SlasherFantasy

Gojo is one of those hybrids who can choose whether or not his ears/tail are "out", so most of the time he just looks like a normal guy. Occasionally they do pop out, so everyone knows he's a hybrid and all, but it's just not how he usually likes to present himself. Queue basement era Goyuu, they've been together for a little while and have had all kinds of fun intimate experiences together, so slowly Gojo starts letting his ears and tail out more often. One day when he and Yuuji are watching a movie, Gojo has them out and bullies his head onto Yuuji's lap. Yuuji, being the sweet and respectful guy he is, asks if he can pet him and touch his ears. Gojo teases him about how he's letting his secret desires show, but says yes.

Gojo acts like this isn't a big deal, but he hasn't let anyone pet him in a long, long time, so almost as soon as Yuuji starts scritching at his scalp, he starts purring which. Ok. Yuuji knows now that's a thing he can do. And he's totally fine with that happening right next to his dick. This is a sweet moment, not a sexy one, keep it together. But then Yuuji starts playing with Gojo's ears and now its his turn to be surprised because holy shit they're sensitive and it sends little tingling shocks right down to his dick. It gets worse the more Yuuji explores, going from just rubbing the back of his ears, to the spot just in front of them, to lightly tickling the fur on the inside and making his ears flick.

By the time Yuuji takes one between his fingers and massages it, Gojo's purring has taken on a different tone, just a bit higher and almost.... distressed? He's also been wriggling around a bit and rolled from laying on his side to more on his stomach. Yuuji watches for a bit, continuing to rub Gojo's ear, and sees him not so subtly hump the couch once or twice. Yuuji is maybe too excited to connect the dots. He asks Gojo if it feels good, and after a second of hesitation, Gojo says yes. Yuuji notices the hesitation and sees Gojo's blush and asks if he's embarrassed. The idea is weird, because Gojo's never been embarrassed or shy about anything they've done together, even when he's eaten him out, so to see him being bashful now is... both so cute and really fucking hot. Gojo says he never let anyone touch his ears like this, even when he let people pet him, it was never like *this*. He didn't know he was sensitive there, and is embarrassed that its his hybrid features.

Yuuji understands being embarrassed, after all he's been discovering all kinds of things that unexpectedly felt good with Gojo. Which, well, wouldn't it be nice to have it go the other way for once? Yuuji is a nice guy, but he's also a fucking pervert about Gojo, so instead of backing off or switching to more a "normal" mode of getting sexy, he asks Gojo if he can try to see if his other hybrid features are sensitive too. Gojo actually turns his face into Yuuji's lap, *hiding* holy shit, for a second before nodding yes, because of course he says yes.

Yuuji runs a hand down Gojo's back, smoothing down his spine until he gets to hip level, where he switches to lightly scratch his nails the rest of the way down. The reaction is immediate: Gojo makes a sound, quickly strangled, but he can't stop his back from reflexively arching, his tail twitching. Yuuji pauses, nice guy that he is, and waits for Gojo to say something, but he just breathes hard against Yuuji's hip, no longer purring. Yuuji checks anyway, asks if he's ok, and Gojo just hisses "sensitive" against him, which sounds like a good thing to him. So, Yuuji does it in reverse, scratching his nails back up Gojo's lower back, and the reaction's even stronger now, Gojo moaning loud and clear, his hips coming up, the arc of his spine even sharper than before. His tail's straight up in the air, and Yuuji can't help but envision how that would show his hole off perfectly if they were naked. Yuuji takes an ear in one hand, and continues lightly scratching at Gojo's back with the other until he's actually trembling, his tail twitching in the air, his hands bruising Yuuji's legs, hips held high. He's been mouthing at Yuuji's cock through his shorts, so Yuuji's taken that as a good sign.

He sneaks his hand even lower, curling his pointer finger and thumb around Gojo's thick tail and squeezes. The noise Gojo lets out makes it sound like he's already getting fucked and Yuuji *has* to do something right now or his dick's gonna explode. With some shuffling, he slides out from under Gojo, who just stays face down, ass up in place, catching his breath while Yuuji gets behind him. He's relaxed a bit, tail hanging low and hips sagging. Again, Yuuji's a fucking pervert about Gojo so instead of getting him into a better position by grabbing his hips like normal, he instead scratches at his lower back to make him arch up again, to see his tail rise and shake.

