#cardio in the snow

[fitnessgeekandcoffeefreak]

12.4.2023.

A couple of miles in the slush, but I needed outside so it was worth it! Moving into a very busy next couple of weeks for work. Gotta make all the cute things!

[dailybrittanysnowpics]

[coffeecupandcorgi]

cozy with my corgi bud & writing fic 🥰

[1critfailnews]

Royal of Mexico Don Felix Juarez Taitague escapes death on foot in the snow.

[bittersweetsparadise]

Worst cardio ever?! 😖

I love snow!

But I don't have the stamina for so much snow. 🥲

[4theitgirls]

workouts for when you don’t want to workout

40 minute yoga workout by lena snow: https://youtu.be/mSpUQMyXYoI?si=n5HB4UeAK2N2joJZ

20 minute slow full body workout by madfit: https://youtu.be/GB5uPT4W6p8?si=7OtK425XUASyOnBS

15 minute slow full body workout by madfit: https://youtu.be/M6m_t10WlfU?si=U_bi7zfbA9zugdUV

15 minute upper body by oppserve: https://youtu.be/3XRzNhPwstg?si=fgEflM6SBysNDaeo

10 minute anti-bloating cardio by blogilates: https://youtu.be/lQDrPsPodA0?si=YelVW1qHeY3Skmie

30 minute pilates for when you are sick by livaligned pilates: https://youtu.be/GZ-6qjHfH14?si=l-mwldr6FyQSAm9p

literally anything by growwithjo (her workouts are a major serotonin boost!)

[massivelynervousprincess]

I wanted to send a video to my friend (who’s in Columbia🙄😭🥹) of the beautiful snowstorm they’re missing… boyyyyyyyy WHY DO I SOUND LIKE SOMEONES 89 YEAR OLD GRANPA WHEEZING???? I humbled myself REAL FUCKING QUICK😭💀

[adysen]

Santa’s first skip on icy snow

[ieatangstforbreakfast]

Pairing ೃ⁀➷ 1610! Miles Morales x Fem! Reader

Summary ೃ⁀➷ Based off of Conan Gray’s song, Heather.

Genre ೃ⁀➷ Unrequited love, one shot

Tags ೃ⁀➷ Unrequited Love, Really rushed, It’s like twelve here damn, short one shot, Reader is a hopeless romantic idk anymore, not proofread, it’s mostly just poetic shit idk

Author's Note ೃ⁀➷ ill design it tomorrow goddamn it i just wanted to write, might wake up and rewrite idfk

“𝐈 𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐞𝐜𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫,”

Suddenly, all of what was left of November passed, with the dead, scarlet leaves the only homage remaining of the autumn that’s escaped your grasps. Autumn left as quick as it came, you couldn’t even bid a proper adieu.

When you think of December, you think of this icy wonderland— a winter that’d leave you huddling in the comfort of thick coats and hot chocolate, while patiently waiting on the nearing holiday that was prancing around the corner. Instead, what poured was not the icy flare of snow, but rain heavy enough to send you and Miles bolting off for cover.

In the thick downpour, your giggles emanated throughout the dim alleyways as the two of you sought sanctuary beneath a bus stop, somehow able to shield yourselves from the pitter-patters that raged on in a sideway fall.

“Oh my God, your hair.” You pointed at his drenched curls, a low laugh following along. Miles shook his head, running his fingers through the fluff of his waves when it poofs up again after a few turns. “It’s got magic, don’t worry.”

You brush your hands over the drenched skirt of your uniform, cursing to yourself. “Kinda need that magic for my clothes too.”

“That’s ‘cause you ain’t a magical being like me,” He huffs while wiping his hoodie. “You’s a mere mortal.”

“Okay, extraterrestrial being, control the damn weather then.”

“Hell yeah I will,” He snaps his fingers up to the skies. “Rain harder f’me, clouds!”

And the rain oh-so-gracious heeds his command. After a short while of cursing him out, you and Miles sat by the bench with your laughs easing down— replacing the excitement with a shared sort of exhaustion. With your heads pressed against the graffiti-covered glass wall behind you, you take a moment to subtly angle your head and look at Miles. He doesn’t notice it at first, but when he catches on, he turns and exchanges the stare with his own, a subtle “What?” escaping his lips.

From the chill of your spine, you mumbled.

“Nothing.”

You sheepishly looked away. “I’m just.. So exhausted, God. I need to work on my cardio.” A small fit of coughs exit your lips, covered up by the block of your wet sleeve. “I don’t understand how you get to run so quick— I couldn’t even see anything.”

“You still caught up pretty quick,” He beams. “Gotta admit, you’re a quick runner.”

“Thanks, I practice by running away from my problems.” A heft chuckle followed. “M’just kidding.”

Miles takes notice of your quivering hand— a frail shiver emanating ‘til the tips of your fingers. For a moment, the short idea of wrapping his hand over yours crosses his mind, but he shoots it down as soon as it came. It inches only a tad bit closer, but the image of someone else flashes in his mind when he looks at you like this.

“What a mood.”

“Running away from problems?”

“Yeah.”

You raised a brow. “You? You run away from your problems?”

He lazily shrugged with a hum. “Everybody runs away from their problems every now and then. It’s aight.”

“In a way, I guess,” You lean a little closer, but your shoulders never touching. “But in the end, no matter how much we run away, it’s all gonna end up catching up to us.”

Miles shoots you an amused look. “You been paying attention to philosophy class lately?”

“Prof Martha and I are besties, y’know.” A tint of sarcasm colored your words, redefining your connection to the strict teacher. “She likes me so much, she calls my name first during every fucking recitation.”

“It’s cause you’s always on that damn phone.”

“With or without my damn phone, nothing can make me sit still throughout her lecture.” A gruff huff escaped your mouth.

“Damn, not even me?”

You looked at him, wondering if he was flirting with you or if it was just your delusional brain whispering sweet theories into your ear. But even then, you admit.

“Ionno, maybe.”

You couldn’t even look him in the hazel of his pretty eyes.

“Maybe?”

He sounded half-disappointed, but you didn’t want to plant a presumptive seed inside your overly creative brain. That word alone’s enough to craft you a million what-ifs later on when you’re fading into the world of your dreams.

A chill runs down your spine.

“… I think I’m definitely gonna get sick tomorrow.”

“Oh, shit,” He sits up. “We definitely can’t have that happening.” Immediately after, he starts taking off his sweater. You flush, rambling on with the same question; “What the fuck are you doing!?”

“Our presentation’s tomorrow, and if anybody’s gonna be presenting the damn thing, it ain’t me— so you,” He tosses it over to you. “You wear this for now.”

You hesitate for a moment, dragging your hands towards the red polyester with a raised brow.

“How about you?”

Miles shrugged. “I can make do. My system’s made out of steel.”

“Made out of steel but you can’t perform for shit?” You pull the sweater over your head, the fluffy thing engulfing you into warmth. It was still somewhat damp from the rain, but it was better than earlier.

“Huh,” Miles sat back as you looked up to meet his gaze. “.. Would you look at that. It looks better on you than it does on me.”

Your eyes glanced down at the crimson, your hands smoothing out the creases of the cloth. “Really? I don’t usually wear this shade.”

“You don’t?”

“I’m more of a.. Less saturated kinda gal.”

“.. I mean, you can have it if you want.”

You shot him a look of disbelief. “.. Does this sweater have a hole because if you’re giving this away I—“

“It doesn’t have a hole, [Y/n].”

And your name rolled off his tongue so gently, it caught you off guard.

“I just think it looks better on you.”

Upon that murmur, he crossed his arms over his chest and sunk deep into the comfort of his seat. You’re stuck contemplating with an open palm, straightening the creases of his sweater. “Are you really giving this to me? ‘Cause I can give it back to you after laundry day.”

He shook his head. “Just.. Think of it as an early Christmas gift.”

“.. Thank you, then.” A smile crossed your lips. “I’ll keep it forever.”

When you see the way he looks at you— like a sort of guilt laced in hesitation, but a certain sort of awe. At that moment, a sense of hope lingered inside you like a dream. You think, maybe, just maybe, that helpless look in his eyes— that sort of gut wrenching longing— was crafted entirely and solely, exclusively for you.

But you knew that gaze of his wasn’t for you.

And you knew exactly who he was pretending you to be.

Oh, if only I was her.

Feelings, your feelings— erratic, volatile, and erupting out of you like a bird unwilling to be caged. You wanted to speak, say it— just say it.

But your hair wasn’t as golden as hers, your cheeks weren’t as rosy as hers. You wanted her effortless pixie hair cut, her ballerina grace. She reminded you of those flowers fleeting in the wind, like the purple heaths they called ‘Heathers’. You wanted to smell like her sweet perfume, do everything the way she does, just so Miles could look at you the way you imagined he’d look at her.

His doe-eyed sweetness. You wished you could own it, you wished he’d spare at least a part of it for you.

Rather, you wanted all of him for yourself.

You wanted a glimpse of this girl beyond the confines of Miles’ dabbles in watercolor and markers. You’d much rather prefer the object of your jealousy walk across your sights, smile with the bunny teeth he likes so much, and make your stomach churn rather than have you dwell over a 2D image you couldn’t help but gauntly skim past.

What is it about you that I can’t make Miles look at me?

Maybe if you’d meet her beyond his sketchpad and recollections, then maybe you’d understand why he can’t get her out of his mind.

At that moment, she was just someone you wished to be.

The bright red of this polyester which you deemed unfitting of your skin. You wondered if Miles truly meant it when he said it suits you— or if what he truly meant was that the shade would’ve looked great on her.

As the sweater was yours, but Miles was hers.

Your arms meet with a tiny press, and you feel his shiver. It was only so subtle, but at the ease of his shoulders, you couldn’t help but think as he looked onto the empty space with a blank stare.

Wish I were Heather.

[fitnessgeekandcoffeefreak]

2.28.2023.

Final day of February 🙌 Can you even believe it. I thought about skipping today's workout, but I do believe my tight calves will thank me later.

2 miles ✔️

[earthtooz]

𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗧𝗟𝗘𝗧𝗢𝗘 𝗠𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗔𝗣

in which: there always seems to be a mistletoe above your head whenever todoroki's around...

warnings: 4k+ words, fluff, swearing, kissing, jokes of k*lling someone bc bakugou is there, bad writing :/

a/n: welcome to the first day of my xmas event! ofc bc todoroki is my ULTIMATE bias ☝️ i just needed to start off with him. enjoy!

˗ˏˋ XMAS MASTERLIST ´ˎ˗

“You idiot! I’ll kill you!” 

You stand idly by on the porch of Class A’s dorms, pitifully watching Kaminari getting chased by Bakugou, who has clear murderous intent for the electric boy as sparks erupt threateningly from his palms. The squeals and screams from both blonds have attracted a crowd of students, noting the way that Jirou and Sero both cackle with delight, their laughter from inside the dorm audible where they watch from the window, and Mina looks proud of herself standing beside you.

As the snow fell and temperatures began to drop, it indicated the beginning of the Christmas season. Meaning, Mina thought it would be a good idea to put up mistletoes where people least expect it around the dorms, and poor Kaminari was stuck with kissing Bakugou as his first victim. You watched in amusement and horror as the yellow-haired swiftly pecked Bakugou’s cheek before running away, and now, he was stuck in a never-ending chase until his head is blown off. 

“Is this a good idea?” You ask the acid user, concern lacing your expression.

“Oh absolutely! It’ll bring some excitement to our holiday season!” She responds. “Kaminari just got the short straw having to kiss Bakugou first! He won’t be the only one though, I guarantee it.”

You huff. “This is cruel.”

“I don’t think you’ll feel that way when I set you up with a certain boy,” she winks, causing you to choke on nothing, sputtering at her antics as you try to rack some sort of reply in your mind.

You regretted telling Mina about your crush on a certain classmate, and before you could stop her, her expression shows that she’s already setting something up, calculating a plan in that mind of hers

“C’mon, don’t do that to him, Mina. He wouldn’t want to kiss me,” you mutter, crossing your arms in defeat, a frown gracing your lips at your own misfortune. Just as Mina opens her mouth to deny your claim, a voice pops up behind you that almost sent you into cardiac arrest.

“Who wouldn’t want to kiss you?” 

“Hey Todoroki,” Mina greets, poking you in your ribs. “What’s up?”

“Hey Todoroki,” Mina greets, poking you in your ribs. “What’s up?”

“Hey Todoroki,” Mina greets, poking you in your ribs. “What’s up?”

“Dinner’s ready, I came to get you guys but it looks like Bakugou and Kaminari are busy, huh?”

“Busy trying to make a crime scene? Yeah, you could say that,” you quip sarcastically, trying to recover from your embarrassment of Todoroki almost discovering that you’d like to kiss him. On queue, Bakugou yells out a ferocious ‘die!’, paired with an explosion and Kaminari screaming. “We were waiting for Bakugou to calm down but I don’t think he will any time soon.”

