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godzilla-barbie · 1 month ago

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Coup de Foudre [2]

[Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Military!Reader]

Summary: “So… this everything you thought it would be?” you ask, running a hand through your hair. Simon’s eyes follow the movement, before they focus back on you. “Yes,” he says simply. Your stomach actually flutters at that. “You hardly even know me,” you almost sound like you’re protesting, and something in your brain tells you to shut the hell up. “I know what I like.”

Warnings: Canon level violence, language… simon is a little freak (we love him for it)

Notes: Reader does have a name, but it isn’t used all that often, it’s still written second person though. Also i am aware the french foreign legion is still male only but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ . any feedback or comments are greatly appreciated. i have several chapters already written!

Words: 7k

Active Mission: Called In, Called Out & Called On.

Ghost stalks across the yard, headed straight for the barracks when Soap intercepts him.

“Hey, LT!” the Scot calls out, joining him on his walk. Ghost side eyes him.

“Not now, Johnny,” he says, trying and failing not to sound as impatient as he feels. “Gotta call to make,” he tacks on, to soften the dismal. It doesn’t seem to phase Soap, who continues to trail along beside him blithely.

“You see who just arrived?” He asks, making Ghost look over at him. “Doe’s here. Reckon Cap’n called her in for something, or just passing through?”

Ghost stops in his tracks, and whirls around to look over at the airfield just beyond the training yard.

“Tha’ got your attention,” Soap says smugly. Despite Johnny’s constant nattering about Ghost having a ‘crush’ these past months, somehow the man hadn’t actually managed to put two and two together, even after he’d commented on Ghost suddenly having personal calls to make, or emails to write. His eyes swivel to sideeye Soap, before facing forward again, and this time when he takes off walking, the Scot stays behind.

He does let off a whistle though.

–

You jump the small distance down to the tarmac from the chopper, bag hefted over your shoulder as you make your way to the Air Marshal, checking in with him first, before a young man beside him steps forward and offers you a salute.

“I’ll show you to Captain Price, Ma’am,” he tells you. You nod in reply, but only get a few steps before an all too familiar voice stops the Sergeant in his tracks.

“I’ll take it from here, Sergeant,” Ghost tells the younger man, who quickly straightens and salutes once more.

“Y-yes, Sir, of course Sir,” he says, clearly not having expected Lieutenant Riley right behind him. You can’t help but smile a little as you watch the young man hurry off.

“Still scaring the soldiers, I see,” you say as you step forward into his shadow, letting it blot out the sun so you can look up at him better. It’s just his mask you can see, but his eyes follow your every movement, and wait patiently for him to finish looking you over.

“Always,” comes his reply when he’s at last done, and you smile. “Never said you’d be visiting,” he goes on, jerking his head in the direction you’d be heading, but waits for you to start walking before he moves. You easily fall into step beside one another.

“Call only came in a few hours back,” you tell him breezily, nodding at a few familiar faces as you pass, and the two of you receive several salutes.

“You look good,” his voice is almost imperceptible, only loud enough for you to hear, but you smile anyway, and look up at him.

“I’d return the compliment, but I can’t see you,” you joke, earning a gruff laugh in reply. You notice the sound startles a few of the men nearby, causing them to stare and whisper, and your grin widens. You approach the main building on the edge of the airfield, and he stops at the door, pulling it open but making no move to head inside.

“Mess after? Lunch?” he asks, and you nod, purposefully stepping just a little too close as you pass him, so your shoulder brushes his chest.

“I’d like that,” you say, shooting him one last smile before you disappear inside.

Captain Price all but hugs you when you arrive in his office, and you happily return the affection as much as was professionally appropriate. Laswell joins you shortly after, and aside from a slightly strange look she gives you, you greet each other warmly as well.

You listen intently as they run you over the upcoming planned op, pitching in here and there when you had something to add. The mission involved a group of French Terrorists, and while 141 would be working alongside the French military on this one, Price had figured it wouldn’t hurt having you along too, since you hadn’t been stationed all that far away.

When the meeting is wrapped, Lawell offers to show you to your temporary quarters. You follow her diligently. You’d never actually met the woman before, but you’d heard her voice plenty on the radios. She looks exactly how you’d have expected her to.

“The base doesn’t really have a ‘women’s barracks’,” she tells you with a little chortle as she lifts back the flap on a tent set off to the side of another collection of tents, make shift work spaces and the like. You laugh with her and give a shrug.

“Been plenty of places that don’t, no stress,” you tell her, stepping inside, a little surprise when she follows.

“Tried to make it as nice as possible, given the circumstances and available resources,” she informs you kindly, but before you can even thank her, she straightens up and eyes you sternly.

“You know I can’t pair you and Ghost off together, right?” she asks. For a moment your heart beat pumps in your ears, and your stomach drops to your feet, but you quickly force yourself to calm down. If she’s telling you this, it means she’s not outright denying your involvement in the op.

“I know,” you tell her with a short nod. She continues to eye you.

“Technically you shouldn’t even be here without a stack of paperwork as thick as your arm, and certainly not on this mission…” She goes on, but trails off with a sigh, pinching the space between her brows and shaking her head.

“I’m a professional, so is he. The job comes first… does Price know?” you can’t help but ask the question, sounding very much like a teenager, which you hate. Laswell gives you an amused look, but shakes her head again.

“No, not exactly. Obviously we monitor any outgoing communications, so he knows Ghost’s been contacting someone regularly… I’m the only one nosy enough to have done the digging.”

Her words go some ways to quell your anxiety.

“Kate… if you think it’s best I’m not here, I’d understand,” you tell her truthfully. She stares at you for a few moments, her eyes roaming your features until she at last seems to find whatever it is she’s looking for.

“No,” she says with a sigh, backing up and stepping back toward the entrance of the tent. “I trust you to tell me if you need off,” she tells you, and you nod seriously. “I’ll let you settle in now,” she says, pushing back the tent flap, but pausing before she walks through it. “I’m glad he has someone,” she says. “He hasn’t for a long time.”

With that she leaves you.

You mull over the entire interaction as you stow away your things, and by the time you make it to the mess hall, you’re only slightly disappointed to find Ghost isn’t alone. Your disappointment lasts only so long however, as Soap and Gaz both jump up when they see you, and you find yourself wrapped up in one bear hug after another.

“It’s good to see you two!” you tell them, ruffling Soap’s mohawk, and receiving a cheeky little grin in response.

“Y’joining us on the op Doe?” Soap hurries to ask as you all take a seat, throwing a glance at Simon as you do, finding you don’t need to see his face for his displeasure at the extra company to show clearly.

“Yeah. Captain thought it'd be good to have me along considering the nature of it all,” you inform him.

“How’ve you been?” Gaz asks after a moment, crossing his arms on the table and leaning forward, narrowly missing the tray that Ghost moves away from him, and pushes toward you. You see Soap’s eyes flicker between the food, you, then Ghost, but aside from a sly smile that graces his lips, he says nothing.

For now.

“Yeah, I’ve been alright. Got cleared from medical last week, so it’s nice to be back in the field again,” you say, your gaze suddenly shooting to Ghost, who’s own eyes flash with a sort of annoyance. Damnit. You hadn’t told him yet, your last contact had been before the accident. “Got my nose broken doing business,” you say quickly, avoiding him as you answer the question you can see Soap poised to ask.

“Doesn’t look broken,” Ghost says gruffly. You eye him sharply.

“Good genes,” you say stiffly.

“You at least get the guy who did it?” Gaz asks. You look at him, with a grin.

“I’m here, ain’t I?”

Ghost grunts, and folds his arms over his chest.

“Wasn’t serious anyway,” you say as casually as you can.

“They got close enough, that’s fairly fuckin’ serious,” Ghost replies cooly. You glare at him now.

“And things never go wrong on your missions, I’m sure,” you spit back with enough venom he knows to drop it. His arms unfold and he looks away from you petulantly. “Besides,” you go on, lightening your tone. If you were alone right now, you’d have reached out to lay your hand on his arm, but you aren’t, so you don’t. “I’ll have you lot on this op, I’m sure we’ll avoid any more broken noses.”

Ghost lets out a huff of air, but still doesn’t return his eyes to you. You roll your own and look back to Soap, who is blinking at Ghost, looking mildly confused.

“How’ve you guys been?” you ask as a distraction, going about tucking into the lunch Simon had brought over for you, and listening intently as the boys set about regailing you of their antics the past few months, most of which you’d heard before, some of which you hadn’t. Ghost’s mood even seems to lighten some as he joins in, correcting or adding in missed details.

Eventually Gaz gets called away, and shortly after that Soap slinks off too after an alarm on his phone reminds him of something. Your lunch is long since finished, but you take a sip of your water as you watch Soap leave the mess, before turning back to Simon.

“You ever do that again and I’ll fucking leave you,” you say lightly. He stares at you long and hard.

“I’d like to know next time you get injured,” he replies.

“Fine.”

You sit in silence, just staring at one another.

“Actually, it’s not fine,” you blurt out. Simon sets his hands on the table in front of him and folds them.

“Didn’t think so. Go on,” he says, almost bored. You glare.

“Va te faire foutre, va te faire foutre et grandis,” you say in seething French. Simon blinks at you, then rolls his eyes.