The view is. It's really something from behind. And not just because of the fucking incredible sight of Gojo putting his pink, twitching hole on display, but the whole package. Gojo is so much *bigger* than him, mature and tall and masculine, with muscles looking like a Greek sculptor's wet dream. And yet he lets Yuuji do this to him, lets Yuuji make him open and vulnerable and sensitive, literally shaking and moaning while his cock and balls hang heavy and ignored. Yuuji changes his mind, needing to make him *worse* before he pays attention to his own dick.

He leans in to lick a long line over Gojo's hole, still scratching and massaging Gojo's lower back to keep him presenting. Gojo makes a noise that almost sounds like an alley cat's yowl and Yuuji smiles against him. He rims him a little, idly dipping his tongue deeper as he goes, but his real goal is that tail. Its when Gojo starts relaxing into Yuuji's mouth, probably anticipating their normal speed of things, that Yuuji slides his mouth up, running his tongue from his hole to the base of his tail and licking at it in a long drag, right where skin transitions to fur. He hears a sharp intake of breath, and what suspiciously sounds like a hand slapping over Gojo's mouth. And isn't that something? Gojo has *never* tried to muffle his sounds before, never been shy about letting his pleasure be known. His unexpected shyness is intoxicating and Yuuji needs more of it, so he runs his tongue around Gojo's tail in long drags, testing out going with the grain of the fur and against, both resulting in long, muffled moans and sharp gasps.

He keeps him like that, hand scritching at his lower back and tongue playing with his tail, until Gojo starts making these absolutely lovely keening noises. Yuuji decides he wants to make him cum with just this. He goes back to his hole, thrusting in, fast and fleeting, before dragging his tongue up the underside of his tail. Over and over again, and Yuuji feels Gojo trying to struggle, to hump back against his face, to get his arms under him, but realizes that as long as he keeps scratching at his back, he *can't*, his own reflexes won't let him, and that thought's enough to make Yuuji go from idly grinding into the couch cushions to doing his best to fuck a hole through them.

Gojo tries to beg Yuuji to wait, he doesn't want to come yet, not with just this, and fuck if that just makes Yuuji want to make him come *exactly* like this. Except, right when he thinks Gojo's getting well and truly close, he angles his head, cheek pressing against Gojo's ass, gets his mouth sideways around the thick girth of his tail and *bites*. Not too hard, but absolutely hard enough for Gojo to actually shout and cum, his hips jerking forward and making Yuuji tug on it with his teeth. He doesn't let up, Gojo whining long and hard while it seems like he has the hardest orgasm of his life.

When the muscles in his thighs start to relax, Yuuji finally lets go and pulls his hand off of his back. He leans up to get a look at Gojo's face, and unfortunately his shellshocked look just reminds Yuuji how urgently *he* has to cum. He only gives Gojo a few seconds to catch his breath before he's lubing up his cock and pushing in. Gojo jolts, but doesn't stop him as he slides home, finally, finally balls deep in him. Gojo's breaths are quick, but much more controlled than they were before (they do quite a lot of overstim play so Gojo's pretty used to it) and Yuuji immediately decides that won't do. He gets his hand around Gojo's tail and marvels as just that makes him clench and squirm and make a noise that's so, so close to a mewl that Yuuji can't stop himself from fucking in harder. He fucks Gojo and rubs little circles with his thumb right at the base of his tail, on the underside just above his own cock. He makes a delirious comparison between this sweet little spot and a clit and just barely stops himself from cumming on the spot. Gojo is sure behaving like its a perfect comparison, loud and desperate and bucking now, no trace of shyness left. Yuuji slips an arm under his chest, pulling him up so Gojo's sitting back on his cock, back to Yuuji's chest and tail trapped between them. Yuuji abandons the support, trusting Gojo to hang onto the couch or something, and uses his now free hand to finally touch Gojo's cock. He bucks, hole body jerking as Yuuji pumps him and fucks him at just the right angle and *keeps rubbing his goddamn tail* and he cums again, somehow, so quickly that he's dizzy with it. Yuuji's only human and no fucking way could he last through all that, and spills deep in Gojo's gut, grinding in and humping as deep as he can. Its when Gojo makes a high noise of distress that Yuuji realizes he hasn't slowed the way he was still rubbing at his tail and cock. He's tempted, sorely tempted, to go for a round three, but thinks maybe he'll cut him a break.

