab dessert—I completely forgot to plan for it,” Claire grumbles, then is interrupted by the sound of jingling keys. “Ah, they must be here!”

Damien appears with boxed pastries in his arms and Gabby on his tail. She looks more like her mother with every passing year.

“Leon! It’s been a while!” the man smiles as he sees him. “You came alone?”

The blonde smiles back with a wave. “Kiddo’s coming in a bit with Sherry… Hey, Gabs!” 

“Hi,” the girl greets timidly before moving to sit by Claire. Then, in typical nine-year-old fashion, she asks bluntly, “do you guys know the baby’s gender yet?”

Leon is taken aback by the sudden question before he chuckle, shaking his head. “No, they couldn't see during the ultrasound last time. But we got this blood test that should settle it for us… Why? Do you have predictions?”

Gabby smiles shyly and looks at her mother with a small giggle, prompting Claire to side hug her affectionately. 

“She hopes it's a girl,” the woman grins, then turns back to the child. “Right, honey?”

“Well, because you said the baby will be like my cousin and I think a girl cousin would be so fun… But a boy cousin would still be nice too.”

The adults smile fondly, with Damien reaching over to ruffle the girl’s hair when he passes by to settle on the sectional. Chatter fills the room as they all bask in each other's presence, catching up and sharing anecdotes of their daily lives, until the doorbell rings.

Leon’s eyes immediately turn towards the entrance, sitting up a bit straighter in anticipation. He always feels a bit silly over how affected he still is by you, like a teenager with a massive crush. But he can't help it, every morning he gets to wake up by your side is a blessing in his book. 

When you and Sherry walk in, his eyes light up, and he swears the room brightens with your smile, like you're some kind of celestial being made of sunshine and fairy dust. His personal angel sent down just for him.

He observes as you greet everyone, hugs and smiles exchanged before you inevitably find your way to him, your side pressed to his.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he murmurs low enough only for you to hear. He then takes note of your clothes with a quirked eyebrow. “You changed?”

Looking down at your jeans and hoodie, you chuckle, then lean into him as his hand comes to rest at your waist. “I feel like I get a pass to wear sweatshirts at dinners as the resident pregnant lady… I decided to keep spare comfy clothes in the car. Best decision ever.”

“You're so cute,” he coos adoringly with a gentle pinch at your side. “You look perfect, kiddo.”

Jill, who is now beside you as you sat between her and Leon, turns to you both with a curious smile. “So, from a scale of jumping with excitement to shitting your pants, how ready are you guys to become parents?”

“Jumping with excitement,” you grin.

“Shitting my pants,” Leon says at the same time.

You both pause, then turn to look at each other with intrigue. Jill just laughs, shaking her head at the sight of your collective confusion. “I feel like both are very valid reactions,” she teases.

“It's not that I’m not scared, I’m just also really excited…” you murmur, peering at Leon to gauge his reaction. “I feel like we’ve waited for this for so long, right?”

“Absolutely,” he immediately answers to quench your worries. “It just seems a bit daunting, that's all… I mean, I’m forty-five, people my age are usually past starting families.”

Jill tucks a strand of her silver streaked hair away from her face before smiling softly. “I never wanted kids, so I’m not the best fit to give advice about this, but I’m sure that your baby won't care about your age, Leon. As long as you do your best, that's all that matters.”

“Exactly,” you add in agreement, and he sighs with a small nod, despite his eyes still holding some worry in them.

Your conversation is interrupted when everyone is called to sit at the table for dinner to be served. The evening goes by in a breeze in the company of friends who you consider family, and it ends with a toast presented by none other than Chris Redfield.

He raises his glass, a playful grin on his face. “To the Kennedys and their growing family! May the baby inherit their mother’s kind heart, and, uh, their father’s good hair, I guess.”

The room erupts in laughter, with Leon not-so-discreetly flipping Chris off as Sherry covers Gabby’s eyes. You giggle, lifting your glass of water as you clink it with the others’ drinks, your heart feeling full.

“Ugh, I’m exhausted,” you grunt as you slump on the bed, spreading your limbs like a starfish on the soft surface the moment you finish your nighttime routine.

Stretching in his cotton shirt and sweatpants, Leon comes out of the bathroom with a yawn, equally tired. 

“Take it easy, sweetheart, you’ve had a long day.”

“I did… Especially when a certain someone came to deliver a chair as an excuse for nefarious behavior.”

He laughs softly, moving to lay beside you on his stomach, laying his dark blonde head on his crossed arms. “That was one hell of a delivery.”

You huff, poking his forehead with a berating finger. “My legs are sore, you know.”

“And who was it again who wanted to have sex while standing? I’m sorry, but this one’s on you, kid.”

When you groan as a retort, shifting to peel the covers, he gives your ass a light slap that makes you grumble.

“Stop pouting,” he drawls with a smirk. “I’ll give you a leg massage.”

Your eyes suddenly light-up and you immediately halt in your movements. “Really?” 

“Yes, really. Now come here.”

You do as told, shifting until you’re laying on your front with a leg propped up towards your chest to allow room for your round belly. With a pillow hugged to your side, you feel yourself relax, and even more so when Leon starts touching you with warm palms.

He massages your calves in slow, circular motions, then moves on to your thighs before going back down, and so on and so forth. You feel boneless under his loving hands, your body completely pliant, and yet your mind whirrs with running thoughts.

“Hey…” you murmur quietly. “What you said earlier with Jill, do you really mean you’re that worried?”

Leon pauses his movements, taking a moment to think before answering as he resumes the massage. “It's not so bad. You know me, I just get in my head sometimes…” He swallows, as if stopping himself from saying more, then lets out a chuckle. “I guess I’m just worried the age gap will be too big for the kid to like my dad jokes.”

Smiling at his lighter tone, you look at him past your shoulder with your head propped on your palm. “Babe, even I don’t like your dad jokes, and I’m thirty-two.”

He laughs, then gives your ass another slap as he leans in for a kiss to your smirking lips. “Yeah, you don't like them. You love them.”

The massage continues with your worry over his words mostly appeased, and soon after, you find yourselves under the covers, in the dark and ready to go to sleep. You reach for his hand like you do every night, giving it a squeeze with a whispered ‘I love you’, then close your eyes for the night.

You’re just about to drift when you hear his voice resound softly in the silence. 

“Do you think I’ll be a good dad?”

The question takes you by surprise, the answer obvious in your mind, but you immediately discard sleep when hearing how vulnerable his tone is. 

“Of course, Leon… Of course you’ll be a good dad.”

You knew he was more concerned than he let on. He always does this—pretending everything is okay not to burden you. No matter how many times you promise him he can lay his worries on you, he still hesitates, afraid of being too much.

Deep down, you know it's because of that night when you gave up your life for his. He’s always avoiding making your stress and fatigue worsen, his eyes filling with concern whenever your hands tremble or you complain of a headache. Things that you have learned to live with, but for him, they serve as a constant reminder of his suppressed guilt.

You scoot closer, then wrap your arms around his neck just for him to melt into you completely as he lays his head on your chest. He closes his eyes, listening to your steady heartbeat, then tangles his legs with yours.

“I’m sorry, I just… I get worried about messing up. I don't really know much about children, and apart from Damien, I don't know that many dads.”

You hug him tighter as you nod, feeling his hand come to a rest on your bump. You take in a shaky breath, then decide to share your own struggles.

“I think it's normal to think about your own experience and childhood when you're about to have a baby… You know, I’ve been thinking about my mom a lot lately, how I wish she was here along with dad, so they could see me—us—become parents.”

Leon feels his chest tighten at the mention of your deceased parents, his own wounds of grief flaring at the thought. He always thinks of the fact neither of you really have families, at least not any close relatives. It makes him all the more protective of you and the bond you share. After all, it's only you and him in this world.

His thumb rubs soothing circles on your bump as he speaks, “I think they would be really, really proud of you, sweetheart. I know I am.”

“Well, I’m proud of you too, and I know you will be a great father, because you give your all in everything else and this will be no different,” you kiss the crown of his hair, breathing in the clean scent of his shampoo. “You’re gonna be okay, I promise.”

“Hey,” he huffs, a smile pulling at his lips, “that's my line.”

“Wouldn't be the first thing I learn from you.”

Leon chuckles softly, then tilts his head to meet your eyes with his blue ones. You can't see much in the dark, but you can still see the way they shine with fondness. He already feels better from your reassuring words.

“Thank you, kid. I wouldn't do this with anyone but you.” He kisses your stomach tenderly in gratitude.

Tears start to prick your eyes—damned hormones—but you blink them away and switch to a lighter tone. No need to cry when you're the happiest you’ve ever been.

“You’re welcome, my good sir. I also would have stayed unmarried and depressed if it’s not with you.”

The fondness in Leon’s heart grows tenfold, and he gives your sides a squeeze before nuzzling further into your chest. 

Oh, the things you do to him.

A moment of silence passes before he speaks muffled. “Remember when you had to call me ‘sir’ around other people during training days? You would always switch back to first names the second you could get away with it.”

You laugh at the memory, remembering yourself at eighteen, fresh out of your year in the military where titles meant everything, and yet you always resisted calling him anything but Leon.

“Because I wanted to be special… And we were already friends anyway!” you exclaim to defend yourself.

He grins, kissing your sternum where it peeks over the collar of your tanktop. “You were already special, you’re the only one I mentored.”

“Yeah, well, I had a massive crush and scribbled your name on my notebooks… I was desperate and greedy for more.”

He laughs, but then the sound slowly dies down the longer he lets himself think of your confession. “You know, I still can't believe it… The fact you liked me for so long and I had no idea,” he sighs, his breath tickling your skin. “I can't tell if not knowing was a blessing or a curse.”

“Definitely a blessing,” you immediately retort. “You would have absolutely panicked and melted into a puddle of shame and guilt before sending me off to be trained by someone else.”

Leon gives it a thought for all but two seconds before begrudgingly agreeing—you know him too well. “Okay, fair.”

“I still can't believe you started liking me back. I thought I wasn't your type.”

He scoffs, like the notion of you not being exactly what he always wanted irks him. “And what type is that?” he quirks an accusing eyebrow.

“I don't know… Badass and mysterious?” you giggle.

You can't see it in the dark, but he rolls his eyes hard. But then he can't help but kiss your cheek, because when it comes to you he’s the absolute sappiest.

“Oh, baby, you’re the most badass and mysterious of them all,” he murmurs with a grin.

You’re about to answer when your phone dings with an email notification, prompting you to reach for the device on your nightstand.

“Hey, no phones after ten,” Leon grumbles.

“Yeah, yeah, I just forgot to turn off notifications, dad,” you answer with a huff as the screen lights up your features.

“It better be important…”

You pay him no mind, opening your email app just to see the name of the lab you recently visited. “Wait, it’s the blood test…” you whisper in a mix of excitement and nerves. “The NIPT results!”

He frowns, leaning to look at the contents of your screen where your thumb hovers over the link. “They’re sending them at nearly midnight?”

“I was supposed to get it today, maybe their system got delayed… Oh, God, why am I suddenly nervous?”

“It’s alright to be nervous,” he reassures you with a smile that makes your heart flutter. “No matter what, it’ll be our baby, so they're already perfect.”

“Yeah, you’re so right,” you nod in agreement, then take a deep inhale. “Okay, are you ready?”

“As ready as I’ll ever be.”

Holding your breath, you finally press to show the awaited results. The test is meant to screen for common chromosomal conditions, as well as detect the sex of the baby. You know in the deepest pit of your soul, that no matter the outcome, you will love this child and do your very best as a mother, especially with Leon at your side.

Finally, the PDF opens, and you exhale once you read the head of the page.

Summary of results: Aneuploidies and microdeletions: Low risk. Fetal fractions: 10.2% (normal) Fetal sex: Female.

Your relief at the baby being at low risk is quickly overshadowed by excitement when you read that last line. Your eyes widen, and you choke on a gasp.

“Oh my God… Leon!”

The poor man beside you is as confused as they come as he tries and fails to read the tiny font on your tiny screen without his glasses. Your reaction doesn't help, only furthering his worry.

“What? What is it?” He places a hand on yours where you're holding your phone, just to bring it closer as he squints.

The sight makes you laugh, and you finally have mercy on him by making the announcement yourself. 

“It's low risk, so, all good, and… it’s a girl!”

Leon’s heart stutters, a sudden gasp leaving his throat. “A girl?”

“Yes! Well, female,” you grin.

He takes a moment for the information to sink in before nodding slowly. “Like you.”

“Yes, a girl like me.”

“That’s… That’s so cute,” he finally smiles as he pictures a mini version of you playing up a storm around the house. “Gabby called it.”

“She did?” you laugh, running fingers through his hair soothingly.

“She’ll be so happy,” he nods with a chuckle, before his expression turns back into something awe-filled. “I mean, fuck, it doesn't mean much no matter… But I kind of always wanted a girl.”

The confession tugs at your heartstrings like nothing else. You kiss his cheek tenderly with a whisper, “I know, and you’ll be the best girl dad ever.”

“And you’ll be the best mom, sweetheart. Binxie can attest to that, even if he’s an old grumpy cat now.”

Giggling, you can already picture the feline’s reaction to a noisy, crying baby. He will probably hide in the guest bedroom for some peace and quiet.

“It’ll be just us three and Binx,” you murmur with a fond smile. “Together.”

“Yeah…” Leon hums and holds you tight against his chest like you're the most precious thing in the world. And to him, you really are. “Just like it was always meant to be, my love.”

Melting into his hold, you feel your hearts beating in sync where your chests are pressed together. You were never one to believe in soulmates and predestined lovers, but when it comes to him, there are no doubts in your mind that you were made for each other.

“I love you so much, Leon.”

“I love you more than I ever thought I was capable of, kiddo... Thank you for choosing me.”

You answer his gratitude with a kiss that he returns in earnest, his lips molding to yours perfectly. Choosing him was never a conscious effort for you, it was as natural as the tides being pulled by the moon’s gravity. There is no universe where you don't belong to him, and you knew that from the moment he offered you a kind smile and a promise that you will be okay.

The end.

i'm not sure what to say as we come to the conclusion of this story, i feel a lot of emotions that's for sure, especially as it coincides with a period of big changes in my personal life 💙

when i started writing for the first time in march, i never expected my fics to get such overwheming support, and i definitely have a bit of imposter syndrome knowing i'm such a noob yet people seem to like my stories

nonetheless, i am so grateful to each and every person who liked, reblogged or commented, especially commented, because you guys motivated me more than anything to keep writing and posting frequently

we're ending this book (yes, a whole ass book) at about 88k which is absolutely insane for someone not used to finishing many things in her life. i'm so happy to have discovered writing as a hobby that can bring me and others joy in this little corner of the internet

i want to present a special thanks to @sammimi19 my dear bestie who supported me since my very first fic and who is always the first one to read my chapters and offer valuable feedback (even tho she pretends to be surprised by chapter events in the comments, don't believe her you guys) i love you so so much sammy, and i appreciate having you in my life more than you know 💘

Blood graces the tips of your fingers.

A few fresh drops form hairline rivers, the rest is darkly dried and flaking, drifting to find a home on the back of your hand. Simon’s face is the worst of it. Bruising mars his upper jaw near the lobe of his ear. A large, stitched gash stands stark against his skin above his right brow, the edges of the wound inflamed and puffy from the needlework and initial blow.

“This will need ice.” Your thumb grazes over the mark. “The area is swelling.” Dropping your hand, you reach for the damp towel, removing the blood from your fingers. The fresh stuff wipes clean. The dry bits stick, forcing you to scrub. “What the hell hit you?”

“A food tray,” answers Simon, monotone.

“A food tray?” you repeat, disbelieving.

“Made of hard plastic.” Simon shrugs. “Cleans easy. Won’t break if used as a weapon.”

“Unbelievable,” you huff, checking under your nails.

Simon rolls his neck with an audible pop. “Had worse injuries.”

Perched on the edge of the coffee table in the living room, you stare dumbly at your husband. Simon sits on the floor, leaning against the edge of the couch. One leg bent, the other outstretched. A first aid kit lays open beside you, the contents spread out on the table.

Grasping Simon’s chin, you guide his face to the right. “I know.” The bruising will only deepen with time. “Still need to take care of it.” A bit of gauze and antiseptic will clean the area. “Should have this done at the hospital.”

As you add pressure to the afflicted spot, Simon inhales sharply. “I like your hands better.”

You snort, dabbing at the wound. “My hands aren’t meant for this.”

“Not meant for taking care of me?”

You drop your hand quickly. “This isn’t funny.”

Simon grasps your wrist, bringing your fingers back to his face. Palm upward, Simon rests his cheek against it, eyelids closing as he inhales deeply. “Didn’t say it was.” Those gorgeous brown eyes reappear, striking and sharp. “Should see Fields. That man needs the hospital.”

“You’re insufferable,” you mutter, not drawing your hand away. It’s warm where his cheek rests, radiating into your arm. As strong as Simon is, this is the most vulnerable you’ve seen him, seeking comfort with a gentle touch.

“Don’t regret what I did,” he says, firmly. “Do it again given the chance.”

“Simon,” you sigh. “Are you not worried? About what will happen to you?”

His voice is firm. Nonnegotiable. “Nothing will happen.”

The finality in his voice gives you pause. You’re not ignorant of the roles and rules of a military force. Regardless of who, to strike another soldier, to strike one of your own, results in punishment.

“Nothing?” you exhale, wanting nothing more than to roll your eyes but thinking better of it. “They punish soldiers all the time for this. What makes you any different?”

Simon slowly draws your hand away from his cheek. Clutching your hand in his, he brings it down to his lap. “Captain Price decides what happens to us.”

“I doubt that very much.”

His hand squeezes, drawing you closer. “I’m not some grunt, dove.”

That you know. You’ve been victim to it firsthand. “Real convenient then. Sounds like you can do whatever you want.” You don’t mean to sound as snarky as you do. Frustration, and concern for Simon’s injuries, outweigh your neural processing.

Simon leans in, shortening the small sliver of distance between you. “You weren’t there. You don’t know what happened.”

Not a lecture, even if it feels like one. The delivery is gentle, like a brush of wind against the cheek.

“I know you nearly beat a man to death.” Try as you might, your voice cracks. The emotion isn’t for Fields, it’s for everything else, and how scared you were.

“Fields deserved it. Plenty of witnesses heard him. What he said. I had every right to do what I did to him.”

You shake your head. “I don’t believe you.”

“I didn’t kill him,” he says, as if that makes it better.

Yanking your hand out of Simon’s grasp, you bolt up from the table, stepping over him. “You let yourself get carried away.”

Placing his hand on the sofa behind him, Simon pushes himself to standing. “I’ve killed enough men to know when they can’t take another hit. Fields had plenty left in him.”

That’s not the point. It was never the point.

Inside your chest is a twisted nest of vines, shredding your heart and ribcage, caving it in.

“You worried me.” You turn on him, voice rising slightly. “Receiving a call like that? I dropped everything and went to the hospital looking for you.” Your chest heaves, adrenaline spiking. “Jesus, Simon. Thought you were seriously injured.”

“Dove—”

“And then you weren’t at the hospital,” you continue right over him. “No one could tell me where you were. And I didn’t even find you. You just,” you gesture vaguely into the air, “appeared. After I searched everywhere you could possibly be.”

Simon’s shoulders soften, gentleness easing in. Rage would be preferable. Have a screaming match and fuck each other afterward.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you murmur, all the energy deflating like a slashed tire.

A slow saunter and he’s right there, on you, resting his hands on your hips, squeezing, drawing you in until you’re pressed against him. Simon’s arms slide up, and you melt, wrapping your arms around his middle as Simon encircles your shoulders.

“Don’t make me worry,” you say into his chest, eyes watery.

Simon kisses the crown of your head. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You still haven’t said what will happen to you.”

“Already told you,” he chuckles, “nothing.”

Leaning your head back, you stare into his face, searching for a hint of a lie. “That’s impossible.”

Simon releases your shoulders, cradling your face with both hands. “Not repeating what Fields said. But he said it loudly. Enough for everyone to hear. Left too many witnesses. Can’t defend himself.”

“What did he say?”

A pause blooms, and a muscle in Simon’s face twitches. Whatever Fields said, Simon is still angry over it.

“He said things about you. What he’d do to you if you were his. Couldn’t let that stand.”

Simon doesn’t just swing on anyone. His dislike for the Fields is thick like cooling tar, but Simon has never struck out at the man with his fists. What the fuck did Fields say about you? Enough for Simon to nearly beat him to death?

“I still don’t see how you won’t face consequences.”

Dipping his head, Simon comes in for a kiss. It’s slow and soft, more tender than he’s ever been.

“Price will drill me about it. Assign me grunt work for show. Keep me out of sight until we leave. But it’s Fields that’ll face a harsher consequence. To publicly say what he did, loud enough for me and everyone else to hear, that’s seen as disloyalty, and provoking conflict.” Simon rests his lips against your forehead before continuing. “He also has a record. It’s an embarrassment to Graves. He’ll want it swept under the rug and forgotten.”

You snuggle closer. “That’s not comforting.”

Simon seeks a few more kisses. These are deeper than the last and just as sweet.

“I was defending you. That’s how it’ll be seen. If Graves demanded punishment for bloodying one of his men, everyone would question his leadership. A drunken scuffle is one thing, but to not punish the soldier that talked about assaulting another’s wife?”

You jerk backward. “He said what?” Simon exhales through his nose. “That is not what you said a minute ago.”

“See why I couldn’t let it stand? Man deserved it.”

Burying your face in Simon’s chest, you breathe deep, lingering in his scent, filling your lungs with him. As much as you’re frustrated, having Simon here, holding you, is calming.

“I’m just happy you’re okay,” you whisper.

“I’m fine, dove. Promise.”

Tucking you against his chest, Simon sways, rubbing your back. Closing your eyes, you settle into him, silently counting your inhalations and exhalations, finding a place of calm, or a semblance of the concept.

“Still upset with me?” asks Simon.

“Only a little.”

“A little?”

You hold up one hand, bringing your thumb and forefinger close together but not touching. “Little bit.”

“Little bit,” repeats Simon, playfully kissing your fingers.

