#ghost x reader

𝕯𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍 was a cruel thing. It was sickening, disturbing, something capable of making even the bravest soul shiver at the mere mention of its name. It was also part of the job. The military didn’t simply capture enemies. Sometimes they killed them. Sometimes they buried their own. It was the reality of the profession, one you’d grown accustomed to over the last twenty-four years.

You enlisted shortly after your nineteenth birthday. Not because you dreamed of wearing the uniform. Because you had nowhere else to go. Your father threw you out after finding your little sister’s lifeless body cradled in your arms. You hadn’t killed her. She’d suffered from a rare disease that slowly destroyed her brain until her organs finally shut down. But grief doesn’t care about the truth.

Your father blamed you. Your mother blamed you. Your five older sisters blamed you. So you ran. You ran like Hell itself was snapping at your heels. The military became the family you never had. Years later, your record caught the attention of a Black Ops task force. Task Force 141.

They pulled your file from the database after reviewing your exceptional service history, but one skill stood above the rest, your marksmanship. Your longest confirmed shot measured 1,894 meters. Only one sniper had ever outperformed you. Lieutenant “Ghost” Riley. 1,998 meters. The man was an absolute menace behind a rifle.

And, unfortunately for you… He was breathtaking. Every instinct told you to keep your distance. Every instinct failed. You wanted to touch him. To pin him beneath you. To kiss him until he forgot every reason to push you away. Mr. Riley had become your obsession. Your eyes searched for him every time you stepped onto base.

Every mission briefing, every debriefing, every silent meal, you found him without even trying. Yet to Ghost… You were simply another soldier. Another member of the Task Force 141. Someone he tolerated because professionalism demanded it. Nothing more. And somehow… That only made you want him even more.

The sun climbed higher into the brilliant canvas of blue and amber, casting warm light across the base. Birds wheeled overhead, their chirps drifting lazily through the summer air as a relentless heat settled over everything. It was eighty-six degrees, and sweat clung to the back of your shirt before trailing slowly down your spine.

The sleeves of your uniform stuck to your forearms, but you hardly noticed. Your attention was elsewhere. Specifically, on the broad back of your lieutenant. He stood several yards ahead, arms folded behind his back as he listened to Captain Price speak with Laswell. Even from behind, he looked impossibly solid.

Broad shoulders stretched beneath his tactical vest, his waist tapering into hips that looked. How does one man have hips like that? Could you grab them? Would he let you? No. Don’t think about that. Definitely don’t think about his thighs.

“…Oi.” Nothing. “…Mate.” Still nothing. Then suddenly a pair of arms slung themselves around your shoulders, making you tense. “So,” Soap drawled beside your ear, unable to hide the grin spreading across his face, “when’re ye an’ Ghost gettin’ married?” Your thoughts came to a screeching halt.

You blinked. “…What?” Soap’s grin faltered for exactly half a second. “Ye werenae listenin’, were ye?” “I…” You glanced from him to Ghost, then back again. “…No?” “Aye, I figured.” Soap snorted, giving your shoulder a playful shake. “Ye’ve been starin’ at th’ lieutenant’s arse fer th’ last five minutes.”

Your entire body froze. “I have not.” “Liar.” “I wasn’t staring.” “Right.” Soap nodded dramatically. “Ye were just admirin’ th’ scenery.” “I was thinking.” “’Bout Ghost.” “…Maybe.” Soap barked out a laugh loud enough to earn a curious glance from Gaz. “Oh, this is brilliant.”

He clapped you on the shoulder. “Ye’re absolutely gone, pal. Ye’ve got that daft wee look folk get when they’re head over heels.” Soap smirked knowingly. “Ye ken, th’ one where ye forget how tae blink every time he walks by.” Before you could defend yourself, a familiar gravelly voice cut through the conversation.

“What’re you two laughing about?” Both of you looked up. Ghost had turned around. Soap’s grin only widened. “Oh… absolutely nothin’, Lt.” You silently begged whatever higher power was listening for Soap not to say another word. He inhaled. Your soul left your body.

For one horrifying second, you were convinced Soap was about to sell you out. Thinking faster than you ever had on a battlefield, you shoved Gaz squarely into Soap. The Scot barely had time to yelp before their lips collided. Soap simply hummed in surprise before grinning into the kiss.