Todoroki chuckles at your statement. “You’re right. What are they fighting about?”

“I hung up some mistletoes around the dorms and Denki had to kiss Bakugou. You can imagine how that went,” Mina looks proud of herself, despite the chaos that she’s responsible for. Kaminari has probably fit in a weeks worth of cardio training at this point, Bakugou too.

“Like, on the lips?” 

“No, just on the cheek.”

“And he got that mad?”

“Well, he’s always that mad,” you retort. Both your classmates agree with you. You finally step in when the explosive blond grabs Denki by the collar, effectively giving him whiplash before raising his heated palms to his friend’s face. “Bakugou, let Kaminari go already!”

“Hah?” Bakugou exclaims, his raspy voice echoing throughout the open space of your dorm’s garden as he lowers Denki to sag on the floor. “You wanna die?”

“It’s dinner time, twat,” you retort. “Can you continue your plans of murdering Denki after dinner?”

He growls, dropping your classmate into the snow before stomping over to the dorm entrance but not without sending you the stink eye. 

As he pushes past, Kaminari stumbles into your arms, sagging in relief as you struggle to hold up all of his body weight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you,” he cries repetitively. Were those tears in his eyes?

“You’re welcome… everything okay?” 

“I thought I was about to be sent 6 feet underground.” 

Todoroki grabs the electric hero by both his arms and helps him stand upright from where you were struggling to hold him. There’s a little more force required in the way that he picks up Kaminari, and you’re almost shocked by how smoothly he does so. “It’s dinner time, you should go get some food.” 

If you looked a little closer, you would be able to see the presence of jealousy lingering in his eyes.

“You’re the man, Todoroki!” Your classmate sobs before leaning on Mina’s shoulder, actually breaking into tears this time. He’s chanting things that you can’t decipher, the pair leaving you and Todoroki alone outside.

The wind picks up, sending a chill down your spine as you tug on the sleeves of your sweater. “Let’s go inside too, I’m freezing.”

A hand on your wrist stops your advances and you turn around to meet Todoroki’s eyes, immediately becoming entranced in the grey and blue of his irises. The heat from his hand is enough to wither the cold that seeped into your bones. “What does Mina mean that she put mistletoes around the dorms?”

“Oh, she’s just hung them around the place. I don’t necessarily know why but I guess it’s a part of the festive spirit?”

“How many of them?” 

“Well, it is Mina so my guess could be twenty to a thousand,” you murmur. “I don’t care to find out.”

Todoroki’s face is unchanging, but you feel like he’s scheming something. He always is in that brilliant mind of his, but you don’t enjoy the churning of your gut that tells you you’re going to be involved somehow. What business could he have with a mistletoe? Is he planning something on a classmate? Someone he’s interested in perhaps?

Thinking about it brings a frown to your face so you pull your hand out of Todoroki’s grasp and head back inside for a little relief from an unpleasant feeling that plagued your body; a sensation that didn’t exist solely because of the cold.

A few days later, Mina would strike, starting a series of fortunate, but also, very embarrassing events.

“Morning, Y/N!” Uraraka greets when you appear in the common area. Having just brushed your teeth and done your morning routine, you feel rejuvenated when greeting your friends. Asui pops her head over the couch at your entrance and waves.

“Good morning. How did you both sleep?” You ask, walking over to where she was sitting on the couches and jumping over the back to sit down. 

“Great! Tsuyu and I are planning some things for the Christmas dorm party. Care to join us?”

“I’d love to, what’re you doing?”

The amphibian-like hero turns her laptop around so its screen was displayed at you. You take note of the decoration site that she was currently scrolling through. More specifically, the seemingly endless flow of plastic Christmas trees that this website provided.

“I thought we already had one?”

“We don’t, not until the boys broke and it ended up in flames,” Asui reminds you and you laugh at the memory of the poor Christmas tree you had last year. Somehow, Kirishima managed to push Denki to crash into it and then all the lights malfunctioned, burning the branches a little, but since the tree was near a lit fireplace, one thing turned into another and marked the end of Class A’s Christmas Party for second year. It definitely wasn’t funny at the time when Aizawa had to reprimand the lot of them, but it definitely is something to chuckle at now.

Core memories with Class A.

“I guess they did, huh?” You sigh. “To be fair, they can break the one this year because it’s our last Christmas celebration at U.A.”

“Don’t remind us!” Ochako slaps your shoulder quite firmly and you slip out a little ‘ouch’ from the impact. “I’m gonna cry again!”

“Please don’t cry,” the green-haired commands.

“Hey, I have an idea that we can do for the Christmas tree!” You pipe up, raising your pointer finger to the ceiling, mimicking an ‘eureka’ position. “We should order some Christmas balls and get art supplies so everyone in the class can customise one and put it on the tree!”

Both of them light up at your suggestion, nodding in agreement.

After a few more discussions over the logistics and decorations of the party, your stomach grumbles in protest, reminding you that you hadn’t eaten breakfast since getting up. Asui about sends you off to the kitchen, banning you from contributing any more until you’ve had food.

As you’re halfway through cutting some fruit for a bowl of cereal when a familiar, deep voice breaks the silence of the kitchen.

“Good morning, L/N.”

You almost jump from shock, tightening your grip on the knife before turning around to see who the perpetrator was.

“Oh, hello Todoroki! Did you just wake up?”

“Yeah, slept in a little longer than I would have liked. Midoriya and Iida were supposed to wake me up to go for a run but they didn’t follow through with their promise,” he complains.

“To be fair, you sleep like a log,” you comment, turning around to resume cutting the fruits. The half-and-half takes his place by your side, watching you. Suddenly the knife handle feels slippery.

“I do not.”

“You do! We literally had a competition at training camp to see who could wake you up and it took seven people!”

He grunts, rubbing his eye. “No one comes between me and my slumber.”

You chuckle, letting silence engulf the atmosphere momentarily as you walk over to the pantry. You pretend to not see him snag a slice of banana, popping it in his mouth before you can miss it too much.

“What’re you gonna make for breakfast?”

“I might just boil some eggs and have miso soup.”

“That sounds good. Nice and warm for the morning.”

“I’m happy to share.”

You shake your head, rejecting his offer. “No, it’s okay thank you. I am going to make some barley tea though, would you like some of that?”

He nods and for the next few minutes, you both operate in silence, nothing but the sound of kitchen appliances operating filling the air. You pour four cups of tea, two for you and Todoroki, and two for the two classmates you were just talking to.

You leave the kettle out for everyone though and by the time you were done plating the add-ons to your cereal, Todoroki had heated up his miso soup and finished boiling his eggs.

“Would you like to eat together?” He asks, gesturing to the dining table near the kitchen counter.

Your heart flutters, flattered that Todoroki didn’t mind spending time with you one-on-one. It’s uncommon for him to spend time with another alone; whenever you see him he was always in at least a group of three or by himself in content solitude. Settling in seats beside each other, you both discuss weightless conversations with no depth behind them, but you adore his presence regardless, satisfied with any chance to spend some time with him.

As the food in your plates lessens to zero, you begrudgingly rise to end your conversation and put the dishes in the sink. After breakfast was when you had your morning stretching session before going into quirk and strength training, then you had to finish off your assignments because even though homework was the last thing you want to do, Present Mic is quite terrifying when he puts you on the spot during English lessons.

But, before you could walk away, a hand pulls at your shirt, capturing your attention.

Glancing at your classmate in confusion, he answers any questions you had by pointing to the ceiling, where, to your horror, hangs a beautifully innocent mistletoe that you know was not there before. Judging by the ripped edge of the tape- Sero’s tape- that held the mistletoe to the ceiling, you could tell that this was a recent scheme.

Todoroki then stands up assertively, pushing his chair out as he faces you and you find it hard to meet his gaze.

“I- We don’t have to if you’re uncomfortable with it!” You exclaim, the words coming out as a jumble of nothing that he was somehow able to decipher.

He shakes his head in reassurance. “No, I’m okay with it. So, should I be expecting a kiss?”

You can’t think straight, you think you’re dreaming, is this a hallucination? Has your feelings finally gone off the rails that you’re imagining the way that Todoroki was ever-so-softly smiling down at you? He looks so joyful for the predicament that he’s stuck in. What if you ruin his plans? You thought he was scheming something with the mistletoes so someone in your class could kiss him, and said person was probably not you.

“We never speak of this again.”

Something within you whispers ‘fuck it’ before leaning in, cupping the left side of his jjaw to place a gentle and quick peck on his right cheek. If you were a little more aware, you would’ve seen the way he gleefully shut his eyes as a reflex to your close proximity.

When you part, you quickly swipe the dirty dishes before scrambling away, mind in scrambles.

His skin was so soft that you almost feel horrible for tarnishing it, but the memory was so euphoric that as you continued along with your day, it only got sweeter each time you replayed the moment. You just hope Todoroki forgets about what happened because you sure as hell can’t, the scribbles on your homework lay testament to that claim.

When you finally emerge from your room after slouching over your homework for five hours, it seems like whatever happened in the morning between you and Todoroki was out of mind, out of sight; the best option for your psyche.

Regardless, the memory keeps you up at night, often making you cringe as you bury your head into the pillow as if you were sealing the moment away into a coffin, locking it up and throwing it in the ocean of your forgotten, ‘here lies…’ recollections. The worst part is that your classmate doesn’t realise the inner turmoil he throws you in, acting as if nothing happened between the two of you whenever he smiles at you, or comes a little too close into your personal space, whispering jokes lowly into your ear. It’s outrageous how you have to sit there and pretend like everything is okay. 

Eventually comes the time when all of the blank, white Christmas balls you ordered arrive at the door of Class A’s dorm, and no one in the class can contain their enthusiasm when ripping apart the package. Aizawa stands to the side, untroubled so long as the mess is cleaned up. 

The art and craft materials are spread out along the clothed dining table, some glitter has already been spilled, there’s paint everywhere, and Jirou’s playlist pleasantly occupies the space alongside the excited chatter of your classmates. As you converse with Kirishima and Midoriya, often letting them get a glimpse of your artwork whilst enjoying the cookies that Sero baked for this occasion, you realise that everyone’s Christmas ball reflects a little of who they are.

Kirishima’s is red and beautifully glittery despite all the ferocious, strong idioms he’s written on the surface. Midoriya’s resembles the colour of All Might’s hero costume. If you look down the table, Mina’s has pink snowflakes, Aoyama has stars upon stars, and Hagakure’s has little drawings of her friends- their designs were just to name a few. 

Those who finish immediately go to put up their decorations on the Christmas tree. With Bakugou going first and despite the speed that he finished his ball with, you cannot deny that it is intricate and well-crafted. Then, others start to follow him, and somehow, it’s just you and Todoroki left behind to finish up.

“Yours is nice,” he compliments, suddenly materialising in the seat beside you.

“Thank you!” You exclaim. “I’m really trying.”

“I can see.”

Glancing over to his work, you notice that it’s also split in a half-and-half, with white glitter on one side and red on the other. “Yours is really pretty,” you comment, reaching over the table to grab a gold star to put on your ball.

“Thank you. How much longer til you’ll be done?”

“I’m done now! Were you waiting for me?”

“Yeah, I would like to put our decorations on the tree together, is that okay?”

He’s so cute you want to squish his cheeks. As always, you find yourself easily complying with his demands as he leads the way toward the Christmas tree that was already occupied with various Christmas balls and tinsel, topped with a gold star. You take the time to find a good place the last two decorations and despite how full it is, you find places right next each other. 

“We look good beside each other,” Todoroki mindlessly comments and you splutter at his choice of words. Did he have to be that shameless? The clueless boy he act going on only made you more flustered at your own embarrassment.

“Y-Yeah, we do,” you mutter, rubbing your neck. 

Glancing up at the gold star, the corner of your eye catches onto a suspicious red and green thing. A part of your stomach churns in knowing before you can fully process what it is and when you do, a part of you wants to curse Mina for setting this up. She purposefully put it in a place that wasn’t visible from the doorway and would be slightly hidden so unsuspecting victims would fall into her trap.

What do you do? Do you point it out for your own selfish reason or do you avoid telling Todoroki? That’s not very festive of you but you couldn’t find it in you to care about tradition when-

A pair of soft lips meet your forehead, effectively shutting down your brain. 

When Todoroki pulls away, cheeks slightly tinted pink, you are literally frozen to your spot. Pressing the off and on switch multiple times would not work, this time you needed rewiring and a new pair of batteries.

“I- uh, yeah- cool, thanks, uh, for that,” you fumble, letting the lingering touches of your classmate sink into your skin. You were fine, everything is fine, there is nothing to worry about. “Wow, you are beautiful- okay excuse me now, I will be going to my room and I will be staying there for the next three business days.”