Laughing, you pull away, slipping out of his arms. Simon allows you to take a few steps before he’s on you again, grabbing, diving in for more kisses as you attempt to flee. This is a different side to Simon, a playfulness you didn’t think he possessed. Of all the times you’ve seen him smile, it’s never been with his whole mouth or even his teeth.

But this man is enraptured with you. Completely happy. It is soft and sweet and perfect enough to bottle. Let it be your perfume, or the honey in your tea.

“Simon,” you chastise, slapping at his hand. “Enough. You’re hurt.”

“Just my face,” he replies, a flirty drawl creeping in. “Not my dick.”

You burst out laughing, unable to contain yourself. Simon chases, herding you to the bedroom, dispelling you of clothes until you’re completely bare for him. Simon’s demeanor shifts from teasing to seductive, cradling your face in his hands, kissing you with a ferociousness that steals your breath.

“Want my mouth on your cunt.” Simon’s words are blunt. “Need your taste on my tongue. Need to hear you scream my name.”

A twinge seizes your thighs, pussy clenching like he’s inside you.

“Can I do what I want?” he asks, hushed.

Simon has controlled this entire relationship, but he’s seeking permission this time, laying it before you to take or reject. He’s asked you what you’ve wanted before, yet this is different, a desperateness that lingers beneath the surface.

The fight. The looming deployment. The idea of the two of you being separated for a month or more.

“Have your way with me,” and your voice is a whimper.

Simon seizes your mouth again, consuming until you’re clawing at him, needing to be within and without. His mouth descends, finding jaw and throat, shoulder and breast, stomach and thigh. Burying his face between your legs, he inhales, his hands supporting your ass as you fist his hair.

One minute you’re standing, and the next you’re on your back, the bed sinking beneath your weight. Simon is precise, turning you onto hands and knees, forcing your ass up and your legs wide.

You choke on your next inhalation as Simon tongues your pussy, using the tip of his tongue to trace lines that may very well be his name. A branding all its own.

“Fucking love your taste, dove,” groans Simon. He draws back, inserts a finger. It slides in easily. “And how your body takes me.”

A few strokes and then it’s gone, replaced with his tongue. You fist the bedding beneath you, squirming as Simon switches between fingering and tasting, coaxing your orgasm to the surface.

“Don’t fight it,” he says. “Don’t fight.”

Simon brings both into play, forcing the orgasm out. It’s harsh. Searing. You burst into a brief sob in the unrelenting pressure. Ceaseless, Simon continues to fuck you with his fingers, running his tongue over and around, sucking on your clit.

Another. Another.

The withdrawal is sudden. Suddenly full, then empty. Cool air and nothing, lasting but a moment. Lifting, pressed up against him, Simon slides his cock between your thighs, rocking back and forth in an easy motion. Not inside you, simply grinding, keeping you still as he coats himself in your slickness.

An urge crawls forth, of wanting to sink to your knees, to take him into your mouth, have him spill down your throat.

“Simon,” you gasp. “I want—”

Your words are stolen as Simon’s fingers slide into your mouth. His arms around you tighten, keep you aloft and on your knees at the edge of the bed, your legs pointed outward as he stands between them.

“You can suck my cock later,” he growls, knowing exactly what you desired.

His hips draw back, and the head of his cock finds its home. It’s a slow ease as he feeds you his dick, bringing more of him inside until there’s no more space between your bodies. Simon bites down on your neck, not hard enough to break skin, but the area will be tender. Might even leave little indents from his teeth.

Another slow move as he withdraws, leaving just the tip. Simon stays like that, the two of you simply breathing. His teeth are still on your skin, still pressing, causing a twinge of pain. A release, and an absence of teeth, followed by lips.

“Hold still, dove,” he murmurs.

Simon thrusts. It’s all fast, all rough, all primal need. You’re caged against him, the little sounds you make muffled by his fingers. Whatever this is, Simon needs it, desperately. To claim you, perhaps, to make them understand you’re his, even if no one is watching.

Your head falls back, resting against the top of his shoulder. There is no place for you to go to, no way to escape, not that you want to. His strokes are rough and deep, the penetration alone hitting somewhere that sparks with intensity, increasing with his thrusts.

Muscles relaxing, you remain weightless, eyelids fluttering as another orgasm rolls in, this one less intense but just as venomous. Behind you, Simon is all feral grunts and groans. It’s right in your ear, puffs of air that brush over your earlobe and across your skin.

All you can smell is sex and sweat. It mixes with your pathetic moans and Simon’s animalistic noises, and the slap of skin. Your thighs are wet and sticky, growing drenched by the second, likely to leave a small pool on the bed.

With a grunt, Simon’s arms shift. His fingers retreat and you gasp for air. The arms holding you grab your own, seizing your upper arms, drawing them back. Your top half is bent slightly, hanging over the bed. And Simon is still fucking you, rough and wanton.

He doesn’t cease, even when he fills your pussy with his cum. Your husband fucks it into you, only stopping to bring your bodies together, holding his dick inside you. The air is thick with breathing and sticky bodies.

Simon’s arms become a cradle, guiding you both down to the bed. Draping himself over you, still nestled in your cunt, he begins again.

“I’m out.”

Your stomach flips, threatening to spill your breakfast onto your feet. “I thought there was one left. What happened to it?”

Hannah frowns. “Didn’t you use it?”

You try to think, to roll back in time and recall when, or if, you used the last emergency contraceptive. The fact that they can make it at all is an accomplishment, which is why they’re rare and only ever given to women who have a history of complications or the potential for a difficult pregnancy. Hannah managed to snag what she could but that doesn’t mean the supply is endless. There are thousands of others that might need it.

“Maybe I did,” you laugh awkwardly, brushing it aside, even though the room is fucking tilting. “Can’t remember.”

Hannah quirks an eyebrow. “I can get you condoms. There are lots of those. Plenty to supply. They’re easier and cheaper to make.”

Simon might be hurt if you brought them home. He understands your reasons for wanting to delay, but he desires to be a father. He’d listen to you now, hear you out, even talk about it, but it would still cut.

“I’ll take a few,” you smile, accepting the box from Hannah. “Wouldn’t hurt.”

Not like it’ll help now.

How many times did you and Simon fuck last night? You won’t even count this morning in bed, in the shower, and then in the kitchen because you’d need more fingers. Even now, as you stand here, you feel his cum leaking out of you to dampen your underwear. If you didn’t have that it would be all over your thighs.

Eloise bursts through the door, her hair windswept, arms full. She drops the mess onto her desk, muttering under her breath in French.

“No cart?” asks Hannah.

“No,” Elose emphasizes, digging through the loose papers like she’s desperately searching for something. “The bastards.”

As she digs, she sorts. Pushing her hair out of her face, Eloise holds out a small stack of envelopes to you. “Yours,” she says, clipped.

Rushing over, you take them before she can throw them at you. Not that you think she would, but Eloise appears irritated enough to do anything.

“Thank you,” you say brightly. The fakeness hurts.

Eloise is still muttering to herself as Hannah tries to calm her when you plop down into your office chair, staring down at the small letter from the family planner you haven’t seen since you first signed your marriage contract.

If you weren’t at work, you’d fucking scream, rip the letter apart into thousands of little pieces. Doubtful they’d send a letter to Simon. He’s not the one with a womb.

“Everything okay?”

Your head snaps up into Hannah’s concerned face.

“Course. Yeah,” you lie, folding up the piece of paper with the appointment time and sticking it into your bag.

The clock on the wall is two hours off.

You consider saying something, then think better of it. Claire’s face is serious despite her smile; her clothes ironed to smooth perfection. There isn’t even a single hair out of place.

“This is just a follow up,” she says, hands clasped and resting on top of her desk. “To check on our progress.”

Simon remains impassive, a solid wall. “Progress?”

To her credit, Claire’s smile doesn’t waiver. “On a baby.” Her tone gives her away, because why else would they be there?

That is Claire’s purpose. She’s not for the singles but the newlyweds, to play up all the joys and benefits of pregnancy. Contribute to the population, and all will be well. The first Pillar is the most important. Scratching the woman’s eyes out isn’t an option, so you settle with silence. Your opinion is not wanted, and Simon has enough presence for both of you.

“Already?” he questions. “Last we spoke, we discussed my job. Trying for a baby while I’m expected to be gone isn’t ideal. And it’s not good for her. I should be here.”

Claire sighs like she’s about to correct a child who confidently rattled off an answer. “Yes. I agree with you. It is important you’re here. But you don’t need to be here while she’s pregnant.” She smooths her hands over the wood, clasping them again.

“I’m right here,” you retort, because why won’t Claire look at you? Why is she only addressing Simon? “And I’d like my husband present.”

Claire’s gaze shifts to you and then reverts to Simon. “I’ve already spoken to a few of your superiors—”

“You spoke with Price?”

Claire cocks her head. “Who?” She quickly waves away the question. “No. It doesn’t matter. From what I can gather, you’ll only be gone, at max, two months.” She turns, finally addressing you. “You really won’t be showing then, and something might happen.”

You swallow, your tongue growing dry. “Like a miscarriage.”

Claire nods. “Exactly.” She turns to Simon. “There’s no reason for you to worry over that. Your wife is in good hands here. She’ll be looked after. Cared for.”

“That may be true, but I’d rather be here. Especially if she were to miscarry. A husband shouldn’t be away if that happens.”

Simon is without the balaclava, but you sense the Ghost you meet all those months ago. There is a dangerousness lurking under his skin, awaiting the trigger to burst forth and devour.

Claire is still dismissive. “Even so, there have been changes. The counsel overseeing the first Pillar are concerned about numbers. We sustained significant loses over the tragic fighting that happened at one of the Safe Zones.”

The same Zone Simon is leaving for in less than a week.

“They’ve raised the goal birth count to counteract the loss. I’m afraid I must insist on this. You’re also a new couple, without children. Eyes are on individuals like you.”

Without thinking, you reach out and place your hand on Simon’s thigh. He glances down and then covers your hand with his own.

“But he’s leaving,” you say. “You can’t expect this of us now.”

Claire’s expression is unmoving. This is not an argument. It’s an order. Not from her, but from people far above them. People at the top. People who have a say on what happens. The old fear, the one you thought you unburdened yourself with, seeps in, taking root in the folds of your brain. Choice is what you want, even veiled, even fake, you’ll take it. This is not choice. Funny to think you could circumvent the inevitable.

“As I said,” she sighs. “There have been some changes. For couples like yourselves,” and she opens her hands wide, “we’ll be closely monitoring your progress.”

Simon snorts, showing more emotion than he has this entire meeting. “By giving us a tracker? Keeping tabs on creampies?”

Claire’s left eyelid spasms. “Not in such crass terms. But yes. In a sense.”

“I’m not comfortable with it,” you state, loudly and with conviction. “Sex is private. That should stay between Simon and I.”

“We have no intention of being present for it. Whatever you do on your own time is between you two. But twice a week, starting today, and then resuming when Lieutenant Riley returns, you’ll come here. There are private rooms where you’ll copulate, and a doctor will discreetly confirm that Lieutenant Riley’s sperm—”

“No.”

Simon’s voice cuts through the air. It is cold, tinged with anger. Ghost is back, ready to emerge, to show fang and claw.

“I’m sorry?” coughs Claire, clearly startled.

Simon delivers each word slowly. “You heard me. No.”

Mouth open like a dead fish, Claire blinks rapidly. Always the professional but even she has her limits. “This isn’t negotiable.”

“I don’t care,” and Simon’s voice remains lethal. “Not happening.”

“We could track at home,” you offer. The safest route is compromise, and tracking at home means things can be faked.

Claire makes a sound of disgust. “I’m sorry but it’s out of the question. This is from top. There are no allowances.”

Simon stands abruptly. “We’re leaving.”

Claire rises, too. “Lieutenant Riley.”

“Piss off,” he snaps, and Claire’s face goes beet red. Reaching for your arm, you allow Simon to guide you out of the chair, and away from this mess.

“You can’t say that to her,” you say to Simon as you exit Claire’s office. “No matter how angry you are.”

“I did,” he growls. “Deserved it, too.”

You walk together, hand in hand, your mind spiraling. There’s no way the woman is serious, but why does she have any reason to lie. Family planners spin the truth all the time, but Claire was upfront about this. Confident, if you had to put a word to it.

“Simon.”

A grunt.

“Simon,” you hiss. “You’re squeezing too hard.”

His grip eases. “Sorry, dove.”

With your free hand, you gently grasp his bicep, squeezing with soft reassurance. “You’re angry.”

“How’d you guess?”

Before Simon can open the front door to the building, you come to a halt, stepping to the side. “Hey,” you murmur, tugging him along. “Listen to me.” He goes to you without hesitation, and you draw him close, placing one hand over his heart. “It’s fine. Okay? Everything is going to be fine.”

Simon’s knuckles brush against your cheekbone. “I promised you a year. Not walking back on that promise.”

“No. I know. I believe you.”

Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.

You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.

You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.

You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.

Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.

Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.

"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."

Bioweapon.

Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.

"Nothing concrete yet?" Price snaps incredulously. "Goddammit, Kate!"

"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.

"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."

Apparently?!

You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.

"That is correct, sir. She won't die."

Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.

"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."

A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.

"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.

"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.

When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.

It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.

And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.

What the hell is happening?

Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.

Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.

"What kind of bloody toxin?"

"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."

The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.

"The reports say it turns men—"

Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Turns them what, doc?"

It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."

The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.

"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."

Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.

Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.

"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.

"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"

Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.

Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.

"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"

A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.

"I feel weird."

You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.

Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.

Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.

"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.

Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.

The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.

You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.

And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.

Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.

"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.

In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.

Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.

"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.

Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.

"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.

"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."

Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.

It's his.

"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.

"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.

Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.

"Cap'n! What do we do?!"

You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.

Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.

Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.

All that matters is someone touching you.

Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.

"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."

"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.

"I'll call the senior consultant."

Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.

Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.

Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.

"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.

Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.

"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"

Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."

Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.

"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"

Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.

Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.

"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.

"She can't consent!"

It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.

"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"

John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.

"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."

His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.

"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.

He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.

"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."

Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."

"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.

"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.

"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."

The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.

Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.

"But sir—"

Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.

"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."

Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.

The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.

Not asked, ordered to.

He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.

He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.

This doesn't feel like any of those things.

He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.

"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.

"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.

Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.

This is not how he'd imagined it.

He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.

He hadn't planned any of that.

Fucking liar.

You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.

"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"

"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."

He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.

You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.

He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.

Upper receiver. Charging handle. Bolt carrier group.

You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.

Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.

"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.

Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.

You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.

Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—

"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.

Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.

"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.

Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.

He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.

His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.

You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—

No. He's not going there.

"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."

He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.

His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.

You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.

"M-more, Kyle, please!"

Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.

Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.

He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.

"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."

He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.

Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.

"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."

You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.

Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.

He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.

When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.

"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"

He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.

"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."

"Please—"

"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."

He drops to his knees instead.

The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.

He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.

The sound you make is devastating.

Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.

Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.

He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.

But he doesn't stop.

Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.

"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."

Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.

But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.

He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.

"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."

You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—

And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.

"Soap!"

The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.

Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.

"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"

Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."

"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.

"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.

"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.

Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.

"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."

Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.

Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.

He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.

Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.

There is no need to.

Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.

He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.

By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.

It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.

"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."

And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.

That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.

Christ, you're beautiful.

He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.

He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.

He's thought about it a lot.

But not like this.

"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.

Close enough.

"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."

He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.

He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.

"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."

He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.

Let them hear.

His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.

"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."

He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.

Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.

He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.

His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.

But he doesn't stop.

He is physically incapable.

You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.

"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"

He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.

The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.

"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"

"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"

He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.

Inside his combat pants.

His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.

He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.

"MacTavish."

Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.

Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."

"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.

"Get yourself sorted. Now."

Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.

Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.

"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.

"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.

You don't notice the shift at first.

One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.

You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.

A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.

"Don't."

One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.

Ghost.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.

Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.

You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.

He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.

Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.

"Simon…"

His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.

"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.

"Don't want—"

"Wasn't bloody askin’."

He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.

Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.

Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.

Trust.

You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.

Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.

"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.

You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.

"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.

You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.

You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.

"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."

"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.

He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.

You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.

Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.

Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.

But.

His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.

Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.

You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.

"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.

"Yeah."

"It hurts."

He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.

He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.

Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.

Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.

Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.

It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.

So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.

You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.

He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.

Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.

Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.

In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.

"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."

Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.

"It's not enough, is it."

It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.

"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."

The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.

"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.

"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.

"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."

He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.

"And we tell Ghost."

Ghost doesn't agree.

He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.

And then: "No."

Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"

"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."

Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.

Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.

"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."

No one dares to argue.

Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.

The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.

You look small.

That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.

You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.

But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.

He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.

"Sergeant."

You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.

"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"

"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."

He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.

You'll keep hurting. Under his command.

He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.

"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."

His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.

This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.

He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.

This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.

He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.

"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."

He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.

Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.

You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.

It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.

Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.

He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.

Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.

He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.

"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."

Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.

"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."

You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.

He lowers you onto him slowly.

The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.

You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.

"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.

You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.

Almost.

He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.

And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.

He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.

Hates that he doesn't want to stop.

Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"

His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.

You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.

For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.

Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.

He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity

He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."

You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.

Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.

"Garrick. You're up."

Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.

Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.

The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.

Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.

He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.

"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."

He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.

He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.

"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"

The condoms run out after Soap's first round.

Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.

"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."

Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.

"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."

It should be simple, and it’s anything but.

Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.

"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"

He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.

Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.

"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."

"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."

And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.

Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.

The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.

The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.

You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.

Ghost enters the room without being asked.

He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.

He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.

He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.

You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.

Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.

"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.

You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.

"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."

Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.

In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.

Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.

How is she?

He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.

Handled. Debrief in the morning.

He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.

Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.

The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.

The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.

The third thing is the balaclava.

You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.

Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.

You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.

The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.

And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.

Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.

The shower. The water. Voices.

John.

Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.

You lie very still.

The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.

You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.

Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.

Neither of you says a word.

His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.

The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.

Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.

"How do you feel?"

You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.

"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.

Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."

His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.

Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.

You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.

“Well, we have an opportunity now.” Simon snaps, you swing your body out the bed and head towards the noise. When you make it down the hall you pause at the end hearing a series of huffs and sighs before you stick your head around the corner. Simon’s eyes find yours and you find yourself frozen, locked in place as he switches his gaze back to John. 

“Is this about her?” Simon asks.

“She has nothing to do with this.” You feel heat rush to your face as you turn to hide around the wall. John sighs. “Go get some air and clear your head. You know we’re in no position to be taking out anyone let alone someone who will be protected.” 

“We could try.” 

“And we’ll fail.” There’s a tone shift in John’s voice, he sounds more serious now. “Then we’ll all be dead.” 

There’s silence for a few minutes then you hear someone moving and the front door slam. You peak around the corner to see John with his hands pressed against the table with his back arched. You watch him breathe before going around the corner, he hears you and turns. When he sees you his body relaxes. 

“Is everything okay?” You ask. 

“Yeah.” He comes over to you. “Coffee?”

“Yeah.” You smile at him trying to forget about the conversation. “Where is everyone?” 

“John and Kyle have gone to the store.” He says as he boils the kettle. You rest your hand on top of his. 

“Go after him.” You say. 

“I’m not chasing him around Manchester because he’s in a mood.” John huffs. You tip your head to the side and sigh. “He’s probably just gone to find John and Kyle.” 

“Then you should all spend some time together. Without me.” You say, he turns on from the counter and you let your hand fall away. He slips his hands around your waist and pulls you close. You think back to last night and how amazing everything was. 

“I spent eight months thinking you were dead. I want to spend all my time with you.” He says, you bite your tongue not bringing up the Norway plan. 

“Go.” You encourage him, stepping out his arms is almost the hardest thing in the world. “I’ll be here when you get back.” 

He lets out a long sigh. “Fine. But when we’re back you better make it up to me.” He leans down to kiss you. 

“Of course.” You say as he breaks from the kiss. 

…

You hear the front door open and close. You smile, John must be back. You get off the bed and head into the hall. You’re in a world of your own remembering last night when a fist crashes into your stomach. 

Fuck, you double over in pain as hands grip you. You cry out and kick, your foot meets someone's crotch. 

“Fucking bitch.” You hear someone shout in pain and you see a young man drop to the ground. A fist meets your face, you feel sick, whoever is in this flat could kill you and they have the upper hand. You thrash as much as you can but there are more of them, they’re stronger than you. 

Your head throbs, you need to get out of this situation. You’re dragged into the kitchen and thrown into a chair, the moment you move to get up, hands grip again and your arms are pulled around the back of the chair. The unmistakable sound of zip ties fills your ears and your wrists are tied. 

“Fuck you.” You spit and kick again your ankle is grabbed, pulled down and tied to the chair leg. 

“Who are you?” Someone asks, you look up, there are at least four people around you. They all look young and they all have Scottish accents. “How do you know about this safe house?” 

“What's a safe house?” You ask, playing dumb. 

“She has no id on her, no wallet or nothing.” One of them says as he comes back into the room. 

“Just you wait-” a fist meets your cheek. You taste blood in your mouth as your head is thrown to the side and you bite down on the inside of your cheek. “That was stupid.” 

“Who are you?” Another one asks. You frantically look around them all then at your surroundings as the throbbing in your head settles. They’re all armed, two of them are pointing weapons at you. 

Fuck. 

The tall one who punched you scoffs and walks to stand in front of you, he opens his mouth to talk again when you hear the front door open again, all their heads turn and you feel relief wash over you as John steps into the room. 

“I would step away right now.” The man in front of you steps to the side and weapons are drawn. You look up at John who’s eyes are dark and focused on your captor, the others step into the room behind John with their own weapons drawn. 

“Who the fuck are you?” The man with his back to you asks. 

“Step away right now.” John repeats, his voice is low and it sends a shiver up your spine. 

“Who’s she?” Another one asks as he steps to your side.  

“None of your business.” You snap a hand is lifted and you brace for the pain. 

“Touch her again and it will be the last thing you do.” John says, clicking the safety off his weapon. The hand retreats. 

“I know you. You’re John Price. The guy with the mask is Ghost.” Another one says. 

“Holy shit. You’re 141.” The tall man says.

“And you’re a bunch of kids running around playing rebel.” Johnny snaps at them. 

“Ha! Playing?” You try to turn to see who’s talking. “At least we’re doing something. Last week we blew up one of the republic's power plants.”  

“You did a shit job.” Johnny scoffs before crossing his arms. 