His arms immediately winding around Gaz’s neck as if this had been the plan all along. Gaz made an offended noise against his lips. “Aye?” Soap replied innocently, not letting go. “I’m bein’ compensated. You plastered on the fakest smile imaginable before ushering the bickering pair into the nearby corridor.

The door clicked shut behind them, muffling Soap’s triumphant laughter and Gaz’s complaints. Silence settled. You cleared your throat. Leaning casually, far more casually than you actually felt, against the doorframe, you slowly looked toward your lieutenant.

Ghost was already staring. God. He had no right looking that beautiful. “Hi, Lieutenant…” Your voice cracked ever so slightly. You swallowed. “Um… I had a question for you, sir.” Ghost folded his arms across his chest. Then, to your eternal suffering, he shifted his weight onto one leg, cocking his hip ever so slightly.

Bloody hell. “What is it, Sergeant?” Your palms immediately began to sweat. You glanced away. Then right back. How were you not supposed to look at him? The man was unfairly attractive. “I…” You rubbed the back of your neck. “Would you… fancy getting a drink with me? At a bar.”

Your confidence evaporated halfway through the sentence. “I mean, you can absolutely say no, sir. I don’t want to pressure you or anything.” Ghost’s eyebrows lifted beneath the edge of his balaclava. His folded arms slowly relaxed. One gloved hand settled against his hip.

“Me?” he asked, his voice as flat as ever. “Fancy a drink with you?” You straightened instinctively. “Yes, sir… if you’d like.” For a long moment, Ghost simply looked at you. His unreadable eyes searched your face as though trying to decide whether this was some elaborate joke. Finally, he rolled his eyes.

“…Could use a drink.” Your heart nearly stopped. “But,” he continued, pointing a finger at you, “only if you’re payin’.” A tiny pause. “Unless you’re a cheapskate.” A laugh escaped before you could stop it. “Oh, darlin’, I’m no such thing.”

The words hung between you. Your own brain caught up. Oh. Heat flooded your ears. Then your neck. Then probably your entire face. Ghost stared at you for another beat before letting out an exasperated breath. “I’m not your darlin’.”

His tone wasn’t angry. Just… firm. “I’m no one’s darlin’. Don’t call me that again, Sergeant.” The embarrassment hit you like a freight train. Your eyes immediately dropped to the pavement. “…Sorry, sir.” Ghost watched you for a moment. Then, quieter than before, he gave a single nod. “S’alright.”

Another pause settled between the two of you. Neither of you seemed eager to break it. Finally, Ghost cleared his throat. “What time?” Your head snapped back up. “…Sir?” “The drink.” There was the faintest hint of amusement hidden beneath his otherwise impassive expression.

“What time?” A smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it. “2000’ o clock?” Ghost considered it. “2000’ o clock’s fine.” He turned to leave, taking only a few steps before speaking over his shoulder. “And Sergeant…” “Yes, sir?” “If you’re late…” You held your breath. “…You’re buying the first two rounds.”

A quiet chuckle escaped him, so brief you almost thought you’d imagined it. Then he walked away. You remained rooted to the spot, watching his broad frame disappear around the corner until the last glimpse of his skull-patterned balaclava vanished from sight. Your heart hammered against your ribs.

He said yes. He actually said yes. Butterflies erupted in your stomach, so violent they made you feel nauseous. A groan rumbled low in your throat as you dragged both hands down your face. “…Jesus Christ.” You’d just asked Lieutenant “Ghost” out for a drink. And he’d agreed.

You spun on your heel and made a beeline for the barracks before your legs decided they no longer wanted to function. You needed clean clothes. More importantly. You needed a cold shower. Desperately. The communal shower room greeted you with the familiar scent of soap, damp concrete, and the lingering musk of hard training.

Steam curled lazily toward the ceiling despite the rows of running water, while conversations echoed off the tiled walls. A handful of recruits laughed over some story from the obstacle course. Two corporals argued over football scores. Someone farther down the line was loudly complaining about Captain Price’s latest training exercise. It was the usual soundtrack of life on base.