Without giving him a chance to respond to your strange reaction, you turn on your feet and mechanically walk away. If you had paid a little more attention to your movements, you would have realised that you were walking same arm and leg, but it didn’t matter much because Todoroki just kissed your forehead and in the same moment, embedded himself into your system.

Then you made a fool out of yourself because you don’t know how to act around Todoroki. 

The paint on your fingers linger mockingly, especially the red and white coating your skin because days later,you’re reminded of how quickly life can change, and similar to that a cruel joke; how quick your life changes because of some stupid plant that people attached a stupid tradition to. 

It’s 6 pm or so and the Class A Christmas party is occurring in less than two hours. With all the decorations hung up and almost all the food ready, you found yourself sitting around the dining table with a bunch of classmates, playing several rounds of card games to kill time. There’s a teapot of steaming tea that Yaomomo made to the side, one that you reach over to occasionally to fill your cup again.

Everyone is laughing at Denki’s misfortune of drawing 16 the third time this round, adding to the unreasonable amount of cards in his hand, laughing even harder when he struggles to hold it all. Although some part of you should feel sympathy for him, there’s just something hilarious about the sight of poor Kaminari always drawing the short stick. You’ll apologise to him after the game.

Although, you don’t think that apology is going to happen, not when Todoroki calls out your name from where he was in the kitchen. Without even asking what he needed, you immediately jolt out of your chair and walk over, leaving your cards behind despite your close Uno win. 

Uno was temporary, whatever Todoroki wanted was forever.

“You called?” You asked upon entering and the first thing that hit you was a delicious aroma that floated around the room. Then, the telltale sound of sizzling follows.

Glancing to the stovetop, there was a pan full of oil and the half-and-half hero stood in front of it, adorning an apron whilst holding an oil strainer. He brightens upon your entrance, fishing out three pieces of what looked like chicken karaage and your mouth waters at the sight alone.

“I did, I would like your opinion,” he informs, reaching over to his plate full of fried chicken whilst you close the distance between you, eyeing his dish curiously. He eagerly gestures it towards you.

Looking at him for his confirmation, you take a piece, blowing on it to cool it down before taking a bite with little hesitation, letting the pleasant mixture of salt and spices mix whilst the enjoying the crunch of the chicken. Wow, this was good.

“This is amazing!” You exclaim, mouth half-full with chicken and fried batter. 

He seems relieved at your approval, and judging by the mess he made on the countertops, you’d say that Todoroki put quite a lot of effort in this dish for it to be bad. “This is my sister’s recipe; I tried my best to replicate it, but I wanted to make something for everyone tonight.”

“I had no idea you could cook! I’m genuinely stunned, I’m sure everyone will love it as well.”

“Thank you,” he offers you a gentle, but heartwarming smile that causes your stomach to flutter and your heart to sigh in content. Your tastebuds are in love too. “You should come over sometime to try the real thing. I’d love for you to meet my sister and brother.”

Your first instinct is to accept, as one does when going over to one’s house, but when you process the weight of his words, your mind erupts into a mash of concerns and delighted squeals. All that comes out of you is a muffled ‘I’d love to’- one of the better responses your mind could make up.

You note the way that his gaze flicker to your lips before quickly venturing back up to make eye contact once more. Suddenly, it’s getting harder to breathe, the atmosphere is heavy with intimate tension, and your heart is racing in anticipation because you’re certain he’s about to say something before-

“Hey guys! Something smells good in here, what’s-” Midoriya’s voice slices the air in half with an entrance that you don’t know whether to be grateful for or if you should strangle him. He then cuts himself off when he realises that he probably interrupted something, looking especially suspicious when his eyes gravitate towards the ceiling. “My bad! Sorry guys! I’ll take my leave now!” He squeaks before disappearing just as quickly as he came in.

“That’s weird, I wonder what he was talking about,” you begin, turning your head to look back at Todoroki before you find the air being sucked out of your lungs, being replaced by a pair of soft lips over your slightly dry ones.

Oh- wait, Todoroki was currently kissing you. This was nice. You feel like you’re floating despite how short-lived it is, because just as you melt into his warmth, he pulls away, hovering away slightly from your face, creating enough distance so he can scan your expression for any discomfort.

But your body moves on its own, causing you to jerk back from the half-and-half, brain racking to find something to say. ‘Thanks for the kiss. It was great but I’m not too sure if that was real or not’ or ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that’ are not appropriate options to say to someone after single-handedly creating the best moment of your life, so you choose an even better option; run.

You scramble out of the kitchen quickly enough, ignoring the surprise of your classmates that you run past at the dining table and trying even harder to ignore the footsteps that follow you from the kitchen to dorm’s entrance. Going outside into the expanse of endless snow and cold was your first option because you needed some remedy for what you were suffering through. Fresh, crisp air would aid the light-headedness you felt, and the frost could freeze the fire that was your face.  

Although you were quick to escape, Todoroki is quicker in his chase, grabbing the door before you could close it, slipping outside into the cold with you before shutting the door close with a little more force than necessary.

“Why do you keep running away from me?” He asks, a hint of hurt in his otherwise steady tone. The only light source is from within the dorm, illuminating him in a deliciously warm glow that replicated that of an angel, making him appear even more out-of-reach than he already was. 

Freaking out, you blurb out a: “Would you like the truth or would you like me to lie?”

In truth, your question was to stall the inevitable conversation you were going to have because you can’t find a way to lie from this. It was either the cold hard truth or… you run from Todoroki again but if there’s one thing to know about the half-and-half is that he’s persistent. Even if you flee from the face of the Earth, he’d venture into the solar system to find his answers.

Todoroki’s dual-coloured eyebrows furrow in confusion, looking at you inquisitively. He must think you’re the biggest fool on Earth- which, you are. “I would like the truth,” he answers slowly but surely.

You unknowingly inhale before confessing. “Please don’t hate me for this, but it’s cause I kinda like you a little too much?” You don’t look at him before continuing because if there’s one thing you aren’t brave against, it’s pretty boys with extraordinary pouts and puppy dog eyes. “This is literally so humiliating, but uh, you kinda like… intimidate me, and I don’t think you actually want to kiss me so I save myself the embarrassment and-” 

“-You like me?” 

“Well, obviously. You’re kinda perfect and it’s so unfair, I’ve never seen you with eyebags, or a single pimple, do you even have bad hair days? Plus you’re so talented and-”

“Perfect, you say?”

“Even the way you speak is per-” you cut yourself off before shifting your gaze upwards to look Todoroki in the eye. There’s mirth in his eyes, enhanced by the slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. You want to throttle him because of course, out of all the things you just confessed, he’d hang on to your admission of his perfection. “Don’t look at me like that, I actually hate you.”

“No you don’t, you like me a little too much,” he parrots.

You were actually going to lock him outside in the snow where little shits belong. Here you stand, pouring your heart out to him and he capitalises on your moment of weakness! Unbelievable.

Just as you turn around, Todoroki tugs on your sleeve, pulling you back. “Wait, don’t go,” he pleads. “Sorry, I couldn’t resist myself from having a little fun messing with you. I don’t mean to be cruel.”

“Well, you are, and I really don’t appreciate it,” you counter jokingly, huffing, watching the way your breath condenses before fading again. Now that the heat from your face had dissipated, the chill was getting to you and you’d really like to get back inside and hide from Todoroki for the rest of your life.

“I apologise sincerely,” his hand fishes through his pocket to look for something, pulling out something that you recognise all too well. “Will this make up for it?”

The half-and-half smiles at you shyly, unravelling the mistletoe he stuffed to become its true, expansive form. A part of you dies inside, the other cheers in victory as he raises it above your heads, the internal whoops and exclamations audible in your ear, but when you realise that there are a little too many voices, it causes you to turn around- only to see your friends gathered around a window, all looking at the two of you in excitement. 

You laugh and Todoroki groans, and in the blink of an eye, a wall of ice materialises in front of your eyes, blocking you from the prying snoops that are your friends.

“It will absolutely make up for it,” you murmur, grabbing both of his cheeks to pull him in.

[adverbally]

Every Claim You Stake

Written for the @steddieangstyaugust prompt “‘Who did this?’” | wc: 1,364 | rated: E | cw: sexual content, slut shaming, unprotected sex | tags: friends with benefits, non-exclusive sexual relationship, jealousy, argument, not a happy ending | title from “Every Breath You Take” by The Police

———

Eddie is pretty proud of himself as he trudges up the walk to the Harringtons’ front door. He actually made it two whole weeks without caving in and calling Steve. That’s probably the longest he’s gone since they began their little arrangement.

It’s not like he hasn’t seen him. They’re friends, they hang out with the same people and shuttle the same kids around town. But it’s been two weeks since Steve last invited him over and sucked his brains out through his dick and then thanked him for it.

That’s what Eddie has the most trouble wrapping his mind around. If anything, Steve is doing him a favor by saving him a trip to Indy for his hookups. Plus, sex with Steve is basically like physical therapy, considering the amount of stretching and cardio involved. Eddie can actually touch his toes now, go figure. And even though they’re not dating and Steve doesn’t seem to know about Eddie’s big fat crush, he’s actually a very considerate and romantic lover. To get all of those benefits and the sight of Steve on his knees, grinning up at Eddie with come and spit dripping off his chin… well, maybe karma is real and the universe is trying to make up for the whole “almost getting eaten alive by demobats and dying in the Upside Down” thing.

He’ll take it.

Steve meets him at the door, looking unfairly beautiful for a guy wearing sweatpants and fuzzy socks and glasses. “Hey, man, come on in. Is it still snowing?”

“Barely,” Eddie responds, kicking off his shoes and shrugging out of his jacket. He shakes his damp hair like a dog to make Steve laugh. “Gonna warm me up?”

“I’m gonna send you back home if you try another cheesy line like that,” Steve threatens, though he’s still smiling. He steps closer and settles a hand on Eddie’s hip.

Eddie only has time for a single suggestive eyebrow wiggle before Steve is suddenly in his space, guiding Eddie back against the entryway wall. His lips follow shortly thereafter, licking into Eddie’s mouth with more enthusiasm than finesse. Eddie likes it like this, a little sloppy, like Steve wants him so badly that he doesn’t have the brainpower to coordinate his movements.

When Eddie breaks away for a breath, he trails his lips across Steve’s jaw, lingering on the two little moles high on the side of his neck. It’s one of Eddie’s favorite places on Steve’s body, the X marking the spot where Steve will shiver and gasp at the scrape of teeth over delicate skin.

Steve manages to slip his hands under the hem of Eddie’s t-shirt and flannel, coming to rest in his back pockets. It probably says something about Eddie that he really likes when Steve does this, just grabs his ass and steers Eddie into grinding their hips together.

“Fuck,” Eddie mutters into the skin of Steve’s throat. He uses the hand at the nape of Steve’s neck to grab a chunk of hair and pull his head back, maybe a little too hard. When Steve groans his approval, Eddie feels the vibration against his lips. “Yeah, you missed me?” he teases, bringing his other hand to the opposite side of Steve’s neck with a gentle squeeze.

His stomach swoops when Steve flinches and hisses an inhale through his teeth.

“Shit, sorry, did I hurt you?” Eddie releases his grip on Steve’s hair and pulls away.

Steve’s worn t-shirt, with its stretched out neckline and holey hem, has been tugged into just the right position to reveal a truly massive hickey.

It looks a couple of days old but it’s still deep purple at its center, nearly black, with a sickly green-yellow fading at the edges. If Eddie looks closely enough, he thinks he might even see teeth marks.

Someone else’s teeth marks. On Steve.

The sight makes Eddie’s stomach churn with jealousy he knows he has no right to feel. This thing between them is just casual sex, they definitely haven’t discussed whether they’re exclusive. Apparently, while Eddie assumed they were, Steve did not. Somehow that makes it hurt even more. What would Steve want that he couldn’t ask Eddie for? Was he not good enough for him?

“What the fuck?” he whispers, reaching out to pull Steve’s shirt collar even farther down his shoulder.

“Eddie–”

“Who did this?”

“Just some guy at the club in Indy.”

Steve and Robin had gone just last weekend, Eddie remembers. He had stayed home and ate dry cereal out of the box while Steve was apparently getting partially cannibalized. He can’t help but picture it. Probably some hulking blonde jock who could pick Steve up and fuck him against the wall while he begged for it. Maybe he bent him over the sink, making Steve look at himself in the mirror, all pink-cheeked and hazy-eyed.

“Just some guy who used you like a chew toy,” Eddie scoffs.

Steve scowls at him. “Are you angry about this? Sorry, I didn’t know I was supposed to get you to sign my permission slip first.” He shrugs his shoulder violently enough to dislodge Eddie’s hand.

“Fuck you.” Eddie shoves Steve so hard he stumbles a couple steps backwards. “Who was it?”

“Why are you acting like I cheated on you? You’re not my boyfriend, or my dad, or-or my babysitter.” Steve’s eyes are shiny in the dim light of the foyer. “It’s none of your business who I sleep with.”