(He doesn't, they just switch to the floor, with Gojo riding him so Yuuji can rub at his ears and tits and neck instead. They find out that even if Gojo doesn't have a scruff in this form, grabbing him by the back of the neck makes him go limp and neither one of them are normal about this. After, Gojo lightly accuses Yuuji of a secret hybrid fetish he's been hiding and Yuuji just insists that they both learned a lot today)

Spoiler alert: Cursejou is really not cuddly. Yuuji's just insane enough to do it anyway.

Last week, I said that the sixth fic in this project would likely be the shortest one, but that turned out to not be the case. The gut-fisting fic is at least 4k, whereas this one's barely 3.4k. A baby! It's divided into a Yuuji PoV section with two scenes and a Yuuta PoV section with another two. The excerpt below is from the latter.

“If he’s not killing people or causing any trouble…what’s the problem?”

Maki pins him with a flat look. “Gojou Satoru has risen as a vengeful spirit.”

“I know, but…”

She sighs, rolling her shoulders irritably. “Doesn’t really matter to me. Not much has changed anyway. That guy was barely human to start with.”

“That’s not—”

“Neither am I,” she cuts in brutally. “Neither are you. It’s not an insult, just fact. But everyone else is antsy, especially the older folks. I guess I get it. You can feel it too—like there’s a nuke out there ’bout to drop on us all.” 

summary: there's always going to be a tether between you and them.

pairing: (past) ghostprice x reader.

warnings: angst, GhostPrice (they're their own warning at this point).

notes: here's a little something to piss you off :)

part of the [rotten work] series.

Simon isn’t sure what led him here.

the gold numbers hung on your door gleaming under the light, the empty hallway echoes back every regret that comes with the thought of you.

he shouldn’t be here.

reluctant bodyguard ghost who has to listen to you yap while making sure you don’t die

“—which is so stupid because it is so obviously a psyop set up to destabilize the country and reduce it’s economic power while isolating—”

“got anythin’ on lady di?”

“—oh my god, i am SO glad you asked.”

scary little bugger, you.

perceptive. a bit touched in the head if anyone asked, but you know your shit.

so he keeps listening to you ramble, mentally checks off what you get right and wrong, and includes it all in his mission reports to laswell, who honest to god probably knew you well before the whole ‘uncovered a crime syndicate operating in multiple countries and threatening national security by bribing politicians’ thing.

no way you weren’t already on a bloody list somewhere with all the mental shit you spew on the reg.

.

part 2, part 3

you @ simon

You know that dogs have a keen sense of smell, and you're terrified he knows what happened on your little trip that coincidentally fell on prices leave.

How you and your much older, technically boss, spent days in a little cabin away from society. Doing nothing but indulging in every physical desire that couldn't be expressed on base. You wonder if you still smell like his aftershave, or if the smoke of his cigar still lingers in your lungs.

But...if that were true, you'd expect more outright aggression than whatever the fuck this is.

Ghost has been purposefully protecting? You?? He refuses to let you carry your giant box of files around base when you need to archive them. He growls and barks when one of the guys tries to rough-house with you. It's weird, and others have started to notice too, spreading rumors.

Your final straw happens in the mess hall. You're irritable with hardly any appetite, only barely managing to get your usual tray down when ghost placed another full tray in front of you and huffs "eat. Now."

"Ghost, I'm not hungry." You hiss in annoyance, only for ghost to push the tray further with a warning growl. You push it back, knocking over a bottle of juice "no! No, I'm not hungry! What is with you, ghost? You've been acting weird since I got back!"

Ghost sits back, tilts his with a confused whine. His ear flicks, "you need to keep your energy up."

Of course getting information out of him is like pulling teeth. You don't care that the whole table has paused to watch you two, you don't care if he says anything about price right now, glaring "and why the hell is that?"

"...for your baby." He says bluntly. "You've smelt pregnant since your trip with john."

....what.

Except you keep trying to kill or escape your guardians because you have independence problems. Cue ghost, who's been pissing price off recently, being sent to be your new body guard.

Shockingly, ghost is having a blast.

You're easy to predict, and so adorable when he foils your plans to escape the house. You try to stab him with a kitchen knife, and thirty minute's later he's stitching up your hand. You attempt to break a window but ghost is already waiting to tackle you as you run through the yard.

Simon's hips roll forward into your palm, eyes rolling back in his head. He loves the way you jerk him off, the way your thumb teases the slit of his cock, the way you squeeze his balls, and they way you place kisses to his inner thighs.

His eyes flutter shut just for a moment before he forces them back open. He has to look at you. He doesn't want to miss a moment of this. Of you down on your knees for him, your lips tentatively wrapping around the head of his cock.

