#horangi

There was some talk around the base about Price and the other contesting your transfer, you don't know if it was true and at that point didn't really care anymore. Johnny tried making one last attempt to try and talk to you, but you screamed at him to get away from you. It's hard to say if your outburst or the sight of the destroyed nest was what made him go away. You spend the next few weeks in a state of hypervigilance, not trusting your instincts anymore, instead obsessively checking for microexpressions, nervous tics or tone changes everytime you have to talk with someone. It is stressful and exhausting, but it's the only way to put your mind at ease.

The first thing you feel when meeting KorTac is panic, they're all wearing some kind of masks, the one called Horangi even has sunglasses on. The introduction goes really awkward and you debate if it's too soon to contact Laswell again or if you should just hand in your resignation and save her the paperwork. But then things start going in another direction when they invite you for a movie night as a bonding activity. Which goes surprisingly well, watching Konig cook while scolding Horangi everytime he catches him snacking on ingredients and when he sneaks you a couple of pieces of carrots while winking conspirationally you can't help but smile a little.

There's a silent understanding between you and Nikto, he's the first to sense any small change in your behaviour, always somewhere close. This time there's always one of them watching your back and nobody is left behind. You see the 141 a few more times when the two tasks need to collaborate and anytime one of them tried talking to you one of your teamates, usually Horangi, would just wisk you away to try another of Konig's recipes. You lost count to how many staring contest Ghost and Nikto had, none of them saying anything, not blinking, you're not sure if half the time they were even breathing.

When Gaz's foot gets stucked under a piece of concrete when the wall collapses you're the first person to arrive there and by the time Price and Soap get there you're half carrying Gaz out of the building. Right before the medic takes him away he asks why did you do that to which you answer simply:

"I'm not gonna let people get hurt because of personal grudges."

There's a shadow of shame falling over their faces, but you're already going back with Nikto to the base, Price's raised hand remains still for a moment, the words on the tip of his tongue, but you're already gone.

You start a treatment to slowly regain your sense of smell, but the process is tedious and frustrating, the medication tastes terrible and sometimes it makes you nauseous. You're not sure when the guys start carrying candy around with them so you always have a sweet treat right after the last pill. Konig even brings some fancy chocolate that Horangi tries to steal from only half of the time, none of them ever gets the last piece, instead presenting it to you like some kind of prize.

After a mission that almost goes wrong, you wake up in the infirmary, your teamates sitting around on uncomfortable chairs, rising up at the first sign you're conscious. Despite his severe social anxiety Konig takes off his mask, his hands holding your face and encouraging you to look him in the eyes so you know he's not lying. Nikto brings your hand to his chest, feeling his heart beating eratically:

"We do not lie, we care for you."

You’ve always known your brother’s house as a revolving door for his Task Force friends. Captain John Price’s place smells perpetually of cigar smoke, strong tea, and gun oil, with boots thudding across the hardwood at all hours.

Soap, Horangi, König, and Kyle or Gaz to everyone.

They treat you like the annoying little sister they never had.

They tease you relentlessly: hiding your phone, calling you “wee lass” or “kiddo” even though you’re well into your twenties, and ruffling your hair until you swat at them like an angry cat.

It always ends the same way.

You storm upstairs in a huff, sticking your tongue out behind their backs.

They whine to Price like schoolboys, and he just barks at them to leave his sister alone while voice gravelly with exasperation.

But there’s one who never joins the chaos.

Ghost.

Simon “Ghost” Riley is a shadow in the corner of every room. He sits silently, arms crossed, skull mask hiding whatever expression lurks beneath.

König is quiet too. He is shy while massive frame hunched like he’s trying to take up less space, but at least he’ll nod or mutter a greeting.

Ghost? Nothing. Just those dark eyes tracking you across the room, steady and unblinking, until the weight of his stare forces you to look away first.

It’s infuriating. Intimidating. And, if you’re honest with yourself, it sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with fear.

Today, the dining table is covered in blueprints for tomorrow’s raid on a terrorist hideout. The air hums with tension.

Price stands at the head, pointing out entry points, breach zones, exfil routes. Soap and Horangi argue over flanking positions in rapid-fire military jargon you only half-understand.

“ Alpha team stacks left, Bravo suppresses—” Kyle chimes in with contingencies.

König just grunts agreement from his chair that creaks under his bulk.

Ghost leans against the wall, silent as ever.

You hover near the edge of the group, arms crossed, trying to follow along.

John lets you listen as he trusts you enough for that, at least.

The codes fly over your head in grid references, call signs, and ROE, but the stakes are clear in their voices.

People could die tomorrow.

You shift backward to get a better view of the blueprints, not realizing how close you’ve drifted to the wall.

A solid wall of muscle stops you cold. You yelp, spinning around, and crane your neck up (way up) to meet Ghost’s masked face.

He looms over you, broad shoulders blocking the light, making you feel impossibly small. Those piercing eyes bore into yours, and unreadable behind the skull paint.

“ Watch where you’re goin’.” He rumbles, voice low and rough like gravel under boots.

You swallow, heat rushing to your cheeks. “ Sorry. Didn’t see you there.”

Soap snorts from the table. “ Aye, love, that’s ‘cause he’s built like a bloody tank. Careful, or he’ll flatten ya.”

You roll your eyes at Soap, earning a grin from Horangi and a chuckle from Kyle.

“ Focus on the mission first, MacTavish.” Kyle says, shooting Soap a warning look, “before you make her mad again.”

You flash Soap a triumphant smile and because you can’t resist, you stick your tongue out at him. He huffs dramatically, turning back to the blueprints with exaggerated offense.

Price clears his throat. “ Ghost. Change of plans. You’re sittin’ this one out.”

Ghost tilts his head, the only sign of surprise. “ Sir?”

“ You’ll stay here. Babysit my little sister while we’re gone.”

You gasp, whirling on your brother. “ John! I’m not a child. I can take care of myself.”

He arches a brow, sarcastic as hell. “ Last time I ‘trusted’ you, you came home pissed drunk, carried over your mates’ shoulders like a sack of potatoes.”

Your face burns.

The room goes dead silent except for Soap’s barely-stifled snort.

You pout, crossing your arms. “ That was one time. I promise I’ll behave.”

Price shakes his head, unwavering. “ Not negotiatin’, love.”

He turns back to Ghost. “ You good with that, Lieutenant?”

Ghost’s gaze slides to you slowly and deliberately. It lingers, heavy enough that your pulse stutters.

“ I’ll accept.” He says, voice dropping even lower.

“ Make sure nothin’ happens to Price’s little sister.”

The words hang in the air, laced with something darker than simple duty.

A promise.

A threat.

Or maybe both.

Your stomach flips as his eyes hold yours a beat too long, the tension crackling like static before a storm.

Price nods, satisfied, and dives back into the plan. “ Any suggestions?”

König shakes his hooded head, massive frame still as stone.

Kyle shrugs. “ No comments, Cap.”

Soap raises a finger eagerly. “ Actually, I—”

Ghost cuts him off with a single sharp glance. Price slams the blueprints shut. “ The meeting was adjourned.”

Soap groans. “ That’s unfair! He didn’t even let me—”

“ Out.” Price orders, and the others file toward the door, bickering lightly as they go.

You linger, heart pounding, acutely aware of the one man who hasn’t moved.

Ghost stays by the wall and watching you.