You hardly heard any of it. Twisting the faucet as far toward cold as it would go, you stepped beneath the stream. The icy water struck your shoulders like a punch. You hissed through your teeth but didn’t move. You deserved that. Closing your eyes, you let the water cascade over your head, washing away the sweat and dust that clung to your skin.

White suds slipped from your shoulders, trailing down your arms before swirling around your feet and disappearing into the drain. Seconds passed. Or maybe minutes. Time had become difficult to measure. Every time you managed to clear your head, another memory forced its way back in. “Could use a drink.” “2000’ o clock’s fine.”

“If you’re late… you’re buying the first two rounds.” A helpless grin spread across your face. You dropped your forehead against the cool tile wall with a soft thunk. “…I’m losing my bloody mind.” “You’ve only just figured that out?” You nearly jumped out of your skin.

Whirling around, you found Soap leaning casually against the doorway with a towel slung over one shoulder, wearing the most insufferably smug grin you’d ever seen. “You’ve been smiling at the wall for five minutes,” he said, folding his arms. “Either the tiles have suddenly become handsome, or Ghost accepted that drink.” Your silence answered for you.

Soap’s eyes widened. “…He actually said aye?” A slow smile crept across your face despite every effort to suppress it. “He… did.” The Scot slapped a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. “Oh, this is gonnae be brilliant.” He pointed at you. “Ye’re doomed, mate.” “I’m going for a drink.” “Aye.”

“That’s all.” “Mhm.” “Stop looking at me like that.” Soap’s grin only grew. “I’m just wonderin’ what ye’re gonnae wear.” You stared at him. “…I hate you.” Soap chuckled, pushing himself off the doorway. “Ye’re too happy tae hate anybody today.” He disappeared down the hall, still laughing to himself.

You sighed, letting the cold water pour over your head once more. For the first time in years… You found yourself looking forward to something that wasn’t another mission… Ghost was nervous. It was an unfamiliar feeling. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been nervous about anything.

Jumping from aircraft. Walking into an ambush. Facing impossible odds. None of it compared to tonight. He stared into the open locker in front of him, arms folded tightly across his chest. What the hell was he supposed to wear? It was just a drink. One drink. Yet every shirt suddenly looked wrong.

Too tactical. Too plain. Too formal. He let out a quiet sigh, rubbing a gloved hand over the back of his neck. Then there was the conversation. What were they supposed to talk about? Ghost wasn’t exactly known for his sparkling social skills. He preferred silence. Always had. But you…

You never seemed bothered by it. You were always trying to talk to him. Sometimes it was about missions. Sometimes it was about the weather. Sometimes you spoke just to fill the silence, never expecting much more than a grunt or a nod in return. And somehow… You never gave up.

He’d caught himself listening more often than not. Even when he pretended he wasn’t. A ghost of a smile threatened the corner of his mouth before disappearing just as quickly. You were persistent. Annoyingly so. Yet he found himself waiting for those conversations.

Waiting for you to wander over with another question or some ridiculous story that would make Soap laugh and Price pinch the bridge of his nose. You made the base… quieter. Not because you spoke less. Because when you were around, the noise in his own head seemed to settle. Ghost frowned at the realization. “…Christ.”

He was in trouble. Every time you stood beside him, warmth crept beneath his skin. It started somewhere in his chest before climbing slowly into his throat, hot and unfamiliar, like molten stone forcing its way upward. He’d never understood why. Not until today. Not until you’d stumbled over your own words, cheeks burning as you asked him out for a drink. He’d seen the nerves.

The hope. The immediate regret after calling him darlin’. He almost smiled again. Almost. “You really are somethin’ else, Sergeant…” The words slipped into the empty locker room, unheard by anyone but himself. He reached into his locker and pulled out a dark charcoal henley he’d only worn a handful of times. Simple. Comfortable. Not a uniform.

He looked at it for a long moment before giving a small nod. “…Good enough.” It wasn’t the shirt he was worried about. It was whether, by the end of the night… He’d find himself wanting there to be a second drink or something more. The clock hanging behind the bar ticked louder than it had any right to.

You checked your watch. Eight-ten. Your knee bounced beneath the small wooden table tucked into the corner of the pub. The place wasn’t crowded, but it was lively enough. Glasses clinked together as conversations blended into a pleasant hum. Laughter erupted from somewhere near the dart boards while an old rock song played quietly through the speakers overhead.