“Left the county without power.” Kyle adds. 

“Reckless.” John says in a low voice. “You tied up an innocent person. Let her go.” 

“Not till you tell us who she is.” 

“She’s with us, should it matter?” John says, you see the grip on his weapon tighten. His voice has dropped lower and it makes you tense. Your eyes meet his for a brief moment, you see a look in them you’ve never seen before. 

Anger, pure and utter anger. 

You can feel the tension in the air but no one makes a move. Then the tall one sighs and flicks a knife out his pocket turning to you. The ties around your arms and ankles are cut and you immediately stand up. 

“Thank you.” You say sarcastically, John and the others lower their weapons and you step over to them. John’s hands land on the top of your arms and you breathe for what feels like the first time in ages. 

“Are you okay?” His eyes follow yours as you frantically look around his face. You nod because you might throw up if you try to talk. John nods back then manoeuvres you behind him putting himself between you and the group of boys. 

“I want them disarmed before we talk.” John orders in a low voice. 

“No fair.” One of them calls.

“Our safe-house, our gear, our rules.” John says. “Then we talk.” John turns back to you and you look up into his stern blue eyes as Kyle and Johnny move over to pat them down. 

“I’m sorry. I- they took me by surprise.” The words babble out your mouth, his stashes his pistol back in its concealed spot and his hands come up to cup your face. His thumbs brush your cheeks and he looks around your face before pressing a kiss on your forehead. 

“It’s okay, you’re okay.” He says, more to himself than anything. It could have been a lot worse, they could have killed you. His eyes land on your bruising cheek. 

“Which one?” He asks. 

“It doesn’t matter.” You say feeling heat rush to your cheek. 

“It does. Which one?” There’s no room for argument in his voice, his fingers brush from your eye down to your chin. You sigh. 

“The tall one.” He nods. You look past him at Johnny and Kyle handing weapons over to Simon. John doesn’t take his hands off you leading you into the living room. 

They take the sofas while 141 and you stand in front of them. The tall one seems to be the de facto leader and is the only one stood with his arms crossed. His name is Caleb, there are four of them in total, they’re all so young they don’t look any older then their early 20’s. 

“You were there when The Kestrel was killed.” He says. John nods. “Left us a right mess to clean up.” 

“We tried to save her.” John says, you can hear the sadness, regret in his voice. Caleb just scoffs then his eyes land on you. 

“Who’s she?” This time it’s Kyle who moves slightly hiding you from view and Caleb looks back at John. “This only works if you’re fucking honest with us.” 

“We don’t have time to explain right now.” John says, taking a step up to Caleb. “Sit down. We have questions for you too.” Caleb sizes John up almost like he’s about to take a swing at him but instead he sits down. 

“What are you doing in Manchester? Bit far south for you?” John asks. 

“We had nowhere to go once The Kestrel was killed, she used to hook us up with jobs. Now all we have is her list of contacts.” Caleb explains. “We heard the VP was going to be around soon.” 

“And what? You think you’ll deal with him?” Kyle says with a raised eyebrow. 

“Yes. What were you going to do about it? Is that why you’re here?” He asks. 

“No.” John says. “Going after the VP is a stupid idea.” 

“Someone has to do something.” The one with thick red hair says. Johnny scoffs. 

“You’ll die before you even get close.” John says. 

“We’re willing to take that risk.” Caleb says coldly. A shiver runs up your spine and you rub your arm. You watch as John tightens his jaw looking between them all. 

“You’re in luck. We need a favour.” John says. 

“Why would we do anything for you?” One of the others says. 

“Well, firstly because we should help each other. Secondly because if you help us.” He pauses almost like he’s choosing his next words carefully. “We’ll help you take out the VP.” You gasp the cover your mouth with your hand. You want to reach out and grab John and convince him otherwise. 

“You would do that?” Caleb asks, he frowns. “What do you want in return?”

“We need to get somewhere on the Scottish coast and we need protection.” 

“Ha, you need protection.” The ginger one scoffs. 

“We’ll all need it after we’ve taken out the VP.” John says. Your mind races, you can’t let them do this. Killing the VP will put an even bigger target on their back, and yours. Even if 141 are lucky and the republic thinks they're dead after hitting the house, if they do this they won’t be able to hide ever again. 

You’ll be forced to flee, if you even can and then John will be alone. Deep in hiding for months if not years. The republic will never stop chasing them, they’ll never get an opportunity like this to take out the president or anyone else. Your heart is pounding in your chest and pain prickles under your scalp, the room you’re standing in suddenly feels tiny and you can’t breathe. 

“Airson Saorsa, Airson Ceartas.” Caleb says, suddenly offering his hand to John. John hesitates. 

“Soap?” Simon asks. 

“For freedom, for justice.” Johnny translates. 

“For freedom, for justice.” John replies and shakes his hand. You don’t know what to say but you don’t bother trying to hide the utter look of shock on your face. 

They’re really going to do it, they’re going to kill the VP. 

___

John is already in bed when you make it into the room. 

“Are you really going to do it?” You ask him. 

“Are you going to try and stop us?” He asks. You press your lips together. You want to but only because you know he could get hurt, he could die. 

“Will you let me help?” You ask, he just sighs and you know the answer. You kick your shoes off and crawl on the bed over to him, he reaches out for you but you sit back on your knees. “I can help.” His hand rests on your knee. 

“It’s too dangerous.” He says. 

“I was trained. I can shoot, or be a distraction, anything.” You plead, he sighs again and you see a slight annoyance in his eyes but you’re not going to drop it. Maybe if you prove useful he won’t try and send you away. You reach over to touch the bandage on his head. He leans into it and you drop your hand to the side of his face lacing your fingers through his beard. He turns his head to kiss your palm. 

“Okay, tomorrow we’ll take you somewhere and you can show us what you can do.” You smile. 

“Okay, deal.” 

___

John wasn’t joking and the next morning you, him and Simon get into one of the cars and drive out the city. They take you to an abandoned warehouse a few miles out the city. The place is abandoned and you wait with John inspecting the weapons they bought while Simon sets up targets. 

“Here.” John says handing you something. You open your palm to accept it and he drops the necklace with the bullet into it. When you look at it something is different though, there’s a small circle dog-tag attached too. 

“I didn’t even think you still had this.” You say rolling it over in your hand. It feels weird now, that bullet was pulled out of you when Sim- the republic shot at you.

“I wanted you to have something to remind you I will always be there.” He says and you think you see more redness in his face. You look up at him and smile. 

“I don’t need anything to remind me. I know.” 

He smiles and takes it out your hand undoing the clasp, you turn and pull your hair out the way so he can attach it around your neck. You feel his fingers lingering over the tattoo of the barcode on the back of your neck. It makes you shiver and you drop your hair. 

“We’ll get revenge for you.” He says, his voice colder. You turn to look at him, his eyes have darkened.

“I don’t need revenge.” You counter as you hear Simon come over. 

“You might not, but I do.” He says and you reach over picking up the rifle.  

“See the targets?” Simon asks, you nod and turn looking over at it while checking the mag before loading it and holding the rifle up to your line of sight. It feels good to have a weapon in your hands again and you click the safety off. 

For the next hour or so you hit perfect shots with the pistol and rifle they’ve given you. 

“You’re saying they taught you all this in that bunker?” Simon says. 

“I don’t know how. It was like riding a bike, you know, almost like I always had the knowledge.” 

Simon huffs. “Let's try the 50cal next.” 

___

When you make it back to the flat John drags you straight to the bedroom. As soon as you close the door behind you he presses you up against it, his hands lacing through your hair as he attacks your mouth. His tongue is hot and needy and you moan into it. Heat rises into your core and you slide your hands up his chest. 

When he breaks from the kiss you feel almost dizzy with the high. 

“What was that for?” You ask, he has a cheeky smile on his face. He grabs your hand and pulls it down to the front of his pants. Your hand squeezes around his hard cock. 

“You drive me crazy. I’m so in love with you that watching you today hit those perfect shots was the biggest turn on ever.” He sighs and presses another quick kiss on your lips. “I know you can take care of yourself. I know what you’re capable off but I-“ His voice cracks and it breaks your heart. 

“I don’t want to lose you. I can’t focus when you’re around, my mind is always worried about you getting hurt. If I can’t focus on my job, people will get hurt and one of them could be you.” 

“But-“ 

“No. I know you want to stay but it’s safer if you go to Norway.” 

“I’m not leaving.” You squeeze his cock again and he steps away from you. You reach out for him seeing moisture form in his eyes. 

“I lost you once before, I thought for good. I never expected to see you again, not ever. When I recognised you following us. I-“ He scoffs and your hand lands on his forearm, you look up in his eyes, you want to shush him, tell him he doesn’t have to talk about that and just hold him. “I can’t lose you again. The only way you’re safe is far from here.” 

“What about you? What if anything happens to you?” You plead, stepping closer to him.”

“I’ll be fine. We’ve been fighting this for a long time. If we can take out the VP things might get easier.” He says but you don’t believe him. You reach up to cup his face in your hands as he blinks tears away. 

“I love you. I don’t want to lose you just as much as you don’t want to lose me.” You tell him. He smiles slightly before pulling you into a hug. You relax against him listening to his heart beating in his chest. 

“I love you too.” He smiles and you drop your hands to his shoulders. “How about you go take a shower before the rebels are back.”

“Is there enough room for them to stay here?” You ask, the flat only has 2 bedrooms and Johnny, Simon and Kyle are having to share. 

“We don’t have much of a choice. They won’t get anywhere near you though.” He promises. 

___

When you make it into the bedroom John is already in the bed. You smile at him and go over to the dresses to find some clean pyjamas to change into before climbing into bed next to him. 

“How will you do it?” You ask him

“Not sure yet.” He admits. 

“Sniper.” You ask. 

“Obviously.” He says scooting under the duvet. You wait watching him get comfortable. 

“Will you do it?” You ask, watching his face for a reaction, his jaw clenches. 

“Maybe.” You get into the bed next to him, he turns slightly so you can rest in the crook of his shoulder. 

“I don’t want you to do it.” You reach down and pick up his hand lacing his fingers with yours. “You have enough blood on your hands.” 

“I’m a soldier.” He says, you sigh and squeeze his hand. 

“You’re a person first, you’re beautiful and kind too.” You say, turning to look up at him. 

“I’ve killed people. I’m tainted.” 

“Then so am I. And also I don’t care.” You say going back to rest your head against his chest.

“I don’t want you to be tainted like me. There’s things I have to do, decisions I have to make.” He sighs, you can hear the sadness in his voice, you can feel it in the way he strokes your back. 

“Everyone has to make hard decisions in this world.” You say trying to comfort him.  

“It’s my job to make the hard choices.” He says. 

You sigh. “No, John. It’s your job to survive.” You feel the weight of his dog-tie weighing you down. “Now you have someone waiting for you.” 

___

You wake to a loud bang. 

Your body goes stiff as John jumps out of bed. 

“What is it?” You ask as panic rises in you. He opens the drawer of the bedside table and pulls out a pistol. 

“Stay here.” He says, his voice is filled with sleep as he walks around the bed to the door. As he opens it a worried looking Johnny is there, you scoot to the other side of the bed. 

“Christ, Cap, thought it was you.” Before John can say anything there’s a sharp loud laughter. 

“Living room,” John replies and they both nod. You follow them even though John told you to stay where you are. When you make it into the living room you see two of the rebels laughing and one with a bleeding arm. Caleb waves a pistol and John huffs then goes over to them. 

“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing!” He snaps, they’re both clearly drunk and you can see the empty cans and bottles on the table, you wait until John goes over to him and pulls the pistol out his hand expertly disarming it.  

“It started as a joke, Sam took a shot the day before a mission and then I took one a few months later at the same time. Now we do it fer luck.” Caleb says, sounding drunk and annoyed. Kyle comes into the room also armed and you wonder how many guns are actually in the flat. 

“Idiots.” John says under his breath. “Gaz, Soap. Get on the police scanners. We need to know if the shot was reported.” You grab a tea towel off John and go over to the one who’s been shot. 

“Alcohol thins your blood. You should lie down.” You say trying to press the towel into his arm. 

“I’m okay, love. Dion’t mind me.” He says trying to bat you away. 

“Lay down, let her check you out.” John snaps. No one says anything and you go over to the sofa with him keeping the towel pressed onto his shoulder. He sits down and you move it to see it’s just grazed his skin. 

“What happened to the bullet?” You ask. 

“I wanna keep it. Good luck charm innit.” 

“It’s not bad, could use some stitches but I should be good with steristrips.” You turn to look at John. “Do we have a fist aid kit.” You feel like you see a quick flash of pride on his face. 

“What are you some kind of medic?” The man slurs trying to touch his wound. You hit his hand away. 

“I used to be a nurse.” You say as you press on the wound. 

“Ah, that’s why John’s been keeping you around, te patch up all their wounds.” He chuckles, you look up in his hazy eyes and he looks down your arms and gasps. 

“Oh you’re a runner.” He says, his eyes falling on the tattoo on your wrist you tried to hide it.

“All the runners were cowards.” Caleb sighs, you look over to see his eyes digging into you. You tense and feel John move behind you. 

“What makes you say that?” Johnny asks, the man takes a swing from his can before turning his attention to Johnny. 

“They ran. They didn’t try and fight, they just over filled the Scottish border then didn’t leave. They made our life a living hell.” He says, you can hear real spite in his voice, he takes another swig from the can as Johnny hands you a medical pouch. 

“They- we were just scared.” You say looking through the pouch, he scoffs. 

“None of you’s would fight, even when the republic stormed the barricades. All you northerners wanted was protection, we were already struggling to fend off the republic to protect ourselves. How do you think it went down when hundreds of thousands of people were trying to get in?” He asks, you feel heat rushing to your face, you don’t want to argue with him. 

“Were you army?” You ask trying to sway the conversation back to neutral grounds. 

“We all were. Defected before the great northern run.” The injured one says. “We ended up on the border with most of the other defectors.”

“There were good men who died fighting for your freedom.” The other one says his eyes locked onto you again, you try to ignore him and work on patching up the gunshot wound. “And all it did was get them killed quicker.” 

“Come off it, she didn’t kill anyone.” The injured one asks. “Right lass?”

“I was a nurse.” Your head starts to throb, and your hand shakes. “I was working in an A&E.” Memories come flashing in your mind each one with a stab of pain, you see the ward you used to work on. Always over capacity, always filled with injured and dying people. You couldn't save everyone. You never can. 

“Christ, lass. You good, look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Your head snaps up and your vision swims. 

“Maybe she finally regrets her actions.” Caleb scoffs. 

“Alright, enough.” John says his voice laced with a warning. You quickly finish laying the adhesive bandage with your shaking hands before clearing your throat and getting to your feet. You sway unsteady but John’s arm is around your waist in an instant steadying you. 

More memories flash across your mind, The Kestrel, soldiers and family crying for their loved ones. Then John, strapped to a chair beaten and bloodied, the memories feel disjointed and flash by so fast you barely get a chance to focus on them for more than a few seconds. 

Then there is pain, a sharp stabbing when you remember John, your past. Each time you remember him tied to a chair a flash of pain follows. 

“Headache?” John asks quietly, you nod but it makes your head swim and nausea rises in you. 

“I think I need to lie down” You manage to say as saliva fills your mouth. John’s other hand rests on your hip. It’s just the adrenaline fading you try to tell yourself as saliva fills your mouth. 

“Okay, Soap, stay with them, make sure they don’t do anything stupid again.” John says and leads you out the room to the hall. It only takes a few steps for the nausea to get worse and instead of heading to the bedroom you turn into the bathroom and throw yourself at the toilet heaving. 

John’s hands grab your hair and pull it out the way while you retch up bile and the contents of your stomach. The pain is unbearable and you sob. You feel a hand rub the top of your back. 

“Easy, you’re okay.” He says, his voice is gentle and reassuring, you slump against the bowl and look up at him. He brushes hair out of your face, you can barely see him through your hazy vision. 

“This can’t be good for you.” John says, you don’t have the energy to reply. There’s a knock at the door and you tense.

“It’s me Cap.” Kyle’s voice. John gets to his feet and goes to the door, you watch as Kyle hands him a glass of water. 

“Is she okay?” One of the rebels asks. “What’s wrong, is it the blood or something?” 

“No, she’s fine.” John says then closes the door and brings the water over to you.  

“Sorry.” You manage to say before gulping the water down trying to settle your stomach. He looks you over with a worried look on his face. “When the memories come. They always hurt.” He takes the glass from your shaking hands and kneels down in front of you. His cool hands come to hold your face. 

“What kind of memories?” He asks. 

“You. You tied up in a chair, in pain. They hurt you.” You say feeling more tears come. 

“It’s over now.” He says his thumbs catching the tears that fall. Your head throbs but you manage to nod. He offers you his hand and you get to your feet, all you can think about is him tied up back in the cold concrete room. He guides you out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.

“It’s true though isn’t it. If there weren't so many people running north they would have been able to hold the border. Scotland would be free.” You say feeling the weight of the guilt start to drag you down.

“Maybe for a couple of months longer, yeah.” John’s hand comes to your chin and you tip your head up to look at him. “They would have still fallen, Scotland was always going to fall.” 

“Let me do it.” You say. 

“Do what?” He asks frowning. 

“Take out the VP.” He immediately opens his mouth to protest. “It doesn’t have to be you. You’ve seen me shoot, you know I can do this. Let me take this burden from you.” 

“I can’t. This isn’t your fight.” 

“I fight for you. You don’t need to do this.” You’re pleading with him, you can see him thinking about it. “Please.” There’s a look of dread on his face, something about him changes and your stomach drops. 

“You don’t trust me.” You sigh. 

“I never can.” He says bluntly. “Not until we know what they’ve done to you. Their conditioning runs deep, even today you were throwing up from the pain of reliving memories they’ve tried to force out your brain. And the bio-senser, we still have to deal with that.” 

“I wouldn’t let you down.” 

“Not consciously." He says pressing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Could you do it? Really, do you think you could kill him.”

“For you I would kill the Queen.” You say honestly. He smiles and relaxes slightly.

“He’s already dead.” John smiles slightly getting closer to you and brushes over the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

“Then I’d go after whoever you want. You point I’ll follow.”

“Always?” His eyes flick down to your lips. You lean in closer to him. 

“Always.” As soon as the words leave his mouth his lips press against yours. You let him drink you up, his tongue is soft and slow, you listen to his breathing between slaps of your lips. He doesn’t seem to care that you just threw your guts up and neither do you. 

“Cap.” There’s a knock at the door and you hear Johnny’s voice. You want to throttle them for interrupting you. John sighs breaking from the kiss. “You should come and see this.” 

When you leave the room everyone is standing around the TV in the living room, the president stands on a dais and behind him are two people you instantly recognise. 

“Bit late for a presidential-” John’s words are cut off as he notices the same thing. Helen – or Sarah, whatever her name is, stood behind him looking like the proud scientist and doctor that she is adorned in a new pristine labcoat and new shiny medals. 

Then there’s The Kestrel, standing next to her in the grey prisoner uniform you were once wearing. She looks like she’s aged 50 years, her head is shaven with a bandage covering half of it. 

“I thought she was dead.” You turn to see Caleb crying. 

“We all did.” John replies. 

“As you know our republic has vowed to be open and honest with its citizens. Which is why I am delighted to introduce our new Reunification program.” The president smiles and people cheer and clap then he moves to the side letting Sarah take the podium. She adjusts the mic and you’re all waiting in silence. 

Then a picture of you flashes up on the screen. 

Your legs almost give out and you hear a gasp in the room. You’re not even listening to what Sarah is saying, you swallow the bile rising in your throat. 

“-She is the most valuable asset we have, the first of many reunified individuals currently being held hostage by the terrorist organisation known as 141.” Sarah says. Heads turn to look at you, Caleb looks furious, the other rebels look just as shocked. 

The front door bursts open and Simon comes in with a shopping bag in his hand. Then all hell breaks loose.

The October morning is cold enough to see breath. Frost on the windscreen that Price scrapes off with a Barclays Visa expired over six years ago. The hedgerows are skeletal now, the leaves mostly gone, the trees showing their architecture against a sky the colour of old pewter. The countryside is naked. Exposed. Every field visible from the road, every shape identifiable at distance, which is both advantage and vulnerability.

A lonely shambler stands at a crossroads a mile from the Ashworth patrol zone. It's wearing a hi-vis jacket—council worker, road crew, someone who was doing their job when the world ended and has been standing at the same intersection ever since, waiting for a traffic pattern that will never resume. Its jaw works slowly. Its eyes are filmed and white. They pass it without slowing and ignore the staggering undead.

Soap is in the passenger seat, boots up on the dash, flipping the zippo.

"So lemme get this straight," he starts. "Ye want me to fix a wall. But also make it worse. But make it look like I'm fixin' it."

"I want you to ensure the repair requires a second day," Price replies calmly, steely eyes on the road. "Structurally. Without being obvious about it."

"Price, I used tae blow things up fer a livin'. Making somethin' look structurally worse while pretendin' to fix it is—" He kisses his fingers like a chef. "That's fuckin’ art, that is."

"Subtle, Johnny."

"Aye, I can do subtle."

"Since when?" Gaz asks from the back, one eyebrow cocked.

"Fuck off, Garrick."

Gaz snorts and looks out of his window. "Compelling argument, bruv."

"Both of you," Price interjects, like a single dad on a road trip, but there's something at the corner of his mouth—a tension that in another life, in the before, would have been a smile.

He can feel it under his sternum now, the thing he won't name out loud. The particular, almost-forgotten warmth of a mission with a purpose beyond survival. Not a trade run. Not a scavenging route. Not a job performed in exchange for supplies, or the endless maintenance of four men keeping each other alive through another week. A mission. An objective.

Someone to save, not kill.

The nostalgia is dangerous. He knows that. The last time he felt this way, he was at Credenhill, and the mission was holding the base, and the objective was civilisation, and that went to shit so thoroughly that the memory should be a vaccine against optimism. But the feeling is there anyway—sitting in his chest like the cigar used to sit between his teeth—and for the first time in years, Price doesn't try to put it away.

Ghost sits in the back beside Gaz. Silent as ever. Arms crossed. He's been running the extraction in his head for three days—door to corridor, corridor to room, room to desk, desk to key, key to rope.