Alone now with him tasked to guard you. To keep you safe, and to keep you in line.

The house suddenly feels too small.

Tomorrow they raid a terrorist nest.

Tonight, you’re stuck here with the most dangerous man you know. And something in the way he’s looking at you says this slow-burning tension between you is about to ignite.

…

The morning of the deployment is cold and gray, the kind of December day that seeps into your bones. You’re standing in the kitchen in one of John’s old hoodies while nursing a mug of tea when he finds you.

“ Remember…” He says, slinging his kit bag over his shoulder.

“ Behave. Ghost is here to do a job, not play referee.”

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts. “ I’m not twelve, John. I don’t need a babysitter.”

He groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “ You’re my little sister. I’m a soldier with a very public kill list. Enemies love opportunities like this…an empty house, a vulnerable family member. I’m not risking you.”

“ So send Soap.” You mutter into your tea.

“ At least he talks.”

Price snorts. “ I need Soap on the ground. The man’s annoying as hell, but those two surviving brain cells of his keep him alive in a firefight. Can’t spare him.”

You can’t help the laugh that escapes. “ Two brain cells? That’s generous.”

“ One’s for breathing, the other’s for explosives.” He deadpans.

Then his expression softens, just a fraction. “ Look, love…you said you’re scared of Ghost.”

Heat crawls up your neck. You hadn’t meant for that to slip out last night. “ He’s…intense. Quiet. Those eyes—”

“ Simon isn’t scary.” John interrupts gently.

“ Intimidating? Absolutely. But he’s a soft gentleman underneath all that. You just haven’t seen it because his aura makes you bolt like a spooked deer.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “ Easy for you to say. You’re not the one stuck alone with him.”

Price smirks, fishing his wallet from his pocket.

“ Tell you what. I’ll bet you a hundred dollars you’ll see his soft side before we’re back. If you don’t, I’ll pay up the second I walk through that door.”

Your eyes light up.

Money is money.

“ Deal.” You stick out your hand, grinning.

“ Start saving those notes, big brother. I’m collecting the moment you get home.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s fondness in it. Then he steps forward and wraps you in one of his bear hugs in warm, crushing, and smelling of cigar smoke and the same aftershave he’s worn since you were small.

You press your face into his chest, breathing him in.

“ Come back alive, big bro.” You mumble against his shirt.

“ Always do.” He says, voice rough.

He ruffles your hair like you’re ten again. “ Be a good girl. Don’t give Simon too many headaches, yeah?”

You nod, throat tight. He kisses your forehead, lingering a second longer than usual, then shoulders his bag and heads for the door.

Outside, the military truck idles in the driveway, exhaust curling into the frosty air. Soap’s face appears in the open window, grinning like an idiot.

He flips you off with both hands. You laugh and return the gesture until someone inside yanks him backward by the mohawk. His indignant “Ow…Gaz, ya bastard!” makes you snort.

The others climb in.

Kyle offering a calm two-finger salute, König ducking his massive frame with a shy wave, Horangi flashing a quick peace sign. John pauses at the door, and looks back at you one last time, and then he’s gone.

The truck rumbles away, leaving only tire tracks in the thin layer of snow.

You stand on the porch until the sound fades completely, arms wrapped around yourself against the chill.

The house feels too quiet now.

Too big.

Somewhere inside, you know Ghost is already moving through the rooms. He's checking the windows, sight lines, and dead bolts.

Silent.

Watching.

You sigh, breath fogging in front of you.

Two days or maybe three alone with Simon Riley.

You can do this. You can survive the skull mask and the silence and the way his stare makes your skin prickle in ways you definitely shouldn’t think about.

And when John comes home, you’re going to be one hundred dollars richer.

You square your shoulders, head back inside, and close the door against the cold.

Game on, Lieutenant.

…

The first night settles over the house like a heavy blanket. It's too quiet and too still. John’s absence is a gaping hole, and the only thing filling it is the man across from you on the couch.

Ghost sits with his legs spread wide, boots planted like he owns the floor, thick arms crossed over his chest.

The skull mask catches the lamplight, turning the empty eye sockets into voids. He hasn’t said a word since the truck disappeared down the road.

He just…stares.

Unblinking. Intense enough that your skin prickles and your heartbeat keeps skipping.

You stare back, chin lifted in stubborn defiance, because you refuse to be the one who breaks first. Minutes crawl by.

The clock ticks louder than it has any right to.

Finally, you huff, loud and dramatic. “ For God’s sake, enough with the silent treatment. My mouth’s gone dry from not talking for hours. I’m starting to forget what my own voice sounds like.”

He leans forward slowly, elbows resting on his knees, the movement deliberate.

“ I was waitin’ for you to speak, love.” He rumbles, voice low and rough.

“ Thought maybe you’d lost the ability.”

The casual endearment hits you like a slap. It's unexpected, warm, and dangerous.

You shoot to your feet, cheeks burning. “ Whatever. Are you hungry?”

“ No."

You throw your hands up. “ Great. Fantastic.”

As you stalk toward the kitchen, you mutter under your breath. “ I’d rather talk to a bloody dog.”

His voice cuts across the room like a blade. “ Say that again.”

You freeze mid-step, turn back with the sheepiest grin you can muster. “ I said…I’d rather talk to you than anyone else?”

He doesn’t reply, just tilts his head in that way that says he knows you’re full of shit.

You escape into the kitchen before he can call you on it. You yank open the fridge, pulling out eggs, bacon, whatever’s quick and edible. The pan clatters louder than necessary.

Of course, when you glance over your shoulder, there he is…leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed again, watching you like you’re the most fascinating or infuriating thing he’s seen all day.

You plant a hand on your hip. “ Do you do anything besides follow me around like a damn shadow?”

“ It's part of the job.” He says flatly.

“ I'm lookin’ out for you.”

“ I’m not going to get lost in my own house, Ghost.”

He doesn’t answer. Just keep staring, deadly still, until the silence feels like it’s pressing on your chest. You turn back to the stove, cheeks hot, and focus very hard on not burning the bacon.

Twenty minutes later, you set two plates on the dining table. A scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, toast. Simple, but it smells like home.

You jerk your chin at the empty chair opposite you. “ Eat.”

He sits without a word. You scoop food onto your own plate first, hyper-aware of his gaze tracking every movement. When you’re done, he still hasn’t touched his fork.

You arch a brow. “ Problem?”

He mirrors the gesture and somehow even under the mask. “ You starin’ like you’ve never seen a man eat before.”

“ I’m curious.” You admit, folding your arms.

“ How do you eat with that thing on?”

Ghost exhales through his nose. It's almost a laugh, and almost a sigh. “ Stupid question.”

Your mouth drops open. “ Excuse me?”

He reaches up, fingers hooking under the edge of the mask. Your breath catches as he lifts it, just enough to expose his mouth and jaw.

It's strong, stubbled, scarred at one corner. The rest stays hidden. He picks up the fork, scoops eggs, and eats with slow, deliberate bites.

No rush. No explanation.

You groan, dropping your forehead to the table with a dramatic thud. “ You’re impossible.”

He makes a low sound that is definitely an amusement this time. “ Eat your food, princess. Can’t have Price comin’ home to a starved sister.”

The nickname sends heat curling low in your stomach, equal parts irritation and something you refuse to name.

You stab at your eggs harder than necessary, refusing to look at the strip of skin he’s revealed.