You glanced toward the entrance. Nothing. A waitress wandered over with an easy smile. “Can I get you anything?” You cleared your throat. “Uh… whiskey. Neat.” “Coming right up.” She returned moments later, setting the amber-colored drink in front of you. You thanked her quietly before wrapping your fingers around the cool glass.

Maybe he’s not coming. The thought wormed its way into your head almost immediately. You hated it. Ghost didn’t strike you as the type to stand someone up. But… He also wasn’t exactly the type to accept invitations out for drinks. Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe Price needed him.

Maybe something had happened. Maybe— You took a sip of your whiskey. The burn slid warmly down your throat. Eight-fifteen. You looked at the door again. Still nothing. The bartender caught your eye. “You waiting on someone?” “…Yeah.” “They running late?” You chuckled weakly. “I think so.”

“They’ll get here.” “I hope you’re right.” Eight-twenty. Your drink was nearly half gone. You’d started counting the grooves carved into the tabletop just to keep your mind occupied. Your stomach twisted. Idiot. You’d actually thought. The pub door opened once more. Cold evening air drifted inside.

You looked up out of habit. Your breath caught.

…Bloody hell. Ghost stepped through the doorway, broad shoulders filling the entrance for just a moment before he slipped inside. Gone was the tactical vest. Gone was the combat gear.

Instead, he wore a charcoal henley that hugged his broad chest and shoulders without trying to show them off. Dark jeans replaced his combat trousers, and heavy black boots echoed softly against the wooden floor as he walked inside.

His sleeves were pushed just below his forearms, revealing strong, scarred hands. The skull balaclava was gone. In its place sat a plain black face covering that concealed the lower half of his face, allowing the sharp angles of his cheekbones and those dark, observant eyes to steal your attention.

His blond hair was slightly tousled, as though he’d run a hand through it one too many times before leaving. He looked… God. He was so fucking beautiful. Your brain abandoned ship. Every coherent thought fled the instant those dark eyes found yours. Ghost spotted you immediately. For the briefest moment, he looked almost… relieved.

He made his way through the tables with his usual measured stride before stopping beside yours. “You’ve started without me.” His voice carried that familiar gravel, low enough that it somehow drowned out every other sound in the room. You blinked. “Oh…” Brilliant start. “I… uh…” Words. Use words. “I didn’t know if…” You laughed nervously.

“I thought maybe you’d changed your mind.” Ghost’s brow furrowed. “I said I’d come. So I came.” It was such a simple answer. Matter-of-fact. Completely Ghost. Despite yourself, you smiled. “Fair enough.” He pulled out the chair opposite you and sat down, resting his forearms on the table.

“Sorry I’m late.” You stared. He… He apologized? “You don’t have to apologize, sir.” A quiet look “We’re off duty.” “…Right.” A pause. “…Riley.” Your tongue nearly tied itself into a knot saying his name. His eyes lingered on you for a second before giving the smallest nod. “There you go.”

Heat bloomed across your cheeks. The bartender wandered over. “What can I get you?” Ghost glanced at the menu for all of two seconds before looking back up. “Whiskey.” He tilted his head toward your glass. “The same as whatever they’re having.” The bartender nodded and disappeared.

Silence settled between the two of you. Ordinarily, silence would have been awkward. With Simon… It wasn’t. You found yourself simply watching him as he rested comfortably in his chair, his gaze wandering around the pub before settling back on you. “…What?” he finally asked.

You hadn’t realized you’d been staring. You rubbed the back of your neck, laughing under your breath. “Sorry.” “You keep doing that.” “…Doing what?” “Looking at me like you’re trying to solve a puzzle.” You frowned into your glass. “No.” “No?” “I’m looking at you because…”

You hesitated. “…You clean up nice.” For a heartbeat, Simon simply looked at you. Then one corner of his eyes crinkled ever so slightly. Not quite a smile. But close. “So do you.” The compliment was so quiet, so matter-of-fact, that it took a full second to register. When it did… You were fairly certain your heart forgot how to beat.

Ghost was absolutely plastered. His head throbbed with a dull, relentless ache that settled behind his eyes. Every light in the pub felt too bright. Every laugh too loud. He’d always prided himself on holding his liquor. Years in the military had seen to that. He’d outdrunk men twice his size without so much as a stumble.