"Fuck!" Simon's hips jump forward this time, eyes filling with tears as he shoots his load down the back of your throat. "Ah, shit, your nails!" He whimpers as you pull away, eyes darting down to his cock.

The cut was shallow, small pebbles of blood sticking out against his flushed skin. You were immediately relieved it wasn't deeper, looking up at him with guilty eyes.

"I'm sorry, baby, I should've been more careful." You grab a tissue to dab away the blood, surprised when you hear Simon chuckle a little.

The picture sits in the group chat for maybe five seconds before you regret it.

Not because it’s bad, because it isn’t. It’s just you in the gym mirror, phone lifted, shoulders a little flushed and you feel warm in that quiet way your muscles get after you’ve taken care of them.

The picture is just a stretch caught mid-moment, breath steady. You almost delete it.

Then the chat explodes.

Christ, Johnny's message says.

I wish I could be there, Kyle sends.

I’m biting you when I see you, Johnny again.

You laugh under your breath, shake your head, and feel that familiar mix of embarrassment and something a little pleased settle in your chest.

Later, it’s Johnny who eventually catches you there. The base gym is mostly empty, that late-afternoon lull where the lights hum and the air smells clean. You’re stretching against the wall, headphones hanging loose around your neck. You don’t hear him come in, but you feel his attention before you see it.

He doesn’t leer, Johnny never does. And you almost giggle at the thought of Ma MacTavish teaching the lesson.

He leans against the doorway, arms folded, grin soft and fond.

“So this is where you disappear to,” he says. “Whole place to yourself and lovely as a dream."

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. Your body feels good, used, steady, and yours, and for once you don’t feel the urge to shrink away from it.

By the time you leave, the whole of Task Force 141 somehow knows. There are threats about stealing you away. Jokes about supervision.

fun little anatomy exercise or something. god i love drawing women

Ghost is, vaguely, aware that he has an above average dick. He's seen plenty of them in the locker rooms, and has heard many comments from his sergeants about his own size.

Still, he doesn't really get it until he's got you in his bed, gently pressing into your warm cunt. You looked so nervous when you first saw it, but you're not a quitter and you really want ghost to fuck you.

"Fuck! Is it almost done? Si?" You whine, face scrunched and squirming under him. Sweat beads on your brow, and you groan "fuuuck– this is the biggest thing I've taken– almost down, right?"

Ghost, he looks down to see he's barely even halfway in. Face flushed, panting just a bit and trying desperately to restrain himself, he replies "...no. few more inches."

"Mmmhh!!" You whine, head tossing back, upset. Ghost isn't much better, hot in the face and dizzy with how tight you clench around him

"C'mon, I'll help you, you can take it–" ghost huffs into your ear, bowing over you so he can grip both hips and—

"Ow! Ow, fuck! Stop!" You hiss, and ghost practically falls off the bed in his scramble to back off, eyes wide. You grimace at the sharp pain where he was, sitting up slightly. "Fuuuck. Okay. Bad idea. Okay, here, simon let's try– simon?"

You look up to see ghost near tears, hands hovering like he's unsure what to do. His cock hangs forgotten between his legs, still glistening. Oh. He looks terrified.

"Hey, hey, simon." You soothe, reaching forward to grab his hand and rub circles into his wrist. "It's okay. I'm fine, it just hurt."

Which seems to only make ghost more distressed, as he whines and pulls you into a hug, careful to avoid your abdomen. "Mh sorry– sorry, I– I didn't– sorry–"

You silence him with a kiss, which always works considering how he relaxes instantly. You two just lie there in bed, kissing and groping. Ghost refuses to even try fucking you again, but he's more than happy to jerk off with you, so that's exactly what you do.

No one would ever guess. No one would ever think to guess. He knows when the shops start putting out red hearts on their windows. He knows when the chocolate starts hitting the shelves in bulk. He knows exactly how many days until you'll walk in wearing that red sweater again.

It's the same one every year. The knit has loosened slightly at the cuffs, and there's a snag near the hem you keep meaning to fix. He noticed the day it happened; he remembers which locker corner caught it.

(The locker isn't there anymore.)

Every year, like clockwork, you show up with your sleeves pulled over your hands, carrying a pocketful of those cheap heart-shaped candies that taste like chalk.

And every year, you hand them out like blessings to men who have done things that would curdle the sugar in your mouth if you knew.