Refusing to notice how his lips close around the fork, how his throat works when he swallows.

The silence stretches again, but it’s different now. It's charged and humming. You sneak a glance and he’s already watching you, dark eyes unreadable above the pulled-up mask.

You swallow hard and focus on your plate, heart thudding against your ribs.

One night down. A few more to go. And that hundred dollars is starting to feel further away than ever.

…

A thunderous bang on your bedroom door rips you out of sleep. You groan into your pillow, voice muffled and hoarse.

“ Shut it! It’s too bloody early!”

Another bang, harder. Then that low, gravel-rough voice filters through the wood. “ Get your arse downstairs. Breakfast’s ready.”

You freeze. The fog of sleep clears in an instant, and reality slams into you like a cold wave: you’re not alone in the house.

Ghost is here.

Twenty-four-bloody-seven.

“ Dammit.” You mutter, stretching with a full-body groan that pops your spine.

You kick off the covers, make the bed with angry efficiency, and yank the door open.

And immediately regret it.

Ghost is right there, filling the entire doorway, arms crossed, staring down at you like a bloody statue. The morning light from the hallway window cuts across the skull mask, making the black eye sockets look endless.

You yelp. “ Why the hell are you lurking right outside my door? Go wait downstairs like a normal person!”

“ I was two seconds from kickin’ it in and draggin’ you down myself.” He says, voice calm, and almost bored.

Your mouth opens for a retort, but then you notice his gaze dip slowly and deliberately down your body. You’re wearing the thinnest old tank top you own, the kind that’s practically see-through in the morning chill.

Your nipples are standing at full, traitorous attention.

Heat explodes across your face as you follow his line of sight. You slap your arms over your chest. “ Pervert!”

His eyes snap back up to yours, unflinching. “ I swear I was lookin’ at your face the whole time.”

“ Bullshit! I literally caught you staring at my nipples!”

He lets out a low chuckle in dark, rough, and the kind that vibrates straight through your ribs.

“ And what’re you gonna do if I was, hm? They’re quite distractin’.”

Your jaw clenches so hard it aches. Fury and something hotter surge together. You raise your hand to slap him, hard, across that stupid masked cheek.

He leans in closer instead of pulling away, towering over you, voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. “ Go on. Slap me if it’ll make you happy, love.”

The air between you crackles. Your palm hovers an inch from the mask. You can feel the heat radiating off him, smell faint gun oil and something unmistakably male.

For one wild second you imagine the sting of your hand on his skin, the way he might react.

Instead, you shove at his chest. He's solid as a brick wall and you storm past him while stomping down the stairs like a toddler in a tantrum.

In the kitchen, you yank out a chair so hard it screeches across the tile, then drop into it with a huff. He follows at a leisurely pace, sliding into the seat opposite you like nothing happened.

Plates are already set: perfectly cooked eggs, toast soldiers, bacon crisp enough to snap. Smells infuriatingly good.

You both eat in total silence, but the tension is thick enough to choke on. Your fork stabs the eggs with unnecessary violence.

He eats methodically, mask lifted just enough again to show that scarred mouth while his eyes never leaving you.

He’s enjoying this. You can tell.

The bastard likes watching you bristle.

You glare at him over your coffee mug. “ I cannot wait for John to get back so I never have to see your stupid face again.”

He pauses mid-bite, then resumes chewing slowly. “ Feelin’s mutual, princess.”

You groan loud enough to rattle the windows, shoveling eggs into your mouth just to have something to do with the frustrated energy buzzing under your skin.

Every swallow feels like swallowing sparks.

He watches you the entire time, dark eyes unreadable, that faint curve at the corner of his exposed mouth suggesting the ghost (ha) of a smirk.

You stab another piece of bacon so aggressively the plate skitters.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak. He just keeps watching, like he’s memorising every furious flush on your cheeks, every irritated huff.

The silence stretches, heavy and electric.

You’re mad. So, so mad, but underneath it, something else coils tighter and tighter.

Something that makes your thighs press together under the table and your pulse thud in places it definitely shouldn’t.

You shove the thought down, glare harder, and attack your toast like it personally offended you.

Day two, and you’re already losing your mind.

That hundred dollars feels further away than the moon.

…

You slam the last plate into the drying rack harder than necessary, water splashing onto the counter.

The morning’s breakfast still simmers in your veins.

His smug chuckle, that scarred mouth, and the way he’d called you out so casually.

You’re furious at how easily he winds you up, and how he turns every interaction into a battlefield you didn’t sign up for.

Ghost disappeared upstairs twenty minutes ago, muttering something about a shower.

Good. He gives you space to breathe without feeling his stare boring holes through your skull.

You dry your hands, flop onto the living room couch, and pull out your phone. A flood of messages from your group chat lights up the screen.

Best mate: OI, birthday drinks tonight at The Red Lion! You in or what??

Best mate: Don’t you dare bail, we’ve booked the back booth!

Best mate: Shots are on the birthday girl if you show up looking fit 🔥

You gasp, thumb freezing mid-scroll.

Shit. It’s Liv’s birthday today. You completely forgot, too busy seething over the six-foot shadow haunting your house.

You fire off a quick reply.

You: Absolutely I’m there!! 9pm sharp, save me a seat xx

You’re grinning, already planning the outfit that’ll make you forget the last twenty-four hours, when heavy bootsteps descend the stairs.

Your heart does an annoying little flip.

Ghost appears in the doorway, fresh from the shower. His black compression shirt clings to every ridiculous muscle.

The broad chest, thick arms, and the kind of bulk that screams hours of brutal training. Dark hair dusts his forearms, disappearing under rolled sleeves.

Water still beads at the ends of his short-cropped hair, one droplet sliding down his thick neck before soaking into the fabric.

Bloody hell. You hate that your type is apparently “built like a brick shithouse with a side of danger.” And you really hate that you’re staring.

He stops at the bottom of the stairs, noticing immediately. “ Problem, princess? You’re gawkin’ like I’ve grown a second head.”

He crosses his arms.

The shirt strains and his biceps bulging.

Your mouth goes dry. Without thinking, your tongue darts across your lower lip.

His eyes track the motion.

“ Stop gnawin’ at me like I’m on the menu.” He growls, but there’s dark amusement in it.

“ You get mad when I look at your nipples for half a second. Fair’s fair…don’t eye-fuck me like you’re plannin’ to take a bite.”

Heat floods your face.

You surge to your feet. “ Your body’s disgusting anyway. Wouldn’t stare if you paid me.”

He chuckles, low and rough. “ Liar.”

“ I’m telling the truth!”

He steps closer, towering, mask in place but those dark eyes gleaming. He leans down until you can feel the warmth radiating off him.

“ I'm not mad at you for starin’.” He murmurs, voice like smoke.

“ Actually I like havin’ your attention. Finally somethin’ useful comin’ out of that pretty mouth.”

Your brain short-circuits.

Pretty? From him?

You shove at his chest. “ Back off.”

He laughs, the sound rumbling through you. You spin to storm away (again), but a large hand snaps around your wrist, yanking you back.

You collide with his chest with a soft thud, palms flattening against hard muscle.

A startled yelp escapes before you can stop it.

You try to pull away, but his grip tightens, not painful, just inescapable. His other hand braces at your lower back, holding you there.

You’re trapped against him, and hyper-aware of every inch of contact.