“English, Rem,” he huffs. You refrain from kicking his shins under the table.

“Fuck you, fuck off, and grow the fuck up.”

You stare each other down once you’ve said your piece, but even you know your fire has gone out a little with it said. Simon continues to stare at you even after you drop your gaze and fiddle with your fork. Then out of the corner of your eye, you see him nod.

“Noted.”

“I’m dead serious,” you tell him. He lowers his chin at you.

“I know,” he says, and under the table you feel his boot come to rest against yours. You watch him closely for a moment longer, before letting out a deep exhale, and looking away.

“In other news,” you say, adjusting in your seat, kicking his foot as you do. “Laswell’s been tracking your phone calls and emails,” you tell him. Ghost looks at you, unsurprised.

“S’her job.”

“She knows about us,” you inform him, earning a little more of a reaction in the form of a deep frown.

“Fuck me,” he mutters under his breath, before leaning forward against the table. “What’d she say?”

“That she’s glad you have me, and to let her know if you piss me off and want you disappeared,” you say cheerfully, embellishing the tale. His frown turns into a glare.

“About the fuckin’ mission, Rem. Does Price know?” he asks through gritted teeth. You flash him a smirk and match his posture, leaning forward with your arms braced against the table.

“Said she couldn’t pair us up, but she trusted me to say if I needed to be taken off the op,” you tell him. “Price doesn’t know who, but he knows you’ve been contacting someone, so have fun with that.”

He cusses again under his breath and leans back in his chair, before suddenly looking down at his watch, and sitting up straighter.

“I need to go,” he tells you. You wave a hand.

“We probably shouldn’t be alone together either,” you say, watching as his eyes swivel back to you almost mournfully.

“I agree.”

You both stand, and despite the words you’d both just spoken, he follows along with you to return your tray.

“Boys and I usually go for a run around 0430, you’re welcome t’join,” he says. You nod.

“I’ll be there,” you reply. He looks like he’s about to say something before he stops, and rethinks it.

“I’ll send Soap for you.”

–

“So… some of the boys told me they saw you and the LT chatting away for a good long while after Gaz’n I left yesterday,” Soap says almost immediately after you’ve exited your tent. You squint at him, still only mostly awake.

“Would’ve sat around talking to you too, if you’d stayed,” you tell him, but you go all but ignored.

“He was fiendin’ to see you when I told him you’d arrived, was all busy b’fore that, on his way to make some phone call… Shoulda seen him book it,” he goes on like you hadn’t said anything.

You realise then, denial wasn’t the tactic to go with, so you switch up, throwing him a little shrug and look of faux innocence.

“What can I say, I leave an impression,” you tell him breezily, watching as he latches on, nodding almost conspiratorally with you.

“Must ‘ave, I’m tellin’ you, LT likes you something fierce,” Soap tells you. You have to suppress the urge to roll your eyes. “You saw that display yesterday in the mess, acting all weird when you said you’d been hurt… if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had him worried.”

You laugh at that, and shove him in the shoulder.

“I’m sure it’s nothing really, but hey, you let me know if he says otherwise,” you throw him a wink as you finally approach where the others are waiting, the training yard quiet, but not silent as the base slowly comes to life. “You know I like ‘em big and strong,” you add after a moment, and get a snicker in response.

“Morning boys,” you greet Gaz and Ghost as you come to a stop before them. Gaz lets out a small yawn.

“Mornin’ Doe,” he says, while Ghost only nods. He looks like he’s been awake for hours, and knowing him, there was no saying he hadn’t been, but more annoyingly than that, he looks good in his paired down workout clothes. You force yourself to push the thought out of your mind as the group starts off stretching, warming up, before you start off into a steadily paced jog. Somewhere along the way, Captain Price joins you, and you easily find yourself distracted from the object of your affections and instead caught up in the banter and teasing that usually went hand in hand with a group of soldiers like this.

–

You both sense it before it happens.

You’re sitting on the transport back to base and neither of you have spoken in hours. When you arrive, after what feels like several days and nights, you pull Captain Price aside.

“Captain,” you start, glancing over to where the others file out, catching sight of Ghost pausing briefly at the mouth of the plane, before he gives you a nod and leaves. “I need you to dismiss me from involvement in this operation.”

Price brings you to his office, not content to have this conversation within earshot of anyone else. He sits and pulls out a box of cigars, immediately lighting one, before he looks over at you, standing at attention, and motions you to the seat opposite him. He sighs.

“On what grounds?” he asks wearily.

“Misconduct,” you tell him, having thought this conversation over and over in your head on the trip back. His eyebrows raise. “I have an intimate relationship with a member of the task force, and I should have stated as such prior to being tapped for it.”

Price blows out a puff of smoke and leans forward, rubbing his temples.

“I’m not filing it under misconduct, I’m not putting that on your record… but I accept your request for release,” he tells you, eyeing you ruefully.

“I apologise, Captain,” you say, receiving a scoff and a wave of his hand and he blows out another bout of smoke.

“Don’t you apologise to me, Doe. I suspected, but refused to look closer… And I shouldn’t have put either of you in that position. I appreciate you coming to me before… before anything regrettable,” you watch him as he places down his cigar and stands, following him as he does so.

He smiles at you and offers out his hand, which you shake firmly.

“Thank you for your contributions to this operation thus far, you’ve been invaluable, and if you have any recommendations for your replacement, I’d welcome your input.”

You smile back at him with a nod, before standing back and saluting, an action he returns.

“I have a few ideas, I’ll inform Laswell,” you tell him.

“I’ll organise your transport, it’ll be ready to go when you are,” he informs you, and with little else, you’re dismissed.

You find Ghost waiting for you outside your tent when you’ve finished packing up your things, and at first neither of you speak, just walk slowly side by side as you make your way to Laswell’s office.

“What’d you tell ’im?” he asks eventually.

“The truth, but he already suspected,” he doesn’t respond to that for a while. “I appreciate the chance he gave us, but…” you trail off and let out a small huff, before shifting your eyes up to him to find him already looking back at you. “I’m gonna have Laswell make some kind of note on our files. This can’t happen again,” you tell him. He looks away from you, but nods his agreement.

“Captain already promised us some leave after this mission,” he says, before he eyes you. “Let us know if you can get some too.”

–

The fiasco with working with Ghost didn’t appear to dampen Captain Price, or Laswell’s opinion of you professionally. Less than a week after you’d returned to your regular base of operations, Laswell had contacted you about 141 work on a different team, a different mission, and gratefully, you’d joined on.

And then she’d kept contacting you.

At this point, you’d been doing missions under the command of Task Force 141 for several months, working alongside a team of operatives you’d come to trust. Maybe that’s why you’d fallen asleep on the transport back home. Maybe that’s why you don’t jump at the hand that comes down on your shoulder, waking you up. At first you assume that you’ve landed, but somewhere in the back of your mind, you realise you’re still in the air.

“Nikolai?” you ask confused when he plops down in the seat beside you, holding out a set of headphones that you’d discarded shortly before your nap. You stick them on, and take the tablet Nikolai holds out to you, adjusting the headphones on your head before switching the mic on.

“Laswell I’m here,” you tell her, letting Niko take the tablet back from you again afer you gesture at its blank screen, where he grunts in annoyance and smacks it, grinning widely at you when the screen turns back on. The thing was hardy, but it wasn’t meant to block shrapnel, and you’d have to put in a request for a new one as soon as this mission was over.

“Enjoy your nap, Lieutenant?” comes the reply.

“It’s been a long day. You rerouting us?” you ask, as the screen lights up with blueprints and building plans.

“Yes. Soap called in, Bravo Team are scattered and suspected captured in enemy territory. We need rescue and extraction.” she tells you matter of factly. You glance over at Niko, who gives you a small nod. “Intel says you’re the closest in the area. Think in this case, that note in your file is what’s gonna them out alive.”

You roll your eyes as Niko looks up at Roach sitting across the way, and makes a heart shape with his hands. You elbow him hard in the side, even as Roach returns the heart shape.

“Not a problem, Laswell, we’re on our way now.”

“Touch down in twenty-three minutes,” Nikolai tells you.

“We’ll rendezvous with Soap, tell him to sit tight.”

“His radio chatter died out shortly after, reporting in, and I haven't had contact with him since. I’ll update you with his LKL coordinates when you land.”

There’s no need. Soap finds you with a left hook to the nose and you hiss out as something cracks and throbs. Nikolai has already jumped out of cover to grab him, and by the time you whip your head back up in his direction, he’s being released and looks rueful.

“Doe!” he half whispers, watching as you madly spit out the blood now steadily leaking down your face and glare at him crossly.

“Laswell, we found Soap. Unfortunately,” you say into your comm. Spitting out more blood as Roach pulls a rag from somewhere and hands it to you. You wipe off as much blood as you can, wincing when you tweak your once again broken nose.

“Sorry mate, didn’t think anyone was coming for us, ‘cept this lot,” He throws a thumb over his shoulder at the facility behind him. You’re currently hidden out in the shipping yard just outside, and until very recently had figured Soap had been taken in too.

“How many we talking?” Nikolai nods in the same direction, crouching down once more behind a large crate and you all follow his lead.