Then the part he can't rehearse.

Under the balaclava, his jaw is set like concrete.

Soap flips the zippo. Click-snap. He's playing it casual but inside his head a different version of tonight is running—the version where they don't sneak, where they don't whisper, where Ghost doesn't pick locks in the dark like a fucking phantom.

The version where Soap kicks Holt's door off its hinges and puts a round through his kneecap and watches the grin slide off his face like wet paint. Where Danny comes running and meets the wrong end of a breaching charge. Where the Lounge doors come open and the girls—the actual girls, the fifteen-year-olds with the trained smiles and the dead eyes—walk out into air that isn't red-lit and smoke-choked for the first time in however long they've been in there.

He knows it won't happen that way. He knows the plan. He trusts Price.

But the fantasy sustains him the way the zippo sustains him—click-snap, click-snap—a small, private fire burning in the dark behind bright blue eyes.

Ashworth's gates open for them at half nine.

Holt meets them at the east wall breach. Good mood. Danny and Fletcher in tow. Fletcher's got the ledger out, pencil behind his ear, eyes inventorying the tools before they've left the truck bed.

The east wall is bad. Worse than the 141 expected—but not for the reasons Holt claims.

Soap walks the breach. Runs his bare hands along the torn steel, crouches at the base, examines the damage pattern with the analytical focus of a man who has spent his career understanding how structures fail. The corrugated steel is peeled back in two sections, ugly and ragged. The concrete barrier behind it is cracked and displaced in various places.

However, the damage isn't from the undead. Most of it isn’t.

Soap can read a blast pattern the way Gaz reads a book. The concrete cracking at the base—that's not impact from outside. That's fragmentation damage from the inside. Someone set off an improvised explosive too close to the wall, perhaps during a clearance run. Shrapnel pockmarking the steel. Bullet holes, dozens of them, stitched across the corrugated panels at various heights—some from outside, most from inside, where Holt's men fired at shamblers and mutants through their own wall and weakened the structure with every round.

And underneath it all, six years of Herefordshire weather; freeze-thaw cycles cracking the foundation, rain seeping into bolt holes, rust eating from within.

The fast ones didn't breach this wall. Holt's own people did. The undead just walked through what was already failing.

Soap files this information in the same place Ghost files tactical assessments and Price files supply calculations—the deep storage of a man who knows that understanding how something broke is the key to knowing how to fix it, or break it again on purpose, when the time comes.

"Aye. This is fucked," he announces eventually, trying his best to not sound so pleased. Loudly enough for Holt to hear. "The whole section needs replacin', not just patching up. The foundation's compromised—see this?" He points at the fragmentation crack—the one from the friendly-fire explosion—and presents it as frost damage. "Water gets in, freezes, expands. Ye patch the wall on top of this, and it'll come doon again in a month."

Holt looks at Fletcher. Fletcher makes a note.

"How long?"

"Two days. Minimum." Soap stands, wipes his hands, does the arithmetic of a man calculating time and then doubling it according to plan. "Foundation work today. The wall itself, tomorrow. And we'll need to weld, which means the battery charges between sessions."

Price nods like this is news to him before turning his attention to Holt. "We'll need to stay overnight."

Holt's grin widens. He claps Price on the shoulder. "Now you're talking. See? Strength in numbers, John."

The day passes.

Soap works the wall, genuinely and competently, because the repair must look real. He shores up the foundation, sets concrete, preps the steel plates. But every structural choice carries a secondary purpose.

This bolt is load-bearing but recessed where thermal expansion will shear it in six months. That weld is strong but positioned at a stress point that lateral pressure will exploit.

He notes each one; mentally cataloguing a map of designed weaknesses that will look like natural failure when the time comes.

And if they ever come back to Ashworth with anything but friendly intent, Soap knows exactly where to hit.

Price helps. Ghost helps. Gaz helps until mid-afternoon, when he volunteers to walk the full perimeter, mapping additional damage.

Nobody objects. It's a reasonable task. It also puts Gaz outside the core, walking the compound's edge, finding the drainage channel on the west wall, measuring the gap, noting guard positions in daylight. He's back by four, catches Price's eye, nods once.

The gap is there, and it’s big enough.

Dusk comes early—half four and the light is dying.

The compound shifts into its evening routine. Holt invites them to eat. Actual stew, actual meat. The 141 eat because refusing would be an insult and insulting Holt tonight would be counterproductive to their plan.

You're there. At the desk, going through paperwork, the collar on and the leash hanging from a hook nearby. Working clothes again—sweater, jeans, boots. You don't look up when they enter. Your pencil moves across the inventory sheets with the focused precision of a woman who is absolutely not cataloguing the behavioural patterns of four soldiers for the second time in nearly two weeks.

But you are, and something is different.

You felt it the moment they walked in—a charge in the air, a shift in the way they occupy the room. The last two visits they were reactive. Absorbing, enduring, swallowing what Ashworth, what Dean Holt, put in front of them.

Tonight they're active. There's a current running through the four of them that you can't name but can feel, the way you can feel barometric pressure dropping before a storm.

The Scottish one isn't burning. He's channelled. The manic energy running in a direction instead of spilling outward. He's flipping the lighter, but the rhythm is different. Slower. Steadier. A countdown rather than a fidget.

The one with the kind face and calm aura isn't here. He left after dinner and nobody mentioned it. Nobody looked at the door. Nobody asked where he went. In a unit that moves as a four-man organism, a missing limb should cause disturbance. The absence of disturbance is itself information.

The captain agreed to everything Holt said today. Every price, every condition, every timeline and potential plan in the future together. The man who haggles over ammunition calibres and checks expiration dates on antibiotics said done without negotiating.

That's not compliance. That's a man who's already gotten what he came for and is running out the clock.

And the one in the mask is not looking at you.

He looked at you the first time for an hour straight. The second time, he held your gaze when you gave him the intel. Tonight he hasn't glanced in your direction once. And the absence of those flat brown eyes is louder than their presence, because a man who looked at you the way he did—with recognition and understanding—doesn't stop looking without a reason.

He's not looking because looking might give something away.

They're planning something.

Possibly tonight. Probably.

Something that involves the overnight stay and the missing team member and the captain's uncharacteristic compliance. You don't know what—an attack on the armoury, sabotage to the generator, something aimed at Holt's infrastructure—but whatever it is, it will create disruption.

And disruption is chaos. And chaos is the only variable that's ever given you a chance.

You've been waiting a hundred and four days for a variable.

Your hand tightens on the pencil. Your breathing stays even. You finish the inventory column, set the pencil down, and stand.

At 2300 hours, you make your move.

Holt is on the sofa in the main room. Four vodkas in, because you've counted, the way you count everything. His jacket is off. The stumped hand rests on his knee, the keloid nubs catching the low lamplight. Danny left an hour ago. Fletcher left thirty minutes after, ledger under his arm, pencil behind his ear, with one last look at you that lingered two seconds past professional.

The soldiers are in their assigned room, two doors down. The door locked from the outside—Holt's standard hospitality.

You cross the room. Sit beside Holt. Closer than required.

He notices immediately. Of course he does. His body is tuned to yours the way a hunter is tuned to their prey—every shift in your behaviour registers, catalogued and assessed.

You've never come to him willingly. Not once. In a hundred and four nights you've been positioned, arranged, pulled, placed. You've never approached. You’d rather chew your own arm off were it not for a chance of freedom.

"Well, well." His voice drops. The grin changes shape—less performance, more heat. "What's this then, Sugar? Coming to me for once?"

You don't answer with words. You take his glass from his hand, set it on the makeshift table. Your fingers find the buttons of his shirt—a grey flannel, worn soft, smelling of vodka and cigarettes and the musk of a man who showered today but sweats a lot, which is something.

Not much, but something. A small mercy you file away because small mercies are the only currency you have in moments like this.

It could be worse. It has been worse. At least he's clean tonight, or close to it.

You lean in. Press your mouth to his neck. Feel the pulse under your lips—fast, excited, the cardiovascular signature of a man who is interpreting your initiative as the thing he's been waiting for since they dragged you out of that farmhouse by your hair.

Surrender. Genuine, voluntary surrender. His favourite fantasy.

His hands find your waist. The stumped one and the whole one, pulling you onto his lap, positioning you the way he always positions you—straddling, facing him, the arrangement that lets him see your face because Dean Holt wants to watch when it happens. He wants to see the moment you stop pretending and start meaning it, and it doesn't matter that the moment has never come and never will because this is play pretend for your own survival.

But he’s too drunk and egomaniacal to realize that.

"There she is," he breathes. His mouth is on your collarbone, your throat, the skin above the collar. His teeth graze. His hands move up under the sweater, finding warm skin, palming flesh with the unsubtle greed of a man who believes he's earned this. "There's my Sugar. Knew you'd come ‘round eventually. They always do."

You close your eyes. Not to feel but to calibrate.

You know what he likes and what gets him off. A hundred and four nights is more than enough to map any man's preferences, his rhythms, the specific sequence of actions that gets him from arousal to completion in the shortest possible time.

He likes initiative—or what he reads as initiative. He likes sounds. He likes your hands on him, which he interprets as desire rather than what it is, namely a woman controlling the pace so that the pace is hers. He likes showing off.

You give him what he wants. You touch him with hands that know exactly where and how—the neck, the chest, lower. You make the sounds that shorten the timeline. You move against him with the mechanical precision of someone executing a well-practised routine, and when he pulls the sweater over your head and his mouth finds your bare skin you let the dissociation take you halfway—not all the way, not the full retreat, just enough that the sensation becomes data rather than experience.

His skin tastes like salt and soap and underneath it the faintly stale tang of a body that runs hot. Could be worse. Has been worse. You've catalogued worse—the nights he doesn't shower, the nights he's been drinking the bathtub vodka instead of the Polish stuff, the nights his hands are rough from work and leave friction burns on top of the rope marks. Tonight is almost gentle by his standards, which makes it worse in a different way, because gentleness from Dean Holt is a manipulation you can't metabolise. Cruelty you can file and forget. Tenderness sticks like burnt caramel on a pan.

He carries you to the bed in your room. Undresses you the rest of the way with the proprietary efficiency of a man unwrapping something he owns. The collar stays on—it always stays on. His mouth moves down your body, and his hands spread your thighs, and, like so many uneducated men, he mistakes your body's resistance for something else entirely.

"Fucking tight you are," he mutters against your skin, the words carrying admiration, and you close your eyes and let him have the interpretation because correcting him would require acknowledging what's actually happening and that acknowledgment would break the mechanical distance you're maintaining between yourself and the act.

You're not aroused.

Your body hasn't produced the response that would make this easier because your body stopped producing that response somewhere around week three, when the wiring between stimulus and reaction was severed by repetition and revulsion.

But Holt has never known the difference—has never wanted to know, has never asked, has never considered that a woman's body might have its own opinion about what's being done to it. In his experience, which is the only experience he considers valid, tightness means desire and resistance means passion and silence means surrender. The female body is a lock he opened and the fact that the lock is rusted shut rather than yielding is a distinction he's not equipped to make.

You guide him.

Your hands on his hips, setting the rhythm, controlling the angle—not for pleasure but for efficiency, the precise biomechanics of getting him to the finish line before the dissociation starts to fail. You make the sounds, breathy moans and choked off whimpers. You arch when he expects you to arch. You dig your nails into his meaty back because he likes that—likes the marks, likes the evidence, likes to check them in the morning the way he checks your rope burns—and when he gets close you pull him deeper because the faster this ends the sooner the second phase begins.

He finishes with a shout and a shudder and the full dead weight of him collapsing onto you like a building coming down. His breath is ragged against your neck. His heart hammers against your chest. The stumped hand is tangled in your hair and the whole hand is gripping your hip hard enough to bruise, adding new fingerprints to the constellation of old ones.

"Fuck," he pants. "Fuck, Sugar. Why haven't you done that before?"

Because I was being raped, is the answer that exists in a universe where answers are possible. In this universe, you press your lips to his temple and say nothing and let him interpret the silence as afterglow.

You wait. He rolls off you, tosses the used condom on the floor and reaches for the vodka on the nightstand to take a long pull. His body is slack with the particular bonelessness of a man who's been thoroughly, comprehensively spent. The endorphins and the alcohol are doing their combined work, pulling him toward sleep with the gravitational inevitability of something large falling.

He doesn't reach for the rope.

The calculation holds. A man who thinks his pet has surrendered doesn't feel the need for restraints. Submission is the one thing that makes Dean Holt careless, because it confirms the story he tells himself—that he's not a captor but a provider, not a rapist but a lover, not a monster but a man whose pet finally came home.

"Come here," he mumbles, pulling you against him. The arm drapes heavy across your waist. His face buries in your hair. "My Sugar. My good girl."

You lie still. You count the stages.

Settling. Breathing shift. Muscle twitch. And then—

Deep. Heavy. Wet-mouthed. The unconsciousness of a man who drank a bottle of vodka and fucked like it was his last night on earth.

Which, if you're lucky, it might be.

The key is on the desk. Two metres away. Your wrists are free.

You lie in the dark and stare at the ceiling crack and count your heartbeats and wait for whatever's coming.

At 0147, a lock clicks in the corridor.

Ghost is through the door in thirty seconds—the Chubb giving with a whisper that sounds like a scream in the silence. Price behind him. Soap behind Price, the zippo in his pocket, hands free, breathing controlled.

The corridor is dark. Generator on night mode—minimal power, minimal light. A single bulb at the far end throws a pool that doesn't reach the middle section.

Ghost moves.

He moves the way he's moved through occupied buildings for twenty years—without sound, without weight, a displacement of shadow rather than air. At six-four, he should be audible. He isn't. The skull print is visible only when he passes through the edge of the light, and then it's gone and he's darkness again.

Price and Soap hold position. Their job is the corridor. The wall between any threat and Ghost's back. Soap's hand on his sidearm, thumb alongside the trigger guard. In his head, the other version plays—the door-kicking version, the loud version, the version where Danny catches a breaching charge and Holt catches a bullet and the girls in the Lounge walk free. But his hand stays still and his feet stay planted because he trusts Price and the plan is the plan and the plan is quiet. For now, anyway.

Ghost reaches the door.

It's unlocked.

He tests the handle. It turns. The door opens on oiled hinges—maintained, because Holt maintains the things that matter to him—and then the smell hits: vodka, sweat, sex. The particular olfactory aftermath of what happened in this room an hour ago.

Ghost processes. Clocks the used johnny on the floor. Files. Moves.

The room is dark. Holt is on the bed—facedown, one arm off the edge, mouth open, breathing the wet, arrhythmic breath of a man chemically and physically destroyed. Naked. Sheets rumpled at his waist. The stumped hand on the mattress.

You're on the floor.

Beside the desk. Knees drawn up, arms around them.

Dressed—the sweater, a coat, jeans and the boots laced tight. You dressed in the dark while Holt snored, pulling each item from the floor where he dropped it, moving with the silence of a woman who has practised silent movement every night for three and a half months.

The collar is on. You couldn't bring yourself to unbuckle it—not yet, not until you're sure, because certainty is a luxury you can't afford in this room.

You heard the lock. You heard the door. You heard nothing after—no footsteps, no breathing—and then a shadow detached itself from the doorway and it was tall and it was silent and it was wearing a skull.

Every nerve fires.

Your hand goes to the desk leg—the only object in reach. Your muscles coil. Your breath stops. A hundred and four days of survival instinct compresses into a single instant: this is a threat, this is Danny, this is someone Holt sent, this is—

Ghost stops. Three metres away. Doesn't come closer.

He raises both hands. Palms out. Slow.

He doesn't speak immediately. He watches you—your hand on the desk leg, the tension in your body, the whites of your eyes in the dark—and he waits. The way a man waits near a cornered animal. Not with impatience. With understanding.

And then,

"West wall." Barely audible. The Manchester stripped to nothing; the words shaped with care. "Drainage channel. Four-minute window."

Your words. Your intelligence. Repeated back to you in the dark by the man who read your wrists.

Your hand releases the desk leg, and you stand. Your legs are surprisingly steady. You step over Holt's clothes. You don't look at the bed—at the shape on it, the unconscious monument to everything you've survived.

Ghost moves to the door. You follow without questioning. Two steps behind, close enough to track his shadow, far enough to react if this is a trick, a trap, another man's hands in a different configuration.

The corridor. Two large shapes in the dark, identified by silhouette. The boonie hat. The mohawk. They see you and something passes between the three men—a glance, a breath, a held moment—and then Price touches two fingers to his lips and points down the corridor.

You nod and move.

Four people in a corridor, at speed, in silence, through a compound of two thousand sleeping souls. Ghost on point. You behind him. Price behind you. Soap at the rear, walking backwards every third step.

A service passage. Maintenance access, unlit. The concrete floor gives way to bare earth. The smell changes—diesel, damp, rust. The west wall is ahead.

Ghost finds the drainage channel. A concrete culvert, maybe a metre wide, running under the wall. The corrugated steel above it is rusted through—paper-thin in a patch roughly half a metre across, starlight visible through the corrosion.

You drop to your knees at the culvert entrance without having to be told. The concrete is wet, cold, slick with organic residue—algae, murk, something else. The smell is bad—standing water and rust and decay, the sweetness that means organic matter has been sitting in moisture for a long time.

You crawl in. There is a murmur of spoken words behind you, but your focus is on the smallest taste of freedom on your tongue.

The channel is tight. Your elbows scrape concrete. The collar drags. Water soaks through your jeans at the knees, ice-cold, the kind of cold that reaches bone immediately. Your hands find the bottom of the channel and push forward, one arm's length at a time, toward the gap where the rusted steel opens onto the outside.

Then your right hand touches something soft.

You freeze.

In the dark, in the crawlspace, your fingers have found fabric. Wet fabric. And underneath it, a shape that your hands identify before your brain can catch up—the geometry of what can only be a human shoulder, the ridge of a collarbone, the hollow where a throat meets a chest.

A body. In the drainage channel.

Your hand jerks back. Your breath comes fast, too fast, and behind you Ghost is waiting at the channel entrance and there's no room to turn around and the body is between you and the gap.

You press your forehead to the wet concrete. You count to three.

You reach forward again. Carefully. Your hands map what they find—a woman, small, curled on her side in the channel. She's been here a long time. The fabric of her clothes has fused with the organic slime on the concrete. Her skin is—you don't catalogue her skin. You can't. But she's not animated. She's not moving. Whatever killed her—exposure, the tunnel itself, or something that caught her before she made it through—she didn't turn. Or she turned and something else stopped her. The skull gives under your fingers with a softness that means the bone has degraded past structural integrity.

She tried. Someone before you tried this exact escape, through this exact channel, and she didn't make it.

You climb over her, swallowing back bile.

There is nothing else to do. You put your hands on either side of her body and you press yourself flat and you slide over her remains the way you've slid over every impossible thing this world has put in your path—with your jaw locked and your eyes forward and the screaming sealed inside the architecture where no one can hear it. The collar catches on something—her clothes, her hair, something—and you wrench it free and keep going.

The gap in the steel is ahead. Starlight. You push through. The rusted edge catches your hip, bites through the denim, the hot-wet signature of broken skin. You twist, contract, force yourself through.

Cold air hits you like a wall.

You're outside. On your hands and knees in wet grass, breathing air that doesn't smell like Ashworth. No burn pit. No diesel. No rot. Just earth and grass and rain and the cold, sharp, almost painful clarity of an October night in open country.

The sky is enormous. Stars—more stars than you've seen in three and a half months, the Milky Way a bright wound overhead. The hills are dark shapes against the darker sky. The wind carries the smell of woodsmoke from somewhere distant, and for one disorienting second, you're back at the farmhouse, standing in the garden at night, and a dog is pressing against your legs—

"Easy."

A voice. Low, steady. Too close.

Gaz is there. Crouched in the shadow of the wall, rifle slung, hands bare and visible in the starlight. His face is open and deliberate—no mask, no helmet, no tactical configuration. Just a man. A man who chose to be the first thing you saw on the other side of the wall because he understood, on some level that has nothing to do with tactics and everything to do with being Kyle Garrick, that what you needed in this moment was a human face.

"You're out," he whispers. "I've got you. I’m Gaz. The truck is two hundred metres west, in the treeline."

You stare at him. The architecture is cracking—not collapsing, not yet, but cracking the way a dam cracks, the sound of something vast giving way after months of pressure. Your hands are shaking. Your hip is bleeding. There's decomposition on your jeans from the woman in the channel and the smell is on your hands and you can't breathe, you can't—

"Hey." Gaz's voice again, steady and present. Not touching you—his hands are visible, deliberately apart from his body, but his voice is touching. His voice is a hand extended. "Can you move?"

The question is a lifeline. Not are you okay, not what happened, not any of the impossible questions that would require you to process what you've just done. Can you move. Binary. Tactical. The language your survival brain speaks.

You look at him. At the treeline behind him. At the open ground between the wall and the trees—two hundred metres of dark, exposed field with no cover, where anything could be lurking.

For one wild, electric second, you think about running.

Not toward the truck—away. Into the dark, into the countryside, alone, the way you survived before. Because alone is the only safety you trust. Because four men is four unknowns and you've had enough of unknowns. Because the last time you slacked and became too comfortable, you ended up in a collar, and the time before that your dog died, and the time before that—

Gaz sees it. The flight calculation behind your eyes. He doesn't reach for you, doesn't step forward, doesn't do anything that could be interpreted as pursuit or constraint.

"Your choice," he says quietly, louder than the previous whisper. "Whatever you decide. But there's a truck and four people who came here for you, and the offer's there."

The wind blows. The stars turn. Somewhere to the east, Ashworth's burn pit sends its greasy smoke into the sky, a dark smear against the Milky Way.

They came for you. Specifically.

"I can move," you answer eventually.

And you move.

Gaz leads. You follow. Across the field at a crouch, the grass wet and cold against your shins, the ground uneven. You're limping—the hip, the cut from the rusted steel—but the limp doesn't slow you because pain is information, not permission.

The treeline swallows you. Oaks, thick-trunked, the canopy still holding enough leaves to break the moonlight into fragments. Gaz stops. Listens. The sounds of the night are ordinary—wind, distant animals, the creak of branches. No shamblers. No fast ones. The patrol zone keeps the area relatively clear, but relatively is not completely, and Gaz's rifle is unslung and his eyes are moving.