The steady thump of his heart under your palms, the heat seeping through his shirt, the faint scent of clean soap and something unmistakably him.

His eyes bore into yours, deadly serious now.

“ Stop bein’ a brat.” He warns, voice low and gravel-rough.

“ Or you won’t like the consequences.”

You tip your chin up defiantly, pulse racing. “ You’re not my father. Or my brother. You don’t get to threaten me.”

His fingers flex on your wrist.

“ No.” He agrees, leaning closer until his mask brushes your hair.

“ But I’m in charge of keepin’ you safe while Price is gone. Means you follow my rules. Means you don’t get to stomp around actin’ like a spoiled little thing without pushback.”

Your breath hitches. The word spoiled lands like a spark on dry tinder.

It's infuriating and hot all at once.

You glare up at him, trapped between wanting to knee him in the balls and wanting to know exactly what those consequences might feel like.

“ Fine.” You hiss.

“ Let me go.”

For a second, he doesn’t. His thumb strokes once, barely, across the inside of your wrist, a whisper of contact that shoots straight between your legs. Then he releases you, stepping back with infuriating calm.

You rub your wrist, skin tingling, and try to ignore the way your body is suddenly wide awake in all the wrong places.

He watches you, arms crossed again. “ Goin’ somewhere tonight?”

Your eyes narrow. Of course he saw the phone. “ None of your business.”

“ Wrong answer.” He says mildly.

“ Try again.”

You groan, dragging a hand through your hair.

This is going to be a long few days. And that hundred dollars? It's starting to feel like the least of your problems.

…

You stand in front of the full-length mirror in your bedroom while smoothing the black dress over your hips.

It’s the one you save for nights when you want to feel dangerous.

It's tight enough to show every curve, and low enough in the back to make you shiver when the air hits skin.

You turn sideways, admiring the way it hugs your waist, the hem riding just high enough to promise trouble.

A slow, wicked smile spreads across your face.

“ Worth every second of the lecture I’m going to get.” You mutter to your reflection.

Purse in hand, heels dangling from your fingers so they don’t click on the hardwood, and you ease your bedroom door shut with the precision of a burglar.

You creep to the top of the stairs and peer down.

The couch is empty.

Perfect.

Ghost is probably prowling some other corner of the house like the overpaid guard dog he is.

You don’t care where as long as he’s not here. You descend the stairs on silent stocking feet, heart hammering with gleeful rebellion.

Every creak of the old wood makes you freeze, but nothing stirs. You reach the front door, turn the knob millimetre by millimetre, and slip outside into the cold December night.

The air bites your bare shoulders, but freedom tastes sweeter. You whisper-shout toward the street. “ Jake! Over here!”

Headlights flick once.

Your mate Jake rolls up on his big black motorcycle, helmet under one arm, and grinning like an idiot when he sees you. “ Bloody hell, are you trying to cause accidents tonight?”

“ Only the fun kind.” You laugh, swinging a leg over the back seat.

You tug the spare helmet on, wrap your arms around his waist, and thump his shoulder. “ Go, before the warden notices.”

The engine roars to life. You whoop as he pulls away, wind whipping your hair, dress riding higher on your thighs.

For the first time in two days, you feel light.

Free.

Untouchable.

You don’t see the dark SUV parked half a block down, engine idling silently.

Ghost sits behind the wheel, gloved hands strangling the leather in a white-knuckled grip.

He watched you come down the stairs.

He watched every careful step, every smug little glance around.

He could have stopped you at the door. He could have blocked it with one arm and ended the game before it started.

But no.

You want to be a brat? Fine. Let you think you’ve won.

Then his jaw damn near cracks when you step into the porch light.

That dress. Fuck. Black silk clinging to every curve he’s been pretending not to notice for forty-eight hours. Back dipped low enough to show the delicate line of your spine.

Hem short enough that any sudden move would—

And now you’re climbing onto a motorcycle behind some pretty-boy civilian who’s already looking at you like he’s planning dessert.

Ghost’s foot slams the accelerator before the bike even clears the corner. He hangs back two cars, headlights off, following the growl of the engine through quiet streets.

Every time the bike leans into a turn and your arms tighten around the rider’s waist, something dark and possessive coils tighter in his gut.

“ Little fuckin’ brat.” He growls at the empty car.

“ You thought you could sneak out in that dress and wrap yourself around some prick who doesn’t know what’s good for him.”

He clenches his teeth hard enough to ache.

You want to play runaway? Fine.

He’ll let you get to the bar.

Let you have one drink, maybe two.

Let you think you’ve pulled it off.

Then he’s dragging you out. Over his shoulder if he has to and bringing you straight home.

And when he gets you there?

You’re going to learn exactly what happens when you push him too far.

He’ll make damn sure you never look at another man’s bike. You will never even think about climbing behind one without remembering the consequences.

Ghost’s lips curve in a slow, dangerous smile under the mask.

Enjoy your little rebellion, princess.

It ends tonight.

…

The bass thumps through the floor of The Red Lion like a second heartbeat, coloured lights strobing across sweaty faces and spilled drinks.

You push through the crowd with Jake’s hand at the small of your back, and the black dress riding higher with every step.

Mia spots you first and screams your name over the music, pulling you into a crushing hug that smells like vodka and vanilla perfume.

“ Finally!” She yells.

“ We thought your brother locked you in a tower!”

The rest of your mates swarm around, teasing and laughing.

“ Been ages since you’ve come out, love!”

“ Price on a mission again?”

You sigh, nodding. “ Yeah. Overprotective mode activated. Had to practically escape Alcatraz tonight.”

Someone, probably Liv, shouts. “ Then let the party begin!”

The group erupts in cheers, dragging you all deeper into the club.

Shots appear. More shots appear. The dance floor swallows you whole.

You and Jake end up in the middle of it, bodies moving to the heavy beat. The liquor burns sweet down your throat, loosening your limbs, making everything feel lighter.

You sway your hips against him, laughing when he spins you.

He’s fun. His big smile and an easy flirt. His hands settle on your waist, guiding you closer until your back meets his chest.

You feel his breath on your neck, warm and tequila-scented, then the graze of his teeth as he nibbles just below your ear.

“ Fuck, you’re beautiful tonight.” He murmurs, lips brushing skin.

His palms slide lower, pressing you tighter against him. You can feel how much he wants you, hard and obvious against the curve of your arse.

“ Let’s get out of here. Find somewhere private. Make the rest of the night properly fun.”

The words land with a dull thud. You’re used to flirting, to heat and teasing, but actual follow-through?

Not tonight.

Not with him.

You laugh it off lightly, turning in his arms to create a few inches of space.

“ Let’s just dance, yeah? It’s Liv’s birthday. Plenty of time to celebrate later.”

His eyes darken, hungry. He leans in again, voice rough against your ear. “ I want you. Been wanting you all night in that dress.”

You swallow, smile faltering. “ Jake…I’m not ready for that.”

He doesn’t push, yet, but the disappointment is written all over his face. You both keep dancing, keep drinking, and pretending the moment didn’t sour the air between you.

Across the club, a path parts like the Red Sea.

Ghost stalks through the crowd, all black tactical gear and skull mask, radiating pure menace. People instinctively step aside, drinking sloshing as they stumble out of his way.