Eddie is so angry he’s shaking now. It’s one thing to have sex with someone else, but it’s another to put Eddie’s health at risk without so much as a heads up. “It really is! Were you fucking them bare, too?” He puts on a TV commercial voice. “‘The full cumslut experience, now including AIDS. Share it with your partner today!’”

Steve has the nerve to look hurt that Eddie would question him. “We used condoms. You’re the only one I didn’t…”

Boy, they sure didn’t. Steve wanted to be filled with everything Eddie had, in whatever hole was available. Many a lazy evening was spent with Eddie idly pushing his come back into Steve’s ass or licking it out of his mouth or painting it across his face. The mere thought of Steve doing that with someone else infuriated him. He wanted to make him forget that anyone but Eddie had ever touched him, to show him that Eddie had everything he needed.

“Well, I guess the whore isn’t as stupid as he looks,” Eddie spits.

“I was stupid enough to think you liked me!” Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “Stupid enough to trust you, stupid enough to start falling for you… Stupid enough to fuck someone else just to make sure I wasn’t imagining how good it was with you.” He closes his eyes and sniffs. “I guess I won’t have to worry about any of that now.”

Eddie freezes. Rarely does life present you with a blinking neon sign telling you “YOU FUCKED UP,” but here is one if he’s ever seen it. Regret floods him until he feels like he’s drowning in it. What can he even say to try to salvage this? He clears his throat tentatively, trying to shift some of the heaviness in his chest. “I didn’t mean… You don’t… Steve.” So much for his improv talents.

The house is silent for a moment before Steve glances back up at Eddie. His face is wet, his eyes red and puffy. Then he returns his gaze to the floor and calmly says, “I think you should go home.”

“Steve–”

“Please don’t call me again.” Steve hugs his arms around himself. “You can see yourself out.” He squeezes past Eddie to go upstairs.

Eddie watches him ascend, then turn the corner and disappear out of view. His brain feels like it’s full of static as he picks up his shoes and his jacket, putting neither of them on before going back outside. The snow may have stopped, but the ground is still cold and wet, soaking Eddie’s socks. He doesn’t really feel it.

He doesn’t really feel anything right now but regret.

[softtdaisy]

It’s the beginning of the month so here comes my fic recs. I’ve read a lot of amazing fics this month, thanks again to all the wonderful writers over here who take the time to write and make my day so much better (yes, even those who made me cry). As always, remember to reblog and/or comment your favorite fic, author needs support 💜

SUMMER RECS | SEPTEMBER RECS  | OCTOBER RECS | NOVEMBER RECS | DECEMBER RECS | JANUARY RECS

* indicates work that contains nsfw contents

CHARLES LECLERC

Names of love by @kiwisa​

winter training means getting in that cardio by @whorekneecentral *

Pillow talk by @justspreadmythighs​

Someday & old times by @scooterari​

My forever Valentine by @vividwritinglove​

The curse & its part 2 by @coolbanana44​

Feel by @estevries​

Ruin the friendship by @monzamash​ *

Something by @leclsrc​

Done by @silverstonesainz​

Love letters by @absolutelynotmate​

PETER PARKER

Touch by @forever-rogue​

Memories of you by @stilesmieczyslaw​

Snowed in by @huffle-pissed​

Flowers and chocolate for Valentine’s day by @keeryshouse​

Stained by @forourmoons​

Doughnuts by @forourmoons​

Forever in your eyes by @writingfics-passingtime​

Prototypes by @warrenwrites​

STEVE HARRINGTON

Be mine by @king-keery​ *

invisible string by @supernovafics​

To be alone together by @katsu28​

Montana Motel by @rustedhearts​ *

Quiet my fears (with the touch of your hands) by @fiveraccoonsinatrenchcoat​

Maroon by @forevermoreharrington​ *

Am I your favorite? by @hollandsangel​

Keep it quiet for me by @my-my-only-angel​ *

SPENCER REID

Soft hugs by @softdoctorreid​

Finding out about JJ’’s confession by @swtnrcmnt​

Visitors list by @loml-maybank​

Angel by @masivechaos​

This one by @mmoonpies​

Geniuses by @talaok​

Easy fix by @judeswhore​

[4theitgirls]

the workout channels i am currently subscribed to

♡ april han - great for shorter workouts, walking workouts, and full body workouts

♡ arianna elizabeth - yoga & pilates, faith based for my fellow Christian friends <3

♡ b-life - japanese yoga channel

♡ bailey brown - pilates

♡ BIGSIS & BigSis Workout - my personal favorite, includes all kinds of workouts!

♡ boho beautiful yoga - yoga & pilates

♡ breathe and flow - yoga

♡ callie jardine gualy - pilates, another faith based channel!

♡ celamarr - mainly strength based workouts, i love her glute workouts!

♡ charlie follows - yoga, my current favorite yoga instructor!

♡ daisy keech - shorter workouts, i love her core and glute workouts

♡ daniela suarez - stretching

♡ dansique fitness - pilates & ballet style workouts

♡ eleni fit - another fav of mine, posts all kinds of workouts like cardio, pilates, stretching, and some strength training

♡ emi wong - all types of workouts, great for shorter workouts but she does have quite a few 30-45+ minute long videos!

♡ eylem abaci - great for shorter workouts!

♡ feel good with olya - pilates

♡ fitness__kaykay - great for cardio & strength training, her workouts are INTENSE

♡ five park yoga w/ erin sampson - yoga

♡ gayatri yoga - yoga & pilates workouts, includes a lot of longer videos

♡ growingannanas - so many different routines and types of workouts! i adore her

♡ growwithjo - lots of different types and lengths of cardio workouts. i love love love her walking workouts, they will never fail to give you a boost

♡ hailey c. - mainly short workouts and stretches

♡ heather robertson - mainly strength training, but she has so many workouts and the vast majority are 30+ minutes long

♡ hong rabbit - pilates

♡ jessica richburg - yoga

♡ juice & toya - mainly strength training

♡ julia.reppel - mobility routines & stretches with some strength mixed in

♡ kaila wen - short pilates workouts

♡ lena snow - doesn’t really post anymore unfortunately but i love her longer workouts

♡ lidia mera - pilates

♡ livaligned pilates - pilates

♡ luisa giuliet - short strength training

♡ madelaine rascan - strength training

♡ madeleine abeid - pilates

♡ madfit - so many types of workouts, with and without equipment!

♡ mady morrison - yoga & stretching

♡ mary braun - shorter workouts

♡ MIZI - all different types of workouts, mainly cardio/full body

♡ move with nicole - pilates

♡ moving mango pilates - pilates

♡ nathalie shanti - pilates & some yoga

♡ nina dapper - shorter pilates style workouts

♡ nobadaddiction - so many different workouts with different lengths, i mainly do their hiit workouts

♡ olivia lawson - many metabolic/walking cardio workouts, includes many with weights!

♡ oppserve - many shorter workouts and stretches

♡ pilatesbodyraven - pilates

♡ ps fit - previously popsugar, so many different workouts!

♡ raminara - yoga & pilates

♡ rachel’s fit pilates - wall pilates

♡ sanne vloet - pilates

♡ shirlyn kim - many shorter workouts, including cardio and pilates

♡ squatcouple - mostly strength training

♡ sunfit - yoga/pilates

♡ the bare female - yoga

♡ the glow method - yoga & pilates

♡ the yoga ranger studio - yin & restorative yoga

♡ train with gainsbybrains - many <20 minute strength training, no equipment workouts

♡ travis elliot - yoga

♡ vicky justiz - shorter strength training & pilates workouts with some stretching

♡ yisoo fit - <30 min workouts & stretching

♡ yoga song - hayeon - yoga & shorter workouts

♡ yoga with adrienne - yoga

♡ yoga with bird - yoga

♡ yoga with kassandra - yoga

♡ yoga with kate amber - yoga

♡ yoga with tim - yoga

♡ bbangneu - many long, full body workouts! (a new fav)

[preciouslandmermaid]

cold heart, warm hands (simon “ghost” riley x f!reader) - part 2/2 

Hi, welcome to part two. My name’s blue. I’ll be your author this evening. Please stay seated for the entire presentation. Thank you. (and yes, I know ~canon~ says Ghost changes his mask at the end of the campaign but I don’t care!!! I like how much you can see his eyes! I like the paint/fabric peeling!)

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x F!Reader!Assassin  

Rating: Mature/Explicit (18+)

Fic warnings: Smut! (p in v, unprotected sex, vaginal fingering, m!oral receiving, switch!ghost b/c i wanted to make him whiiimper, slight choking kink/some roughness, knife kink if u squint, lots of eye contact) sparring and knives as a form of foreplay, a smidge of jealous!ghost with a sprinkle of yearning. no beta/barely edited, i wrote this in 3 days.

No use of Y/N. Reader is described as muscular/toned with scars from active combat/torture, though no other descriptors are used. 

Summary: It’s been three months since Ghost handed you off at the border to your American contacts. Never in his wildest dreams did he think he’d see you again. And then you waltz into the barracks, smiling, with Price announcing you’re joining the task force. 

READ ON AO3 || 🔪🔪🔪

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three Months Later…

He’s thought about his time with you on the fringes of St. Petersburg more than he cares to admit. The extraction took longer than planned after your insane plan to crash the snowmobile and fake your death. Or at least the death of the woman you were pretending to be for the past three years. He recalls your face awash in flickering, orange light and gripping that shiny, golden necklace. He doesn’t know its meaning. You left it behind intentionally. And your tone darkened whenever you mentioned Petrovich–your target, your mark, the man who left at least one scar (that he knew about) on your firm, muscled body. 

When you left, your smile was radiant and grateful. The details of whatever you endured undercover he could only assume. He imagines it meant something to destroy your persona before leaving. A sense of closure, perhaps? Or a sense of control? He doesn’t know. And he’ll never ask. He thinks you’d roll your eyes at him if he did. He remembers the color of your eyes. And surprises himself with the memory of your laughter. 

So, yeah. He thinks of you. Often. He does his best to push it to the sidelines.

He’s no good to anyone acting like a fool, acting like you were ever going to cross paths again. He had his task force. And you worked for intelligence agencies, focusing on espionage and covert operations. Your worlds weren’t going to intersect. You’re a spy for Christ’s sake. He’s sure the CIA is eager to drop you into your next life, your next persona, your next target. Ghost numbly shakes his head to himself and joins the others. 

They’re all gathered in the training room to run drills. Ghost runs it. He puts them through the usual bout. There’s cardio, strength, and seeing how fast they can dismantle and rebuild their weapons. It’s going swimmingly until Price enters. Not because he says anything, or stops them, but because of who is following him.

His heart slams into his boots in a freefall. No parachute. No survivors. You smile warmly and make introductions as Price explains you’re the newest recruit (technically you’re on temporary loan for an upcoming mission in Spain). He’s never been gladder to stand outside the circle while his teammates crowd you.

They’re all mooning after you. Pitiful sods. 

Yeah, yeah, you’re fucking fit. You’ve got a nice smile and you’re wearing a white tank that shows off the toned, defined musculature of your arms and shoulders and your collection of scars. But they’ve never huddled next to you in a snowstorm under a snow-packed shelter. They’ve never seen your eyes squint when it was your turn to collect kindling. They don’t know you mutter in your sleep. They don’t know you twirl something (usually your knife) between your hands when you’re thinking with your eyes dewy and distant. He doubts they know about your past and how your codename “volchitsa” - or she-wolf - was given because of your inclination to bite people during training. 

“Sparring?” Your voice perks up. “I’m afraid I’d wipe the floor with you.” You settle your hand on your hip and ooze with easy, warm confidence. Whatever ghosts and shackles that weighed you down in Russia are gone.

Gaz grins. “I’ll take that bet.”

You stretch your arms over your head and Ghost notices a slip of your exposed midriff.

You ask Price, “is arrogance a prerequisite for the task force?” 

Ghost averts his gaze from you, but he can feel your attention on him. He suspects you remember everything from the evac mission as he does. His stomach clenches at the memory of you bathed in firelight, your lips parted and your gaze traveling like an electric livewire across his skin. Fucking hell. He can’t be bothered with this.

“I’ll go easy on you.” Gaz offers before stepping onto the mat. You laugh. It’s the same laugh that has echoed inside his dreams for the past ninety days (not that he’s counting).

You step onto the squishy training mat. Ghost considers leaving for a half-second, but then you slide into a fighting stance, and he’s rooted to his spot. He needs to see how this plays out.