A sound in the trees to the north. A crack, wood breaking under weight.

Gaz's hand comes up in a fist. Stop. His rifle is at his shoulder in less than a second.

Silence. Then another crack. Closer. And underneath it, a sound—low, wet, rhythmic. The sound of something breathing through a damaged throat.

A shambler pushes through the undergrowth twenty metres to their left.

It's old—months, maybe more—its clothing rotted to rags, one arm missing at the elbow, the other reaching. Its eyes are white and its mouth is open and the sound it makes is the wailing kind, the kind that sounds like crying, the kind that freezes you because somewhere in the broken remnants of its vocal cords there's a pitch that the human ear can't stop interpreting as grief.

Gaz puts it down with a single suppressed round through the temple. The body drops. The wailing stops mid-note, cut clean, and the silence that follows is total.

You haven't flinched. You watched the shambler approach with the clinical detachment of a woman who's killed the reanimated corpse of someone she cared about with a kitchen knife and doesn't have any flinching left for strangers. And you breathe a small sigh of relief.

Gaz looks at you. Something crosses his face—not surprise, not exactly. Recognition. The understanding that whatever you've been through has produced someone who watches a dead thing get put down with the same expression she uses to suture a wound.

"Truck's just ahead," he whispers and moves on.

The truck is in the trees. Headlights off, engine at idle. Price is behind the steering wheel. Soap is in the passenger seat, scanning the treeline, body angled toward the door, ready to exit and engage if the suppressed shot drew anything else from the woods.

Ghost is not in the truck.

"Where's—" Gaz starts.

A shape materialises from the darkness. Moving fast, moving silent, but not moving right. Ghost's gait is wrong—the left leg dragging, the weight distribution off. When he reaches the treeline and the starlight catches him, Gaz sees why.

Blood. Left calf, below the knee. A tear in the combat trousers and underneath it a gash—deep, ragged, the puncture-and-drag pattern of an animal bite. Dog. Patrol dog. The kind that's trained and maintained and fed things that no dog should be fed.

"South perimeter," Ghost murmurs. His voice is unchanged. Flat and clinical. "Dog came through the fence line. I dealt with it."

The knife on his thigh is wet. Somewhere behind the south wall, a patrol dog is in the grass with its throat opened and its handler hasn't found it yet.

"How bad?" Price asks from the truck.

"Functional." Ghost moves toward the vehicle. The drag is controlled—he's loading the leg deliberately, testing it, calibrating pain against performance the way he calibrates everything. "Needs cleanin’. Stitches, probably."

"In. Now," Price orders, starting the engine.

They load in. You're in the back seat between Gaz and Ghost. Tight—three bodies on a bench for two, your shoulder against Gaz on one side and Ghost on the other. Ghost's breathing is elevated but controlled. The blood from his calf is soaking through the torn trousers, dark in the darkness, the wet warmth of it seeping against your leg where they're pressed together.

You look at the wound, smelling the blood.

The medical part of your brain activates—the part trained by a man in a farmhouse kitchen who smelled like soil and impatience, the part that sutured and debrided and reduced and identified. It activates without your permission, because training doesn't wait for emotional readiness. Training just runs.

"That needs pressure," you remark. Your voice is rough, scraped raw, the first full sentence you've spoken as a free person. "And irrigation. If the bite's from a patrol dog, they feed them—" You stop. The information catches in your throat—the knowledge of what Holt feeds his dogs, the human remains from The Pit, the bacterial ecosystem of a mouth that's been consuming the dead. "The bacterial load will be significant."

Ghost looks at you. In the dark cab, with the blood and the adrenaline and the smell of Ashworth still clinging to both of you, his eyes find yours. Flat and brown. Tawny. The eyes that read your wrists across a room and saw the holding for what it was.

"You're the medic."

Not Sugar. Not princess or love or darling or any of the words that men have used to name you since the world ended. The medic. A function. A skill. A thing you are rather than a thing you're for.

Your hands find his leg naturally. You press. The blood is warm against your palms and Ghost doesn't flinch—doesn't move at all—and for a moment you're just two people in the dark, one bleeding and one holding, and the simplicity of it is the most human thing you've felt in a hundred and four days.

Price drives. Headlights off, navigating by moonlight and the memory of roads he's driven a hundred times. The truck rolls through the dark—away from Ashworth, away from The Pit’s glow, away from the walls and the wire and the room with the crack in the ceiling and the collar around your throat.

Behind them, in the compound, Dean Holt sleeps.

He sleeps the deep, satisfied sleep of a man whose pet finally surrendered. Whose world is exactly the shape he designed it to be. Whose bed is warm from a body that will be gone before dawn. He won't know until morning. He won't understand when he does.

And in the back of a truck on a dark Herefordshire road, a woman with no rope on her wrists and blood on her hands presses down on a stranger's wound and holds the pressure the way she has been holding everything.

Tight. Silent. Refusing to let go.

End of Act One.

Your giggles fill the room when he flips you to lie on your back and settles his large body over yours, naked hips tucked between your legs and keeping his chest pressed against yours. Neither of you put on clothes after your bath, Sukuna claiming he couldn’t sleep without feeling your skin. One of his hands was on your hip and the other was holding himself over you. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to. 

Not that you did, you were right where you wanted to be.

“Going somewhere sweetheart?” 

He’s smiling down at you with sleepy eyes and your heart stutters because he looks ethereal with the morning light hitting his face, so soft even with his tattoos, so completely yours. You reach a hand up to caress his face and the way his breath hitches has you smirking knowingly. 

You had Sukuna wrapped around your pretty little finger.

“Never.” You whisper, arms coming up to wrap around his neck, eyes burning into his red ones so intimately you felt you might combust. 

A satisfied rumble vibrates through his chest, his eyes trailing to your lips before he’s placing his forehead to yours. The morning sun is shining through the room and the way his eyes glow a little brighter sends flutters through your body. The domesticity of this moment has your heart thumping, realizing just how unusual this is for Sukuna, the man who took what he wanted and moved on. 

Yet here he was with you, holding you like he was afraid to let go, like if he loosened his grip just a little you would disappear. 

“You’re staring.” His voice was angelic, rough with lingering sleep and he was staring through your soul, eyes locked on yours like you were the only person in the world. Like he was committing this moment to memory.  

“Hmm, I am-” Your voice cracked as tears started to blur your vision and before you could give him a chance to comment on it, you pulled him down and pressed your lips against his. Losing yourself in this moment, savoring every second you were with him because Sukuna was clearly in love but you were hopelessly devoted. Foolishly lost to his existence. 

The kiss was extra soft, soul crushingly desperate in the way you clung to him. Every emotion you couldn't put into words poured into it instead. Every day you spent hiding your feelings for him came spilling out into one singular kiss. All the love that you had no idea what to do with, you gave it all to him.

When he finally pulled back to catch his breath, not you but him, his eyes were shining and his lips were red and glossy with your spit. You even noticed the purple marks on his neck, generous gifts you gave him last night as a reminder that he was yours. He looks thoroughly claimed. 

“I love you.” You can’t help but to say it again and the way his smile softens, the joke written on his tongue dissolving into adoration. His body pressed flush against yours, the feel of his bare chest burning through your skin.

“I know.” He nuzzles his nose against yours, breathing your air and it sends chills through your body. A tear escapes and slides down your face before you can stop it. Fuck, you were so gone. “I love you too, baby. Love you so much.”

It had been a very long time since Sukuna was able to take a true full breath. One not riddled with childhood trauma, one that actually made him feel like he was alive and human again. He almost felt it when his daughter was born but he had still been accepting the fact that he was a father so his body denied him that relief. And what a breath of fresh air it had been when he told you he loved you and you said it back. 

You fucking said it back and said it again the next day, no sign of doubt in your honey laced voice and Sukuna might as well have died and went to heaven. That uncommon feeling of insecurity that had him in a chokehold, the idea that you somehow didn’t feel the same, had dissolved in the matter of seconds just by hearing three little words.  

He would have laid in bed with you all day but he promised to pick up your shared daughter before practice, giving you time to cram in some last minute studying before he was gone most of the day.

Sukuna had told you that after practice he had some frat obligations to carry out but that wasn’t entirely truthful. Sure, he did have to stop by the fraternity but that was only to tell them that he was out. His priority no longer lied with his chosen brothers but to the family he had pledged his life to, the only pledge worth keeping. 

Gojo’s response had only been to smile and say: “About damn time bro.”

He also had another stop to make, nothing too big, just going ring shopping with the only person that knew you probably better than he did. Nanami. The man immediately agreed when Sukuna told him his plans to propose to you at practice, and now that they were standing in a jewelry shop, the pink haired giant began to panic. 

What if you didn’t want to get married? He remembered the conversation with Nanami when you  told him you were pregnant and he hinted at Sukuna marrying you. You had specifically said “What makes you think I want to get married?”  

What if there was still truth to that? Sure, you had said that you loved him but people loved others all the time without wanting to tie themselves to their partner legally. Doubt, another foreign feeling to him, pooled in his stomach and twisted until he felt nauseous. You had reduced him to a coward and he hated it. Since when had Sukuna been afraid of rejection? If a girl denied him, he respected their wishes and moved onto the next. There was a long line of women throwing themselves at him, he never had time to sulk over it. 

But they weren’t you and this was far from some drunken one night stand. You were the woman who made him a father, who he wanted to share a last name with, who slowly tore down that brick wall guarding his heart. Piece by piece, layer by layer until he was left bare and confessing the embarrassing amount of love he held for you.

Fuck it. He was already here, might as well get the fucking thing over with.

The store was humming with soft classical music as Sukuna stood stiffly beside Nanami, hating every second of this. Wishing he was home with you and his daughter, locked away in your own little domain where only you three existed.

“You seem nervous. There’s no need to be, (name) isn’t a very picky person, it’s really the thought that counts.”

Before Sukuna could deny it, tell his possibly soon to be brother in law that he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, a sales associate approached with a bright smile plastered on their face and Sukuna instantly had a headache. 

“Welcome! Are we shopping for anything special today?” His overly enthusiastic smile pissed Sukuna off, which was ridiculous because he knew others' happiness shouldn’t annoy him, even if it was clearly fake as hell. 

“An engagement ring and we don’t need help.” He answers flatly, ignoring the way the salesman’s eyes widened before he cools his expression into a practiced calm, staring nervously up at the 6 '5, tattooed college student who was sporting a glare that warned the man to fuck off.

Nanami’s giving Sukuna a scathing look, but he can’t see it because he’s too busy looking at the display of rings (why the fuck were there so many?) but he can feel the disappointment seeping from him. 

“Of course sir! Apologies, please let me know if you need anything at all. I’d be glad to help.” And he’s sprinting to brother someone else and Sukuna is glad because while he may have softened for you and his child, and in extension tolerated Nanami, that kindness didn’t apply to strangers. 

“You’re truly an asshole dude.” Nanami seethes while pinching the bridge of his nose, red creeping up his neck.

Sukuna almost laughs, almost. Instead he settles on a smirk because you would hate it if you found out they were arguing after growing closer during your pregnancy. Sukuna was being good for you, changing for you.

“Good thing I’m not marrying you.”

Nanami ignores the comment because he would rather literally explode than be stuck with Sukuna for the rest of his life. He was here for you and because he knew his teammate would fuck this up without him. 

Sukuna starts moving around the shop, his annoyance growing because everything he pointed out Nanami claimed you wouldn’t like. Everything Nanami pointed out, Sukuna criticized. 

“No. Absolutely not. Too small. Too ugly. What the fuck is that?” 

A woman nearby gives Sukuna a scandalous look at the last comment and Nanami pretends not to know him. He can’t imagine how his friend looks right now in the eyes of someone who didn’t know him, hat on backwards and dressed in a compression shirt that showed how his muscles flexed as his anger grew. Red eyes blazing, mouth turned downward and his face set in a permanent sneer. 

Sukuna was truly scary. What on earth did you see in him?

“What’s your budget?” He asks as they move to a different display case. These ones seem a little more up your alley, though the price tags had him sweating. Nanami could remember a conversation you had as children where you said your ideal ring was a blue ring pop and while these weren’t the candy you loved back then, they damn near matched in size. 

Sukuna deadpans him and Nanami’s cheeks turn a light tint of red. He sometimes forgot that the Itadori’s had enough money to buy half the country if they wanted to. 

“Right, I forgot. Trust fund baby.”

Sukuna didn’t have a budget. He wasn’t reckless with money after receiving his inheritance, he typically lived very frugally for someone of his background. The only times he’d ever really splurged was on his car, shopping for his daughter, the apartment he bought you, and apparently now. 

The ring he was eyeing was ridiculously expensive, nearly ¥6,409,720 and it was huge as fuck, likely to swallow your finger. It was perfect, exactly what Sukuna was looking for and Nanami actually agreed. He wanted to be sure no one would miss the way it sat pretty on your finger, telling the entire world that you were his. 

“That one.”

It’s May now. Graduation is coming up and Sukuna has been in full blown soccer mode the past month, the sport consuming his life. He’s barely had time to think let alone propose to you and he bought that fucking ring weeks ago. Between classes, games, and parenting, it seemed like he couldn’t get a moment to himself.

Your baby just turned ten weeks, a little over two months old now and the pride and joy of yours and Sukuna’s life. The tiny newborn was now a chunky infant with round cheeks and an ever changing face that resembled you more and more each passing day. Sukuna told you how perfect that was, that now there were two of you that he could love and spoil. 

She was smiling a lot more, staring too now that her visual tracking was improving. One night you had been typing away at your laptop, baby strapped in her bouncer as you worked on your final paper for your philosophy class.  

When she made a sound you looked down at her just to find she had already been staring at you and your heart stuttered. Your daughter was Sukuna’s reflection but you were starting to make out your own features in her, like how she had your eye shape but his color, hair texture closer to yours but his red. She was becoming a true split of her parents.

You were going back on campus a lot more now too, especially since your parents decided that they lived too far away and would be moving closer to you. Closer as in a five minute walk away and you were grateful. They were beyond smitten with your daughter, commenting on how she did look like her father but they could see their old friend in her too and how symbolic it was that she shared a name with her late grandmother.

Today was game day. The weather was actually warm enough that you didn’t need a jacket, though your daughter was still slightly bundled in pink against your chest, tucked securely in her carrier. You thanked God that Sukuna had brought your baby protective headphones because the stands were loud, students and families filling in to support their loved one on the field. Nearby freshmen were chanting and the game hadn’t even started yet. 

You adjusted your daughter’s headphones before pulling her tighter against your chest. She was up today, curious eyes trying their best to look around with her face pressed against your body. And while she was looking at the hundreds of new faces and bright lights, you were focused on the field, looking for a head of pink hair that had stolen your heart all those months ago. 

You and your parents had gotten there early enough to get a front row seat so it would be easier for him to find you. Jin had even come with little Yuji who insisted on sitting next to his baby cousin. What you didn’t know was that Sukuna could find you in a room of a thousand. 

He was currently on the field talking strategy with Nanami and his teammates. The game was about to start when he looked to the crowd and immediately spotted you. His stomach was flipping again but it did that every time he saw you and while he had grown used to it, it was different this time.

There you were, wearing a jersey that had his team’s colors, hair pulled behind your head with one of his hats on that had his number, his daughter tucked against your chest. The sight turned into a core memory, the way everyone else blurred and the only thing he could see was you and his baby. It was something he thought you only saw in movies but it was actively happening to him and Sukuna didn’t know what he did to get so lucky. 

He was far from the type of guy you’d bring home to meet your parents. He wasn’t kind, had a terrible past of using people to get what he wanted, the reputation he built during his frat days not something one would be proud of and yet here he was. Staring at his future wife and his child, sitting in the stands wearing his colors, your face scrunched up and eyes squinted as you looked for him, just as he did the night he met you. 

What a fucking turn of events. 

Sukuna starts walking across the field, ignoring his teammates and coach asking where he was going. He had a few minutes before the game and he was craving the taste of your lips. Who cares if he was mid strategy?

When Sukuna reaches the fence separating the bleachers from the field, you’re smiling so bright that it momentarily blinds him as you hold your daughter's bum and stand, moving toward the fence. He’s wearing a cocky grin but Sukuna can feel his heart doing somersaults because you looked so fucking edible, and he was suddenly starving. 

He felt the way he did watching you dance at that party nearly a year ago, completely hypnotized and wanting nothing more than to claim you. Only this time it was more than sex, sure he wanted to fuck you until you were creaming on cock but he wanted the world to know that you were his. His mind flashed back to the ring, how it would look on your finger if once you said yes, the smile you would wear looking down at him on one knee. 

Once you're close enough, Sukuna reaches an arm over the fence and while being mindful of his daughter, pulls you closer until his lips were hovering just above yours. The way you were wide eyed and fighting back a laugh had his smirk widening, eyes knowing nothing but your face. 

“Hi.” He whispered, completely oblivious to the people staring because no one else existed in this moment. It was just you, him and the baby strapped to your chest. 

“Hi.” You swallow hard and he notices your attention drifting behind him and for a split second, white hot jealousy courses through his body because he wanted your attention to be solely on him. “Your coach looks like he’s going to murder you.” 

He doesn’t acknowledge that because he couldn't care less what his coach thinks, hooking a finger under your chin and turning your head back to him. He could practically feel the heat from your face, your wide glossy eyes doing nothing to help the growing pool of need whirling deep in his chest. You were so beautiful, his perfect future wife.

“Missed you baby.” 

And when you laugh his heart leaps, the sound the closest thing someone like him would probably get to experiencing heaven. Fuck, you were too good for him but he was going to selfishly keep you anyways. 

“You just saw me this morning.” 

“Hmmm, too long.” And before you could respond he’s pressing his lips against yours, the sound of his name being called fading away because the only thing he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears as his lips were lost to yours. 

It ended all too soon. He had hesitantly pulled back before he decided the game wasn’t that important, his self control always hanging on a loose thread whenever it came to you. 

Before you could stop him, he was reaching over and pulling his daughter from her carrier, paying no mind to the way you scolded him and the whistle his coach was blowing. Sukuna knew he was pissed but he’d deal with that later. 

“Ryomen!” You shrieked but he could hear the laughter in your voice. The way you were enjoying this just as much as he was. 

“Hey brat.” He’s barely smiling at the baby in his arms, but stars are exploding behind his eyes at the sight of his heart in his hands. She looks so cute with her little headphones, her head so small that they were swallowing her. He’s giving her kisses on the chubby cheeks he’d never admit to becoming obsessed with, relishing in the gummy smile she gave when she recognized her father’s voice. 

His coach was calling his name for the nth time followed by a string of curses and Sukuna pulled his daughter close, breathing in her baby scent and giving her a final kiss on the head before tucking her back in her carrier. 

With a defeated pout, he’s shooting you a wink and running back to the field. 

They won the game that day by a landslide, Sukuna playing a little extra hard just so he could impress you. He was already a beast on the field but a need to gain your praise had burned through him and it led to him scoring most of the goals, even though there were two other forwards on his team. 

To celebrate their win, a party was being thrown in their honor but Sukuna had declined, stating he had better plans than getting drunk with people he could hardly tolerate. 

Later that night he was standing in front of the mirror in his room, smoothing down his dress shirt, anxiety on ten as his mind ran wild with thoughts that you wouldn’t like his outfit for your date night. Sukuna would fucking die before he wore a suit (we all know he’d wear it if you asked) but he made an effort since tonight was the night he planned on finally proposing to you. He even bought a chain after you mentioned he would look good with gold jewelry, the metal sitting cold against his chest and peeking through the top of his v neck shirt. 

The small box was burning a hole through his pant pocket and he hated the look his twin was giving him through the mirror, arms crossed at his chest as he held his gaze behind those stupid glasses. If anyone knew him, it was him and he knew that Jin could probably smell the nervousness on him. 

“You’ve changed.” 

Sukuna grumbles like an angry old man, pushing his coral hair back and opting to ignore his brother's comment. Unfortunately, Jin wasn’t the type to let things go and Sukuna regretted asking him to babysit.

No one had been able to get under his skin the way his twin did but Sukuna would never admit that Jin also kept him humble. He knew the scared young boy he used to be and even though their personalities differed greatly and his brother never agreed with his fuckboy ways, he had never turned away from him. Sukuna would even admit that Jin was his platonic soulmate, even though he was sure that you were his twin flame. 

“I mean it in a good way, idiot. Take it as a compliment, they’ve changed you for the better, you’re less grumpy. It’s refreshing, I missed this version of you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was useless denying it, Jin had experienced every era of his life and the connection they had as identical twins ran deep. Sukuna was far from an open book, to everyone but his wombmate of course. 

“You’ve spent the last five minutes making sure your shirt was good enough.” 

“I’m making sure I don’t look stupid.” But it was so much more than that because caring what others thought was never a part of Sukuna’s personality and Jin knew that, though he wasn’t about to argue with his brother who was equally as stubborn as he was. 

“Sure, Ryomen. We’ll go with that.” 

After spending another ten minutes making sure he looked decent enough for you, he finally stepped out of your now shared room and into the living room. Wiping his sweaty palms down his pants, angry that he couldn’t get a hold on his nerves enough to not look like a fool in front of you. Why was he acting like a loser that never interacted with a woman before? 

He froze at the sight of you, entire body buzzing with awe because standing before him was his future and you looked like a goddess, entirely out of his league. You were wearing a long sleeved square neck red dress that hugged your postpartum hips perfectly, your hair down and falling over your shoulders. Red gloss spread across your lips and he wondered what you tasted like.

Sukuna could smell the vanilla perfume from across the room. It clouded his senses and helped him drag his feet toward you. 

You were looking admiringly at the ground where Yuji was lying on his stomach across from his cousin, watching her with wide eyes and a toothy smile as she did tummy time. Sukuna stole a quick glance before looking back at you. 

Just as he was about to speak you turned around and the look you gave him had his tongue tied, the small smile making his head spin. Fuck. Every logical bone in his body told him to compliment you, but he was so lost in your eyes he forgot how to speak. Until Jin ruined it by smacking the back of his head and giving him a look that told him to speak up. 