His jaw is clenched so tight it aches, eyes scanning until they lock on you, on the way you’re grinding back against that same motorcycle prick, on the hands roaming your hips, and on the dress that’s riding dangerously high.

He moves fast.

One second you’re laughing at something Jake whispers; the next, a massive hand clamps onto Jake’s shoulder and yanks him backward.

You stumble, spinning around, and your stomach drops.

Ghost towers there, eyes burning into you with fury you can feel across the strobing lights.

Jake recovers quickly. “ What the fuck is your problem, mate?”

Ghost ignores him completely. His gloved hand wraps around your wrist. It's firm, unyielding, and he starts pulling you toward the exit.

“ We’re going home. Now.”

You dig your heels in, heart pounding. “ I’m having fun!”

“ You can have fun inside the bloody house.”

You yank against his grip, but it’s like trying to move a mountain. “ Let go of me!”

Jake steps forward, bravado fueled by liquor. “ Hey…she said let go.”

Big mistake.

Jake swings a wild punch. Ghost dodges without looking, catches the wrist mid-air, and twists. There’s a sickening pop of joints.

Jake yelps, dropping to his knees. Ghost shoves him down hard, and face-first into the sticky floor. Screams ripple outward as people scatter.

Before you can protest, Ghost hauls you through the crowd and out into the freezing night air. You stumble in your heels, cursing.

“ Stop acting like a possessive boyfriend!”

He doesn’t slow.

“ I'm not your boyfriend.” He growls.

“ I'm just the poor bastard tasked with keepin’ you alive while your brother’s riskin’ his neck. You’re under my fuckin’ watch.”

“ I want to have fun!”

“ You want to have fun?” He spins you suddenly, backing you against the brick wall outside the club.

The skull mask looms inches away, voice dangerously low.

“ Then stay in the fuckin’ house where I can see you. Not out here wearin’ that—”

His gaze flicks down your body, lingering on every exposed inch. “...and lettin’ that motorcycle cunt grind on you like he’s got any right.”

You bristle, heat flashing through anger and something far more dangerous. “ You don’t get to dictate what I wear. Or who I dance with.”

His hand slams against the wall beside your head, caging you in. “ Don’t I?”

The words are quiet, lethal.

“ You have no idea how he was lookin’ at you. Like he wanted to bend you over his bike and—”

“ And you shouldn’t care!” You snap, shoving at his chest. It doesn’t move him an inch.

Ghost exhales sharply through his nose, grabs your arm again, and marches you to the waiting SUV. He yanks open the passenger door, practically lifts you inside, then slams it shut.

The locks click immediately.

You rattle the handle anyway. “ Open this bloody door!”

He slides into the driver’s seat, starts the engine, and pulls away without a word.

The silence is thick, suffocating. Streetlights strobe across the mask, across clenched fists on the wheel.

You cross your arms, fuming, thighs pressed tightly together against the traitorous pulse between them.

This isn’t over.

Not even close.

…

You storm into the house like a hurricane, slamming the front door so hard the windows rattle. The locks click behind you.

Too late you realize he’s already inside, but you’re too livid to care.

“ You absolute fucking wanker!” You scream into the empty hallway, kicking off your heels so they clatter against the wall.

“ You ruined my night! You embarrassed me in front of everyone! Dragged me out like some caveman…Jake’s probably got a broken wrist because of you, you psychotic, overbearing—”

Words dissolve into furious, incoherent noise as you pace the living room, and hands fisting in your hair.

You don’t hear the soft thud of his boots, don’t notice the shadow detaching from the wall until the door to the outside world is locked with a deliberate click.

You whirl around.

Ghost stands there, arms loose at his sides, watching you with that unreadable stare. The skull mask catches the dim lamplight, making him look every inch the predator.

You don’t think. You charge.

“ You!”

Poke.

“ Fucking!”

Poke.

“ Arsehole!”

Each word is punctuated by a sharp jab of your finger into the centre of his chest. The muscle under the black shirt doesn’t even give.

“ Most annoying, controlling, insufferable man I’ve ever—”

Your rant falters when you catch the direction of his gaze.

Down. Fixed. Unashamed.

Straight into the deep plunge of your dress, where your breasts are heaving with every furious breath.

Heat floods your face.

You shove him and both palms this time. “ Pervert!”

Ghost doesn’t move an inch. His voice is low, rough, almost amused.

“ Your tits are fuckin’ distractin’, love. I could let you scream at me all night if it keeps ‘em bouncin’ like that.”

You choke on outrage. “ You—!”

Your hand flies up to slap him.

He catches your wrist mid-air without looking, fingers like steel.

Before you can yank away, his other hand fists in your hair, yanking your head back. Then his masked mouth crashes against yours.

It's hard, unyielding fabric over lips, but the pressure is brutal, and possessive.

A growl rumbles from his chest as he forces the kiss deeper, and the hard ridge of the mask scraping your lips.

You moan despite yourself, the sound shocking you both. You claw at his shoulders, trying to push, but he only presses harder then walking you backward until your spine hits the wall.

Then, in one effortless move, he releases your hair, bands an arm under your arse, and hoists you over his massive shoulder.

The world flips. Blood rushes to your head; the dress rides up dangerously.

“ Put me down, you bastard—!”

A sharp, stinging slap lands on your exposed arse. You yelp, the heat blooming instantly.

“ Quiet.” He grunts, striding up the stairs two at a time.

He throws you onto your bed like you weigh nothing. You bounce once, scrambling to sit up, but he’s already on you. His knees bracketing your thighs, massive body caging you in.

The mattress dips under his weight.

“ I’m telling John.” You hiss, chest heaving.

“ Everything.”

Ghost leans down, mask inches from your face.

“ Go ahead. I don’t give a fuck.” His gloved hand slides up your thigh, pushing the hem of your dress higher.

“ I just wanna teach you a lesson, you spoiled little brat. Bad girls need tamin’.”

You buck against him. “ Then stop babysitting me and you won’t have headaches.”

He huffs a dark laugh, breath hot through the mask against your ear.

“ You’ve got no idea what you do to me, do you? Struttin’ around in this fuckin’ dress all night, tits spilln’ out, arse on display for every cunt in that club.”

“ I've been hard since you walked down those stairs. Wanna rip this off and see you naked…properly naked. Only for me.”

You open your mouth to snap back, but he rolls his hips slowly and deliberately.

The thick, rigid length of him drags against your inner thigh, pressing right where you’re already wet and aching.

A broken moan tears out of you.

Ghost groans, low and filthy.

“ There it is. I've been sufferin’ blue balls for days because of you, princess. Every time you stomp around in those tiny shorts, every time you bend over…fuck. Tonight was the last straw. Saw you grindin’ on that prick and nearly lost it.”

His hips grind again, harder.

You feel every inch of him.

He's huge, heavy, and straining against his trousers.

“ I wanted you for too fuckin’ long.” He rasps.

“ But I couldn’t make a move with the lads watchin’. Especially your brother who is always sniffin’ around. But now?” He nips the shell of your ear through the mask.

“ Now I’m gonna fuck you. Gonna show you how hungry I am. Gonna make you feel how hard you get me without even tryin’.”

“ How many times I’ve jerked my cock raw thinkin’ about this smart little mouth wrapped around me, about bendin’ you over and stuffin’ you full till you can’t walk straight.”

Another slow grind, the friction dragging a whimper from your throat.

“ I'm gonna ruin you for anyone else.” He promises, voice black with lust.