“Not many, we took out the majority of the team stationed here on arrival, but pretty sure they’ve called for backup since grabbing the others. Fifteen at most,” he tells you. You look at Roach.

“Take the upper floors and make your way down, radio in if you need backup,” you receive a singular nod in response, and in a matter of seconds your teammate has disappeared into the shadows, popping up by the side of the facility, where he manages to scale a grouping of crates and disappears inside. You look back to Soap.

“You, Niko and myself will clear the ground, then lower floors. After we rendezvous with Roach, we split up and search. Grab any weapons you come across, if they’ve called for backup they can’t be much further away,” you look between Soap and Nikolai, the latter of which cracks his neck and hums. “And if Bravo Team can walk, they can shoot,” you tell them both, earning two ‘yes ma’am’s’

You move through the ground floor of the facility with a practised ease, Soap falling into place with you and Niko like he’d done so a million times before. Once Roach has finished with the upper floors, he joins you, and together, you sneak down to the lower floors, and begin making your way down a collection of hallways. After replacing his radio, Soap splits off to search, with you giving Roach and Niko the go ahead to disappear soon after that.

There’s shouting coming from the room up ahead of you, questions being thrown by unknown assailants, followed by pained grunts. You move up on the cracked doorway, and with a single inhale of breath, you kick the frame wide, your fast aim getting both enemies down before they even finish their shouts of surprise. There had been a cattle prod in one of their hands, but it rolls away the moment the body drops, the toe of Price’s boot coming down on it before it reaches him.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he says, voice a little ragged, but he looks fine overall. You pull the knife from your boot and quickly cut him loose of his binds.

“Laswell called us, we were closest,” you tell him, helping him stand but he kindly shakes you off, placing a hand down on your shoulder.

“M’alright, they haven’t had us for long. Soap with you?”

“He, Niko and Roach are searching the rest of the floor now,” you tell him, unholstering the hand gun you have on your hip and passing it to him. Price nods in thanks, checking the magazine before moving to grab the body armour that had been taken from him when he’d been captured. He accepts the ear piece you offer him, and quickly, he’s in a readied position.

“Right then. Let’s find my boys, shall we?”

Not long after you’ve entered back out into the halls, you on point with Price bringing up your rear, you spot Soap hobbling his way down the hall, Gaz under his arm, the other man's head lolling slightly.

“You good?” you ask, stepping over a body one of them must have dropped on their way down. Gaz looks up at the sound of your voice, and with a bloody smile he grins at you.

“Doe!” He says dopily. You look at Soap as Price moves over to inspect his damage.

“Is he good?” you ask the Scot, who shrugs.

“Think they injected him with something.”

“I hate needles,” Gaz responds with a pout, sounding despondant. You look over at Price.

“Get him back to safety. Doe, what's your exfil?”

“Transports only one klik out, but they can come in for a hot landing if need be,” as you speak, Roach appears beside you, giving you a thumbs down for his search, and you nod at him.

“Roach can take him,” you say, stopping yourself from saying the next words on your tongue. You still needed to find Simon. Gaz is transferred easily under Roach’s arm, and you watch for a moment as the two begin moving back down the hall, Roach slapping away Gaz’s lazily pawing at the handgun on his hip. “Niko, we’ve got Price and Gaz, Roach is exfiling with Gaz. Where you at?”

The radio remains silent for a few moments before it crackles to life.

“Ghost Rider wants to extract the data files they came here for,” he all but whispers in response.

“Echo Team update, reinforcements are arriving from the north east gate, two convoys. You need to get out of there now,” Laswell’s voice chimes in and you go to pinch your nose, hissing as you touch the delicate mess of shattered bone.

“Reinforcements have arrived, we need to get out of the basement and at least onto higher ground now,” you inform both the group with you, and Nikolai over the radio.

“We’ve got this here, Bone Man says there's another way out further along, you get your guys topside, Lieutenant.”

You let out a huff, but roll your eyes.

“Tell them they’ve got five,” Captain Price says, taking up point this time.

“You’ve got five,” you obey him, surprised when a different voice sounds back to you over the radio.

“We’ll do it in three,” Ghost responds, telling you more than enough about his well-being, and you let out a tiny exhale of relief.

The fight out is much more complicated than the fight in, but uncomplicates itself the moment you hear Niko’s voice in your ear, not down the radio.

“Fucking brilliant, Soap!” he calls out, clapping the Scot on the back as you all move up further, gunfire still blazing behind you, but with the treeline ahead, and two extra soldiers returning fire now, you’re all but home free.

The shots follow you well into the brush, and you radio in to your pilot, already poised for take off. Price waits behind at the mouth of the transport, assuring the team gets aboard, still returning gun fire as best he can with the hand gun you’d given him, and the extra clip you’d thrown him mid firefight earlier.

“That’s everyone! Get us out of here!” he shouts, an order you relay to your pilot quickly, the lip of the helo folding up steadily as the enemy gets nearer, and you begin to rise into the air.

It’s five minutes before your blood stops pumping, and the moment you confirm your exfil with Laswell, you at last fall into a seat besides Roach, tipping your head back to rest against the seat supports. Down the back end of the hold, you spot Bravo Team conferring, your eyes catching on something passed between Ghost and Price, the elder man putting a finger to his ear as he appears to call in to Laswell.

“The fuck happened to you?” Ghost asks then, drawing your attention to where he’d apparently been looking you over. You gesture at Soap.

“Ate Johnny’s fist,” you tell him blithely, pulling the rag back out and wiping at your upper lip and chin again. Ghost half turns back to Soap, who isn’t paying enough attention yet to know he’s been dobbed in. Ghost grunts.

“You boys get what you needed?” you ask, cutting off any further enquiry about your ruined nose. Ghost stares at you for a moment longer, before he takes two steps forward, and seats himself down across the aisle.

“Yes,” he responds, giving nothing else away. “Did you?”

You know he’s asking about your previous mission objective, but you can’t help yourself.

“Well, you’re here aren’t you?”

He glares briefly, before his face lightens up some and he leans back in his seat.

“Never thought they’d call Echo in for exfil on us,” he says. You open your mouth to respond, but Nikolai falls into the spot beside Ghost, waving a hand.

“Kate figured she’d find you, drag you out. Something about being invested in your well being,” he says. Next to you, Roach nods, and hands you a wet wipe. You look at him suspiciously, still trying to figure out where he gets half the stuff he seems to carry on him at all times from, but accept it, and begin cleaning off your face as best you can without being able to see.

Ghost side eyes Nikolai, but turns his attention back to you.

“Really?” he asks blandly. You shrug.

“I didn’t say a word, Nikolai’s the filthy sneak who read Laswell’s files. And it’s not like Roach is gonna tell anyone,” you say exasperatedly. Nikolai shrugs blithely, and Roach motions zipping his lips. You can’t help but let out a pained sounding laugh. Ghost turns his head to stare intimidatingly down at Nikolai, who appears completely unphased, in fact he doesn’t even seem to notice.

“You’re lucky we were so close, eh?” Niko bumps his shoulder into Ghost, who is barely jostled by the action. “Soon we’ll be back home, and we can celebrate with drinks, yes?”

Out of all the things that seem to grab Soap’s attention, it's the promise of drinks, and he too now moves over, settling down beside you, with his elbows resting on his knees.

“Did somebody say drinks?” he asks, looking between Niko, Ghost and you, double taking when he spots you still cleaning the blood off your face.

He sits up straighter.

“M’sorry bout the nose, Doe,” Johnny tells you remorsefully. You shoot him a half-assed look of annoyance, but sigh.

“Least now I might be able to get that nose job I’ve always wanted,” you joke, watching Soap’s features break out into a blinding smile.

“If they don’t, let me know, we’ll have another go at it,” he snickers, knocking your arm playfully.

“No you fuckin’ won’t,” Ghost growls, his arms crossing over his chest. It hurts when you smile, but you chortle to yourself anyway.

“Oh come on, Ghost, could get me a little button, or a ski slope,” you say teasingly.

“Nose looks fine as is,” he snaps gruffly. Next to you, Soap snorts.

“Y’really know how t’make a lady feel special, huh Ghost?”

“Shut it Johnny, or it’ll be yours needin’ work.”

You try to stifle your laughter, failing entirely when Soap leans into your side, mock whispering.

“Lt. likes your nose as is, Doe, reckon he thinks you look pretty or somethin’,” he tells you conspiratorially. You let out a bark of laughter, side eyeing Soap, but never quite taking your eyes off of the masked man in front of you.

“Or something,” you echo in agreement, bouncing your brows once as Ghost’s lower into a deep frown.

Next to Roach, Gaz suddenly jerks awake, groaning as he takes in his surroundings, looking around the transport at Roach, and then at Nikolai and Ghost. He frowns.

“Did someone mention skiing?”

You look over at Roach, who’s putting a small vial of something away in one of his pouches. Price walks past you then, and places a hand on Gaz’s shoulder.

“Why the hell do you have smelling salts on you?” you ask, receiving a singular shrug in reply. Price looks over at Roach, who finishes with his pockets and sits up nicely with his hands in his lap.

“Son, we will be having a conversation about that later.”