He gave his brother a glare who simply smirked and moved around him so he could sit with the children, picking up his niece and laughing at how Yuji immediately shot up and asked to hold her. Sukuna’s frown disappeared the moment he heard your laugh though. Your hand was covering your mouth and he wanted to scold you for hiding it from him. 

Instead he awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, face growing hot with nervousness as if he wasn’t balls deep inside of you this morning telling you over and over how much he loved you.

“You look handsome.” You were moving closer and fixing the collar of his shirt, hand trailing to hover over the necklace on his chest but your eyes never left his. Sukuna could feel his cock twitching at your touch, hand coming up to grab your hip and pull you closer.

“Yeah? Tried my best just for you baby.” And he relished in the way your breath hitched, grabbing your hand and bringing it to his mouth to kiss. He let his lips linger for a few seconds, enjoying the feel of your skin against his mouth before you both said your goodbyes and he was walking you out the door.

Sukuna kept his hand on your lower back as he led you toward the restaurant he had reserved the day he bought the ring sitting heavy in his pocket. The closer you got to the building the more confused you became. The parking lot was damn near empty which was unusual for this place and you would know because it was notoriously hard to get a table here. 

“Are they closed?” You glance at him but he presses his hand against your back, urging you forward despite the suspiciousness of the situation. 

“No.”

“Then where is everyone?” You didn’t think twice about the way he clenched his jaw or the slight tremble in hand as he moved it from behind your back and opened the door for you. 

“You ask too many questions.” 

You hit his chest, annoyed he wouldn’t answer because they were totally valid questions. It was too dead for a restaurant as popular as this one. You wonder what strings Sukuna pulled to even get a table on such short notice.

“And you’re being weird. What-” The words die on your tongue at the sight staring back at you. 

The restaurant was empty, soft music filling the air and all the tables had been removed except for one that hosted two chairs. There were red roses scattered throughout the space, candles flickering in the dim room, the only people there being the staff members that moved with purpose throughout the room. 

Your head slowly turns to him as he moves to stand next to you. He’s avoiding eye contact but living with him for so long had given you the ability to tell when he was nervous. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Sukuna had bought out the fucking resturant. 

“Did you-” 

“S’not a big deal.” But the way you’re smiling and your eyes are widened in pure shock is. 

Your smile shouldn’t affect him as much as it did but Sukuna felt something tightening in his chest and how could anyone blame him for staring when you were that cute? His pretty girl. He was so fucking whipped, it was borderline concerning. 

Sukuna was grateful you didn’t push the matter. He just wanted one night that belonged entirely to the two of you. No strangers recognizing him from games. No crying babies, no family members, no school responsibilities demanding your attention.

Just you. For one evening, he wanted you all to himself.

The hostess welcomes you both in and leads you to the table sat near a huge window that overlooked Tokyo’s skyline and the view left you breathless. It wasn’t your first time seeing it but you still hadn’t grown used to the city, having grown up in the outskirts of it. Thousands of stars shined against the darkening sky as the sun disappeared and you turned to point out the sheer beauty to Sukuna, only he wasn’t looking at the view. 

He was too busy looking at you and the intensity of his gaze had butterflies shooting straight to your cunt. The way he insisted on looking at you like no other woman existed always left you shy and needy and it didn’t help that he looked so fucking delicous in that outfit. The chain sending your mind racing with truly filthy thoughts. 

“Y-you should, ahem, look at the view. It’s b-beautiful.” You felt so fucking stupid, stuttering like a teenager who had a crush on her brother’s older hot friend. 

“I am.” He hums and moves closer, shrugging off his leather jacket and laying it on the seat next to you. 

You gasp and take a step backward but it didn’t matter because he simply followed you, like a magnet being pulled by metal. He didn’t stop until your back was against the window and he was hovering over you, both arms pressed against the glass and caging you in. 

Your panties were starting to grow wet, heart and body melting at the way he was staring at you, red eyes blazing into yours and telling you he wanted you just as much as you wanted him. 

“Need you so bad baby, can’t wait.”

Sukuna doesn’t wait for you to respond before he’s dipping his head to run his nose against your neck, inhaling deep and growing rock hard at your scent. Perfume had never made him feel this desperate before but he was hardly ashamed at the hopeless want he felt toward you. 

“Sukuna, we’re n-not, mmm, we’re not alone.” You’re pushing at his shoulders and he sighs in annoyance, shooting a scowl at the workers over his shoulder. How fucking stupid could they be? 

He was clearly about to fuck you and they were stood there staring like cuck morons. But he didn’t have to say a word because the death glare had done its job and they scattered off. He could feel your shoulders shaking with laughter, his anger instantly dissolving. 

“You’re such a meanie.” You tease, hands going to play with the hair at his nape and Sukuna felt the precum oozing into his boxers. 

“You still love me though, don’t you baby?” Any joke you were going to make was gone the moment he crashed his lips against yours, your hands tugging tightly at his slick back hair as he pressed himself against you. The way your tits were pressed against his chest felt amazing and made him want more.

You were moaning into his mouth, your tongues clashing as you traded spit and he tasted so fucking sweet, you need more. You take his tongue into your mouth and suck, the taste of mint heavy. You only stop when you feel his fingers lift your dress and brush against your clothed pussy, head thrown back as you moan embarrassingly loud, smacking a hand over your mouth because you would die if anyone other than Sukuna heard how pathetic you were for him.

You two hadn’t even sat down before he was on you like you were a drug he was addicted to. The fact that he hadn’t lost his attraction to you after you birthed his daughter and your body changed, only pulled you deeper in this obsessive force spewing between the two of you. It grew stronger by the day and a normal person might be concerned if their thoughts consisted mostly of him and his touch, but you were far from normal.

He continues his assault on your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise, his fingers pulling your panties to the side and sending you reeling when they finally make contact with your leaking cunt. 

Sukuna smirks against your neck, moving his head to nibble on your earlobe. “So wet for me already, pretty. So fucking needy. Tell me what you want.” 

His voice vibrates through your body and your hips buck against his hand, demanding more pressure, needing him inside of you. Fuck the foreplay. You pressed a hand to his pants, his rock hard cock twitching at the feel of you, and you squeeze. 

Sukuna gasps and groans, grinding into it and leaning his forehead against yours, loose pieces of pink hair falling forward. 

“Want you to fuck me, Ryo. Been thinking about it since you left this morning.” Meaning you’ve been thinking about it since he stuffed you full before leaving for his game. It hadn’t even been 12 hours since he last fucked you and already-

He was bending you over the table before you knew it, hiking your dress up and pulling his pants and boxers down. His cock slapped against his stomach, pre-cum leaking from his red tip and trickling down his length. Sukuna usually wouldn’t fuck you without prepping you with his fingers or tongue first, but he needed to take you to clear his mind before proposing to you. And right now his brain was telling him that he needed to be inside of you, filling until you were dripping with his cum. 

You cry out when he rubs his length up and down your folds before slamming into you. He bottomed out in one thrust, hands shaking as they gripped your hips and pulled you closer, your ass pressing against his groin. 

The sounds coming from you were nasty in the hottest way possible, your wet cunt gripping him so fucking tight and he didn’t give you a moment to adjust, rutting into you and fighting the urge to cum. 

“Haaah, it’s too big Ryo, I-I c-can’t take ittt.” You cried out, hands gripping the table so tight you thought it might break it the force you were using to keep yourself upright. Your boobs were swinging, entire body shaking from the way he was pounding into you. 

“You can and you will.” He grunts, looking down to watch the way his cock disappears into your sweet pussy, gummy walls squeezing him so fucking good he was actively fighting back his rising orgasm. 

You were seeing stars, hips burning from his grip on you, each slam sending cups and plates falling to the ground and shattering. Neither of you cared, too lost in the moment, in the way you fit just perfectly for the other, like you had been sculpted with the sole purpose of molding together.

“Uhhhh Ryo, don’t ss-stop, feels s’good, oh god!” You whined and moved your hips to meet his thrust. That doesn’t last long before he’s squeezing your hips to keep you still and leaning over your body, capturing your lips in a heated kiss.

He moves a hand to squeeze your jaw until you get the hint and open up, tongue sticking out as he spit a glob into your mouth and you swallow like the good whore you were, pussy clenching down hard at the feeling of being totally dominated. 

“F-fuck don’t do that. M’not gonna last long baby.” He can feel his balls tightening and he refuses to get off before you do, wrapping his arm around your neck and pulling you until you’re both standing with your chest flat against his back. 

That’s when an idea hit him. You loved that view so much right? Before he can think rationally about doing it, he's wrapping both arms around your waist and carrying you to the window, his cock slipping out and you’re too busy with your eyes closed to notice what he’s doing. 

Not until he’s setting you down again and bending you over, grabbing your sweaty hands in his and placing them on the window. 

“Ryo- w-what are you doing? We can’t, someone will see- OH!” He slams back into you without warning, chuckling at your fucked out state before he continues his relentless attack on your pussy. 

Realistically, you were high up enough to where no one would notice you two, which is why he ignored your comment and instead focused on how good you felt gripping around his cock. No matter how much Sukuna fucked you, he would never get used to the feeling of you underneath him, moaning like a good little slut while he split you open on his length. 

His perfect soon to be wife and he knew he was never gonna let up on you. Never give anyone else the chance to experience your heaven sent pussy. 

“Let them, sweetheart- fuck! Let them see how much I’m gonna fucking fill this perfect cunt up, you want that? Tell me you want my cum, s- say it baby.” 

You could barely breathe with the way he was slamming into you, your pussy contracting around him as more of your juices leaked out, coating the base of his cock in a ring of cream. The sight had the man above you spiraling and crying out a guttural moan. The sound making your stomach tighten., the coil snapping.

“Yes! Please, ngghh, please give it to me. Oh god, m’gonna cum!” The pulsing pleasure that ripped through you was red, your fingers curling and digging into the glass as you rode out your orgasm.

Sukuna wasn’t too far behind, thrusting into you like an animal as he desperately chased his high and helped you ride out yours. He gasped when electricity shot through his stomach, toes digging into the soles of shoes as he reached around to wrap a hand around your throat and pull you back to him. 

“Fuck- m’gonna cum, pretty.” Just as he’s about to bust a fat nut, you’re pulling your hips away from his and dropping to your knees. 

You had given Sukuna oral before, but seeing you on your knees with your tongue sticking out and hands gripping his thighs had him stunned, though he covered it up with a grin. 

“Want it on my face this time. Please Kuna?” 

Kuna? That was new but Sukuna loved it, grumbling as he grabbed your chin with one hand and his cock with the other. 

Instead of responding, he started pumping his cock, squeezing at the tip before dragging it back down to the base. It didn’t take long before he was throwing his head back and shooting a massive load, white, thick ropes of cum spraying from his tip and onto your face, your tongue, your hair. 

"Oh fuuucck"

He kept pumping until he was milked dry, a little upset because nothing felt better than breeding you but loving it nonetheless. Once he caught his breath he was biting back a laugh at the sight of you on the ground, covered in his cum. It was a view he would never forget, you had never looked more like his. 

He straightens at your glare, helping you off the ground and grabbing a handkerchief from the table. He wiped your face until it was clear then dropped to his knee and tugged at your legs.

“Open.” He mumbled and you did, shaking and trying your best not to pass out when he started wiping between your legs, pulling your panties aside and cleaning you until you were dry enough to stop leaking. 

You would definitely need a shower.

“All good?” Sukuna looks up at you and his heart leaps at the way you stare down at him, mouth slightly open and nodding your head yes. Your hair was a mess, dress hanging off one shoulder and face burning in the aftermath of your intense quickie. 

You were so beautiful, fucking flawless and he couldn't imagine going a day without you. The ring in his pocket grew heavy, reminding him that now was his chance to bring his desires to fruition. The perfect moment to speak the four words that had been playing in the back of his head since he bought the ring weeks ago. 

“You okay?” You’re smiling softly but he can see the concern on your face, your hand coming out to hold his cheek and he can’t help but turn his head and kiss your wrist, eyes never leaving yours. 

How would he even ask? Sukuna was never good with words so he’d just have to, for once, let his heart lead him and hope everything didn’t crash and burn. Before he could back out, he was reaching a hand into his pocket and pulling out a velvet red box, looking back up at you as his hand shook. 

You were covering your mouth with your hand, eyes wide as tears filled them. This couldn’t be real, you must have gotten fucked so hard that you got put sleep and this was a dream. Tears began to spill, falling from your cheeks and onto the floor. 

Here was the man who swore he didn’t do relationships, bounced from woman to woman for years, claiming they were a waste of time and he’d never tie himself to one person. The frat boy whose life consisted of partying, soccer, and sex. 

He shifted onto one knee in front of you, grabbing your hand and littering it in kisses before looking back up at you with a terrified smile. For a few seconds he said nothing, eyes squeezing shut as if he was trying to find the right words, but you knew what he was going to say and had to fight yourself from screaming YES. 

The silence lingered, the only sound in the restaurant being the music playing but that was a non factor because the only thing you could focus on was the man on the ground in front of you. When he finally exhaled, chills shot through your body and your knees grew weak.

“You know I’m shit at this.” His hand tightens around the box as you give a watery smile, heart going thump thump thump. “But I'm gonna try anyway.” 

He kept his eyes on you, thumb rubbing against the back of your hand as a way to ground himself. Remind him that it was just you and him and that you loved him as much as he loved you. 

“When I first met you I was an asshole.” He swallowed hard. “I was selfish. Didn't care about anyone but myself. I did whatever I wanted, fucked whoever I wanted and left because it was easier than caring about people.” 

Your breath catches but you say nothing. 

“Then you happened and I annoyingly started to care. Fuck-” He clears his throat to hide the way his voice was starting to crack. But you don’t judge, simply squeezed his hand and encouraged him to continue. 

“That entire summer I thought about you and when you told me you were pregnant I was fucking terrified but there was always a lingering thought that at least now I’d have you in my life for good. I thought it was just because you were carrying the brat, but I started wanting more after she was born.”

“Even while I stupidly denied my feelings toward you, I hated that we were sleeping in separate rooms. I spent every night wishing you were lying next to me, too dumb to actually do anything about it. Then I fucked up trying to be someone I knew I wasn’t anymore and I’m so fucking sorry it took me this long to do this.”

He kisses your hand one more time before pulling away and opening the box, the huge rock taking you aback because you had never owned anything like it before. One look was all it took to know he spent a fortune on it. 

“Ryo-”

“Don’t interrupt me, sweetheart.” You snap your mouth shut, letting your smile grow because this was really happening! You felt like throwing up from the rush of excitement, left hand shaking as he grabbed it again. 

“I love you. Not just because you gave me my kid even though she’s pretty fucking amazing, but because you reminded me that Iove could be easy.” His voice goes soft. 

“I graduate next week and everything’s going to change.” His grip tightened around the ring. Sukuna was surprised at how easy he had been able to express his feelings to you, the words rolling off his tongue like they had always been destined to be spoken. 

“I don’t want to spend a moment of my life without you. I don’t care how hard things get as long as I have you by my side.”

Sukuna inhaled shakily, the words at the tip of his tongue. He was actually doing this, no turning back now. 

“Will you marry me-”

“Yes!” You sob out your answer before he can fully finish, dropping to the ground in front of him and grabbing his face in your hands, hot tears spilling. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you!”

Sukuna feels the weight of the world lift off his chest, relief flooding his bed because you said yes! “Yeah?” 

And you’re nodding, smiling through the water works because you loved him so damn much and now you would be able to truly call him yours. You had achieved the impossible and locked down Ryomen Sukuna. 

“Thank fuck. Ring was expensive as shit.”

Graduation day came sooner than Sukuna was prepared for. Four years of bullshit papers, lectures, parties and games all reduced to a few hours, a cap and a gown and a piece of paper waiting for him at the end of the stage. 

The morning had started in chaos. 

Your daughter who was now almost three months old, decided last night that sleep was optional and had been awake since before dawn. By the time you were dressed and ready to leave, there were burp cloths scattered throughout the apartment, a half-finished bottle sitting on the coffee table, and Sukuna was already complaining about his graduation gown.

You looked up from where you were fastening your daughter's tiny floral headband, smiling to yourself at how cute he looked and how proud you were of him, and you. You had both managed to pass your finals despite being new parents. You were going to be a senior, Sukuna was graduating, and it felt so surreal.

"It looks exactly like everyone else's."

He gives a hmph and you laugh, returning your attention to your daughter who was fast asleep in her carseat while you were actively fighting back yawns. Sukuna watches while you tightened her straps before standing and moving toward him. 

His eyes falling to the rock shining on your finger, they always do. His fiancé. He wondered how he got so lucky.

Once you’re close enough, you reach up and adjust the cap on his head and Sukuna is completely smitten. Never growing used to the way you always insisted on taking care of him.

His heart was overflowing with love for you, hands going to your waist to pull you close. He stares for a moment, committing every feature of you to memory, rubbing his thumb against your bottom lip before leaning down and kissing you. Hoping you’d feel every ounce of devotion he held for you.

“Mmm. Love you, fiancé.”

The stadium was packed by the time everyone arrived. Rows upon rows of graduates filling the seats while family members crowded the stands above. You sat beside your parents and Jin and Yuji, your daughter sound asleep in your lap. Yuki was on your right because you two were the only ones from your group not graduating. The tiny white dress your daughter had been dress in had lasted twenty minutes before she spit up on it and now wore her backup outfit.

It was easy to find Sukuna since he towered over everyone, his gown not doing much to hide his broad shoulders. He was laughing at something Gojo said, the white haired man throwing an arm around his shoulders. 

You were an hour into the ceremony when your phone buzzed three times. You adjust your daughter in your arms and unlock the screen, instantly smiling because Sukuna was the one blowing you up. 

ryo 💍: miss you already  ryo 💍: this is fucking dragging ryo 💍: look up

When you do Sukuna is smirking up at you and sending you a wink. You chuckle and look back down at your phone, bottom lip caught between your teeth, ears on fire. 

you: be a good boy and stop complaining, you might get a treat. ryo 💍: don’t tease me brat. when has that ever ended well for you?

Eventually they began calling students names and when they finally reached Sukuna, your daughter woke up from the way you were yelling for your man, Jin and Yuji standing tall and cheering with the rest of the crowd. The four year old almost jumping out his father's arms, yelling "UNC KUNA." 

Ever the gym rat, Sukuna takes his degree and holds it up, raising his other arm to flex his muscle, face big on the screen and you’re giggling because deep down he was still that frat boy that stole your heart last summer.  

What was that saying? You can take the man out of the frat but you can’t take the frat out of the man.

The ceremony eventually ended and chaos followed. Families were flooding onto the floors below, graduates searching for friends, cameras flashing from every angle. Your dress swished side to side as you made your way to your fiance, Yuki had disappeared to find Choso, your parents: Nanami and Jin followed close behind, holding Yuji’s hand tight so he didn’t run away.

When you finally found Sukuna his gown was open, his cap was off and in his hands and he was giving Gojo a hug. A genuine one without a scowl on his face. The brothers whispering a few words to each other before turning to you. 

Before you could say a word, Gojo was saying hello and taking his goddaughter from your arms, littering her cheeks in kisses and Sukuna surprisingly said nothing. He was too busy moving toward you, gripping your hips and pulling you close. 

“Now we get to spend more time together, kid!” You heard Gojo say but your eyes were locked on Sukuna’s. 

“Congra-”

The giant pulled you to him before you could get the word out and kissed you like he hadn't seen you in weeks instead of hours. You sunk into it, wrapping your hands around his neck as he lifted you off the ground and spinned you around. 

You laughed against his mouth, heart full and the reality of your life finally hitting you.

Being a mom in your early 20’s had never been a part of your five year plan, least of all with your brother's fratbro, but there wasn’t a thing you’d change about it. You would pick him to be your husband and the father of your child in every timeline, in every life.

There was no one beside Sukuna. Your heart wholly belonged to him, and his belonged to you. Two dumb college students who found love in the most unlikely of places.

Ten years later

Satoro Gojo was sitting behind his desk, reading through papers about a new business his company was buying out when a soft knock filled the room. 

He called for the person to come in, setting the papers down, knowing exactly who it was the moment their knuckles touched his door. When she walked in, he smiled and straightened, still finding it hard to believe how his goddaughter had gone from a drooling baby who loved to bite his fingers, to an actual person with thoughts and feelings of her own. 

Her hair was pink as ever and she was taller than the average ten year old, her face sporting the same scowl her father always wore. She looked just like his friend, even though her eyes were as soft as yours. 

She was dressed in her soccer uniform still, though Gojo had picked her up from practice an hour ago. She had been staying with him for the next two weeks, as you and Sukuna celebrated your anniversary out of the country. Gojo never wanted to have kids of his own, so having her occasionally come over was a blessing he never failed to be thankful for.

“What’s up, kid?” 

She hesitated, her frown deepening and his concern skyrocketed. Though the girl's attitude rivaled her father's, the two often bumping heads, she was typically a happy child. A genuine frown on her face was unlike her. 

When she didn’t respond, only shrugged, Gojo stood from behind his desk and crossed the room to her. She was far too big now to enjoy being picked up, so he opted for leading her to the couch in the corner of his office, sitting her down and giving her that look. The one that said “speak or no roblox money.”

For a moment she simply stared at her hands, cheek dusted pink as she tried to find her words. 

“Do you think my dad loves soccer more than me?”

Gojo’s heart sank. As silly as they were together, the cool uncle who never took life too seriously and always gave her things her parents said no to, he realized she was still just a kid. One who was apparently worried that her father didn’t love her enough. 

“Oh, princess. I promise that couldn’t be further from the truth.” He pulled her close, hand stroking her hair as her frown deepened. 

Gojo understood where the hurt was coming from. Sukuna had never quit soccer after college, not finding any trouble getting into the leagues and since professionals always had somewhere they needed to be, he ended up missing her school concert last month. 

A few dinners here and there, nothing consistent but children noticed everything and it clearly bothered her.

“Then why did he miss my concert for a stupid meeting?” 

Damn that man. Gojo thought carefully of what to say because he knew he hadn’t done it on purpose. If there was one thing he knew, it was that no one in this life or the next loved her more than Sukuna did, but parents got busy and sometimes made mistakes. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” 

She looks up at him with innocent red eyes, head shaking as strings of hair fall from her braid. He loved her so damn much, she was the only kid he’d ever have and he’d do just about anything for her.