Soap gets a fist full because he makes a spectacle of begging. Kyle pretends he doesn't care but takes two anyway. Price shakes his head, muttering something about sugar rotting teeth, but pockets one when you insist.

Simon watches you make your way across the room, and notes who lingers when your fingers brush theirs, who bends down closer than necessary to hear you better, and who laughs too hard at something that wasn't that funny.

He knows exactly how many hearts are left when you finally stop in front of him.

"Don't start," you say lightly, holding out a little folded card and a candy. "It's tradition."

He takes them without looking at you and waits until you've moved on before he looks down at his palm. A delicate pink— BE MINE— and when he lets it dissolve on his tongue, eyes tracking the sway of your red sweater, he imagines it tastes like the gloss on your lips.

That night, in the quiet of his spartan flat, he places the new card beneath a heavy book to keep it from curling and takes the old ones out of a tin box he keeps hidden behind spare ammo to read again, all of them dated in pencil on the back.

To my favorite person. Don't argue ❤️

You’ve written it every year, same wording, same little heart slanted to the right. The ink bleeds a little more on the cheaper cards. One year the paper was glossier, and in another, your pen ran out halfway through the word favorite and you pressed harder to make it last.

He knows your handwriting well enough now to read you in it. The loops are bigger when you're tired, pinched when you're stressed. The heart is fuller when you're in a good mood, and smaller when you're not.

He could replicate it if he needed to.

This year, when someone jokes about snatching you up before someone else does, Simon doesn't even look up from cleaning his weapon. He knows who he is. He knows the way the man stands— weight heavier on his right leg from an old injury. Simon also knows the man who signs off on deployment rosters and knows exactly what that man owes him.

Deployment rosters are delicate things; names get bumped all the time. Sometimes upward into a position they're not ready for, sometimes sideways into places much less comfortable for longer, and sometimes they fall off the list entirely, lost in administration reshuffling no one has the time to question.

“She’s already spoken for," Simon says flatly, cloth dragging down the barrel in slow, even strokes.

You blink at him. “By who?”

He looks at you then. Finally.

The shy little archivist who keeps tracks of all the various records on base, whom ghost insists is dating him. Nevermind the fact that you fluster and stutter over your words whenever you have to talk during a briefing.

Ghost, he's this giant of a man who wears a mask at all times and holds the record on the sparring mats. He makes maybe-jokes about wanting to gut people and spends his time cleaning his rifle during meals. There's no way you're anything other than scared of ghost. People refuse to believe it.

That is, until ghost comes back from a month long mission, and none other than you is waiting there for him.

"Simon! Baby, you're back!" You enthuse, running up to meet ghost as he steps out of the humvee. The team watches as ghost, who not eight hours earlier bashed someones head in with a hammer, absolutely melts into you. "I missed you, si. Are you okay? Hurt?"

"M'fine." Ghost mumbles, soft and content as you cup his face. He seems as though he could spend hours here. Blood and grime still caked into his gloves, ghost wraps his arms around you and tucks his head into your neck "m' jus' tired. Wanna sleep."

"Okay, big guy. Let's get you cleaned off first, then sleep. I got a new blanket you'll like, it's–" you continue to tell ghost all about this warm blanket as you guide him towards the showers. His pinky looped with your own, following like a lost puppy.

"Uh...didn't we need him for debrief?" Gaz asks.

It was already a challenge to eat properly after losing a chunk of his cheek to infections under roba's care, leaving his teeth exposed and a hole that seems perfectly designed to spill half-chewed food everywhere. Then he started developing hand tremors of the field that he refuses to see anyone about and...well.

He's used to being the last one at the table, or boxing up his hardly touched food while everyone else has finished dessert.

Then you joined the team, and ghost expected it to be the same.

Only...as ghost was slowly finishing his appetizer main course, so were you. A presence at the peripheral of his awareness, not looming like his team sometimes did, waiting for him to hurry up already. Ghost looked up to notice your plate was just as full as his, though he's seen you slam back trays at the mess hall.

You were...matching pace with ghost. He didn't know how to feel about that.

"Yer foods getting cold." He said, hoping that forcing out some words would stop the sudden pressure in his chest.

"I like it cold. Let's the whole variety of temperatures like this." You brush off, as if you were taking tiny bites of your chicken Alfredo for the joy of it.

"...you don't have to wait. No one else did." Ghost pointed out, the empty seats where his teammates once sat have long since lost any warmth from their presence. It's nothing new to ghost, price even gives him the card nowadays, knowing he'll be the last.