–

You escape medical fairly quickly, in comparion to Gaz and Price who were still being poked and prodded by the medics when you last checked in on them. You make your way to the debriefing room, one of the only places of calm and quiet on the entire base, but you begin to suspect you’re not exactly going to get either.

Ghost all but exits his current conversation the moment he spots you across the hangar, making for you at a casual, but wide stepped pace. You sigh, and heft up the paperwork you carry to a more comfortable position, holding the door and waiting as he moves toward you, his hand reaching out to brace the large metal frame as he arrives, nodding you to walk ahead of him.

One glance over his shoulder shows you Soap watching with a massive grin, and when he spots you, he raises both hands in a double thumbs up. You roll your eyes and head inside, followed shortly after by Ghost, who shuts the door behind him.

You move to the other side of the table, setting your paperwork down and all but falling into the chair in front of it, resting your head in your hands for a moment.

“Gaz and Price are doing fine, but they’ll probably hold Gaz overnight,” you say after a moment, rubbing your temples and at last picking up your pen. When you glance up at him, after a beat too long of nothing but silence, you find him staring at you, eyes flickering slowly over your features. You let out another sigh and lean back, matching his stare with a raised eyebrow, which seems to at least break him away from his thoughts.

“Nose looks fine,” he sniffs, pulling out the chair opposite yours and taking a seat.

“No thanks to Soap,” you say automatically, before you lean forward. You hadn’t found Ghost, Niko had, so you had no idea what state he’d been in, and you realise, you still don’t.

“Are you alright? Have you been to medical?” you ask hurriedly. Beneath the table he seems to adjust his feet, but leaves one resting against yours.

“M’fine, nothing I can’t handle.”

“Simon,” you say sternly, looking at him closer. You hadn’t noticed it before, not in the dark of the cargo hold, but in the tiny space around his eyes, you see what can only be blood smeared with his eye-black.

You stand, making your way around the table quickly.

“Remi,” he says warningly, but you ignore him, moving past where he sits and turning the lock on the door, before moving to stand in front of him, where he looks up at you, clearly frowning.

“People will talk,” his voice holds a loose amount of humour, but his eyes watch you closely.

“Simon,” you say again, lifting your hands slowly so he can see and resting them on his broad shoulders. “Let me see.”

There’s a moment that passes between you, where the only sound is a ticking clock somewhere in the room, and a slow shuddering breath he lets out. He jerks his head in a motion you take to mean ‘yeah, alright’, but he doesn’t move, leaving you to carefully find the bottom of his hood, tucked below his tactical vest and gingerly pull it up.

You have to hold back a slight gasp. His lip is swollen and bruised, and there’s a large gash on his cheek and his forehead, with more bruises littered around his skin.

“Did they take it off?” you ask seriously, laying the hood and faceplate aside on the table, and gently cupping his cheeks.

“Didn’t get the chance, but they got a few good hits in,” he tells you. You nod, your thumb swiping at some blood softly, trying not to disturb the ugly purple marks surrounding the cut to his cheek.

Simon releases a breath from his nose, before leaning forward into your hands, sitting up until his arms wrap around your middle, his fingers hooking into the loops on your belt, and he presses his forehead to your stomach. Despite the months you had on your relationship now, you hadn’t exactly had much of a chance to be physical with one another, so the affection stuns you still for a moment, before you finally adjust your stance, shifting your hands from his cheeks where you card them through his hair.

“How’s the rest of you looking?” you ask at last, and receive a grunt in reply. “Same or worse?” you try again.

“Same. Nothing’s broken, just battered… they didn’t have me for long enough,” he seems to be assuring you, though you wouldn’t know it by the way he’s buried his face in your abdomen. He’s not telling you the truth, but you’re certain he knows you know that already. You’d seen what they’d done to Gaz, to Price with the cattle prod.

“S’good Echo Team showed up when you did,” he says as some sort of concession to the truth, and you hum, wrapping your arms more securely around the back of his head, but you flick his ear gently with a finger as you do.

“You’re such a liar,” you tell him with a mirthless scoff.

“S’part of the job,” he replies almost instantly. You hum once again.

“Will you let me clean this up, or–”

“–I’ll see to it when I’m back on base,” he tells you firmly. You nod, even though he can’t exactly see you right now.

“Doe, you still on comms.?” Nikolai’s voice crackles to life in your ear, and you remove one hand from Simon to switch your mic back on, tapping him gently on the shoulder with your other hand as you do.

“Still here, what do you need?”

“Captain Price is looking for you.”

Simon unfurls himself from you, looking up at you with a slight frown, even as he takes back his mask, starting to pull it back over his head.

“Tell him I’ll meet him in a moment,” you say, stopping his hands before he can completely obscure his face once more, switching your mic off once again as you bend down and press a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth. Leaning back, you see his swollen lips quirk up, but before too long it’s covered once more by the grim smile of a skull, and you step away.

“I need to speak with Captain Price,” you tell him, unlocking the door to the debriefing room. “You wouldn’t mind having a chat with Soap would you?”

Ghost cocks his head, his eyes amused.

“I can do that.”

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley fanfiction #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x female oc

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luxurychristmaspudding · 11 months ago

Text

Million Dollar Baby | FUTUREPROOF

prologue

summary: you're in la, and it's time to get this show on the road.

pairing: f!rockstar!reader x actor!joel

ratings/warnings: 18+, MDNI. one minor drug reference. reader has hair and can swim.

wc: 3.3k

an: for @schnarfer, my copilot, and @itsokbbygrl and @undercoverpena. thank you for your patience while i've yapped and not written about these two <3

dividers from the glorious @saradika-graphics

series masterlist | main masterlist | follow @pudding-notifs for updates!

The sunlight is warm, the breeze is mellow, and the bedsheets smell like home.

Soft, so soft, cool against your warm limbs - every nudge of smooth linen cocooning your body against the waves of wakefulness. You stretch your legs - muscles loosening, mind empty - then your toes, and bury your face back into the pillow with a quiet grunt.

Everything feels achy today. Just fatigued - cooped up on planes, huddled in the studio, hunched over a notebook in what Jack has fondly dubbed your ‘shrimp position’. But this feels good. Spreading your legs to starfish beneath the covers, breathing in the scent of your own shampoo, before shooting your arms to the headboard and pressing your palms against it. Sinew relaxes a little more, spine crackling.

One eye winked open finds the room washed in gold, sheer curtains fluttering in the floor to ceiling windows, just obscuring the crest of the hills beyond the pool.

You close your eyes again, breathing in deeply. Your tongue tastes sour, ashy - the only blot on the morning; a reminder of last night. The whirlwind of faces and places you’d been swept through by Eimear after leaving the studio, blurred into one soundscape while you were dreaming.

You following her - a satin palm curled around your forearm, the gloss of her braids. Have you met…. Completely sober, brain ringing in your skull from ironing out kinks on the record, you’d made your excuses and escaped as quickly as possible from the glitteringly dark bar back to the house. Closed your eyes against the buzz of the Uber’s window, dragged yourself to the sofa, and shared a joint with Adie before hauling yourself to bed.

There’s a clench in your gut, a rumble. You groan, hunger creeping in, bubbling in your throat. You swing a hand away from the headboard, scrabbling about on the nightstand for your phone, squinting at the screen over the duvet.

No missed calls. No urgent texts.

But at some point in your slumber, you’d snoozed your alarm.

You drop your face into the pillow again, mouthing a fuck into the cotton. Plans of eating at the café in the next neighbourhood over eviscerated by a fuzzier head. Again.

You throw the covers off your legs, rubbing roughly at your face, and stand with a yawn. Pick up the pants and t-shirt you’d discarded on the floor last night, sling them over the chair in the corner of the room, and then move to retrieve your bikini from the balcony beyond the curtains.

A fine day out. Still warmer than you’re used to summer being, sun hot on your face even this early, but the view - the view. Spoiled by the label, high up enough to be away from the bustle, but close enough to watch the lights and the smog and the constant glimmer of dreams.

You step back into the bedroom to tug and tie the swimsuit on before swinging open the door. The landing is quiet, empty. The same as you pad down to the kitchen.

Everything is white, and where it’s not white, it’s glass and natural wood. It’s beautiful, it’s serene, and - as Eimear had said when you first arrived - very rock and roll.

The wide, clean kitchen, marble-topped island stretched all the way across the space. Perfect for hosting. The sunken living room and its floating hearth. The rugs and the throws, the cushions, the potted plants, fading smell of incense. The bifold doors thrown back so you can step straight out to the patio and then the pool - sparkling, rippling in the morning sunlight.

The doors Adie obviously hadn’t closed last night. The bottle of champagne he’d left open on the side.

You give it a sniff as you walk past, deciding it isn’t worth it as you step towards the fridge instead. You pour a glass of orange juice and poke around for something else, grabbing a tub of mango you’d picked up yesterday. Croissants from the bread bin on the counter, then your sunglasses from where they sit next to the flowers Nick had sent you.

The patio is hot underfoot, and you all but skip your way to one of the loungers set up by the edge of the pool, clutching your breakfast. You slide your sunglasses onto the bridge of your nose, settling cross-legged on the pale cushions. Orange juice cradled between your thighs, croissant and mango in front of you.