"When your dad was in college, he almost got kicked off the soccer team because he left in the middle of strategy to come see you."

Despite her distressed state, a smile slowly appeared. Your smile.

“Now I wasn’t there, but I have it on good authority that he pointed at you every time he scored.” The good word was the gossip that spread after the game and the fact that Sukuna almost punched him when Gojo teased him about it.

He smiled at the memory, a part of him missing the days he shared with his frat brothers.

“I don’t believe you uncle Toru.” She squints her eyes suspiciously, arms crossing at her chest. 

“When have I ever lied to you?” Gojo squeezes her shoulder, looking down at her with a small smile. 

“Your dad loves a lot of things, kid. Soccer, your mom, being a grumpy asshole.” 

That pulls a laugh from her as she nods her head in agreement. Good. All Gojo ever wanted in life was for her to be happy, and to be the second father she could always come to when she was feeling down or unsure about anything.

“But do you know what your dad loves the most?”

She looked up at him, shaking her head from side to side but her eyes were hopeful. Gojo ruffles her hair. 

“You.”

He had known Sukuna for a massive chunk of his life, befriending him when they were only in high school. He watched him become a father, a husband, and go from fratboy to a domesticated family man and world known soccer player. 

He was sure about one thing when it came to Sukuna, and it was that there was no universe where he’d pick soccer over his family.

When you and your husband finally returned a week later, the little girl wasted no time and crashed herself into her father, tears pouring down  her face. The force almost knocked him backward but without hesitation, he caught her. Arms wrapping protectively around her as he chuckled and placed a kiss to the top of her head. 

“Hi sweetheart. Missed me that much?”

Gojo watched from the porch with relief. Watched as Sukuna picked up his ten year old daughter, her legs wrapping around his waist and your arms curling around them both. 

Some things never changed. Not after two years, not after five, and not after ten. No matter how big she got, she would always be Sukuna’s little girl and he would always love her more than anything in this world. 

In the end, you had showed that Ryomen Sukuna does in fact do relationships and he had never been more happy to see his friend proven wrong.

the end.

❦ lisa's note: so this is the end.. i just combined ch. 6 and 7 plus the epilogue into one since they weren't very long and im sad because this series is officially over. i'll be posting the remaining one-shots in between my other fics but for now we're saying goodbye to frat dad kuna. thank you for riding along, I'm blown away at how well received this series was. thank you sm my lovies, there's more to come soon.

Your giggles fill the room when he flips you to lie on your back and settles his large body over yours, naked hips tucked between your legs and keeping his chest pressed against yours. Neither of you put on clothes after your bath, Sukuna claiming he couldn’t sleep without feeling your skin. One of his hands was on your hip and the other was holding himself over you. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to. 

Not that you did, you were right where you wanted to be.

“Going somewhere sweetheart?” 

He’s smiling down at you with sleepy eyes and your heart stutters because he looks ethereal with the morning light hitting his face, so soft even with his tattoos, so completely yours. You reach a hand up to caress his face and the way his breath hitches has you smirking knowingly. 

You had Sukuna wrapped around your pretty little finger.

“Never.” You whisper, arms coming up to wrap around his neck, eyes burning into his red ones so intimately you felt you might combust. 

A satisfied rumble vibrates through his chest, his eyes trailing to your lips before he’s placing his forehead to yours. The morning sun is shining through the room and the way his eyes glow a little brighter sends flutters through your body. The domesticity of this moment has your heart thumping, realizing just how unusual this is for Sukuna, the man who took what he wanted and moved on. 

Yet here he was with you, holding you like he was afraid to let go, like if he loosened his grip just a little you would disappear. 

“You’re staring.” His voice was angelic, rough with lingering sleep and he was staring through your soul, eyes locked on yours like you were the only person in the world. Like he was committing this moment to memory.  

“Hmm, I am-” Your voice cracked as tears started to blur your vision and before you could give him a chance to comment on it, you pulled him down and pressed your lips against his. Losing yourself in this moment, savoring every second you were with him because Sukuna was clearly in love but you were hopelessly devoted. Foolishly lost to his existence. 

The kiss was extra soft, soul crushingly desperate in the way you clung to him. Every emotion you couldn't put into words poured into it instead. Every day you spent hiding your feelings for him came spilling out into one singular kiss. All the love that you had no idea what to do with, you gave it all to him.

When he finally pulled back to catch his breath, not you but him, his eyes were shining and his lips were red and glossy with your spit. You even noticed the purple marks on his neck, generous gifts you gave him last night as a reminder that he was yours. He looks thoroughly claimed. 

“I love you.” You can’t help but to say it again and the way his smile softens, the joke written on his tongue dissolving into adoration. His body pressed flush against yours, the feel of his bare chest burning through your skin.

“I know.” He nuzzles his nose against yours, breathing your air and it sends chills through your body. A tear escapes and slides down your face before you can stop it. Fuck, you were so gone. “I love you too, baby. Love you so much.”

It had been a very long time since Sukuna was able to take a true full breath. One not riddled with childhood trauma, one that actually made him feel like he was alive and human again. He almost felt it when his daughter was born but he had still been accepting the fact that he was a father so his body denied him that relief. And what a breath of fresh air it had been when he told you he loved you and you said it back. 

You fucking said it back and said it again the next day, no sign of doubt in your honey laced voice and Sukuna might as well have died and went to heaven. That uncommon feeling of insecurity that had him in a chokehold, the idea that you somehow didn’t feel the same, had dissolved in the matter of seconds just by hearing three little words.  

He would have laid in bed with you all day but he promised to pick up your shared daughter before practice, giving you time to cram in some last minute studying before he was gone most of the day.

Sukuna had told you that after practice he had some frat obligations to carry out but that wasn’t entirely truthful. Sure, he did have to stop by the fraternity but that was only to tell them that he was out. His priority no longer lied with his chosen brothers but to the family he had pledged his life to, the only pledge worth keeping. 

Gojo’s response had only been to smile and say: “About damn time bro.”

He also had another stop to make, nothing too big, just going ring shopping with the only person that knew you probably better than he did. Nanami. The man immediately agreed when Sukuna told him his plans to propose to you at practice, and now that they were standing in a jewelry shop, the pink haired giant began to panic. 

What if you didn’t want to get married? He remembered the conversation with Nanami when you  told him you were pregnant and he hinted at Sukuna marrying you. You had specifically said “What makes you think I want to get married?”  

What if there was still truth to that? Sure, you had said that you loved him but people loved others all the time without wanting to tie themselves to their partner legally. Doubt, another foreign feeling to him, pooled in his stomach and twisted until he felt nauseous. You had reduced him to a coward and he hated it. Since when had Sukuna been afraid of rejection? If a girl denied him, he respected their wishes and moved onto the next. There was a long line of women throwing themselves at him, he never had time to sulk over it. 

But they weren’t you and this was far from some drunken one night stand. You were the woman who made him a father, who he wanted to share a last name with, who slowly tore down that brick wall guarding his heart. Piece by piece, layer by layer until he was left bare and confessing the embarrassing amount of love he held for you.

Fuck it. He was already here, might as well get the fucking thing over with.

The store was humming with soft classical music as Sukuna stood stiffly beside Nanami, hating every second of this. Wishing he was home with you and his daughter, locked away in your own little domain where only you three existed.

“You seem nervous. There’s no need to be, (name) isn’t a very picky person, it’s really the thought that counts.”

Before Sukuna could deny it, tell his possibly soon to be brother in law that he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, a sales associate approached with a bright smile plastered on their face and Sukuna instantly had a headache. 

“Welcome! Are we shopping for anything special today?” His overly enthusiastic smile pissed Sukuna off, which was ridiculous because he knew others' happiness shouldn’t annoy him, even if it was clearly fake as hell. 

“An engagement ring and we don’t need help.” He answers flatly, ignoring the way the salesman’s eyes widened before he cools his expression into a practiced calm, staring nervously up at the 6 '5, tattooed college student who was sporting a glare that warned the man to fuck off.

Nanami’s giving Sukuna a scathing look, but he can’t see it because he’s too busy looking at the display of rings (why the fuck were there so many?) but he can feel the disappointment seeping from him. 

“Of course sir! Apologies, please let me know if you need anything at all. I’d be glad to help.” And he’s sprinting to brother someone else and Sukuna is glad because while he may have softened for you and his child, and in extension tolerated Nanami, that kindness didn’t apply to strangers. 

“You’re truly an asshole dude.” Nanami seethes while pinching the bridge of his nose, red creeping up his neck.

Sukuna almost laughs, almost. Instead he settles on a smirk because you would hate it if you found out they were arguing after growing closer during your pregnancy. Sukuna was being good for you, changing for you.

“Good thing I’m not marrying you.”

Nanami ignores the comment because he would rather literally explode than be stuck with Sukuna for the rest of his life. He was here for you and because he knew his teammate would fuck this up without him. 

Sukuna starts moving around the shop, his annoyance growing because everything he pointed out Nanami claimed you wouldn’t like. Everything Nanami pointed out, Sukuna criticized. 

“No. Absolutely not. Too small. Too ugly. What the fuck is that?” 

A woman nearby gives Sukuna a scandalous look at the last comment and Nanami pretends not to know him. He can’t imagine how his friend looks right now in the eyes of someone who didn’t know him, hat on backwards and dressed in a compression shirt that showed how his muscles flexed as his anger grew. Red eyes blazing, mouth turned downward and his face set in a permanent sneer. 

Sukuna was truly scary. What on earth did you see in him?

“What’s your budget?” He asks as they move to a different display case. These ones seem a little more up your alley, though the price tags had him sweating. Nanami could remember a conversation you had as children where you said your ideal ring was a blue ring pop and while these weren’t the candy you loved back then, they damn near matched in size. 

Sukuna deadpans him and Nanami’s cheeks turn a light tint of red. He sometimes forgot that the Itadori’s had enough money to buy half the country if they wanted to. 

“Right, I forgot. Trust fund baby.”

Sukuna didn’t have a budget. He wasn’t reckless with money after receiving his inheritance, he typically lived very frugally for someone of his background. The only times he’d ever really splurged was on his car, shopping for his daughter, the apartment he bought you, and apparently now. 

The ring he was eyeing was ridiculously expensive, nearly ¥6,409,720 and it was huge as fuck, likely to swallow your finger. It was perfect, exactly what Sukuna was looking for and Nanami actually agreed. He wanted to be sure no one would miss the way it sat pretty on your finger, telling the entire world that you were his. 

“That one.”

It’s May now. Graduation is coming up and Sukuna has been in full blown soccer mode the past month, the sport consuming his life. He’s barely had time to think let alone propose to you and he bought that fucking ring weeks ago. Between classes, games, and parenting, it seemed like he couldn’t get a moment to himself.

Your baby just turned ten weeks, a little over two months old now and the pride and joy of yours and Sukuna’s life. The tiny newborn was now a chunky infant with round cheeks and an ever changing face that resembled you more and more each passing day. Sukuna told you how perfect that was, that now there were two of you that he could love and spoil. 

She was smiling a lot more, staring too now that her visual tracking was improving. One night you had been typing away at your laptop, baby strapped in her bouncer as you worked on your final paper for your philosophy class.  

When she made a sound you looked down at her just to find she had already been staring at you and your heart stuttered. Your daughter was Sukuna’s reflection but you were starting to make out your own features in her, like how she had your eye shape but his color, hair texture closer to yours but his red. She was becoming a true split of her parents.

You were going back on campus a lot more now too, especially since your parents decided that they lived too far away and would be moving closer to you. Closer as in a five minute walk away and you were grateful. They were beyond smitten with your daughter, commenting on how she did look like her father but they could see their old friend in her too and how symbolic it was that she shared a name with her late grandmother.

Today was game day. The weather was actually warm enough that you didn’t need a jacket, though your daughter was still slightly bundled in pink against your chest, tucked securely in her carrier. You thanked God that Sukuna had brought your baby protective headphones because the stands were loud, students and families filling in to support their loved one on the field. Nearby freshmen were chanting and the game hadn’t even started yet. 

You adjusted your daughter’s headphones before pulling her tighter against your chest. She was up today, curious eyes trying their best to look around with her face pressed against your body. And while she was looking at the hundreds of new faces and bright lights, you were focused on the field, looking for a head of pink hair that had stolen your heart all those months ago. 

You and your parents had gotten there early enough to get a front row seat so it would be easier for him to find you. Jin had even come with little Yuji who insisted on sitting next to his baby cousin. What you didn’t know was that Sukuna could find you in a room of a thousand. 

He was currently on the field talking strategy with Nanami and his teammates. The game was about to start when he looked to the crowd and immediately spotted you. His stomach was flipping again but it did that every time he saw you and while he had grown used to it, it was different this time.

There you were, wearing a jersey that had his team’s colors, hair pulled behind your head with one of his hats on that had his number, his daughter tucked against your chest. The sight turned into a core memory, the way everyone else blurred and the only thing he could see was you and his baby. It was something he thought you only saw in movies but it was actively happening to him and Sukuna didn’t know what he did to get so lucky. 

He was far from the type of guy you’d bring home to meet your parents. He wasn’t kind, had a terrible past of using people to get what he wanted, the reputation he built during his frat days not something one would be proud of and yet here he was. Staring at his future wife and his child, sitting in the stands wearing his colors, your face scrunched up and eyes squinted as you looked for him, just as he did the night he met you. 

What a fucking turn of events. 

Sukuna starts walking across the field, ignoring his teammates and coach asking where he was going. He had a few minutes before the game and he was craving the taste of your lips. Who cares if he was mid strategy?

When Sukuna reaches the fence separating the bleachers from the field, you’re smiling so bright that it momentarily blinds him as you hold your daughter's bum and stand, moving toward the fence. He’s wearing a cocky grin but Sukuna can feel his heart doing somersaults because you looked so fucking edible, and he was suddenly starving. 

He felt the way he did watching you dance at that party nearly a year ago, completely hypnotized and wanting nothing more than to claim you. Only this time it was more than sex, sure he wanted to fuck you until you were creaming on cock but he wanted the world to know that you were his. His mind flashed back to the ring, how it would look on your finger if once you said yes, the smile you would wear looking down at him on one knee. 

Once you're close enough, Sukuna reaches an arm over the fence and while being mindful of his daughter, pulls you closer until his lips were hovering just above yours. The way you were wide eyed and fighting back a laugh had his smirk widening, eyes knowing nothing but your face. 

“Hi.” He whispered, completely oblivious to the people staring because no one else existed in this moment. It was just you, him and the baby strapped to your chest. 

“Hi.” You swallow hard and he notices your attention drifting behind him and for a split second, white hot jealousy courses through his body because he wanted your attention to be solely on him. “Your coach looks like he’s going to murder you.” 

He doesn’t acknowledge that because he couldn't care less what his coach thinks, hooking a finger under your chin and turning your head back to him. He could practically feel the heat from your face, your wide glossy eyes doing nothing to help the growing pool of need whirling deep in his chest. You were so beautiful, his perfect future wife.

“Missed you baby.” 

And when you laugh his heart leaps, the sound the closest thing someone like him would probably get to experiencing heaven. Fuck, you were too good for him but he was going to selfishly keep you anyways. 

“You just saw me this morning.” 

“Hmmm, too long.” And before you could respond he’s pressing his lips against yours, the sound of his name being called fading away because the only thing he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears as his lips were lost to yours. 

It ended all too soon. He had hesitantly pulled back before he decided the game wasn’t that important, his self control always hanging on a loose thread whenever it came to you. 

Before you could stop him, he was reaching over and pulling his daughter from her carrier, paying no mind to the way you scolded him and the whistle his coach was blowing. Sukuna knew he was pissed but he’d deal with that later. 

“Ryomen!” You shrieked but he could hear the laughter in your voice. The way you were enjoying this just as much as he was. 

“Hey brat.” He’s barely smiling at the baby in his arms, but stars are exploding behind his eyes at the sight of his heart in his hands. She looks so cute with her little headphones, her head so small that they were swallowing her. He’s giving her kisses on the chubby cheeks he’d never admit to becoming obsessed with, relishing in the gummy smile she gave when she recognized her father’s voice. 

His coach was calling his name for the nth time followed by a string of curses and Sukuna pulled his daughter close, breathing in her baby scent and giving her a final kiss on the head before tucking her back in her carrier. 

With a defeated pout, he’s shooting you a wink and running back to the field. 

They won the game that day by a landslide, Sukuna playing a little extra hard just so he could impress you. He was already a beast on the field but a need to gain your praise had burned through him and it led to him scoring most of the goals, even though there were two other forwards on his team. 

To celebrate their win, a party was being thrown in their honor but Sukuna had declined, stating he had better plans than getting drunk with people he could hardly tolerate. 

Later that night he was standing in front of the mirror in his room, smoothing down his dress shirt, anxiety on ten as his mind ran wild with thoughts that you wouldn’t like his outfit for your date night. Sukuna would fucking die before he wore a suit (we all know he’d wear it if you asked) but he made an effort since tonight was the night he planned on finally proposing to you. He even bought a chain after you mentioned he would look good with gold jewelry, the metal sitting cold against his chest and peeking through the top of his v neck shirt. 

The small box was burning a hole through his pant pocket and he hated the look his twin was giving him through the mirror, arms crossed at his chest as he held his gaze behind those stupid glasses. If anyone knew him, it was him and he knew that Jin could probably smell the nervousness on him. 

“You’ve changed.” 

Sukuna grumbles like an angry old man, pushing his coral hair back and opting to ignore his brother's comment. Unfortunately, Jin wasn’t the type to let things go and Sukuna regretted asking him to babysit.

No one had been able to get under his skin the way his twin did but Sukuna would never admit that Jin also kept him humble. He knew the scared young boy he used to be and even though their personalities differed greatly and his brother never agreed with his fuckboy ways, he had never turned away from him. Sukuna would even admit that Jin was his platonic soulmate, even though he was sure that you were his twin flame. 

“I mean it in a good way, idiot. Take it as a compliment, they’ve changed you for the better, you’re less grumpy. It’s refreshing, I missed this version of you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It was useless denying it, Jin had experienced every era of his life and the connection they had as identical twins ran deep. Sukuna was far from an open book, to everyone but his wombmate of course. 

“You’ve spent the last five minutes making sure your shirt was good enough.” 

“I’m making sure I don’t look stupid.” But it was so much more than that because caring what others thought was never a part of Sukuna’s personality and Jin knew that, though he wasn’t about to argue with his brother who was equally as stubborn as he was. 

“Sure, Ryomen. We’ll go with that.” 

After spending another ten minutes making sure he looked decent enough for you, he finally stepped out of your now shared room and into the living room. Wiping his sweaty palms down his pants, angry that he couldn’t get a hold on his nerves enough to not look like a fool in front of you. Why was he acting like a loser that never interacted with a woman before? 

He froze at the sight of you, entire body buzzing with awe because standing before him was his future and you looked like a goddess, entirely out of his league. You were wearing a long sleeved square neck red dress that hugged your postpartum hips perfectly, your hair down and falling over your shoulders. Red gloss spread across your lips and he wondered what you tasted like.

Sukuna could smell the vanilla perfume from across the room. It clouded his senses and helped him drag his feet toward you. 

You were looking admiringly at the ground where Yuji was lying on his stomach across from his cousin, watching her with wide eyes and a toothy smile as she did tummy time. Sukuna stole a quick glance before looking back at you. 

Just as he was about to speak you turned around and the look you gave him had his tongue tied, the small smile making his head spin. Fuck. Every logical bone in his body told him to compliment you, but he was so lost in your eyes he forgot how to speak. Until Jin ruined it by smacking the back of his head and giving him a look that told him to speak up. 

He gave his brother a glare who simply smirked and moved around him so he could sit with the children, picking up his niece and laughing at how Yuji immediately shot up and asked to hold her. Sukuna’s frown disappeared the moment he heard your laugh though. Your hand was covering your mouth and he wanted to scold you for hiding it from him. 

Instead he awkwardly scratched the back of his neck, face growing hot with nervousness as if he wasn’t balls deep inside of you this morning telling you over and over how much he loved you.

“You look handsome.” You were moving closer and fixing the collar of his shirt, hand trailing to hover over the necklace on his chest but your eyes never left his. Sukuna could feel his cock twitching at your touch, hand coming up to grab your hip and pull you closer.

“Yeah? Tried my best just for you baby.” And he relished in the way your breath hitched, grabbing your hand and bringing it to his mouth to kiss. He let his lips linger for a few seconds, enjoying the feel of your skin against his mouth before you both said your goodbyes and he was walking you out the door.

Sukuna kept his hand on your lower back as he led you toward the restaurant he had reserved the day he bought the ring sitting heavy in his pocket. The closer you got to the building the more confused you became. The parking lot was damn near empty which was unusual for this place and you would know because it was notoriously hard to get a table here. 

“Are they closed?” You glance at him but he presses his hand against your back, urging you forward despite the suspiciousness of the situation. 

“No.”

“Then where is everyone?” You didn’t think twice about the way he clenched his jaw or the slight tremble in hand as he moved it from behind your back and opened the door for you. 

“You ask too many questions.” 

You hit his chest, annoyed he wouldn’t answer because they were totally valid questions. It was too dead for a restaurant as popular as this one. You wonder what strings Sukuna pulled to even get a table on such short notice.

“And you’re being weird. What-” The words die on your tongue at the sight staring back at you. 

The restaurant was empty, soft music filling the air and all the tables had been removed except for one that hosted two chairs. There were red roses scattered throughout the space, candles flickering in the dim room, the only people there being the staff members that moved with purpose throughout the room. 

Your head slowly turns to him as he moves to stand next to you. He’s avoiding eye contact but living with him for so long had given you the ability to tell when he was nervous. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that Sukuna had bought out the fucking resturant. 

“Did you-” 

“S’not a big deal.” But the way you’re smiling and your eyes are widened in pure shock is. 

Your smile shouldn’t affect him as much as it did but Sukuna felt something tightening in his chest and how could anyone blame him for staring when you were that cute? His pretty girl. He was so fucking whipped, it was borderline concerning. 

Sukuna was grateful you didn’t push the matter. He just wanted one night that belonged entirely to the two of you. No strangers recognizing him from games. No crying babies, no family members, no school responsibilities demanding your attention.