“Aye, give ‘em hell, lass.” Soap says, crossing his arms and grinning.

 ~~~~~~~

 The sweat dripping from your forehead burns your eyes. Your muscles throb with a familiar, tingling strenuous pain. Gaz is a formidable opponent. He’s got stamina, but you’re faster. You’ve managed to either dodge or misdirect his offensive attacks. He hasn’t attempted to go on the defense. And that’s his biggest mistake. One that you intend to make him pay for. You dance backward away from his strike, grinning, and use his barreling momentum against him as your leg collides with a sharp crack along his jaw. Gaz stumbles sideways, cursing, and cradling his mouth.

“First blood.” You announce after noticing his split lip. “I win?”

“Jesus.” He says emphatically to Price, “where’d you find this one?”

“They found me as a baby in a cardboard box outside the CIA.” You joke. 

Price chuckles low in his chest, “not far off from the truth.”

“You alright?” You peer at the rosy smudge of blood on his lower lip, “I might have a tissue.” You dig into the pockets of your baggy beige pants.

He brushes you off. “S’alright.”

“Let’s wrap it up,” Price orders. “Debrief in ten minutes.” 

There’s a chorus of ‘Yes, sirs’ that you forget to join. You’re not accustomed to the military style of the task force. You’re not familiar with working in a unit. Being a team. Hell, you’ve hardly given yourself time to digest the fact that Ghost, aka Simon Riley, is your superior. He’s the lieutenant. He’s also the man who rescued you from a frozen lake and then stripped you bare to prevent severe hypothermia. You can compartmentalize all of it. You have done so for the past three months. You twist the bottom hem of your shirt between your fists. But it’ll be different, you think, now that he’s in the same room. He is no longer a memory or a fever-induced dream. He’s real. He’s close enough to touch. 

While approaching, Ghost says, “that was hardly a clean fight, she-wolf.” 

Fuck. You hadn’t realized much you missed the warm and deep droning of his voice, the way it caresses down your spine like a rough, calloused hand. Your pulse flutters in your jaw.

“I wasn’t aware I had to play fair.” You quip. He’s wearing a different mask, a black balaclava with the jaw painted onto the fabric, his eyes visible and surrounded by dark, smudged paint. He never took his mask off when you traveled together. And you never asked him to. You assumed it was for protection, to hide his identity during the mission, but he wore it–even among his teammates. Which meant whatever Riley’s reasons were, they went beyond anonymity. His dark t-shirt stretches across his well-defined chest. If you squint, you think you might be able to count the lines of his abdominal muscles, carving them with your eyes the way someone would carve a cake. Your blood hums with exertion and adrenaline. 

You smile easily. “I’m open to a rematch.”

“I mean no disrespect to Gaz, but he’s not a match for you.”

“That sounded suspiciously like a compliment, Ghost.”

“I’ve been known to give them when they’re deserved.” He cocks his head to the side. His eyes, although darkened by the makeup or paint, are easier to perceive than they were in his original mask. His massive, hulking frame consumes every inch of your perception. His eyes are dark and guarded, but they follow the sweat glistening down your neck and pooling between your collarbones. His gaze snaps up to yours.

“Are you a match then?” You ask your tone breathier than intended. “Or am I to be woefully unchallenged in this task force?”

“I might be.” He replies in a cocky, husky tone that makes your heart flutter like a moth’s wing. You clench and unclench your fists at your sides. You’re talking about sparring, but you’re an expert in subterfuge, adept at reading between the lines, and your training has never led you astray before. Ghosts’ tone and body language scream with weighted and intense physical attraction. You’d bet all the money in your account that Ghost isn’t solely interested in sparring. The mouth can lie. The body cannot.

“We’ve got ten minutes.” You say breezily. 

Ghost scoffs. “You think you can take me down in ten minutes?”

Oh, he’s definitely smiling beneath the mask. You bite your lower lip to stop your grin from spreading Cheshire-cat wide. You remember the church. The cemetery. You saw so little of Ghost in action. You are hungry and eager to see him perform without witnesses, without interruptions, and without the risk of death. 

“I know I can. But, for the sake of our reunion, let’s make it interesting.” You lift your pant leg at the ankle and unsheathe your knife. “First blood wins.” The blade flashes beneath the bright, blue-white fluorescents. Ghost’s brow shifts beneath his mask. You suspect he’s raising an eyebrow at you. 

He says, “don’t get pissy if you lose a finger.”

“I’d love to see you try.” You reply.

You circle around one another like hungry sharks, like lions fighting for their pride, like two koi fish swimming in a pond. You need to take him down in one move. His eyes regard you with a calculated coolness and you suspect his thoughts are similar to your own. There is a real, hefty threat of injury with your naked blades shining below the lamps. You’re trusting him not to slip up and accidentally kill you and he’s trusting you the same. His reach is longer, but he’s not going to make the first move because that would open him for a counterattack. However, time is ticking. You smile to yourself. You assume Ghost is acclimated to fighting soldiers. But you are not a soldier. You flex your fingers on the knife grip and dive into the first attack. Ghost shifts sideways, making himself a smaller target to hit, but you’re not interested in hitting him. Your knife deflects his with a sharp, shrieking sound like nails on a chalkboard. You drop, and your leg strikes outward and sweeps, catching Ghost off-guard. His spine hits the mat, but he rolls immediately onto all fours. He pounces on you. The breath in your lungs whooshes forcefully from your chest. Your heartbeat pounds inside your eardrums. A heavy ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. His offhand snatches your wrist and slams it against the mat. On impact, your shoulder joint pops, but you don’t release your knife from your grip. He holds your knife-hand down. You grin. His weight is crushing you, heavy and hard, pinning you to the mat, your hips pressed together, your legs caged around his waist. Your freehand touches the edge of his mask, Ghost grumbles harshly, and wrenches his face away. It’s what you wanted him to do. His flinch backward has created an opening. You curl your fingers over his knuckles, your arm and elbow trembling and straining as you hold his knife at bay.

He rasps, “playin’ dirty, are we?”

You say, “I just want to win.”

His eyes narrow. “You’ve already lost.”

“Let me up and we’ll see about that.”

He arches his spine forward, forcing your elbow to bend, though you’re still able to keep his knife away from your skin. Ghost looms over you. His chest brushes against yours with every inhale and exhale. Your clothes suddenly feel too tight, too constructive, and there’s a low, pulsing heat blooming between your legs. The nape of your neck tingles with warmth. Ghost pushes your hand–God, he’s strong–and your muscles squeeze with effort. 

His eyes drop from your face to your clavicle. His gaze smolders on your skin. His eyelashes flutter and then his attention lifts to your face.

“Did you mean it?” He asks, “about first blood.”

If it had been anyone else, any other man, or anyone else on the team, this would be the moment where you backed down. But this is Ghost, this is Simon. You trust him. And his check-in is proof that your trust is well-placed. He remembers your scars. 

“I did.” You gasp, breathless. Your grip relaxes until you're merely holding his wrist, feeling his pulse thrum like a wild storm beneath your fingers.

The cold, biting tip of his knife kissed your jaw. A pinprick of blood wells beneath the blade. Your eyes widen, not only because of the sharp, blooming pain but because of something else pressing into your body. At the juncture between your thighs, you feel the swelling, hard length of him. Your parted lips soften into a sly, smug smirk. You shift your hips, a subtle and teasing grind, and his diaphragm jolts against your ribs from his surprised inhale. 

“Cheeky.”

You shrug, “playing dirty, remember?”

He withdraws his knife into the strapped sheath at his hip. But he makes no move to get off you (not that you mind. You’ve been dreaming of how he might feel on top of you ever since you saw him half-naked). Up close, you can count his long eyelashes and observe how his pupils have swallowed the rich, coffee color of his eyes. 

He applies pressure to the tiny wound with his thumb. His eyes hold yours like a lifeline, like driftwood in a storm.

You murmur, “come closer, Ghost.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to give you something.”

“And what’s that?” His voice rumbles all the way to your core. Your thighs tighten around him and your inner walls clench. He’s no fool. He must know the effect he has on you. It mirrors the effect you have on him. You want him buried deep inside you, you want his hands on your body, you want his mouth–if he’ll give it. This job with his task force is temporary. It’s a blip in a string of chaos, a merciful offering from the godforsaken universe, a respite before you return to the agency and become someone else. But here and right now? You are fully and completely yourself. He is sharing your breath, your sweat, smearing your blood into the whorls and spirals of his fingerprint. You want to share this miracle with him. You want to selfishly enjoy the upcoming few months before you’re assigned to another country, another corrupt diplomat, or another unstable regime. You want him. You want Ghost. You want Simon Riley. 

You respond nonchalantly, “a kiss.”

He breaks eye contact to roll his eyes. “You’re trying to get me to remove my mask again, aren’t you?”

You shake your head. “My whole life involved powerful men showing their faces but hiding their true intentions. You hide your face, but I’ve never doubted your honesty.”

“Give it time.” He huffs. There’s a snag in his tone that you pick up on, a thread of self-loathing, and your heart softens like melted wax.

“I want you as you are,” you reply and then whisper, “Simon.” 

He tenses. You feel it on every pressured weight of his body leaning into yours. His eyes roam across your face, seeking dishonesty, but there’s none to find. The words you speak are the truth ripped asunder from your soul. He leans closer and his warm breath fans across your chin, muffled faintly by his mask. Your blood hums, electric and sparkling through your veins, and you instinctively tilt your jaw.

The sound of heavy footsteps carries down the hallway. Ghost springs agile and swift off you and to his feet. You stop the moan in your throat, missing his firm solidness, and the delicious sensation of his cock pressing into your clothed, pulsing cunt. While getting to your feet, you inhale deeply through your nostrils to calm your racing heart. You can feel the tension between you and Ghost like a living, breathing creature. It prowls through your attention span, demanding you to look at his veiny arms or admire the muscled, hard line of his shoulders.

Soap appears in the doorway, “debrief is about to start.” He looks between you and Ghost. You wonder what Soap sees beyond the shiny sweat on your face. Thankfully, he doesn’t make any comments. He offers to show you the way to the debriefing room. Technically, Price already showed you. 

However, you’re restless from your fight with Ghost. Your blood boils with anticipation and desire. And for the sake of your sanity, you smile and agree to follow Soap.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 He watches you go. His jaw is clenched. Nothing ever goes to plan when you’re involved, does it? You strike into his life like a viper, disappear, and then return like a thunderstorm that threatens to tear his house apart. He groans under his breath. You weren’t supposed to get under his skin. He is meant to be unattached, cold, and distant. You aren’t even teammates. You are on a temporary loan from the agency and will return to your proper life once this business in Spain is done. Yet, his resolve crumbled like a cheap biscuit when you muttered his name, breathless and sweet, and the sultry sound went straight to his cock. A fantasy flooded his mind: you, pinned beneath him on the mats, grinding your cunt into his cock until you cum inside your pants. Ghost forcefully pushes the fantasy into a dark cabinet. He can’t focus on the debrief if he’s thinking about the expression you might wear when you orgasm. Focus. He’s a special operative. He’s a killer. He’s got men relying on him. He can’t let himself get distracted. And he can’t let himself get comfortable. Your presence in his life is temporary. 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 Your mission to Spain arrives in sweltering heat and blazing, white sunshine. He tracks your movements through the scope of his sniper. The street below thunders with car horns and civilians chatting, their conversations rise from the sidewalk to his sniper’s perch like a hum of bees. You effortlessly weave through the crowds. 

Your voice croons through his comm, “got your eyes on me, Lt?”

He hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you walked into the barracks two days ago. 

“Affirmative.” 

“Wonderful!” You chirp, “I’ve got eyes on our target.” 

There isn’t a single ounce of nervousness or fear in your voice. He shouldn’t be so impressed by you, but Goddammit–he is. You were betrayed by your contact in Russia, yet you were willing to join the task force, and give your trust to a handful of strangers with a common goal. You played poker with Soap and Price. You laughed with them. And he can’t get your laugh out of his fucking head. He goes to bed at night, hardly dreaming, but your laughter still follows him. You didn’t spar with Gaz, but you showed him the basics of your own moves. Gaz tends to follow you around like a lost puppy. It’s embarrassing. He wants to tell him to get a grip, but he holds his tongue. You’ll be gone soon. 

You never seek him out for a one-on-one conversation. But Ghost gets the impression that you’re waiting for him to make the next move. He adjusts his position. The scope hovers near the curve of your shoulder and is aimed at the heart of the man now sitting across from you. He watches over you less like a guardian angel and more like a 6ft mass of exhaustion and sexual frustration. In a brief moment of respite, you tilt your face toward the warm sunlight, and he notices the edge of your smile in his scope. Your shoulders tremble when you laugh.