Nick Walton, Hollywood’s newly heralded genius. You’d thought he’d be wanky at first - obnoxious, loud, demanding - but the man who had introduced himself to you months ago, who had joined you in the studio over the last week, was quiet, kind. A crooked smile, an asinine sense of humour. Ready and generous with praise and votes of confidence, gentle direction offered when needed. He’d been a dream to work with, so much so that the whole band had been quick to tell him they’d love to work together again - if he wanted to. And he did.

You savour the earthy sweetness in your mouth, rip a corner off the croissant.

It was exciting. Being privy to such a project, being sent rough cuts and signing NDAs. It had been something to do on the road - a distraction from the songs you were playing every night, a challenge to fit to a brief. Something you, as a band, had never really done before. Working not just to convey a message, a feeling, but a place. A story beyond what you knew.

You lick the mango juice from your fingers, your wrist, swipe the crumbs from your lap. Finish your orange juice in great gulps, enjoying the coolness, the tartness. You wanted Nick to be confident he’d made the right choice. Confident that you respected his work, appreciated it, wanted to uplift it.

The extravagant florals that had arrived before Eimear had whisked you away last night confirmed that. The only thing left now was to get the stamp of approval from Joel Miller - co-producer, leading man.

So squeaky fucking clean you wonder whether the air around him sparkles.

You stand from the sunbed, reaching up, wiggling your fingers at the sky, before swooping low to touch your toes. Almost. You fold your sunglasses up next to your glass, leaving them to tiptoe around the edge of the pool. Moving to stand at the top of the tiled steps, up to your ankles in the water. Cool, cool, cool. The LA skyline stretched out ahead of you - concrete jungle sprawled under clear blue sky.

Joel Miller somewhere out there, getting ready to gather his thoughts on the tracks. A big deal. Critically acclaimed films, Oscars and SAG Awards, nominations up the wazoo. Something lurches in your stomach, a familiar that has tread with you since the beginning. The doubt, the worry. The almost overwhelming expectation to disappoint.

Maybe he won’t like you. Maybe he’s never liked your music. Maybe he’ll wear sunglasses the entire time and won’t speak.

Don’t be childish. You take a step deeper into the pool.

Maybe he won’t.

Maybe he’ll be everything people say he is. Unfailingly polite, sweet. Humorous, if prone to a little grump now and again. Maybe he’s heard a few songs on the radio.

You take a step deeper.

Maybe he’ll be taller than you think. You know he’s handsome. Broad, strong. Greying curls, deep, sad eyes, full mouth and scruffy beard. He’d suited the cowboy get up in the cuts of Red Sky. Not that you ever thought about that when you’d crash in your hotel room at the end of a night. Or his hands. His thick fingers, or the bulge that strained against his low slung belt -

You crouch, arms joined over your head. Feet anchored, pressure forced down as your legs extend and lift, arcing towards the water.

The dive sweeps the remnants of sleep, worries, thoughts of Joel Miller away. The water fills the conches of your ears, softening sound. You close your eyes, lost to the peace of the dark. Coolness slips past, greases joints, cradles you gently. You kick and pull until your lungs strain, pushing one foot off the floor to pop back up to the surface, wiping chlorine from your eyes, your lips.

You look back over the city, treading water, before turning to face the house. Much bigger than it needs to be - but pretty and green. There are plants everywhere - trees and flowers, grass to your right. Sweet honeysuckle on the breeze, musk of heated tarmac.

You tip your head back, and your body follows. Sound muffled again, you blink your eyes open to look up into the blue. Endless. You search for birds, letting it calm you - how small you really are. How, no matter how many people gather in crowds, there are more who simply couldn’t give less of a fuck about who you are.

It doesn’t matter if Joel Miller is one of them.

You swim a few leisurely laps before pulling yourself out and wrapping a discarded towel around your shoulders, drying off just enough to come back inside the house. You’re brewing coffee when Adie emerges - freshly showered, shirt only buttoned halfway, sunglasses on.

You smirk at him, and he flips you off, wincing as he takes a seat at the island. He rests his head in his hands.

“Morning, rockstar,” you beam, pouring the drink into mugs, and he grunts in response.

You scrub a rough hand over his buzzcut, and he grumbles out a low “Fuck off,” voice low and raspy.

You snicker, placing a steaming cup beneath his hanging head. He’s always suffered the worst with hangovers, unaided by the five years he has on the rest of you.

“Come on, dude,” you grin, sliding onto the seat next to him, rivulets of pool water trickling down your back. “You’ve gotta look sprightly. You’re seeing George today, right?”

“He’s seen me worse,” he grumbles, taking a sip. He pulls his sunglasses down his nose just enough to give you a once over. “Aren’t you seeing Nick?”

You nod, blowing steam away from your cup.

“And Joel.”

“Joel,” Adie repeats, like he’s rolling the name around his mouth. “Still want to do disgusting things to him?”

You pull a face, knocking his shoulder, and he clutches his stomach with a groan.

“Ew, Adie.”

“Don’t move me,” he gasps, “I’m not at my best.”

“Yeah, no shit,” you snipe, eyeing him over your coffee. He glances back at you once he’s taken a couple of deep breaths.

“Well? Do you?”

You wrinkle your nose at him.

“Obviously, asshole.”

He shrugs, a slow smile stretching his mouth as he curls himself over the counter. You giggle, an embarrassed little sound, and he snorts into his coffee, choking, spraying it over the marble and your arm. You howl at him - Oh, gross, dude - and then you’re cackling together, something like excitement finally rising in your gut. This is your best friend, this is the dream. And this is part of the cycle - tour, crash, doubt, do it again. You swipe your hand down your arm, holding it out to wipe on his shirt. He catches your wrist before you can, twisting so the silk is as far away from you as possible.

“Absolutely not,” he says, grappling with you, “If I have to go upstairs to change, I will literally never make it back down.”

You give up easily, knocking your forehead against his shoulder, still giggling. He smells like Adie. He smells like home.

“You, on the other hand,” he continues, pushing your head back roughly with his palm, “Could definitely do with a shower. If only for the one and only Mr Mi-”

You flick his ear, and he crows at you -

“Bastard! I’ll find some other wanker to sing!”

- as you take off, dancing around the island, edging towards the stairs.

You put your hands on your hips, tongue in cheek.

“I knew you never liked me - y’know, you were always much more made for the attention -”

“Shut the fuck uuup,” he groans, rolling his eyes, “I love you forever, kisses, kisses, whatever the fuck. Shower,” he says, levelling a finger at you.

You bite your lip against your smile.

“Will you be gone when I’m ready?”

He nods, making to cross himself. You snort again.

“God willing.”

“Alright. Have fun. Give George my love. Make sure Cam’s got nothing in his teeth.”

He smiles, all mischief, all genuine affection.

“Will do, bud. You too. Knock ‘em dead.”

You blow him a kiss as you begin to ascend the steps, and he feigns a swing to bat it away.

“Save them for Joel!”

You flash him the finger, and his cackle is the answer to your ringing -

“Fuck you, Gilman!”

Her voice is sweet, gentle down the phone. It makes his chest tighten a little, nails dig into his palms. I miss you.

“Dad, you’ll be fine,” Sarah sighs, breath of air shooting through the line. If he closes his eyes, he can see her smile. Knowing, placating. Hundreds of miles away, back in Texas for college. Sick of LA ever since they moved here.

Sometimes, Joel reckons she had the right idea.

“You’ve worked with way more intimidating people. And from what Nick’s said, she seems really nice.”

He grunts, swiping a hand across his face, scratching at his beard. She’s right.

“I know. Jus’ want it to go well. Feel like I know nothin’ about it, just gon’ be sittin’ there -”

“Dad,” she groans, “Chill out. Pick something you remember about the lyrics. Say something about the drums or melodies. Get a selfie for Ellie. That’s all you need to do. Anything else is a bonus.”

Joel casts a glance over at Ellie - all limbs sat at the kitchen counter, munching on cereal, earbuds in.

“Okay. Alright.”

There’s quiet for a moment, and he cringes at how well she can read him.

“Sure?” She checks. He clears his throat, nodding.

“Yeah. It’ll be fine.”

He can hear her smile again.

“It will. Right, I gotta go. Call me later, I want all the details.”

He chuckles, kneading his forehead.

“I will. I love you, baby girl.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

The line cuts, three beeps, and he turns his attention back to Ellie. Takes a moment to watch her head bopping, her foot tapping, before waving an arm around until she takes an earbud out.

“Ready to go, kiddo?”

She swallows comically, giving him a thumbs up before leaping off her seat, crossing the kitchen to deposit her bowl in the sink.

“Yup. Are you driving?” She asks, crossing back over to the foyer, eyeing the keys in the blue dish by the door.

“Sure am,” he grins, taking her bowl from the sink and stacking it in the dishwasher. She rolls her eyes, jamming a foot into a shoe. “Precious cargo.”

“Joel,” she groans, standing, “I am seventeen years old -”

“Ah,” he chuckles, clapping her on the back, opening the front door. “Still my kid. Let’s go.”

She’s watching him.

He can see how her eyes keep flicking this way in his periphery, her smirk from the passenger seat as he taps his thumbs on the steering wheel, chewing his cheek.