Just you. For one evening, he wanted you all to himself.

The hostess welcomes you both in and leads you to the table sat near a huge window that overlooked Tokyo’s skyline and the view left you breathless. It wasn’t your first time seeing it but you still hadn’t grown used to the city, having grown up in the outskirts of it. Thousands of stars shined against the darkening sky as the sun disappeared and you turned to point out the sheer beauty to Sukuna, only he wasn’t looking at the view. 

He was too busy looking at you and the intensity of his gaze had butterflies shooting straight to your cunt. The way he insisted on looking at you like no other woman existed always left you shy and needy and it didn’t help that he looked so fucking delicous in that outfit. The chain sending your mind racing with truly filthy thoughts. 

“Y-you should, ahem, look at the view. It’s b-beautiful.” You felt so fucking stupid, stuttering like a teenager who had a crush on her brother’s older hot friend. 

“I am.” He hums and moves closer, shrugging off his leather jacket and laying it on the seat next to you. 

You gasp and take a step backward but it didn’t matter because he simply followed you, like a magnet being pulled by metal. He didn’t stop until your back was against the window and he was hovering over you, both arms pressed against the glass and caging you in. 

Your panties were starting to grow wet, heart and body melting at the way he was staring at you, red eyes blazing into yours and telling you he wanted you just as much as you wanted him. 

“Need you so bad baby, can’t wait.”

Sukuna doesn’t wait for you to respond before he’s dipping his head to run his nose against your neck, inhaling deep and growing rock hard at your scent. Perfume had never made him feel this desperate before but he was hardly ashamed at the hopeless want he felt toward you. 

“Sukuna, we’re n-not, mmm, we’re not alone.” You’re pushing at his shoulders and he sighs in annoyance, shooting a scowl at the workers over his shoulder. How fucking stupid could they be? 

He was clearly about to fuck you and they were stood there staring like cuck morons. But he didn’t have to say a word because the death glare had done its job and they scattered off. He could feel your shoulders shaking with laughter, his anger instantly dissolving. 

“You’re such a meanie.” You tease, hands going to play with the hair at his nape and Sukuna felt the precum oozing into his boxers. 

“You still love me though, don’t you baby?” Any joke you were going to make was gone the moment he crashed his lips against yours, your hands tugging tightly at his slick back hair as he pressed himself against you. The way your tits were pressed against his chest felt amazing and made him want more.

You were moaning into his mouth, your tongues clashing as you traded spit and he tasted so fucking sweet, you need more. You take his tongue into your mouth and suck, the taste of mint heavy. You only stop when you feel his fingers lift your dress and brush against your clothed pussy, head thrown back as you moan embarrassingly loud, smacking a hand over your mouth because you would die if anyone other than Sukuna heard how pathetic you were for him.

You two hadn’t even sat down before he was on you like you were a drug he was addicted to. The fact that he hadn’t lost his attraction to you after you birthed his daughter and your body changed, only pulled you deeper in this obsessive force spewing between the two of you. It grew stronger by the day and a normal person might be concerned if their thoughts consisted mostly of him and his touch, but you were far from normal.

He continues his assault on your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise, his fingers pulling your panties to the side and sending you reeling when they finally make contact with your leaking cunt. 

Sukuna smirks against your neck, moving his head to nibble on your earlobe. “So wet for me already, pretty. So fucking needy. Tell me what you want.” 

His voice vibrates through your body and your hips buck against his hand, demanding more pressure, needing him inside of you. Fuck the foreplay. You pressed a hand to his pants, his rock hard cock twitching at the feel of you, and you squeeze. 

Sukuna gasps and groans, grinding into it and leaning his forehead against yours, loose pieces of pink hair falling forward. 

“Want you to fuck me, Ryo. Been thinking about it since you left this morning.” Meaning you’ve been thinking about it since he stuffed you full before leaving for his game. It hadn’t even been 12 hours since he last fucked you and already-

He was bending you over the table before you knew it, hiking your dress up and pulling his pants and boxers down. His cock slapped against his stomach, pre-cum leaking from his red tip and trickling down his length. Sukuna usually wouldn’t fuck you without prepping you with his fingers or tongue first, but he needed to take you to clear his mind before proposing to you. And right now his brain was telling him that he needed to be inside of you, filling until you were dripping with his cum. 

You cry out when he rubs his length up and down your folds before slamming into you. He bottomed out in one thrust, hands shaking as they gripped your hips and pulled you closer, your ass pressing against his groin. 

The sounds coming from you were nasty in the hottest way possible, your wet cunt gripping him so fucking tight and he didn’t give you a moment to adjust, rutting into you and fighting the urge to cum. 

“Haaah, it’s too big Ryo, I-I c-can’t take ittt.” You cried out, hands gripping the table so tight you thought it might break it the force you were using to keep yourself upright. Your boobs were swinging, entire body shaking from the way he was pounding into you. 

“You can and you will.” He grunts, looking down to watch the way his cock disappears into your sweet pussy, gummy walls squeezing him so fucking good he was actively fighting back his rising orgasm. 

You were seeing stars, hips burning from his grip on you, each slam sending cups and plates falling to the ground and shattering. Neither of you cared, too lost in the moment, in the way you fit just perfectly for the other, like you had been sculpted with the sole purpose of molding together.

“Uhhhh Ryo, don’t ss-stop, feels s’good, oh god!” You whined and moved your hips to meet his thrust. That doesn’t last long before he’s squeezing your hips to keep you still and leaning over your body, capturing your lips in a heated kiss.

He moves a hand to squeeze your jaw until you get the hint and open up, tongue sticking out as he spit a glob into your mouth and you swallow like the good whore you were, pussy clenching down hard at the feeling of being totally dominated. 

“F-fuck don’t do that. M’not gonna last long baby.” He can feel his balls tightening and he refuses to get off before you do, wrapping his arm around your neck and pulling you until you’re both standing with your chest flat against his back. 

That’s when an idea hit him. You loved that view so much right? Before he can think rationally about doing it, he's wrapping both arms around your waist and carrying you to the window, his cock slipping out and you’re too busy with your eyes closed to notice what he’s doing. 

Not until he’s setting you down again and bending you over, grabbing your sweaty hands in his and placing them on the window. 

“Ryo- w-what are you doing? We can’t, someone will see- OH!” He slams back into you without warning, chuckling at your fucked out state before he continues his relentless attack on your pussy. 

Realistically, you were high up enough to where no one would notice you two, which is why he ignored your comment and instead focused on how good you felt gripping around his cock. No matter how much Sukuna fucked you, he would never get used to the feeling of you underneath him, moaning like a good little slut while he split you open on his length. 

His perfect soon to be wife and he knew he was never gonna let up on you. Never give anyone else the chance to experience your heaven sent pussy. 

“Let them, sweetheart- fuck! Let them see how much I’m gonna fucking fill this perfect cunt up, you want that? Tell me you want my cum, s- say it baby.” 

You could barely breathe with the way he was slamming into you, your pussy contracting around him as more of your juices leaked out, coating the base of his cock in a ring of cream. The sight had the man above you spiraling and crying out a guttural moan. The sound making your stomach tighten., the coil snapping.

“Yes! Please, ngghh, please give it to me. Oh god, m’gonna cum!” The pulsing pleasure that ripped through you was red, your fingers curling and digging into the glass as you rode out your orgasm.

Sukuna wasn’t too far behind, thrusting into you like an animal as he desperately chased his high and helped you ride out yours. He gasped when electricity shot through his stomach, toes digging into the soles of shoes as he reached around to wrap a hand around your throat and pull you back to him. 

“Fuck- m’gonna cum, pretty.” Just as he’s about to bust a fat nut, you’re pulling your hips away from his and dropping to your knees. 

You had given Sukuna oral before, but seeing you on your knees with your tongue sticking out and hands gripping his thighs had him stunned, though he covered it up with a grin. 

“Want it on my face this time. Please Kuna?” 

Kuna? That was new but Sukuna loved it, grumbling as he grabbed your chin with one hand and his cock with the other. 

Instead of responding, he started pumping his cock, squeezing at the tip before dragging it back down to the base. It didn’t take long before he was throwing his head back and shooting a massive load, white, thick ropes of cum spraying from his tip and onto your face, your tongue, your hair. 

"Oh fuuucck"

He kept pumping until he was milked dry, a little upset because nothing felt better than breeding you but loving it nonetheless. Once he caught his breath he was biting back a laugh at the sight of you on the ground, covered in his cum. It was a view he would never forget, you had never looked more like his. 

He straightens at your glare, helping you off the ground and grabbing a handkerchief from the table. He wiped your face until it was clear then dropped to his knee and tugged at your legs.

“Open.” He mumbled and you did, shaking and trying your best not to pass out when he started wiping between your legs, pulling your panties aside and cleaning you until you were dry enough to stop leaking. 

You would definitely need a shower.

“All good?” Sukuna looks up at you and his heart leaps at the way you stare down at him, mouth slightly open and nodding your head yes. Your hair was a mess, dress hanging off one shoulder and face burning in the aftermath of your intense quickie. 

You were so beautiful, fucking flawless and he couldn't imagine going a day without you. The ring in his pocket grew heavy, reminding him that now was his chance to bring his desires to fruition. The perfect moment to speak the four words that had been playing in the back of his head since he bought the ring weeks ago. 

“You okay?” You’re smiling softly but he can see the concern on your face, your hand coming out to hold his cheek and he can’t help but turn his head and kiss your wrist, eyes never leaving yours. 

How would he even ask? Sukuna was never good with words so he’d just have to, for once, let his heart lead him and hope everything didn’t crash and burn. Before he could back out, he was reaching a hand into his pocket and pulling out a velvet red box, looking back up at you as his hand shook. 

You were covering your mouth with your hand, eyes wide as tears filled them. This couldn’t be real, you must have gotten fucked so hard that you got put sleep and this was a dream. Tears began to spill, falling from your cheeks and onto the floor. 

Here was the man who swore he didn’t do relationships, bounced from woman to woman for years, claiming they were a waste of time and he’d never tie himself to one person. The frat boy whose life consisted of partying, soccer, and sex. 

He shifted onto one knee in front of you, grabbing your hand and littering it in kisses before looking back up at you with a terrified smile. For a few seconds he said nothing, eyes squeezing shut as if he was trying to find the right words, but you knew what he was going to say and had to fight yourself from screaming YES. 

The silence lingered, the only sound in the restaurant being the music playing but that was a non factor because the only thing you could focus on was the man on the ground in front of you. When he finally exhaled, chills shot through your body and your knees grew weak.

“You know I’m shit at this.” His hand tightens around the box as you give a watery smile, heart going thump thump thump. “But I'm gonna try anyway.” 

He kept his eyes on you, thumb rubbing against the back of your hand as a way to ground himself. Remind him that it was just you and him and that you loved him as much as he loved you. 

“When I first met you I was an asshole.” He swallowed hard. “I was selfish. Didn't care about anyone but myself. I did whatever I wanted, fucked whoever I wanted and left because it was easier than caring about people.” 

Your breath catches but you say nothing. 

“Then you happened and I annoyingly started to care. Fuck-” He clears his throat to hide the way his voice was starting to crack. But you don’t judge, simply squeezed his hand and encouraged him to continue. 

“That entire summer I thought about you and when you told me you were pregnant I was fucking terrified but there was always a lingering thought that at least now I’d have you in my life for good. I thought it was just because you were carrying the brat, but I started wanting more after she was born.”

“Even while I stupidly denied my feelings toward you, I hated that we were sleeping in separate rooms. I spent every night wishing you were lying next to me, too dumb to actually do anything about it. Then I fucked up trying to be someone I knew I wasn’t anymore and I’m so fucking sorry it took me this long to do this.”

He kisses your hand one more time before pulling away and opening the box, the huge rock taking you aback because you had never owned anything like it before. One look was all it took to know he spent a fortune on it. 

“Ryo-”

“Don’t interrupt me, sweetheart.” You snap your mouth shut, letting your smile grow because this was really happening! You felt like throwing up from the rush of excitement, left hand shaking as he grabbed it again. 

“I love you. Not just because you gave me my kid even though she’s pretty fucking amazing, but because you reminded me that Iove could be easy.” His voice goes soft. 

“I graduate next week and everything’s going to change.” His grip tightened around the ring. Sukuna was surprised at how easy he had been able to express his feelings to you, the words rolling off his tongue like they had always been destined to be spoken. 

“I don’t want to spend a moment of my life without you. I don’t care how hard things get as long as I have you by my side.”

Sukuna inhaled shakily, the words at the tip of his tongue. He was actually doing this, no turning back now. 

“Will you marry me-”

“Yes!” You sob out your answer before he can fully finish, dropping to the ground in front of him and grabbing his face in your hands, hot tears spilling. “Yes, of course I’ll marry you!”

Sukuna feels the weight of the world lift off his chest, relief flooding his bed because you said yes! “Yeah?” 

And you’re nodding, smiling through the water works because you loved him so damn much and now you would be able to truly call him yours. You had achieved the impossible and locked down Ryomen Sukuna. 

“Thank fuck. Ring was expensive as shit.”

Graduation day came sooner than Sukuna was prepared for. Four years of bullshit papers, lectures, parties and games all reduced to a few hours, a cap and a gown and a piece of paper waiting for him at the end of the stage. 

The morning had started in chaos. 

Your daughter who was now almost three months old, decided last night that sleep was optional and had been awake since before dawn. By the time you were dressed and ready to leave, there were burp cloths scattered throughout the apartment, a half-finished bottle sitting on the coffee table, and Sukuna was already complaining about his graduation gown.

You looked up from where you were fastening your daughter's tiny floral headband, smiling to yourself at how cute he looked and how proud you were of him, and you. You had both managed to pass your finals despite being new parents. You were going to be a senior, Sukuna was graduating, and it felt so surreal.

"It looks exactly like everyone else's."

He gives a hmph and you laugh, returning your attention to your daughter who was fast asleep in her carseat while you were actively fighting back yawns. Sukuna watches while you tightened her straps before standing and moving toward him. 

His eyes falling to the rock shining on your finger, they always do. His fiancé. He wondered how he got so lucky.

Once you’re close enough, you reach up and adjust the cap on his head and Sukuna is completely smitten. Never growing used to the way you always insisted on taking care of him.

His heart was overflowing with love for you, hands going to your waist to pull you close. He stares for a moment, committing every feature of you to memory, rubbing his thumb against your bottom lip before leaning down and kissing you. Hoping you’d feel every ounce of devotion he held for you.

“Mmm. Love you, fiancé.”

The stadium was packed by the time everyone arrived. Rows upon rows of graduates filling the seats while family members crowded the stands above. You sat beside your parents and Jin and Yuji, your daughter sound asleep in your lap. Yuki was on your right because you two were the only ones from your group not graduating. The tiny white dress your daughter had been dress in had lasted twenty minutes before she spit up on it and now wore her backup outfit.

It was easy to find Sukuna since he towered over everyone, his gown not doing much to hide his broad shoulders. He was laughing at something Gojo said, the white haired man throwing an arm around his shoulders. 

You were an hour into the ceremony when your phone buzzed three times. You adjust your daughter in your arms and unlock the screen, instantly smiling because Sukuna was the one blowing you up. 

ryo 💍: miss you already  ryo 💍: this is fucking dragging ryo 💍: look up

When you do Sukuna is smirking up at you and sending you a wink. You chuckle and look back down at your phone, bottom lip caught between your teeth, ears on fire. 

you: be a good boy and stop complaining, you might get a treat. ryo 💍: don’t tease me brat. when has that ever ended well for you?

Eventually they began calling students names and when they finally reached Sukuna, your daughter woke up from the way you were yelling for your man, Jin and Yuji standing tall and cheering with the rest of the crowd. The four year old almost jumping out his father's arms, yelling "UNC KUNA." 

Ever the gym rat, Sukuna takes his degree and holds it up, raising his other arm to flex his muscle, face big on the screen and you’re giggling because deep down he was still that frat boy that stole your heart last summer.  

What was that saying? You can take the man out of the frat but you can’t take the frat out of the man.

The ceremony eventually ended and chaos followed. Families were flooding onto the floors below, graduates searching for friends, cameras flashing from every angle. Your dress swished side to side as you made your way to your fiance, Yuki had disappeared to find Choso, your parents: Nanami and Jin followed close behind, holding Yuji’s hand tight so he didn’t run away.

When you finally found Sukuna his gown was open, his cap was off and in his hands and he was giving Gojo a hug. A genuine one without a scowl on his face. The brothers whispering a few words to each other before turning to you. 

Before you could say a word, Gojo was saying hello and taking his goddaughter from your arms, littering her cheeks in kisses and Sukuna surprisingly said nothing. He was too busy moving toward you, gripping your hips and pulling you close. 

“Now we get to spend more time together, kid!” You heard Gojo say but your eyes were locked on Sukuna’s. 

“Congra-”

The giant pulled you to him before you could get the word out and kissed you like he hadn't seen you in weeks instead of hours. You sunk into it, wrapping your hands around his neck as he lifted you off the ground and spinned you around. 

You laughed against his mouth, heart full and the reality of your life finally hitting you.

Being a mom in your early 20’s had never been a part of your five year plan, least of all with your brother's fratbro, but there wasn’t a thing you’d change about it. You would pick him to be your husband and the father of your child in every timeline, in every life.

There was no one beside Sukuna. Your heart wholly belonged to him, and his belonged to you. Two dumb college students who found love in the most unlikely of places.

Ten years later

Satoro Gojo was sitting behind his desk, reading through papers about a new business his company was buying out when a soft knock filled the room. 

He called for the person to come in, setting the papers down, knowing exactly who it was the moment their knuckles touched his door. When she walked in, he smiled and straightened, still finding it hard to believe how his goddaughter had gone from a drooling baby who loved to bite his fingers, to an actual person with thoughts and feelings of her own. 

Her hair was pink as ever and she was taller than the average ten year old, her face sporting the same scowl her father always wore. She looked just like his friend, even though her eyes were as soft as yours. 

She was dressed in her soccer uniform still, though Gojo had picked her up from practice an hour ago. She had been staying with him for the next two weeks, as you and Sukuna celebrated your anniversary out of the country. Gojo never wanted to have kids of his own, so having her occasionally come over was a blessing he never failed to be thankful for.

“What’s up, kid?” 

She hesitated, her frown deepening and his concern skyrocketed. Though the girl's attitude rivaled her father's, the two often bumping heads, she was typically a happy child. A genuine frown on her face was unlike her. 

When she didn’t respond, only shrugged, Gojo stood from behind his desk and crossed the room to her. She was far too big now to enjoy being picked up, so he opted for leading her to the couch in the corner of his office, sitting her down and giving her that look. The one that said “speak or no roblox money.”

For a moment she simply stared at her hands, cheek dusted pink as she tried to find her words. 

“Do you think my dad loves soccer more than me?”

Gojo’s heart sank. As silly as they were together, the cool uncle who never took life too seriously and always gave her things her parents said no to, he realized she was still just a kid. One who was apparently worried that her father didn’t love her enough. 

“Oh, princess. I promise that couldn’t be further from the truth.” He pulled her close, hand stroking her hair as her frown deepened. 

Gojo understood where the hurt was coming from. Sukuna had never quit soccer after college, not finding any trouble getting into the leagues and since professionals always had somewhere they needed to be, he ended up missing her school concert last month. 

A few dinners here and there, nothing consistent but children noticed everything and it clearly bothered her.

“Then why did he miss my concert for a stupid meeting?” 

Damn that man. Gojo thought carefully of what to say because he knew he hadn’t done it on purpose. If there was one thing he knew, it was that no one in this life or the next loved her more than Sukuna did, but parents got busy and sometimes made mistakes. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” 

She looks up at him with innocent red eyes, head shaking as strings of hair fall from her braid. He loved her so damn much, she was the only kid he’d ever have and he’d do just about anything for her.

"When your dad was in college, he almost got kicked off the soccer team because he left in the middle of strategy to come see you."

Despite her distressed state, a smile slowly appeared. Your smile.

“Now I wasn’t there, but I have it on good authority that he pointed at you every time he scored.” The good word was the gossip that spread after the game and the fact that Sukuna almost punched him when Gojo teased him about it.

He smiled at the memory, a part of him missing the days he shared with his frat brothers.

“I don’t believe you uncle Toru.” She squints her eyes suspiciously, arms crossing at her chest. 

“When have I ever lied to you?” Gojo squeezes her shoulder, looking down at her with a small smile. 

“Your dad loves a lot of things, kid. Soccer, your mom, being a grumpy asshole.” 

That pulls a laugh from her as she nods her head in agreement. Good. All Gojo ever wanted in life was for her to be happy, and to be the second father she could always come to when she was feeling down or unsure about anything.

“But do you know what your dad loves the most?”

She looked up at him, shaking her head from side to side but her eyes were hopeful. Gojo ruffles her hair. 

“You.”

He had known Sukuna for a massive chunk of his life, befriending him when they were only in high school. He watched him become a father, a husband, and go from fratboy to a domesticated family man and world known soccer player. 

He was sure about one thing when it came to Sukuna, and it was that there was no universe where he’d pick soccer over his family.

When you and your husband finally returned a week later, the little girl wasted no time and crashed herself into her father, tears pouring down  her face. The force almost knocked him backward but without hesitation, he caught her. Arms wrapping protectively around her as he chuckled and placed a kiss to the top of her head. 

“Hi sweetheart. Missed me that much?”

Gojo watched from the porch with relief. Watched as Sukuna picked up his ten year old daughter, her legs wrapping around his waist and your arms curling around them both. 

Some things never changed. Not after two years, not after five, and not after ten. No matter how big she got, she would always be Sukuna’s little girl and he would always love her more than anything in this world. 

In the end, you had showed that Ryomen Sukuna does in fact do relationships and he had never been more happy to see his friend proven wrong.

the end.

❦ lisa's note: so this is the end.. i just combined ch. 6 and 7 plus the epilogue into one since they weren't very long and im sad because this series is officially over. i'll be posting the remaining one-shots in between my other fics but for now we're saying goodbye to frat dad kuna. thank you for riding along, I'm blown away at how well received this series was. thank you sm my lovies, there's more to come soon.