So how the hell had six—…or was it seven?—glasses reduced him to this? He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that he wanted a cup of hot tea, a handful of painkillers, and the sweet mercy of his own bed. Instead… He found himself staring at you. You looked perfectly fine. Relaxed. Comfortable.

Still nursing what remained of your sixth whiskey as though it were no stronger than water. It wasn’t fair. Not in the slightest. His eyes narrowed lazily. “…Cheat.” You looked up from your glass. “Hm?” “…You’re cheatin’.” A soft laugh escaped you.

“I don’t think that’s how alcohol works, Riley.” He grunted. “Feels like it.” His words had begun to blur together somewhere around twenty minutes ago, though he was still coherent enough to know he was making less sense than usual. His gaze drifted back toward you. You were looking at him. Not at the room. Not over his shoulder. At him.

Your eyes held an intensity that made something warm settle low in his stomach. It fluttered. Annoyingly. Bloody butterflies again. He hated them. …No. He hated that he didn’t hate them. His eyelids grew heavier. Across the table, you finished the last sip of your drink before gently pushing the empty glass aside.

Ghost barely registered the movement. You stood. When had you stood? His tired eyes followed you as you disappeared toward the bar. A few minutes later, you returned. A folded receipt rested between your fingers. “You… didn’t…” His sentence never quite reached the finish line. You’d already paid.

Ghost frowned faintly. “I was…” He paused to gather the thought. “…Supposed t’ pay.” “You can get the next one.” His sleepy mind lingered on the word. Next. There was going to be a next. The thought settled pleasantly somewhere in the haze. You crouched beside him. “C’mon.”

A gentle hand rested between his shoulder blades. “We should get you home.” Ghost tried. Honestly, he did. He planted both boots firmly on the floor and pushed himself upright. The room immediately tilted. “…Nope.” Before he could embarrass himself further, your arm slipped securely around his back.

“Easy.” “I’m fine.” “You nearly headbutted the table.” “…Table moved.” “It absolutely did not.” He muttered something unintelligible beneath his breath. The next thing he knew. The floor disappeared. “…Mm?” One arm slid beneath his knees. The other supported his back.

With startling ease, you lifted him clean off the ground. Like he weighed almost nothing. Ghost instinctively tensed. His hand found your shoulder as if to steady himself. “Sergeant…” A quiet warning. Or at least… It was supposed to be. You simply adjusted your grip, your arms tightening just enough to keep him secure. “I can… walk.”

“You can barely keep your eyes open.” His attempt at sounding convincing was ruined by the yawn that escaped immediately afterward. You smiled. The cool evening air greeted the two of you as you stepped outside. Ghost let out a slow breath. The breeze felt nice. His resistance slowly melted away.

There wasn’t much point arguing anymore. Your heartbeat was steady beneath his ear. Solid. Reliable. Without really thinking about it, he allowed himself to relax. His forehead drifted against your neck. Your jacket smelled faintly of clean laundry, cedar, and the whiskey the two of you had shared. Comforting. Safe. His eyes slipped shut.

of course johnny is shameless and rocks a speedo. kyle has several 5 inch inseam swimming trunks (god bless) that sit just right. but simon. oh poor simon. he hasn't been to a beach on purpose in a long time. maybe he went with alejandro and rudy once while he was in mexico, but even then he wore something borrowed, or maybe even just didn't get in the water. so now that he has you, and he is working his 50 step plan of getting you to go on 1 (one) date with him, so he has learned when he needs to listen.

you, johnny, and kyle are discussing beach plans while simon tries to look very busy nearby. price has fucked off and decided to just spend the time off with his wife. But everyone's discharges/time off lined up just so that they could take their new friend (you) out of town and to the seaside.

the dreaded conversation comes up about what you are going to wear. simon's face turns red at the sight of you in long sleeves and pants, he can't imagine what a swimsuit would do to him.

johnny, the bugger, has to open his damn mouth and ask what type of swimwear you think looks best on a potential partner. johnny claims his prosthetic leg has better mobility if he wears a speedo (he would wear one regardless), and kyle claims his own shorts cannot be any shorter or else the whole beach will get a show.