“Are you nervous?”

His eyes find hers, crinkled with a smile, warmth hidden behind the mirth. A depth of understanding that goes beyond her years.

He shrugs.

“Is it obvious?”

She looks out the windscreen, avoiding his eye, but he can still see the downwards tip of her mouth as she tries to hide her amusement.

“No.”

He grinds his jaw, feeling the beginnings of a flush crawl up his neck.

“You know,” Ellie says, turning to face him again, “She’s supposed to be really cool. Nice. They all are, even if you don’t meet the whole band. Forget about anything else you might’ve heard. And - she’s just a person. It doesn’t matter if you don’t sound like you know enough. It’s not your job.”

A single eyebrow climbs up his forehead.

“You heard that, huh?”

This time, she does smile.

“Relax,” she says, “And if you screw it up, at least get that selfie for me.”

He chuckles, eyes scanning back out over the road. Traffic, people, lights turning red to green.

“I’ll do my best.”

He doesn’t want to tell her how he stayed up late last night watching your interviews. Doesn’t want her to know how he watched the Wired Autocomplete video three times - because you’re funny. Smart and sharp, and private. He appreciates that. Knows you must have worked hard to reach a point where others have so many questions.

Doesn’t want her to know how he then went on to watch live performances, songs recorded in front of thousands of people. Wishing he’d paid better attention when she’d shown him before. Covers sung in live lounges, radio appearances - one by Sabrina Carpenter that’s been everywhere lately, another about orange blossoms, before finding his favourite. Just you, strumming a guitar - something rare in all the other footage he’d watched. Lover, You Should've Come Over.

How he’d then tapped out your name on Instagram, scrolling back through weeks of posts. Photoshoots, festivals, tour, magazine covers. Stumbled across edits, something Sarah had taught him about. Videos, compilations of you that made his face heat with shame, his heart beat faster. He’d thought he was above it all - within the same stratosphere, unaffected by such things. But he’d been proven wrong. Taken in by your voice, your words. How you looked in that dress, the sliver of stomach exposed on stage. Your doe eyes in the dark of a bathtub, a shoot for Vanity Fair.

He’s really realised, perhaps for the first time, that Ellie is right. Ellie, who’d had your posters up in her room until a year ago. Ellie, who Sarah had taken to your gig at the Staples Center. Ellie, who’d been playing your music - loud - ever since she’d first found it. Music which, he knows now, he also loves.

You are cool - so fucking cool, so fucking beautiful. Accomplished, respected, talented. And now he’s noticed the colour of your eyes, the curve of your lips, the ease with which you perform. The way you move, how electric you are.

And he’s going to be so out of his depth.

He pulls up just down the street from her school, slow halt of tires on tarmac, watching the throng of students cross the road. A jumble of bags moving along the sidewalk, and when they part, he watches Ellie grin as Dina looks up from her phone to wave at the two of them.

His daughter grabs the backpack by her feet before leaning over to kiss his cheek. He tries to smile.

“You’ve got this,” she whispers, a gentle hand on his arm. She smiles back as she pops open the door and scooches out. “Remember, selfie - and if Vic is there, tell her I’m single -”

“I’m right here,” Dina laughs from over her shoulder, giving Ellie a playful shove. Joel chuckles, returning her yelled Morning, Mr Miller. Ellie shrugs.

“Okay, tell her nothing. I just think she’s cool,” she winks, closing the door with a soft thud before throwing an arm around her girlfriend, chatting away to her as they disappear into the crowd of teenagers.

Joel waits until he can no longer see them before checking his flush in the rearview mirror. When he’s satisfied he looks close to normal, not nervous, he takes a deep breath and pulls off.

There’s someone he has to meet.

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfic #the last of us hbo #the last of us fanfiction

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pedriache · 7 months ago

Note

Love ur work! How ab a lamine angst fic where things between them didn’t work out and now that he’s willing to try, reader is upset/confused bc why now

Toothache — Lamine Yamal.

Pairing: Lamine Yamal x Fem!Reader

Summary: Lamine wanted to try again—to give you his all, but all you could think about was ‘why now?‘

Word count: 1.35k

Disclaimer/s: angst , second chances , crying , messy past breakup.

A/N: I love writing angst ^_^~

Heavy breathing was what you heard the second you picked up the phone. You hadn’t bothered checking the caller ID, it was two in the morning and the call had woken you up from a deep slumber.

“Hello?” You mumble, clearing your voice to rid it of the sleep induced rasp.

“Hey, it’s me.” He didn’t need to introduce himself, you recognized his voice even if he whispered. Lamine wasn’t someone you could forget.

You were wide awake now. His voice shooting blots of energy throughout your body. “Lamine? It’s—“ You pull the phone away from your ear, looking from his caller ID, to the time at the top corner of your phone, “it’s two in the fucking morning.”

Lamine plays with the corner of his textbook, he’d been attempting to work on homework, but you were the only thing on his mind. “Yeah, I know.” His voice is quiet, like his mind was elsewhere.

Although you knew you didn’t have to feel concern, it was hard to ignore. “Are you okay?” You mirror his quiet voice, softening it to show your genuine care. Lamine’s heart felt heavy with guilt, he hated when you used that voice.

He knew he didn’t deserve the concern you’d always showed him throughout the years of knowing each other, let alone when you’d dated.

“Yeah, yeah.” He clears his throat, “can I come over?”

Your eyes fluttered shut. Not only were you exhausted, you also knew your parents wouldn’t like to see him showing up without their knowledge. “That’s not a good idea… we can meet elsewhere. I can come over, are your parents home?”

Lamine glances up from the kitchen table where he’d been doing homework, “yeah, but they won’t mind.” There’s a pause before he continues, “they miss you.”

Unnecessary. That did not need to be added, and Lamine knew that.

Rubbing your eyes, you climb out of bed, head tilted to the side to keep your phone next to your ear as you reached for a hoodie. Sliding on a pair of slippers, you reach for your keys on your desk. “I’ll be over in a few, do you need anything?”

You were always far too willing to comfort your ex. He’d called you like this many times. Mostly, he just needed your company, but sometimes he needed to talk to someone. For some reason, whether intentional or not, Lamine could only open up to you.

No matter how messy your breakup had been, you hadn’t been best friends for over a decade just to stop because he couldn’t put effort into an actual relationship.

“I’ll leave the door unlocked.”

The drive was only fifteen minutes to Lamine’s house. You hadn’t played music, an unsettling feeling coming over you. This time, something felt different. Lamine’s tone was different.

Unbuckling your seatbelt and locking the doors behind you, you make your way up to the familiar household—one that you had at one point, practically lived in. You don’t knock, simply opening it slowly and slipping inside. Taking your slippers off, you pad your way into the dining room.

Lamine was staring at his texbooks, head in his head with an annoyed expression, which softened the second his eyes flickered up to you. “You’re here.” He smiles slightly, and you forced yourself to return it.

“Can we make this quick? I have work at nine.” You pull out a chair beside him. “What are you working on?” You ask, though you knew the answer as you had the same textbook in your backpack at home.

“Math.” Lamine answers simply, his eyes trained on you, memorizing your face as if he would never see it again. And, maybe after tonight, he wouldn’t.

Looking up to meet his eyes, you give him a questioning look. “So… what is it?”

“I’m ready.” He stops, shaking his head. “I mean, I’m ready to try again. I want to make this work. I will do better this time.”

Your body felt light, like he’d knocked the wind out of you. Your brain flew into over drive, millions of questions slamming against the walls of your skull. He was ready to try, again? After five fucking months?

You almost scoffed. Almost.

“Are you kidding me right now?” Your bottom lip tugs between your teeth, a smile forming on your face—not a happy one, but one of disbelief. “Lamine. We—you have had about a dozen chances! I’ve given you five months, and each time you weren’t ready. Why now?”

He had to battle the thoughts telling him to look away, to cower in shame. He doesn’t get a chance to speak, because you are still going.

“I love you. I haven’t stopped, but—I was nearly healed and ready to move on. This is so.. it’s selfish!”

Lamine’s fingers played with each other nervously. His lips pulling into a deep frown. “I love you, too.” He whispers, but you shush him. “Can you let me explain?”

You tap your foot against the wooden floor, thinking. Your head hurt, shit—your teeth hurt. Your heart hurt, everything hurt.

This was what you’d wanted for months, so why didn’t you feel happy right now?

The small whispering of your name called you back to reality. Rubbing your face, you finally look back to Lamine. “Sure, go ahead.”

He began his explanation, weak attempts to find an excuse for his past behavior. His mouth eventually shuts, a long exhale leaving his lips. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He continues to repeat his apologies until your head falls onto the table out of annoyance.

Lamine watches you, taken aback by your dismissal. “I just want to show you I can love you like you deserve. Just one more chance, please?” His voice had thinned, little emotion showing other than desperation.

Shifting your head to the side, you glare up at him. “You make my life so God damn difficult, Lamine.”

He couldn’t stop the small twitching of his lips, “that’s not new.” His light hearted tone unfortunately had a small, almost unseeable grin threatening your lips.

“This is it. Okay? One, last chance. And if you fail, thats it.” You sit back up, “we are over, forever, if you mess this up.”