“ By the time Price gets back, you’ll be beggin’ for my cock instead of sneakin’ out to tease other men. Understand, brat?”

Your hands fist in his shirt, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away. Your thighs clench around his hips involuntarily.

His eyes is dark, and blown wide with desire that lock onto yours through the mask.

“ Say you want it.” He growls.

“ Or I’ll stop right now and leave you aching.”

You hate him.

You want him.

The line has never been thinner.

…

You shove at his wrists, nails digging into the thick veins there, trying to pry his hands away like that’ll somehow restore the last shred of control you’re clinging to.

“ I don’t want you.” You hiss, the words sharp and desperate.

You are more to convince yourself than him.

“ Get off me. This is assault.”

Ghost’s dark chuckle vibrates against your throat.

He doesn’t move an inch.

Instead, one thick finger drags deliberately up the damp seam of your knickers, pressing the soaked fabric between your folds.

Your back arches off the bed involuntarily, a soft, traitorous moan slipping out before you can trap it.

“ Assault?” He rasps, voice low and filthy.

“ Then why are your pretty legs wrapped around my waist like you’re beggin’ me to split you open, hm? Little brat’s cunt is droolin’ for me already.”

The degradation hits like gasoline on a fire. Heat floods your cheeks, your core, everywhere.

You hate him.

You hate how right he is.

He pulls his hand away just long enough to rip off his gloves with his teeth, tossing them aside.

“ I want to feel these walls clench around me raw.” He mutters.

Then he’s back in bare, calloused fingers sliding under the hem of your dress, and tracing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs until you’re trembling.

Your hands have abandoned their fight. Instead, they fist at the back of his masked head, dragging him closer, pressing that skull fabric harder against your neck.

He growls in deep, animal and inhales sharply, like he’s trying to breathe you in.

“ Fuckin’ greedy little thing.” He whispers against your pulse.

“ All that mouth earlier, and now you’re pullin’ me in like a desperate slut.”

His palm forces your thighs wider. One brutal tug, and your knickers tear like paper.

Cool air hits slick, swollen flesh.

You whimper as he spreads you open with his thumbs, gathering your wetness, coating two thick fingers until they glisten. Then he circles your clit slowly.

Your hips jerk up to chase more friction.

“ Look at me.” He orders.

You force your eyes open. His stare is black with lust, pupils blown wide behind the mask.

“ Tell me you want my cock inside you right now.” He says, voice gravel and smoke.

“ But once you say yes, that’s it. No other man touches this cunt. Ever. Only me. Understand?”

You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper, refusing to answer. He teases your entrance.

It's dipping just the tip of one finger in, then retreating.

Again. Again.

“ Say it…” He growls, pressing deeper but still not enough.

You break.

“ Yes…fuck…just you, Simon. Only you.”

“ Good girl.” He praises, the words dripping with dark satisfaction.

Finally, he sinks one thick finger inside you in a single, slow push. The stretch burns. You cry out, back bowing, and tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

He’s huge. It's only one finger and you already feel impossibly full.

He stills.

“ You haven’t been touched down here?” He asks, voice suddenly rougher, almost disbelieving.

You shake your head weakly, cheeks flaming. “ N-no.”

Ghost curses under his breath in long, filthy, and reverent. “ Fuckin’ hell.”

He buries his masked face in your neck, inhaling deep as he starts to move. Slow at first, letting you adjust, then deeper, curling just right.

Your nails rake down his back, clawing at the fabric of his shirt like you’re trying to tear it off.

“ Tightest little virgin cunt.” He groans against your skin.

“ Takin’ my finger like you were made for it. Gonna ruin you so good, princess. Gonna stretch this pretty hole until it only remembers me.”

He adds a second finger. The burn flares hotter, but pleasure coils tighter with every thrust. Your legs lock around his hips, heels digging into his lower back, urging him deeper.

Something builds in fast, overwhelming, and terrifying.

“ Ghost…something’s—” You gasp, voice breaking.

“ I know, baby.” He rasps.

“ That’s your first orgasm. Lucky girl…gettin’ it from a real man instead of some fumblin’ boy.”

He speeds up, fingers drilling into you relentlessly, thumb grinding your clit.

“ Come on. Cum for me. Let it explode. Soak my hand like the needy little slut you are.”

You shatter.

The orgasm slams through you. It's arder than anything you’ve ever felt. Your walls clamp down around his fingers, thighs trembling violently as waves of pleasure rip you apart.

You cry out his name or something close to it that clinging to him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.

He works you through it, murmuring dark praise against your throat. “ That’s it…good fuckin’ girl…milkin’ my fingers so pretty…”

When the aftershocks fade, he slowly withdraws. You whimper at the loss then freeze when he brings his glistening fingers to your lips.

A faint smear of red mixes with your slick.

Your virginity. On his hand.

He groans, low and wrecked, as you obediently part your lips and suck him clean.

It's salty, metallic, and you.

“ Fuck…” He mutters, voice hoarse.

“ You’re gonna be the death of me.”

And you know, with absolute certainty, that you’ve just handed yourself over completely to the man you swore was your mortal enemy.

…

You lie there panting, body still humming from the aftershocks, convinced it’s finally over. Your thighs tremble, slick and sensitive, chest heaving under the ruined dress.

Then the mattress shifts.

Ghost climbs off the bed slowly, deliberately. He reaches behind his head and drags his black shirt up and off in one smooth motion.

The fabric hits the floor with a soft thud, revealing miles of hard, scarred muscle, broad shoulders, thick chest dusted with dark hair, and abs carved like they were chiselled from stone.

Old knife wounds and bullet grazes map his skin like a violent history you suddenly want to trace with your tongue.

Your mouth goes dry.

You hate how much you want him.

How much you always have, if you’re honest.

He notices your stare. Of course he does.

“ Like what you see, princess?” He rumbles, voice thick with smug satisfaction.

His hands drop to his belt. Metal clinks. He pulls it free in one sharp tug, then snaps it through the air.

The crack echoes like a whip. Your thighs clench involuntarily, a fresh rush of heat flooding your core.

He tosses the belt aside and crawls back over you, caging you in again. Massive hands grip the neckline of your dress and yank downward.

Fabric tears.

The cool air hits your bare breasts; your nipples pebble instantly under his gaze.

“ Fuckin’ hell.” He breathes, reverent and filthy all at once.

His huge palms cup both breasts, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. Thumbs flick over your nipples, pinching, rolling, teasing until you’re arching into his touch with a needy whine.

“ I've been dreamin’ about these tits for longer than I’ll admit.” He growls.

“ Thought about ‘em when you’d storm past me in those tiny tops, bouncin’ like a tease. Now they’re mine. Real. Perfect.”

He slaps one breast. It's sharp and stinging. The pain blooms hot and sweet that made you cry out while your back si bowing.

“ Sensitive little things.” He mocks.

“ Look at you whinin’ already.”

The sound of his zipper is loud in the quiet room. Your eyes drop just as he frees himself.

He's thick. His heavy length springing out, flushed dark and leaking at the tip like it’s been tortured for hours.

Which, if his earlier confessions are true, it has.

He fists himself roughly, milking another fat bead of pre-cum from the slit. Then he leans forward and smears it across your breast, painting your nipple glossy. You shudder.

“ Squeeze ‘em together.” He orders, voice gravel-rough.