“He can’t be that funny.” Ghost mutters to himself and is surprised by his own annoyance.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You’re going to split apart at the seams. The heat and salt of Spain clung to your skin and your body buzzed with the feverish sensation of a job well done. There was something heady and unexplainable that traveled through your nervous system as Ghost watched you while you completed your mission. You can’t eat, you can’t think, and you realize you need to see him. Talk to him. Before your time is wasted like sand slipping through your fingers. Maybe Ghost is rejecting you, or maybe he’s trying to be a gentleman about it, but you won’t know until you have the conversation. 

You disappear from the cafeteria while the others are eating and find your way to Ghosts’ room. Upon arrival, you expected all the operatives would need to share a room for team building or whatever. But that wasn’t the case with the Task Force. You rap your knuckles on the door.

“Hey, Ghost.” 

The door opens a sliver. It’s dark behind him. He’s wearing his mask. Did he put it on before answering the door? Is he brooding in there? Shouldn’t he be celebrating? 

“These are my private quarters, she-wolf.”

Your heart jumps into your throat at the old nickname.

“Ah,” You lean your forearm onto the wall and drop your voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You must be busy reading dirty magazines.” You tease with an easy-going smile. Ghosts’ eyes narrow slightly.

“You should find me if you want to experience the real thing instead of a glossy photoshop with her tits out.” You push away from the wall. His door opens and his hand grabs your arm, pulling you into his room, and he shoves you against the closed door. Instinctively, you lift your knee to block him from crowding your space. 

He rasps, “you trying to play games with me?”      

“No games.” The single desk lamp behind him hums with light. “I’m being rather transparent about what I want.”

“What is it you want then?”

He’s either playing dumb or wants to hear you say it. You decide to indulge him. 

“You.”

You drop your knee, snatch the front of Ghosts’ shirt, and pull him toward you. You press your lips firmly against the painted teeth of his mask. The fabric is rough and scratchy along your mouth, it tastes faintly of salt, and little white flecks of paint and black fibers cling to your lips. Ghost kisses you fiercely, his lips pinching and rolling the mask between your mouths until it grows wet with your joined salvia. His hands squeeze your hips, and your thighs, and then push beneath your thin t-shirt. He glides along your abdomen and your ribs before shoving underneath your sports bra. You whine into his mask. You’ve wanted him to touch you for days. You should’ve come to his room sooner. He kneads your flesh with his rough, large hands, squeezing your breasts and causing your back to arch. Your brain has fizzled and destroyed all coherent thought. There is only sensation and feeling. There is only his hand and the rough play of your mouths kissing against the barrier of his mask.

He breaks away, his chest heaving, “you’re full of bad ideas, did you know that?”

“My ideas have consistently saved our lives.” You reply, boastful.

“Are we countin’ the one where you tried ice fishing?”

“Yes.”

Ghost unfastens the front of your pants, “I’m inclined to disagree.” His fingers are warm and skim the waistband of your underwear. “May I?”

You nod. “Yes, absolutely, yes.” 

You are not ashamed of your eagerness. To you, it’s more than simply sex or pleasure. Ghost - Simon - is someone you’ve trusted with your life on more than one occasion. He didn’t balk at your scars or demand their stories. He met you on equal grounds and few could claim to have your level of skill and talent. And with him, you are yourself. Fully, completely, and effortlessly. You can laugh as loud as you want. You can tease, flirt, and challenge. You can breathe. Your instinct of paranoia doesn’t disappear around him, but it does soften. He’s earned the precious and rare gift of your complete, golden trust. 

He slides his palm down, into your underwear, and cups the front of your sex. Your head thumps into the door and your eyelashes flutter. His index and middle finger run along your folds and coat in your arousal. Ghost lets out a pleased, deep hum from the depths of his chest.

“Should’ve expected you’d be soaked.” He says “, especially after our sparring match.”

The memory of it ignites another wave of pleasure. His weight, his touch, his size, his lethal abilities, the depth of his eyes.

“I wasn’t the only one hot and bothered.” You quip before his fingers rub a circle over your swollen clit. Your hips jerk into his palm.

“Mhm.” He nudges his knee between your legs and forces them wider. His other hand cups your breast, fingertips digging into your side, while his thumb strokes idly across your hardened nipple. The light, teasing touch sends sharp, short shockwaves straight to your core.

“Did you get off?” You ask, genuinely curious, “thinking of me?”

Ghosts’ fingers plunge into your wet cunt. You gasp, feeling the delicious stretch, feeling his rumble of appreciation against your chest. You cling to Ghost with a keening, desperate sound that would embarrass and fluster your neighbors.

“Might’ve.” He replies, his voice dark and husky, like crushing black velvet into your chest. You imagine Ghost in his room, squeezing his cock, thinking of you. Your body quakes. He’s unraveling you. He’s pulling you apart piece by piece. His fingers slicken and deepen, his pace quickening, and your toes curl inside your boots. 

“Oh god, oh god.” You pant, lost in the delirium of pleasure and chasing the rising crest of your orgasm. 

“Name’s Simon, sweetheart, or have you forgotten?” His mask scrapes along your earlobe from where he’s buried his face into the crook of your neck. 

“Is that what you want?” Your nails dig into the corded muscle of his biceps. “Gonna have to - ah, fuck!” Your words are cut off in a whine, and you manage to knock two brain cells together to finish your sentence “- hear you say it. Wanna hear you say it.”

“You tryin’ to give me orders?” 

“I’m trying to come.” You smile briefly. 

His finger crooks and you see stars. “Trying to boss me around as well.”

It’s a small mercy he hasn’t stopped touching you, slick and obscene, his fingers thrusting in and out of your weeping cunt. Your hips erratically chase his touch, and your clothes are restrictive on your skin. You want to touch him, feel his sweat, lose yourself in him. Your walls squeeze around his fingers. 

He orders, “look at me,” and his other hand carefully squeezes around your throat. The pressure is perfect. It’s enough to make your blood pound, but not so harsh that he’s restricting your airflow. 

“Atta girl.” He says when you meet his eyes, your gaze is heavily lidded and lustful. 

“Say my name when you come.”

You gasp. The edge of your orgasm pounds at the apex of your thighs. Your abdomen muscles clench and tightness wounds at the base of your spine. He presses the heel of his palm into your clit, grinding in a small, circular motion, while his fingers shift inside you. Somewhere in the haze of desire, you realize he is kissing the side of your neck through his mask. The tension finally and wonderfully snaps.

“S-Simon!” You cry as your body twitches and your orgasm hits you like a flashbang. It’s disorientating. Your ears start to ring. You blink slowly until the world comes back into focus. 

He speaks into the shell of your ear, “gonna be thinking about this for a while.”

“Oh?” Your frazzled brain and heavy tongue cannot summon any other grace or intelligence to your response. Ghost slowly withdraws his hand from your core. You exhale shakily like a baby fawn testing its legs. He pushes the front of your shirt toward your breasts, and you wordlessly lift your arms (there is some humor in the fact that this is the second time Ghost has undressed you). He peels off your sweaty sports bra and your skin prickles with tiny bumps as it's exposed to the cool air. Ghost is looking at you with pure, dark hunger in his eyes. He could swallow you in the depths of his eyes.

He touches your neck, close to your scarred collarbone, and gently lifts the charm dangling from your necklace. 

“This is new.” He regards it. “What is it? A butterfly?”

“A moth.” You correct him. “It’s a reminder.” 

“For what?” His tone is genuinely curious, and a tad surprised. You swallow. The truth of the necklace is another demonstration of vulnerability, of trust. Yet, offering it to him is as simple as peeling your clothes away. 

You explain, “to go towards the light. ‘Cause moths always go to the light.”

He grumbles softly and releases the charm from his fingertips. “They end up dyin’ most of the time, don’t they?”

“You’re a pessimist, Riley.”

“I’m a realist.” 

Your hands skim along his waist, fingertips dragging teasingly across the hard muscles of his lower stomach and his happy trail tickles the pads of your fingertips when you ghost over it. Your hand dips lower. You lick your lips, and his eyes track the flit of your tongue.

“Sit.” You tell him while palming the front of his pants across the impressive and weighty bulge of his straining, hard cock.

“I prefer to stand.” His thumb runs across your lower lip, pulling down and revealing the line of your gums. “Easier to watch.”

“Bit of a voyeur, are we?” You tease before pulling his thumb into your mouth and suckling softly. You can taste yourself on him. Though, you wish you could see more of his expression beyond his darkening, intense gaze. You release his digit and subdue your moan. His zipper sliding is somehow louder than the blood pounding in your ears. You push his trousers and boxer briefs down and are rewarded with the sight of his cock. Your inner walls twinge.

He yanks his shirt over his head once you kneel before him. He is uniquely beautiful in his lethality and raw protection. He is corded, with tight muscle and pure, chiseled strength. His thighs, his legs, his chest–you feel as if you can sink your teeth into him. You encircle his engorged cock in your palm. And he is girthy and warm in your palm. You tentatively squeeze him, working your hand from the base to tip, and Ghost hisses through his teeth. You drop sweet, open-mouthed kisses across the hardness of his thighs and the line of his hips. You suspect your jaw is going to ache later if you take him into your mouth. But fuck it. Life is short. You want to enjoy every second he gives you. 

You flatten your tongue along his base and swipe upward. You play over him with your tongue and your lips and his cock twitches beneath your ministrations. He is so quiet. His breath shudders. You think you may have enchanted him.

You open your jaw and bring his tip into your mouth. Ghost - trained military operative, excellent at what he does, and feared by his enemies - gasps deeply. The sound is like he touched upon divine revelation. His palm settles on top of your head. He doesn’t pull or grab you. The weight and pressure are simply there. You inch your mouth over him, tongue massaging his pulsing vein, and draw him as deep as you can. Your eyes momentarily roll into the back of your skull. He’s big. There’s no other way to describe him. Your saliva drools out of the corners of your mouth and glistens in stringy ropes when you pull away. You swallow him once more, wrapping his cock around one hand and following the trail of your mouth, your grasp slick and slippery. With his cock inside your mouth, you imagine what he might feel like inside of you. How deep, how good it would feel. 

Your cheeks hollow out. And Ghost whimpers from above. 

Fuck. Your thighs rub together in an attempt to add friction to the building arousal and tension at your core. There is something insanely, deeply erotic about the filthy, sweet noise you just coaxed from his lips. You want him to do it again, and again until it’s all you hear. 

You draw him out of your mouth momentarily, “say my name.” You glide your tongue along the side of him, “when you’re about to come.”

“Fuck me,” growls Ghost.

“Oh.” You smile, your lips tingling. “I’d love to.”

“Think you can take me?”

You moan around his length in a muffled, throaty, “mhm.” 

“Fuckin’ hell.” His hand squeezes the nape of your neck. Your head bobs, drawing him in, letting him hit the deepest part you can handle before pulling away. Your wet fingers twist and squeeze as your pace increases and you manage to get Ghost to whimper again. Through lidded eyes, you see his thighs twitch and his stomach flex. You moan and feel the vibration through your mouth. Ghost mutters a string of filthy, debauched curses. Unable to resist or ignore the building tension, you push your free hand between your legs and rub at your soaked core through your underwear. You peer up at him through your eyelashes. He holds eye contact and roughly proclaims your name.

You suddenly release his cock from your mouth and hand, “Ghost, I want to fuck you.”

He grabs your elbows, pulls you from the floor, and nudges you to lie on his small bed. His large hands grab your hips, fiercely tugging your pants off and your boots thump loudly onto the floor. He prowls over you, his hands on your knees, but you scramble back, and your head lightly hits the wall.

You say, “not like this.”

“How then?” His voice is tight with constrained, desperate desire.

“Lie down.”

To your immediate relief, Ghost does as you ask. You swing your leg over his hips and hold the base of his cock, lining him up at your entrance. Your spine trembles with anticipation. 

“You said you like to watch.” You grin. You sink yourself swiftly onto his waiting cock and Ghost’s neck arches back to reveal the straining shape of his tendons. You can’t read his expression, but his hands communicate more than enough. He kneads your ass and squeezes your hips or thighs.

“There, yes, like that–” You gasp, drawing yourself up and down over him, feeling the wonderful stretch, the wetness that builds on your inner thighs. He lets you keep control, letting you choose the depth, the speed, while his hands greedily roam the expanse of your skin and tenderly trace the outlines of your scars. There is not a single inch of your skin that Ghost hasn’t touched. 

“Fuck, fuck, you’re so good. You feel so good.” You whine quietly, cognizant that the others could return from dinner at any moment. Your hands splayed across his muscled chest like two perfect stars. His thumb finds your clit and rubs in tandem with your thrusts. The world goes hazy, blurred, and perfect. Everything melts beyond you and Ghost and the smooth joining of your bodies.

Ghost says, “Look at me, sweetheart.”

It’s a struggle to open your eyes with the onslaught of sensation. His cock is buried inside you, rubbing against your walls, and his hand is playing with your clit while the other clutches your ass. If you open your eyes, you’ll shatter. You’ll lose yourself. You’ll fracture into a thousand tiny stars and be remade in the depths of the cosmos. 

“Can’t.” You choke out.