“I understand.” Lamine nods, eagerly. “I won’t let you down.”

Your eyes narrow at him before nodding as well. “Fine. We start new. You’ll take me on dates, ask me out, ask me to be your girlfriend. You will put more effort in than you’d ever had to put into anything before. No excuses, nothing.” Your rules were set and Lamine was more than ready to comply.

“Are you free tomorrow—“

“Nuh-uh.” You wag your finger. “You’re going to surprise me. And go all out. Pretend like it’s a fucking movie, I don’t care. Just.. show me you care enough so I can trust that you’re genuine about this—about me..”

Lamine agrees with a grateful sigh, “I will. I promise.”

“Can I go home now?” You look at the time on your phone; 4:04 AM. Your parents would be waking up in twenty-six minutes.

“Of course.” The boy nods, “goodbye.”

“Goodbye.” You hum, standing up and leaving the room without another word. A lingering sense of doubt flooding your heart the second you left, but it was overclouded by the genuine hope you felt for the first time in five months.

likes , comments , and reblog’s are all appreciated. lmk if you’d like to be tagged in future lamine posts.

DTS , @halfwayhearted @sakashq @hrts4havertz @joaoflms @ar4ujos @spidybaby !

#lamine yamal #lamine yamal x fem!reader #lamine yamal one shot #lamine yamal x you #lamine yamal imagine #lamine yamal x reader #lamine yamal x y/n #angst #second chances #football #fanfic #fc barcelona #fc barcelona fic #fc barça #fc barca

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tomriddlehyperfixataion · 9 months ago

Text

The Diary of Tom Riddle- Diary! Tom Riddle x Reader - P6

pairing: Tom riddle x Fem reader

warnings: Horcruxes, Manipulation, Tom being Tom, side effects of being possessed, bleeding from the nose.

summary: 16-year-old (y/n) finds a mysterious black book on the floor of after it slips out of Ginny Weasleys caldron, curious, she picks it up and keeps it-which leads to one thing after another and discovers the book is far more than it seems.

-Part 1- -Part 2- -Part 3- -Part 4- -Part 5- -Part 7-

Harry peeled open the pages of the diary, it was half blank-with loads of notes in the first half-all retaining to the classes that Hogwarts offered. “Defense against the dark arts, Charms, Transfiguration,” Harry muttered under his breath as he flipped through the sections of notes.

It was like looking through Hermione's notes folder-everything sectioned off and dated.

“it’s just a diary being used as a notebook Harry, it’s clearly nothing special,” Ron said as they walked to the hospital wing to see Hermione, who was still recovering from the Polyjuice cat incident.

Harry only hummed in response, for some reason he felt the diary was far more than it seemed-even though all that was written in it was notes and silly doodles. He liked the one of the greasy Snape- even the Slytherin girl this book belonged to didn’t like Snape.

“You should give it back to her Harry, it might not have her name clearly its hers, has her name on the front page and everything.” Hermione said quietly as they visited her in the hospital wing, Hermione tapping the first page that had the Slytherin girls name in ink-right below T.M.Riddle's name that was also written in ink.

“Yeah, but the back says it belongs to Tom Riddle, which Ron says has a trophy about some-great thing he did for the school 50 years ago,” Harry said, Hermione snatching the book from him-grabbing her wand from her bag.

“Then maybe he wrote something down in here about the last time the chamber was opened-“ Hermione said and Harry quickly caught up with what she’d realized, eagerly leaning over her shoulder to watch her tap her wand on the diary thrice. “Aparecium!”

When nothing happened, Hermione huffed, grabbing a red eraser from her bag. “It’s a revealer, I got it in Diagon Alley,” Hermione said when Harry gave her a quizzical look. She rubbed the eraser hard on one of the blank pages, but nothing happened, and Hermione huffed.

“I’m telling you, there’s nothing to find in there,” Ron said, crossing his arms. “Riddle just got a diary for Christmas and couldn’t be bothered to keep it, and that Slytherin girl got it 2nd hand.”

Harry couldn’t explain why he hadn’t given the diary/notebook back to the Slytherin girl, even after she’d left the hospital wing, he’d overheard Madam Pomfrey tell her to take it easy as the stress from NEWTS and the chamber had made her body go into overdrive.

Harry thought how the girl looked when he’d found her in the bathroom was far worse than stress-she almost looked like she was dying.

He shook the thought out of his head, remembering the haunting look in the girl’s eyes when she’d looked at him, he looked back down at the diary in his hands, letting the blank pages flutter in his hand.

Earlier-Lockhart had hired all those ‘cupid’ dwarves and one had cornered him, singing a crude poem to him from Ginny Weasley, in the process, his book bag had ripped, and ink had gotten everywhere-including the diary.

And yet, the diary had no trace of ink on it, unlike the rest of his books, instead the only thing that remained was the notes. Harry frowned in thought-opening the diary to a blank page and dipping his quill, letting a blot of ink drop onto the page.

After a moment-it sunk into page-leaving not a trace of ink.

And then-before his very eyes-new words began to appear.

‘(y/n)?’

Harry’s eyes went wide, and he nearly jumped out of his chair to go show Ron and Hermione, but instead dipped his quill again.

“I’m sorry no, my names Harry Potter.”

There was a moment before the response but eventually the neat scrawl of the diary appeared.

‘Hello Harry potter. My name is Tom Riddle, how did you come upon my diary?’

Those words began to fade just as Harry had re-dipped his quill and hurriedly wrote back.

“The girl who had it had a seizure or something, she dropped it and I picked it up,”

His words faded and very quickly Tom wrote back to him-almost hurried.

‘(y/n). is she okay?’

“She is, she just got out of the hospital wing, madam Pomfrey said it was from stress.”

‘Very good. Why are you keeping my diary, Harry Potter?’

“I was wondering if you knew anything about the chamber of secrets?”

(y/n) practically tore her room apart, looking for Tom’s diary. “well-when did you last have it?” her roommate/friend asked, watching from her bed concerned as (y/n) flipped over her mattress.

“I don’t know! Uhgh-the bathroom, I think? I got all dizzy n shit and the last thing I remember before passing out as throwing my bag to the floor.” (y/n) huffed, tapping her finger in frustration on her bedpost.

“Maybe it’s still in the bathroom then? It could’ve been washed into one of the stalls with all that flooding from moaning myrtle?” her roommate suggested and (y/n) had to concede she might be right.

God Tom was going to be so pissed at her for letting him stew in toilet water for so many days, she’d have to get him more good ink or something to make up for it.

However, the diary wasn’t there.

“Myrtle?” (y/n) asked gently, looking up at the floating ghost girl, who stared at her. “Did my books happen to be picked up when I fell in here last week?”

Myrtle tilted her head in thought and nodded. “Oh yes, Harry Potter picked up that little black book,” Myrtle said faintly, before going back to moaning and groaning about death. (y/n) thanked her and left the bathroom, looking to find potter to see if he’d kept her/Tom’s diary by accident.

She found him and his friends walking through the courtyard, talking about…the chamber of secrets? “Hagrid opened the chamber of secrets 50 years ago,” Harry said quietly to Ron and Hermione.

“Riddle-” That got (y/n)’s attention, had Harry really kept the diary and written in it? Thank god all of hers and Tom’s conversations didn’t stay in the diary, only keeping the notes he rewrote for her. “-might have the wrong person,” said Hermione. “Maybe is some other monster that was attacking people…”

“How many monsters d’you think this place can hold?” Ron asked rhetorically, (y/n) following close behind, hoping to get the diary back from Potter, she felt weird without it, like something was missing.

Merlin maybe she was getting way too attached to Tom.

“We always knew Hagrid had been expelled,” said Harry miserably, “and the attacks must’ve stopped after Hagrid was kicked out. Otherwise, Riddle wouldn’t have got his award.”

What sort’ve hero stories was the nerd telling the 12-year-olds???

She decided to interrupt their little chat about Tom, the chamber, and Hagrid-wanting the diary back.

“Hello,” she said softly, waving to the three, looking down at them as they froze and turned to face her, though relaxed when they saw it was only her-the girl who had the diary before Harry. “Sorry to interrupt you, but it was brought to my attention that you might still have my notebook? It’s a black leather-bound book with the name Tom Riddle on the back? It has all my notes for the upcoming exams on it and I need it before they start.”

Harry nodded jankily, but didn’t reach into his bag for it. “Uh-yeah, uh, did you know it could write back?” (y/n) tilted her head but nodded.

“Uh, yeah, it’s a personality enchantment, very rare advanced magic.” (y/n) said casually, just wanting the diary back and not to converse with the three for much longer.

“Did he tell you anything about the chamber of secrets?” Harry asked, remembering Riddle's concern for (y/n) and near demands, to be returned to her.

(y/n) shook her head, having never asked. “No, never asked, but he is tutoring me for defense against the dark arts, since Lockhart is… Lockhart.” (y/n) said with a scrunch of her nose and Hermione looked to have half a mind to scold her while the boys just smiled, glad to finally have met a girl who thought Lockhart was just as stupid as they thought he was.