"i think all options are fine, any and all thighs are good thighs." you say.

johnny argues, "aye, but my option has more thigh. it has all of the thigh lass."

"maybe too much thigh, mate. i'm not here to see that much bulge." kyle throws in.

as they argue, something dawns on simon. he has packed for the wrong occasion. folded in (thrown into) his duffle bag are a pair of gym shorts that go all the way to the knee that he hasn't worn in years, and a tank top that he wears to the gym. he is fucked. somewhere along the 50 step plan, he wants to appeal to you physically. finding someone attractive definitely adds to you wanting to date them, right? simon has to do something.

he claims he needs to head out for a pack of cigs and doesn't give anyone time to say they will join him. on the drive in, he saw several stores touting discount swimwear. they will have to do. he goes into the first one he sees, and christ he needs a cigarette.

cut forward to an hour and a half later. kyle, johnny, and you are all setting up down by the beach, text messages have been sent to simon to let him know where you all are.

kyle and johnny go for a swim, but you take your time applying sunscreen and waiting on simon. soon comes a mass of pale skin covered in tattoos and clad in a pair of short (and borderline circulation cutting) dark blue swim trunks covered in hot pink palm trees. he waited amongst the sand dunes for the guys to go in the water, at the very least to avoid their teasing. his face is bright red by the time he reaches you, but you are all smiles.

"i think you might need some of this," you say holding up the sunscreen bottle, "do you want to get each other's backs?"

simon thinks he's in heaven. he saw you eyeing him, and his thighs thank you very much, and now you're going to touch him. an angel in a swimsuit is worried about the state of his skin, and you are going to touch all over his back. scars be damned, he's been wishing for this for months. and the best part is, he is going to touch you too. in the least creepy way possible, he cannot wait. simon bends down to grab the bottle from you, when from the water comes a wolf whistle.

"now that's how you wear a pair of trunks! stay just like that! give us a show, aye!"

that bugger.

-------------------------------

You try so hard to be present, try to focus on just this moment, just how he makes you feel right now. You're failing. Only he. Only he has ever touched you so soft, so considerately. No other has traced the thin skin of your inner elbow, of your wrist, to see where the blood flows through you. He touches your arms, feels the hum of your pulse in them.

There's a reason you don't do this. A reason why you don't let yourself this close to someone, a reason you don't let someone this close to you. But it's Simon. How could you say no? You're forever drawn to him, despite the danger.

You think he might be ruining you. You aren't even sure he's aware of what he's doing. But how could he not be? He breathes into the space of your neck and it's a gift. Goosebumps form. He doesn't stop.

Take me, you think. Keep me. Do whatever you want, just don't fucking let go.

How can being loved hurt so much? You don't know. You don't know why you let him so close, why you let him guide you, why you don't scrape and wrestle him for control the whole time.

Were he anyone else, and you'd insist on his submission, or at least his equal footing with you in this. There can be no more safety in intimacy for you if you don't control it. At least that's what you've believed. Yet he's not like the others, he treats you so gently and hurts you so sweetly.

You don't want to, you try not to, but you can't help but think of the last time you let a man mold you, let a man lead you. In your mind as Simon touches you are the bruises, the tears, the split lips and bloody mess on the floor you were left with.

It isn't right, you know that. You shouldn't be projecting violence and abuse from someone else onto this man who touches the edges of you like he's trying not to smear your painted center, your delicate details.

"S' pretty f' me," he's got his hands in your hair, he's nosing at your temple, his breath is on your cheek now. You try to contain the whine, but it must slip out, the sound of the wounds he's inflicting on you. For him? Only for him, always for him, please let him want you for his own, for always.

But you know Simon doesn't mean this, not really. His leaving will make you wretched, so you beat him to the ruining. You remember the bad times while he kisses beneath your ear, while he kisses words and sweet nothings into everywhere no one has cared to really look. If this moment will end badly, why not suffer it now?

If there was no good in it all, there will be nothing to mourn when he goes, nothing to lament. He will leave and you will clean your body by yourself, you'll dress in fresh clothes and smooth a soft covering over the gaping maw of your need.