Your hands obey before your brain catches up, pushing your breasts together to create a tight valley. He groans deeply, wrecked and slides his cock between them, hot velvet over steel.

The head pokes your chin with every upward thrust.

“ Good fuckin’ girl.” He grits out, hips rolling slow and filthy.

“ Made for this, weren’t you? Pretty tits wrapped around my cock like a desperate little slut.” He picks up speed, fucking your breasts harder, pre-cum slicking the way.

Each drag sends sparks through you.

Each time the tip bumps your lips you have to fight the urge to open and taste him.

“ Look at you…” He sneers.

“ Mouth waterin’ for it already. Bet you’d let me use every hole tonight if I wanted.”

You moan, ashamed and turned on in equal measure. But he suddenly stops, pulls out, and drops to the mattress beside you, chest heaving.

“ I want that smart mouth on me now.” He says, voice strained.

“ Get between my thighs.”

You scramble up on shaky limbs, positioning yourself between his spread legs.

His cock stands proud against his stomach, twitching, angry red, veins pulsing.

You wrap both hands around him, still not enough to circle fully and he hisses through his teeth.

“ Fuck…too big for your tiny hands, isn’t it?” He taunts.

“ Go on. Open up.”

You part your lips.

He doesn’t wait.

One large hand fists your hair, guiding then shoving to your head down. The thick head breaches your mouth, stretching your jaw wide.

He doesn’t pause, just pushes deeper until you’re choking, tears springing to your eyes as he hits the back of your throat.

“ Fuck, that’s it…” He groans.

“ Hot, wet little mouth takin’ me like a proper cockslut.”

He holds your head steady and starts fucking your face.

It's short, and brutal thrusts that make obscene wet sounds. Saliva drips down your chin, and onto his balls.

Your hands grip his thick thighs for balance while nails digging in.

“ I've been wankin’ to this exact picture for years.” He grits out.

“ You on your knees, chokin’ on me while you look up all teary and ruined. Fuck…take it deeper.”

You gag, throat fluttering around him. He curses vividly, hips snapping faster.

“ I'm gonna cum down this pretty throat.” He warns.

“ You’ll swallow every drop like a good girl, won’t you?”

You can’t answer.

It's just the only tap frantically at his thigh as he buries himself to the hilt and holds. Hot pulses flood your throat, thick and salty.

He groans long and low, fingers tightening in your hair.

“ Hold it…fuck…hold it—”

Only when he’s spent does he ease out slowly.

A thick string of spit connects your swollen lips to his softening, but still impressive cock.

He grips the base and slaps it against your cheek once, twice, while it's still wet and heavy.

“ Look at you…” He says, voice hoarse with satisfaction and dark amusement.

“ Covered in my cum, dress ripped, tits marked up. Proper mess.”

You collapse against his thigh, wheezing, jaw aching, body thrumming with unspent need. He strokes your hair almost gently as a stark contrast to everything else then chuckles.

“ We’re just gettin’ started, princess.”

…

Simon flips you onto your back like you weigh nothing, the world tilting in a rush of muscle and heat.

Before you can scramble away, he snatches the belt from the floor and loops it around your wrists in one practised motion.

Leather bites into skin as he yanks your arms above your head, securing them to the headboard with a tug that leaves no room for argument.

“ Stay.” He growls, the single word dripping with possession.

Your ruined dress is still bunched around your waist.

He grips the torn neckline and rips downward.

Fabric shreds like tissue. The cool air hits every newly exposed inch of skin until you’re completely bare beneath him.

You're vulnerable, shaking, and aching.

He shoves his trousers and boxers down in one impatient push. His cock springs free again, thicker than before, flushed dark and slick with remnants of your mouth.

The blunt, swollen head nudges your entrance, sliding through wet folds, teasing but not entering.

You gasp when he spits in crude, deliberate and directly onto your cunt.

The warmth lands hot and shocking. He drags the broad tip through it, coating himself, gliding up to circle your clit until your hips jerk helplessly.

“ Look at you…” He mutters, voice rough with hunger.

“ Spread open like a desperate little whore, already soaked for the man you swore you hated.”

He lifts the bottom of his mask, just enough to bare his mouth. Then he crashes down, claiming yours in a bruising, filthy kiss.

Tongues clash, teeth scrape, years of bickering and tension exploding into raw, angry lust.

You taste yourself on him, taste the faint copper of your own virginity, and it makes you moan into his mouth like a confession.

He breaks the kiss only to line himself up again. The blunt head presses against your entrance is insistent and unyielding.

“ Relax, princess.” He murmurs against your lips.

“ I'm gonna take care of you.”

You whimper as he starts to push in. The stretch is immediate, overwhelming. “ It hurts—”

“ Pain won’t last.” He promises, voice low and steady despite the strain in his jaw.

“ Breathe.”

“ You’re tearing me apart.” You sob, back arching.

He smirks, dark and wicked. “ Good. That’s the fuckin’ goal…tear this tight little virgin cunt open and make you addicted to my cock. You’ll be beggin’ for it every night after this.”

He works in slowly. Iinch by agonising inch while bis eyes locked on yours, watching every twitch, every tear. Halfway in, he pulls back slightly.

When he glances down and sees fresh blood coating his shaft, he curses under his breath, something almost reverent.

“ Fuck…still so new.”

He pushes forward again, careful this time, letting your body adjust. Your bound hands strain against the belt.

You want to claw at him, grip something, anything, to anchor yourself. Instead you’re helpless, and forced to take every thick inch while he watches you fall apart.

His mouth finds your breast again, sucking hard on one nipple, then the other, teeth grazing just enough to make you cry out.

The dual sensation is pain below, sharp pleasure above that scrambles your brain.

“ Ready?” He asks, voice rough.

Before you can answer, he snaps his hips forward in one brutal thrust.

You scream.

A raw mix of pain and shock as he bottoms out, buried to the hilt. Your walls flutter wildly around him, stretched beyond imagining.

He stills completely, letting you adjust. You’re sobbing openly now, tears streaking your temples.

“ Shh, I’ve got you…” He whispers, surprisingly gentle.

He pecks soft kisses along your jaw, your lips. “ It’ll feel good soon. Trust me.”

You nod shakily.

He intertwines his fingers with your bound ones, squeezing reassuringly. Then he starts to move. Slow, deep rolls of his hips at first.

Each drag pulls a whimper from your throat.

The pain is still there, sharp and bright, but underneath it something else coils.

It's warm and electric.

He kisses you again, swallowing every sound, thrusting deeper on each stroke until the broad head kisses your cervix.

Your legs wrap around his waist without permission, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him closer.

“ Good girl.” He breathes against your neck, then latches on, sucking dark, claiming bruises into your skin.

“ Takin’ me so well. My perfect little cockslut.”

He pulls back suddenly, hands gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.

The new angle lets him drive into you harder. Your breasts bounce with every slam of his hips; his eyes drop to watch, hungry.

“ Fuck…look at that.” He groans, one palm splaying over the faint bulge in your lower belly each time he bottoms out.

“ So full of me you’re seein’ stars, aren’t you?”

His hand slides up, wrapping loosely around your throat.

Not squeezing, just holding, and owning.

“ You don’t meet that motorcycle prick again.” He says, voice deadly calm.

“ If I ever see him near you, I’ll smash his skull into the fuckin’ wall. Understand?”

You nod frantically.