“You can.” His voice is breathless, panting, and your ego swells with pride. You can make Simon whimper. You can make him breathless. How many others could claim that same honor? Very few if you had to guess. You pry your eyes open with sheer willpower. Ghost is staring at you through the darkened paint. He watches you with hunger, with admiration, with lust, respect, and perhaps–even–a touch of possessiveness. Ghost lifts his knees, planting his feet, and thrusts into you. You cover your mouth to muffle your sudden, bitten-off cry. You squeeze your fingers into your cheek and feel the ridges of your teeth. Your walls flutter around him, trying to pull him deeper, and your bodies shine with sweat. 

“F-fuck, fuck, you’re gonna make me come.” You admit hurriedly. His cock pistons in and out of you, drawing stars at the forefront of your vision, and you clamp your hand over your mouth again.

“Keep lookin’ at me, she-wolf. I want to watch. I want to watch you come.” His gravelly voice tears any stubborn resolve to ribbons.

You hold onto his gaze for several more strokes, his fingers moving in firm concentric patterns across your clit, and then your orgasm takes hold. Your eyes squeeze shut, your body spasms, and you toss your head back in wanton and wild abandon. Ghost fucks you through it. His hands are on your waist. His cock is drenched by your arousal. Your body goes limp, and you feel akin to a ragdoll as Ghost rolls you over and pins you to the mattress.

“Fuck.” He rasps, bottoming out, and your hands grip the sheets and your legs twitch and kick wildly. “It’s like you were made for me.” 

He rocks into you, deep and slow, savoring every inch with low, warm grunts. Your over-sensitive nerves pulse under his touch. Yet, despite the inevitable soreness, you buck your hips into his and groan. You want to remember this on a tactile level. You want to walk sideways for the next three days because he’s ruined you. You reach up, toward his face, and Ghost does not flinch away. Your chest swells with some unidentifiable emotion. You lightly grip his neck and sense his rapid pulse beneath his jawline. You apply soft, constant pressure to his throat. His chest rumbles with enjoyment and low, deep praise. 

“I’m not your grandma’s teacup, Simon.” You tease.

“I rather like that about you.” 

“Oh, you like me?” 

He mutters, “I like you screaming.”

Ghost spreads your thighs wide. Your hip flares at the awkward, yet firm pressure of this angle. But then Ghost is moving again–not slow and deep anymore–but fast, and pounding, and your chest hiccups with lost breath.

He huffs, driving into you all his wiry, solid strength, his cock slamming into your cunt with ruthless efficiency. He maneuvers your legs to perch upon his broad shoulders. Your brain shuts off. You turn into a blubbering, gasping mess of clenched fists and quivering muscles. Ghost watches you, staring into the depths of your eyes, drinking in every single sound you make, every expression, everything. The sound of your skin slapping together fills the room.

You press your lips together, breathing hard and rapidly through your nostrils, trying your damnedest to not scream at the top of your lungs. The absolute last interruption you need is the rest of the task force barreling into the room. Your cunt squeezes him. Another orgasm rises from the root of your spine like a phoenix. Your clit throbs with oversensitivity. You can’t come again, can you? will you? You grab Simons’ wrists for the sake of an anchor. He is panting your name over and over again under his breath. 

You keen, “fuck, Simon - ah - fuck.”

“That’s my girl,” He praises, voice scraping like sandpaper against every dark chamber of your heart, “you can come for me one more time.” 

His hand slaps sharply against the swell of your ass. It is a heady combination of his timbre, his words, and the sight of him thrusting, his mask damp and the painted jawbone stark and shifting in the dim light. And you come. You trap your scream behind both hands, pressed to your mouth, and salty tears blur your vision as you gush and convulse around him. Your blood roars, a wild lion in your ears, and your inner walls flutter and pulse with the aftershock. Above the din, you faintly hear Ghost release a restrained and reverberating groan. You watch with fascination as his lower abdominals tense up. His cock slips wetly out of your throbbing, sore folds. He grips his fist around his cock, sliding easily and squeezing, before his cum spurts onto the bedsheets and smears onto your inner thigh. His shoulders quake and his breath hitch into a soft, elongated moan. The paint around his eyes is smudged and rivulets of his sweat have revealed parts of his face like glimpses of the sky through fluffy clouds. 

His massive, sweaty form drapes over your body, arms caged around you, face tucked near your neck. He’s your very own weighted blanket with a pulse. And his heart hammers into your chest. Neither of you says anything. Your fingers lazily trail along his sides, catching ridges of his scars, gliding across his muscles and the swooping curve of his ribs. You sigh, content, exhaustion, and satisfaction tug your eyelids.

“I’m never going to be able to spar with you again.” You announce.

Simon chuckles. The sound vibrates against your chest and travels like thunder across your skin. It feels like a gift. His thumb is stroking one of your scars, the one near your hip, in a surprisingly tender gesture. It’s as if he doesn’t want to stop touching you. 

He says, “I like this better than sparring.”

You slide your hands along his chest, savoring how his muscles ripple, and your hands wrap around his strong neck. His pulse pounds beneath your palms and fingers. You watch his eyes. They flutter and darken as you apply light pressure. You want to kiss him. You lean upward. 

“Wait,” says Simon.

His thumb wiggles under the edge of his mask. Your heart gallops, breath seized in your lungs–is he really going to show his face? You don’t try to hide your awe-struck expression. Simon tugs the mask toward his nose, enough to reveal his mouth and chin, but no further. His lips are full and chapped, dark-blonde stubble shadows across his chin and jaw. 

He drops his mouth onto yours. You groan breathlessly into him. He sucks your lower lip between his, nibbling softly, and you might just drown in the focused intensity of his kiss. You push your tongue into his warm mouth, claiming, seeking, your kiss desperate and filthy and smearing saliva across your chin and upper lip. Your fingers twist the hair at the nape of his neck, worshiping the short, soft strands, and idly wondering about their color. He is an enigma, but he has given you more than you ever expected–more than you deserved. 

Your mind will replay this moment a thousand times in the days to come. Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley, a sweaty and whimpering mess, panting, repeating your name like it’s his prayer to salvation. You wish you could find the courage to explain how he makes you feel. The safety, the belonging, the respect, and admiration. You told a white lie earlier. Your necklace charm is a ‘Death’s Head Moth,’ and the specific creature has a vaguely human skull-shaped pattern on the thorax. The charm is your own private, secret tie to him. A delicate skull motif to mirror his mask. A reminder of your time together and your time apart. 

His mask presses and scratches roughly against your cheek and nose. You don’t mind. You whimper, suckling his tongue, a distant far-off voice that doesn’t sound like your own begs for “More, please.”

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~

At your honeyed little plea, Ghost gives all he can. He kisses you, though he logically knows it’s a piss-poor idea to deepen your connection, to give you what you want so willingly and without consequence. His hands firmly hold your hips, travel greedily along your firm thighs, and cradle your jaw in a possessive, squeezing grip. He doesn’t want to let you go. This is the exact reason why he shouldn’t have gotten close to you. 

You writhe below him. Fuck it. He pins you deeper into the mattress, appreciating how your mouth opens for him, and the needy little sounds that he pulls from your throat. You are muscled, scarred, and firm but beneath his hands, you are soft and pliant, and you mold into his touch like you were built for him. He isn’t afraid of touching you, isn’t afraid that he might break you, or that you might become terrified of him. He’s read your file. He knows you’ve got plenty of demons in your own closet. You gasp into his mouth and latch your teeth around his lower lip. A burning sensation travels down his chest, straight to his gut, and reminds him of fine bourbon. His lips travel across your jaw in tiny, brief kisses, his stubble tickling your sensitive skin. His teeth and tongue find your pulse, suckling your skin between them, making your spine arch and your thighs clamp around his hips. He doesn’t leave a mark despite his desire to do so. A mark will lead to questions. You don’t need to endure any nosiness or gossip from his teammates.

Ghost sighs, drawing his mouth regretfully away, and rests his forehead against yours. Your eyes are glassy, face damp from tears and sweat, and his pride combusts like the fucking sun. He did that. He put that dazed, fucked-out expression on your face. How the hell is he going to cope with you walking around the barracks? His soft cock twitches between his legs.

“Have they given you a title yet?” He asks. 

You shake your head. He suspects the others will grant you a nickname or codename soon (unless you come up with one on your own).

“Hm.” He presses his lips together. Your eyes drop to his mouth, not lustfully, but in appreciation and wonder as if you’re memorizing the shape of his lips. Your thumb reverently slides along the thin scar that travels over his upper lip. 

He says, “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

A spark of light enters your eyes, and your smile cuts a fresh laceration onto his cold heart.

“I will veto any suggestion you come up with.” You say with that damned cheeky smile of yours. He thinks that smile is going to be burned onto his retinas. He thinks it’ll be the last thing he sees before a bullet or blade finally manages to meet his heart. His laugh is low and rumbling, and scratchy inside his throat from disuse. Your eyes widen. You glow from within. Ghost covers his lips over yours, smothering your smile, trying to ignore how you pull his heartstrings taught and threaten to snap them. He can feel your exhaustion in your kiss, the sloppy roll of your lips, and the lazy swirl of your tongue. He wants to applaud your stamina, to reward it, but the best reward would be rest. No one will disturb you here. No one will harm you, either. You are safe.

He rolls off your body and tugs his mask back down before propping his head up with his hand to watch you. This is familiar. He watched over you dozens of times when you escaped St. Petersburg. You turn your face, and the tip of your nose is pressed into his collarbone. You inhale deeply and slowly. Your necklace rests in the valley between your breasts and the little charm glows faintly.

“Lux.” He murmurs. 

“Hm?” Your response is from somewhere deep in your chest, your tone sleepy and subdued. 

“My suggestion for your codename.” He explains. 

It’s the Latin term for ‘light.’ He’s not sure why you seek him out if you've always meant to ‘find the light.’ But he decides not to question it. Maybe this moment is his calm before the shitstorm. The world is offering him one final, precious gift before you’re ripped away. He traces an almost fatal scar near your heart. He shouldn’t care about who will watch over you once you leave the task force. He does, though. It would be messy, complicated, and risky if you stayed, but a selfish and smothered part of him wishes you could. 

You grumble, “I suppose that one isn’t too terrible.”

“My next suggestion is PIMA.”

“Pima?” One of your eyes squinted open.

“Pain in my arse.”

You laugh loudly, your belly trembling beneath his palm, and Ghost shushes you. He doesn’t need his teammates asking questions about why they heard you in his quarters. You were quiet when he fucked you, but somehow–sharing his bed, telling jokes–it feels like a deeper sense of intimacy. It feels sacred and secret. In his eyes, you don’t follow the light. You are the light. And he’s going to blind himself like a tragic Greek hero, going to melt his own wings like Icarus flying too close to the sun. He’s already doomed, already cursed, so he might as well enjoy the ride. He draws his blanket over your naked bodies and pillows his head on his arm.

“I’ll smuggle you out later,” says Ghost.

You roll over, half-asleep, and curl into his warmth. He prepares himself for the inevitable pain of your departure. He watches the steady rise and fall of your deep breath. He traces the curves and angles of your body with his gaze. He commits the minuscule and remarkable pieces to memory. The shell of your ear that holds his whispered voice. The lush shape of your mouth that murmurs his name. The crescent moon of your nails that dig into his skin. The bumpy ridges and knobs of your knuckles, your elbows, your spine. He doesn’t sleep. He can’t. He lightly strokes his fingers down the middle of your back and hardens his heart. 

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Two Years Later…

 You scramble through the city with smoke and sand scratching your lungs. The ground beneath your feet trembles and a shrill whistle cut through the air. The dusky air tastes of dust and gunfire and acrid terror. Your pistol is gripped tightly in your hand, your ammunition is low, and your left arm is drenched in blood. A rush of civilians surge past you like a school of fish fleeing a shark, they bleat like sheep, and they see your gun and your blood and give you a wide berth.

A swirl of white spots dances in front of your vision. A helicopter whirls loudly above and kicks up another storm of loose trash and sand. You stubbornly keep moving. Another whistle, another vibration at your feet, and you collapse behind the cover of a dilapidated market stall. The hours of daylight are slipping through your fingers. 

You should’ve gotten out sooner. But there’s no time for regret in this line of work. You can only roll with the tide, keep your head above water, tread the storm and pray you aren’t tossed against the sharp rocks.

After checking if it's clear, you run down an adjoining alleyway, and your heart pounds in time with your feet on the pavement. A chorus of gunfire bellows from behind you like an angry, destructive beast. You flatten against a building corner and peer around the edge. Your lungs freeze. A small retinue of soldiers is moving down the street. You swallow. You taste ash, smoke, and blood. Your fingers flex on your pistol. They’re carrying heavy artillery, equipped in tactical gear, though they’re too far away to ascertain if they’re friendly or not. You can’t risk it. You’ll need to sneak past them. 

You lean back against the wall. A forearm suddenly slams into your throat and rips the breath from your lungs. You panic for a fraction of a second, body tensing, ready to fight, but then you recognize those warm, toffee eyes surrounded by dark paint and the chipping, paint-flecked skull mask. Ghost's chest heaves with labored breath and his eyes study your face like a starved man before a buffet. You lick your dry, chapped lips as a sense of relief floods you. If Ghost is here, then there’s a good chance that the soldiers are friendly, and you can extract yourself from the warzone.