God, your need. It casts a shadow under the doorframe of your every conversation, your every contact with the people around you. You know your eyes must shine with a desperation, a revolting want that surely, everyone must be seeing. You stink of need, you are certain everyone must know. Yet here he is, tracing the shape of your jaw.

You're restrained in your indulgences. You accept short hugs from friends, small praises of your contributions at work, and you tell yourself it is enough. You may project want, but you'll be damned if you exercise it. You'll wrap yourself in one more layer of clothing, go to bed just a bit earlier, do anything and everything but admit you're ravenous for touch, for love, for awful intimacy.

He must know, the bastard. He has to be doing this to hurt you, there's no other reason. Why give you something so filling, so sating just to take it away again? Why torture you this way?

The tears that have welled in your eyes start to fall, now. It's too much, and still never enough. The weight of him, his smell, his taste. You want to taste him, to try and make something in this good, even if you'll hate him for it later.

"Can we kiss?" you're hesitant, a deer one second from leaping in front of the vehicle, one second from sweet release from this pain, this life.

He exhales, short from his nose. Is he laughing at you? You start to shut down. You don't look at his face, his amusement at your need is enough. You should've known better. You're righting your clothes from where they've become rumpled while you sat together. How did you end up so close? You're almost entirely on his lap.

The thought of the space you're taking up next to him, on top of him while he fucking laughs at you is too much. You lose all expression, all emotion. You'll lick your wounds later, alone. Nothing will change. You will cocoon yourself, and let your hatred of him crystalize. You should get a dog, foreswear any more attempts at this. You'll forever know that this just isn't something you get to have, but at least you'll have a dog.

Your thoughts are clear, and you start to pull away from him. You're tucking back into yourself, and it's fine. It's fine. This is how it was meant to be.

It's when you're finally standing back on your feet that he catches your wrist. He tries to pull you back to him, back to face him, but you don't let him.

"Wot're ya doin', luv?" he's gentle, still so gentle. Your heart hardens to him even more. You have no need to keep your reason for leaving from him. He hurts you, you hurt him back.

"I don't need to be laughed at." your voice is cold, you're still not facing him. Your tears are drying up. You manage to pull your wrist free from his grip, and you tuck your arms around yourself. You hear him get up to stand, too.

You feel his heat, the shape of him behind you. So big, everything you've grown to fear, and he laughed. You should've known.

He doesn't touch you when he speaks.

"Not laughin', luv." you're incensed. You turn to face him now, one finger digging into his chest as you look at him.

"Yes." you jab him. "You." another jab. "Did."

It's too easy, he grabs the finger you've just finished jabbing him with and yanks you close enough for him to speak in your face. You feel his breath hit your cheeks, again.

"Why would I be laughin' when I mus' be dreamin', finally touchin' ya?" You know he's a fucking liar. You try tugging out of his grip while you say as much.

"'nd why would I lie?" you're quick to snap your eyes back to him when he speaks.

"Because you want to hurt me." your tone is slowly gaining heat, you're not as cold as you thought you'd been. You continue to tug at his grip, but he's holding you fast.

"'s this hurtin' ya?" you're about to shout about the hand he's taken possession of, when you feel him give you the kiss you'd asked for. He lets go of your hand and moves his hands to your shoulders, still moving to touch your waist. The tension is bleeding out of you, and another mortifying whine slips from your mouth into his.

You feel his lips twitch against yours. You start to tense again, the fear of his mocking you making you clench up. His hands are grasping now, he's pulling you flush to him. His skin burns, and you feel the heat of him melting the tension, once again. He's lifting you up, arranging you just how he wants, and you feel the tears that had stopped falling start to trickle down your cheeks again.

"Don' cry, luv" his lips are gone from yours, he's speaking into your forehead as he steps backwards to sit again. He makes himself comfortable, then starts uncurling your fingers from the fists they've been in, starts wrapping your arms around him as he fits you to his body.

You're crying harder now, the feel of him on you, under you, keeping you close to him is too much, it's all you've wanted from anyone. You must look a mess, but he kisses you again. You taste the salt of your tears on his mouth, and you wish this could be real, that he could really mean this.

Your hands are still on his back, around him where he placed them. His start to pass up and down your own back, over your shoulders. He shushes you softly and you realize what he's doing. He's gentling you. Why? Why does he care if you cry or not, why does he care what you think of him?