“ Words, princess.”

“ Yes…yes, Simon. I understand—”

“ Good girl.” His fingers tighten just enough to make your head swim.

“ Now tell me who this cunt belongs to.”

You shake your head stubbornly, even as your body betrays you, clenching around him.

He growls, pace turning punishing.

The headboard thumps against the wall with every brutal thrust as your head nearly knocks into it.

“ Say it.”

You break.

“ You!” you scream, voice cracking.

“ I belong to you, Simon…fuck…only you—”

“ That’s it.” He praises, dark and satisfied.

His free hand rains sharp slaps across your breasts, making them sting and bounce. Then he shoves two thick fingers into your mouth.

You choke, drool spilling, but suck obediently.

He pulls them out with a wet pop and smears the mess across your cheek.

“ Filthy little thing.”

His rhythm turns relentless. It's hard, fast, and claiming. That coil in your belly tightens impossibly, and ready to snap. His cock twitches inside you and thickening even more.

“ I'm gonna fill you up.” He snarls against your lips, biting the lower one hard enough to draw blood.

“ I'm gonna pump this pretty womb full of me until you’re drippin’ for days. Cum on my cock, brat…now.”

One final, savage thrust and you shatter.

The orgasm rips through you violently. It's tronger than the first, and blinding. Your walls clamp down, milking him as you sob his name.

He follows with a guttural growl, hips stuttering as he floods you is hot, thick ropes of cum painting your insides, and marking you from the inside out.

He grinds deep, staying buried, forcing every drop deeper. His forehead presses to yours, breath ragged.

“ Fuckin’ perfect.” He whispers, voice wrecked.

“ You took me like you were made for it.”

He steals lazy, possessive kisses.

It's soft now and almost tender before collapsing onto your neck, spent and heavy. Your bound wrists ache, your body throbs, and you’re full of him in every possible way.

For the first time in days, the house feels utterly, dangerously quiet.

…

The weeks after that night blur into a haze of sweat, bruises, and the kind of filth that would make a sailor blush.

Simon Riley turns your brother’s house into his personal playground, and you into his favourite toy.

Seven days a week, without fail.

Morning quickies against the kitchen counter before coffee’s even brewed.

Afternoon hate-fucks in the shower that leave the tiles cracked from your grip.

Late-night marathons in your bed where he folds you in half and rails you until you’re sobbing his name, seeing actual stars behind your eyelids.

He’s relentless. He's rough, dominant, and degrading in the most delicious way.

Every time he growls “mine” while pounding you into the mattress, you come harder than the last.

You tell yourself it’s just stress relief.

Casual.

A convenient outlet for all the tension that’s been building for months.

But the truth is you’re addicted.

You hooked on the way he stretches you, ruins you, puts you back together just to break you again.

When he asks, voice rough and smug.

“ Admit it…you’re hooked on my cock, aren’t you?”

You always snap back “Never” even as your body betrays you, clenching greedily around him. He just laughs, dark and low, and fucks you harder until you’re screaming the opposite.

Then, one grey January afternoon, the front door slams open with the force of a breaching charge.

“ Oi! Family’s home!” John’s voice booms through the house, followed by the thunder of multiple bootsteps.

You’re upstairs, sprawled naked across your bed, thighs trembling, Simon’s hand still buried between your legs as his two thick fingers lazily stroking your oversensitive clit while he kisses a fresh hickey into your collarbone.

The sudden intrusion makes you jolt upright with a startled yelp.

“ Shit—” You hiss, shoving at his chest.

Simon withdraws his hand with deliberate slowness, sucking your slick off his fingers right in front of you, and eyes locked on yours.

“ Better get dressed, princess. Captain’s home.”

You scramble for clothes while he calmly pulls on jeans and a black hoodie, mask already in place like nothing happened.

You’re still hobbling in your inner thighs sore, cunt aching in the best and worst way when John’s voice echoes again.

“ Where the bloody hell are you two?”

You hobble downstairs as fast as dignity allows, plastering on a bright smile.

John stands in the hallway surrounded by his usual circus.

Soap bouncing on his heels, Horangi smirking behind his tiger mask, König looming like a quiet monolith, and Gaz shaking his head fondly.

The second you appear, John opens his arms. You launch yourself at him, ignoring the sharp twinge between your legs, and hug him tight.

“ Missed you, kid.” He mutters into your hair, squeezing hard enough to lift you off your feet.

“ Missed you more.” You mumble into his chest, voice muffled.

Soap cups his hands around his mouth. “ Aww, look at the family reunion! Touchin’, innit?”

Gaz stomps on his foot. Soap howls dramatically, hopping on one leg.

John sets you down, scanning the room. “ Where’s Simon?”

You stiffen. “ Uh…he’s…probably—”

A low, familiar rumble comes from the top of the stairs.

“ Here, sir.”

Everyone turns. Simon descends like he owns the place. His hoodie zipped, mask perfect, hands in pockets, and looking completely normal if you ignore the faint red scratches peeking above his collar (your nail marks from twenty minutes ago).

Price claps him on the shoulder. “ Good to see you, Riley.”

“ Captain.” Simon nods, then greets the others with quiet fist bumps.

Soap squints at him. “ Damn, Ghost, you’re bloody glowin’. Babysittin’ agreed with ya, eh?”

Gaz elbows him. “ Shut up for once in your life.”

Soap mutters something Scottish and filthy under his breath.

Price turns to you both. “ So…was she a complete pain in the arse the whole time?”

Simon’s eyes flick to you. It's dark, amused, and full of filthy memories. You feel heat rush straight between your legs again.

“ She was…good.” He says, voice perfectly even.

A beat.

“ Very good.”

Your thighs clench involuntarily.

You pray no one notices.

Price nods, oblivious. “ Thanks for lookin’ after her, mate. And for puttin’ up with her attitude.”

Simon’s gaze lingers on you. “ My pleasure, sir. Enjoyed it. Even when it got…stressful.”

Soap and Horangi exchange a look. Horangi’s eyes crinkle behind his mask. Soap bites his lip like he’s holding in the world’s dirtiest laugh.

Price digs into his pocket, pulls out a crisp hundred-pound note, and slaps it into your palm. “ As promised. For survivin’ Simon’s babysittin’.”

Your face burns crimson. “ Th-thanks.”

Soap can’t hold it anymore. He leans toward Horangi, stage-whispering loud enough for everyone to hear.

“ Bet she survived plenty. Multiple times a day, if I had to guess.”

Horangi snorts so hard his mask shifts.

Gaz frowns. “ What are you two on about?”

“ Nothin’.” Soap says innocently, eyes watering with suppressed laughter.

“ Just think Ghost gave her a real...thorough lookin’-after.”

Simon’s shoulders shake once, a silent chuckle only you notice.

The bastard is proud.

Price pinches the bridge of his nose. “ For fuck’s sake, behave yourselves.”

But Soap and Horangi are already losing it. Soap actually drops to the floor in a dramatic heap, pounding the hardwood with his fist while Horangi braces against the wall, wheezing.

You stand there, cheeks on fire, hundred-pound note crumpled in your fist, and thighs sticky with the evidence of exactly how “stressful” the last few weeks were.

Simon catches your eye across the hallway. Even through the mask, you can feel the smirk.

Welcome home, Captain.

The house is whole again.

And absolutely none of them have a clue it’s been thoroughly christened in every room.