You grab his wrist, “steady on, Ghost.” You say, repeating the first words he ever spoke to you. His eyes drop from your face to your neck, where your moth-charm necklace intimately rests in your bosom. He notices your wounded arm and a droplet of blood falls from your middle fingertip.

“You should’ve evacuated with the rest of the civs.” He lessens his pressure on your throat, “a helicopter is 2 klicks east of here.”

You nod. “Got it.”

“Avoid the fountain,” you say, “there’s a sniper in one of the buildings. I couldn’t get to him.” Your eyes flick to your shoulder. Either the sniper isn’t very good or you’re very lucky, but you have zero intentions of returning to that section of the city. You will not try to play hero or act beyond your skill set. Ghost relays the intel through his communication device and takes a step backward.

“Get out of here, Lux!” He admonishes. A crescent sickle-shaped moon rises slowly from the twilight blue horizon. There is no time for reunions, farewells, or good luck. You spare Ghost a brief, ash-tinged smile and follow the light, toward the moon, and toward your rescue.

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 You stare at the bland, white tile of the infirmary ceiling. Your left arm is wrapped and pinned to your chest in a sling. The air still smells like smoke, and blood, with an undercurrent of a stringent alcohol antiseptic. You close your eyes. The world fades to a muted, muddled gray. When you open them again, the room is dark, and there is a hulking black shape sitting in the chair beside you. 

Your voice is dry and cracked, “you again?” You can’t believe he’s here. He came to visit. What did that mean? 

“You ought to be sleeping.”

You roll your eyes. “I literally just was.” 

Your fingers twitch on the blankets. You wish you could reach out, touch him, and confirm his realness and solidness. Ghost fills a paper cup with water and offers it to you. You fight the urge to guzzle it down and sip it slowly. This isn’t your first time in an infirmary bed and it won’t be your last. You feel Ghosts’ eyes on you. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” You ask while crushing the paper cup in your palm.

“You should be dead.” He observes.

You shrug and bite back your wince. “I’ve heard that before.”

The silence stretches. Ghost doesn’t even fidget in his seat. You stare at him in the blue-black darkness and wait for the mirage to vanish. You recall rejecting pain medication, but maybe they gave you something that induces hallucinations. Your hand twitches again.

You ask quietly, “Ghost, can you come here?”

“Why?” He replies, gruff and suspicious. This is either an incredibly accurate and vivid manifestation of your subconscious desire or it’s really, truly him.

“Because I want to see if you’re real.”

He huffs and leans closer. You sit up slowly. Your heart thumps wildly. Your trembling hand settles on his cheek, on his mask, and you sigh–a broken, relieved sound. His eyelashes flutter. You have dreamed of him, thousands upon thousands of times. But your dreams are mere shadows, trickster illusions, a paltry and pathetic excuse in comparison. 

“We can’t keep running into each other like this.” Your smile wobbles at the edges. His hands are clenched into fists on his lap.

“Got any mad ideas then?” asks Ghost.

“Not this time.” You laugh weakly and the sound rattles inside your ribcage.

He sighs. “Pity.”

“You never said goodbye.” You say unexpectedly, “when I left the task force.” Everyone else did. They shook your hand or clapped you warmly on the shoulder. You kept foolishly hoping he’d show up at the last second for a private farewell. Your thumb caresses the painted molar teeth on his mask. When Ghost doesn’t reply, you release a burdensome sigh and drop your hand away from his face.

He catches your wrist before it hits the bed.

“You don’t get goodbyes in this line of work.” His fingertips press firmly into your pulse point. His eyes are tired and hollow when he holds your gaze. He’s right. There are no farewells, no funerals, no mourners. You’ve come to terms with this. When you meet your eventual end, you’ll become a classified and closed document in the file cabinet. Or maybe they’ll burn your record. There are no happy endings. There is no quiet, civilian life for you. You are a honed weapon. You serve a purpose. Your time with Simon, brief, beautiful, and bright, is something you’ll cherish until your final breath.

“Well, then… it sounds like this is my last chance to say it…” A hot, prickly sensation tickles the back of your throat.

“Simon Riley…” You say with some difficulty, “goodbye.”

He bows his head, breaking eye contact and obscuring himself, but you feel his fingers tighten around your wrist. He brings your joined hands toward him. His lips, covered by his skeletal smile, press into your knuckles. Your nostrils flare in a shuddering, warbly inhale. Death is easy, you think. It’s quick. It’s the goodbyes that are difficult. Everything unsaid weighs around your neck and wraps shackles and chains around your heart. You hoped you’d feel better with this closure. But you don’t. 

His chair squeaks when he rises. You turn your face away and stare at an empty spot on the freckled and shiny green-gray linoleum. You blink back your surprised tears and attribute them to a combination of exhaustion and receding adrenaline. 

Simon’s gloved fingertips cup your jaw, and he guides your face to look up at him. The pale moonlight glowing through the window and the various neon-green flashes of medical equipment paint his mask in an otherworldly hue. His eyes are shadowed and fathomless and dark. They bore into you and erode every defense you’ve crafted.

His low, rough, and accented burr replies in a tender; “Goodbye,” he finishes the farewell with your name. He leaves the room with no evidence of his arrival or time shared with you. A ghost ‘till the very end. You watch the door until a reddish dawn creep through the slates in the window shade and you’re pulled to sleep. 

You dream of ghosts, of warm and calloused hands, and a voice that pours like smooth whiskey through your veins. 

( Part 3 )

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

(tag list:  @anonymousmay22 //   @urisu //  @sodbos //  @confuseddipshit ) sorry if i missed anyone who wanted to be tagged LOL 

[alexdelray1]

Mizu angst(idm if you write angst or have rules about it- I couldn't find anything on your blog so I'm so sorry if I missed anything and you don't wanna do this, that's totally fine)

Reader patches Mizu up, and they become attached and feelings ensue... However Mizu leaves, claiming it's for readers own good.

Not even a day later, Mizu heard word of some rogue soldiers attacking readers village. Mizu runs back only to find reader dead or dying

Mizu x Reader. Angst!

Y/L- your lastname.

You have always been in the same village where you were born. Your city wasn't modern or anything, but there were good people there so you loved it for so many good memories. You never even thought about leaving even for a while until one day.

POV:READER.

-Reader, how is the wood? - my mother asked me while I was stacking wood for the stove.

-We collected a lot over the summer, so we'll definitely have enough for many more months. - I replied with a smile and stood up.

-Since we have so much of it, maybe you can go and sell it in the village nearby.- said my mother, going to the stove to warm it up.

-But I don't know where it is.- I replied, crossing my arms.

-There are signs, and your father also went there once and got lost, but he found the way and you are his firstborn and only daughter, so I'm sure you will guess the way. - my mother urged me.

-Okay, but if I get lost, don't bury me, just burn me and throw my ashes into the water. - I said and grabbed a large straw basket. I started putting wood into it.

-You certainly are, my little suicidal woman, you don't have a husband yet and you want to kill yourself. Such things come to mind more after marriage, my mother commented and started helping me.

-Don't even remind me about it, I said. When we finished putting the wood into the basket, I put it on my back and walked to the door to the yard.

-Bye, mom. See you later. - I mumbled and left.

I started walking towards the gate. Winter is a very beautiful season, but at the same time a deadly one. So many people die in winter and so many animals die from various causes. Children, most often, stepped on thin ice. They were adults because they were drunk and went out into the yard and couldn't find their homes anymore. Animals because poachers hunt them more often in winter.

I got to the forest and saw the sign, but there was something wrong with it… It had blood on it. Maybe the poachers marked where they would go hunting.

I continued walking deeper into the forest, hoping to find the neighboring village. It was still dark, but it's better to go at night because there are a lot of thieves here during the day.

-Fuck…Oh shit…- I heard a voice behind the tree. My curiosity overcame my fear and I went behind the tree.

I saw a man, probably a samurai, lying in the snow.

-Oh my God! Are you okay?- I asked him and crouched down next to him.

-Run.- he said and lost consciousness. I heard some voices a few meters ahead of us.

-Where's that son of a bitch!?-- He ran away, damn it.-- Let's go that way.-

I picked him up and started running home. Of course, it was difficult with a tree on my back in the snow, but due to adrenaline I didn't feel it for several minutes.

When I reached the gate, only then did I fall into the snow with him. Fortunately, on the back. The guards ran up to us and, knowing me, took us to the doctor in our village.

I was lying on a futon in my underwear and the doctor was examining me.

-Are you sure everything is fine with you?- the doctor asked and I just looked at the man I saved.

-I just did some cardio. You should be more worried about him. - I replied and he looked at the floor.

-I can't treat him. He's not from our village. He can only lie here until he dies or when he wakes up. - said the doctor and handed me my clothes.

-Well, I'll cure him. - I decided and the doctor just sighed. I put on my clothes and stood up.

-Okay, but you have to treat him at home. - he said and I just shook my head. I picked up the man and left the doctor's house with him.

When I got home, my parents were sleeping in their room, so I took it to mine.

I laid him on my futon and started bandaging him. I felt wounds only on his legs and face, so I only saw him there without clothes.

When I finished, I lay down two meters away on the floor and fell asleep.

-Why did you save me? I told you to run. As soon as I opened my eyes, that was the first thing I heard. I noticed that I was now lying on the futon and he was sitting in front of the window on the floor.

-I did what you told me. I only escaped with you. And you saved me yourself. If you hadn't cursed under your breath, I might not have heard you, gone further and been raped by those people who were chasing you. - I defended myself and sat on the futon.

-What if they were the good guys and I was the bad guy? So that you would now be lying on the futon, raped and dead, or just raped. - He stood his ground without looking at me.

-Okay, you're right, but halfway because I would have agreed. - I said and covered my mouth in shame.

-Wait what?- He finally looked at me.

-Nothing. So basically you were one of them and they were one of four. I don't think you would attack them first. - I replied, changing the subject.

-I could be a criminal and they could be people who chase criminals.- he said calmly.

-Well, I can't with this guy.- I muttered under my breath and stood up.

-I have similar feelings towards you too.- he said, miraculously hearing me.

TIMESKIP.

I don't know how it happened, but I found out Mizu and I have feelings for each other. Three weeks have passed and everyone already knows about my partner. My parents are even planning a wedding.

POV:MIZU.

It's been three weeks and she doesn't know I'm a woman. Whenever she wanted to initiate something more, I simply pleased her by telling her that my genitals had been suffering from something lately. I thought we would just live like this until one day.

“So how's your relationship going, Reader?” her mom asked my girlfriend. We had dinner at her parents' house. The atmosphere was even nice and relaxed.

-Very good. We even talked about buying a house somewhere near you. Right, Mizu? - Reader asked me and I nodded.

-Mizu, can I ask you one question? - my future father-in-law asked me.

-Sure, Mr. Y/L.- I replied and put down the chopsticks.

-Why are you wearing those glasses?- he asked me again.

-It's a family heirloom.- I lied not to go further.

-Really? This means that one of your children will have these glasses. - Dad said and started eating. I was speechless. Kids? I didn't even think about it. How can I give her children if I don't even have a penis?

-Dad, it's too early for something like that.-Reader replied and the topic somehow ended.

After dinner we went to bed. I slept in the Reader room on a shared futon and began to wonder. After an hour of thinking, I realized that Reader is worth more.

I got up from the futon and started getting dressed in the middle of the night.

-Mizu? Where are you going? - Reader asked, waking up.

-I'm sorry, Reader, but it'll be better for you.- I said and put on my coat.

Before she could react, I left her room and locked the door, so that she could only leave it when her parents woke up.

I left the house and all I heard was crying and someone kicking the door. It was hard, but I left.

A few hours later, when it was morning, I was sitting there thinking until I heard something.

-Do you know that today around 2 a.m. some bandits attacked the village where they trade in wood? - said one of the inn's guests and I noticed it.

-Seriously? Anyone survived? - asked the second one.

-I don't know. I think most of them were murdered. Definitely that Y/L family. They had connections at all, so they will probably be buried by someone tomorrow. - As soon as I heard this, I ran towards the village.

No matter how cold it was or how many people I hit while running, I didn't give up. I ran to the gate and all I saw were people's bodies. Massacred. I guarantee that most of them will be unrecognizable.

I ran to Reader's house and saw the bodies of her parents in the walkway. I walked further and saw the broken door to Reader's room on the ground. I went in there and saw her lying on the floor.

She was almost naked. The only thing covering her was her kimono, which had been torn and forcibly removed from her. She was stabbed between the breasts. Her eyes were open but dead. I closed them at the same time I closed mine.

"You know, these men sit together somewhere and let them shake and tremble and be terrified. Because one day, somehow, some way, they might meet me."