"I said. I like it cold." You narrow your eyes, and as if to emphasize your point, grab an ice cube from your water and toss it into your pasta.

Stupidly, that's what makes ghosts heart stutter. Such a silly thing, ruining a nice experience in some petty stubbornness. Eating cold pasta with clumpy sauce just so you can sit with ghost a bit longer.

He turns back to his soup to avoid you seeing how his cheeks redden.

You two eat in silence, you don't pressure ghost into conversation, or pause awkwardly when he spills his soup down his chin. Your ankle hooks over his, and he keeps it there.

part 1. part 2. part 3. [coming soon]

I've had these thoughts in my brain all day and finally get to *gestures vaguely* haphazardly get them out.

Ghost knows his role, even if no one ever said it out loud. In the dark hours between missions, when the air in the barracks hangs heavy with sweat and tension and unspoken needs, he's the one they reach for.

With Price, it's efficient and they've no need for words. A glance across the locker room, a brush of fingers when passing a file. Then later, behind the heavy door of the captain's office, Ghost is pressed against cold wall, fingers biting into rough seams, Price's hips snapping into his. Price doesn't whisper sweet things. He grips Ghost by the nape, leaves bruises in the shape of his hands. Afterward, Ghost pulls his trousers back up, and Price lights a cigarette, already gone in his mind. It’s not unkind, it's not, it’s just war and time and need, and Ghost likes it that way.

He does.

With Gaz, it's slower, not always less rough, but deliberate in a different way. Gaz unzips Ghost’s gear with care, sets his balaclava folded aside. They fuck in his bunk sometimes, curled on narrow sheets. Other times, bent over the bathroom sink, teeth gritted, muffled groans. But after, Kyle always kisses his shoulder, and sometimes makes tea and hands it over with two sugars, the way Ghost likes it even though he never asks.

Sometimes they talk, just generally, about football, maybe, or the weather if it's not raining, sometimes the nightmares that come and go like ocean tides.

Sometimes they don’t talk at all. Just sit, thigh to thigh, letting steam from the mugs rise between them.

And then there’s Soap. Johnny.

Soap touches him like he’s made of something holy and breakable and entirely his to ruin. Hands like prayers and a grip like penance. Their sex is brutal and loud most nights, with biting, clawing. A clashing of bodies that leaves them both gasping. Ghost takes it, takes all of it, because Johnny needs to give it, they both need to feel it. But after, Johnny folds him in close, tucks Ghost's head under his chin. His voice goes soft, calling him “love” in that lilting Scottish murmur. His hands stroke along his spine, over the welts he left behind, like he’s trying to soothe what he did, even though Ghost never asked him to.

Sometimes Ghost holds on too. Just a bit.

And sometimes, when the world slows down just enough, there’s Nikolai.

Not always... And not often. But when he’s there, Ghost goes willingly, like being pulled, something about Nik’s steadiness, the gravity of him. They find each other in places unmarked, behind blackout curtains and half-unpacked crates. Nikolai doesn’t ask questions, he just reaches, and Ghost follows.

Nik is strong, capable, grounded. He presses Ghost down slowly, not like he’s trying to conquer him, hardly control, just something there. Their rhythm is quieter, but still potent. It settles something, or reminds Ghost there’s a weight he can let cover him too.

After, they share a smoke. Ghost leans against the wall, sweat cooling down his ribs, and Nik leans beside him, shoulder to shoulder. Sometimes Nik says things in Russian, voice low and smooth, maybe like lullabies. And Ghost doesn’t ask for a translation.

He wouldn't want one to ruin the melody.

He wouldn't know what to want Nik's voice for otherwise.

Because the truth is, he doesn’t know what he wants.

He doesn’t mind being passed around, he doesn’t mind kneeling, or bending, or gripping the edge of the table while someone he trusts uses him to shake the dust off whatever Hell they'd been in.

But later, when the lights are off and no one’s looking, it’s Simon who stares at the ceiling.

Simon, who wakes up still stretched open and aching, who tucks himself back together in quiet of his quarters.

Who rolls over and breathes out through his teeth because asking would mean needing, and needing would mean being. Existing.

Something Ghost doesn't need.

Ghost is useful. Ghost is necessary. Ghost doesn’t ask.

So Simon doesn’t either.

He wipes himself clean, pulls the mask back on, and gets up.

Because someone always wants Ghost. They need Ghost