(y/n) just huffed, crossing her arms. “Could I have the diary back? I really do need those notes,” (y/n) asked again and Harry nodded, telling her he was keeping it up in his dorm room and he’d pass it back to her later. She narrowed her eyes a bit, feeling an odd flare of frustration and possessiveness at him for keeping the diary for even longer but pushed it down.

“Thanks,” She said, giving the three a short wave-turning on her heel and heading for her next class.

Hours later, almost dinner, she finally got the diary back, Harry handing it back to her-quite reluctantly might she add-but (y/n) didn’t care, clutching the diary close to her side as she thanked Harry and turned to go back to her dorm, moving the diary from her side to her chest.

It felt like a hug as she held it.

She sighed in relief as she stepped into her dorm, pressing her back against the door to close it, letting her head drop to her chest slightly, clutching the diary to her chest.

She really didn’t know why she was attached to the diary/Tom so much, when she didn’t have it/him on hand, it felt…odd, like something important was missing.

(y/n) hopped onto her bed and flipped open the diary, glad to see all the notes Tom had rewritten for her still there. She grabbed her quill and opened her ink well, dipping the tip before pressing it to the page.

“sorry for dropping you in the bathroom :s”

‘(y/n)?’

“yeah, I had some sort of seizure from the stress of the whole, chamber and exams, situation. Got really dizzy and my nose started to bleed really bad, passed out in the second-floor girls' bathroom.”

‘Merlin. Are you okay?’

“I am now, some rest did good for me, Madam Pomfrey told me to keep taking it easy though”

‘I see. No late night chatting with me anymore then.’

(y/n) gasped a bit and sat up, frowning.

“not fair! I like talking to you!”

‘I like talking to you too, but staying up till, merlin knows how late, talking to me isn’t helping your health. So, no more of that until you’re feeling better.’

“fine.”

‘(y/n).’

“I know! Thank you for looking out for me, means a lot. :3”

‘What in Merlin’s beard does :3 mean?’

“it’s a cute smiley face~! :3”

‘Stop it it’s, what’s the word you used? Cringe?’

“hey!”

Things finally felt normal again, (y/n) was finally getting some good rest as the months moved from February to May, her DADA tutoring sessions with Tom went pretty well, though once in a while he’d ask if she’d like to have a more-in depth lesson but she always declined, still a little weirded out by the way he could do the whole ‘pull someone into his subspace’ thing.

Plus, last time she’d gotten a nosebleed from the magic strain of it, she didn’t want to have another one.

Since her little-trip-to the hospital wing, the attacks had stopped and everyone else was finally relaxing, the tension finally easing up as the threat of ‘the heir of Slytherin and its monster’ seemed to have its fill and leave.

(y/n) currently was having some trouble with her potions work, her brow furrowed as she looked over her assigned work again and again, but it was just all blurring together in a mesh of nothing. She sighed, dropping her quill and rubbing her face. She needed a break.

She looked down at the diary, seeing she’d gotten a big ink blot on it from dropping her quill, sighing and moving the quill off of it and into the ink well. The ink sunk into the page and Tom’s writing appeared.

‘What was that for?’

“dropped the quill on the page, sorry.”

‘Tired?’

“very, i wanna go take a nap but the quidditch game is today and my friend is no doubt going to drag me off to that and its within the hour, hardly have time to even get up to my room and put my stuff away.”

‘I see.’

‘I could help?’

“how?”

‘If you would allow me, time doesn’t really pass within the diary, you could take a short nap if you wish? I just wouldn’t be able to talk to you for a few days, as I know the last time I pulled you in, it caused immense strain on your magic, and I’d rather avoid that.’

(y/n) hesitated, her quill hovering over the page as Tom’s words faded away.

“you promise it wont hurt me this time?”

‘I promise. Do I have your permission?’

(y/n) looked around the library, glancing at her watch, and then put her quill to the page again.

“you have my permission.”

In the same way as it did the first time, the gutter of the book became a blinding light that seemed to pull her into the diary-and the hands that caught her were even gentler than the first time.

She looked up, seeing the sepia-toned face of Tom Riddle, smirking down at her as he held her steady. She cleared her throat, gently pushing herself up to stand and he chuckled, reaching out his hand to hers. “C’mon, I know a good spot for a nap,” Tom said, and she took his hand, letting him lead her down the diaries Hogwarts halls.

He led her to the Slytherin common room, and she laid down on the big couch that was even comfier than the one in the actual common room, her eyes fluttering closed as a blanket was laid atop her, a cold hand brushing the hair from her face.

When she awoke, she was back in the library, sleeping over her books and the diary. She jolted up, checking her watch-only 15 minutes had passed, and yet it felt like she got several hours of sleep. She picked up her quill, writing a quick thank you to Tom before she packed everything up and rushed to her dorm room to change for the quidditch match.

As she went to leave the common room to go to the quidditch match-everyone suddenly crowded in, all looking worried. “What happened?” (y/n) asked her friend who quickly took her by the hand to sit down by the fireplace.

“There was another attack,” her friend whispered and (y/n)’s heart stuttered in her chest, her eyes widening.

“What? Where?” (y/n) gasped, her mouth gaped open.

“The library,”

(y/n)’s heart dropped to her stomach, her hand covering her mouth. She’d just been in the library! Had the attack happened while she was there? Or after she left?? But she was just there!?

“I was just there,” she whispered and (y/n)’s friend frowned, a horrified look growing on her face.

“Oh my god-did you see the petrified students?” (y/n) shook her friend in response, clutching at her stomach as the feeling of missed danger passed over her.

“No, I didn’t, i-I fell asleep while studying,” (y/n) said, which wasn’t a total lie, her face growing paler as she realized how close to danger she’d been, what if the monster had attacked her? How close had the monster been? Had it attacked while she’d been with Tom? Or right after she left?

Snape, the head of Slytherin house, walked through the portrait doorway, holding a scroll in his hands. “Attention, all of you.” Snape said, sounding drearier and more serious than normal. That was freaky, since Snape never panicked about anything. “Due to the recent events, these new rules will be effective immediately. All students will return to their house common rooms by six o’clock every evening. No student is to leave the common rooms after that time. You will be escorted to each lesson by a teacher. No student is to use the bathroom unaccompanied by a teacher. All further quidditch training and matches are to be postponed. There will be no more evening activities.”

Many of the students groaned at the very restricting rules. “But no Slytherins have been attacked!” Draco Malfoy complained, and Snape silenced him with a glare.

“We will not be taking those risks, Mr. Malfoy. Any breaking of these rules and you will find yourself back in London before you can even whine.” Snape drawled, pinning the scroll to the common room info board. “And I should tell you, unless the perpetrator behind these attacks is caught, it is likely the school will close.”

With a flare of his robes, Snape dramatically left the Slytherin common room, locking it behind him. Everyone looked at each other, wary that one of them might be the heir of Slytherin-the reason behind the attacks. It was a running joke that Harry Potter was the heir, due to his parseltongue ability, but that’s all it was-a joke.

(y/n), however, was mentally panicking, remembering that odd dream from months ago, remembering herself speaking parseltongue. But she’d also overheard Potter and his friends talking about how Tom told them that Hagrid was the one accused of opening the chamber last time.

And she couldn’t ask Tom to confirm that right now, as he was going to take a rest due to him using his limited magic to keep her from straining her own magic while he kept her in his subspace. She sighed heavily, rubbing her face.

The attack, the double attack, had happened while she’d been in the library, the library was where the attack had happened-and most likely while she’d been asleep.

What if…what if she was the culprit? What if she, unknowingly, was the heir of Slytherin somehow and had been doing things while unconscious?

Merlin that was a terrifying what-if.

She was muggle-born, that was true, but muggleborns had to have some sort of magical lineage in their blood, what if…what if the witch/wizard in her bloodline had been a descendant of Salazar?

Fuck she hoped not.

God, she wished she could talk to Tom right now, he always knew what to say to calm her down when she was spiraling.

Hours later, it was announced Dumbledore had been suspended by the school board and Hagrid had been arrested and sent to Azkaban.

Fuck.

-end of part 6-

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@slytherinbackintomyroom @starryhiraeth @larallott

@kayytt-2 @chimchoom @joyfulnightmare-hq

@theicypiscean

#tom riddle x reader #tom riddle #tom riddle imagine #harry potter fanfiction #Diary Tom Riddle #chamber of secrets

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gav-san · 10 days ago

Text

Rubbed The Wrong Way

Main Masterlist Here

Bleach Masterlist

Shinji Hirako x Reader One-Shot Length: 14 K+

Themes: Slow Burn, Estranged Married Couple, Emotionally Repressed Female Lead, Second Chances, Estranged Lovers Reunited, Emotional Repression vs. Loud Affection, Found Family (Visoreds + Squad Life), Slow-Burn Reconciliation, Weaponized Domesticity, Emotional Maturity (Eventually), Jazz, Paperwork, and Emotional Damage

You were pretty sure the captain of the Fifth Division had a crush on you.

Not the passing ‘she’s cute’ kind you’d get from someone glimpsing Jushiro Ukitake, or even the flirtatious, vaguely offensive kind, like that guy from the other district who gave you a wink so salty it felt like a personal attack. No, this was the awkward kind. The ‘he does dumb things when you’re around’ kind. The ‘too-much’ attention kind.

This is precisely why life went sideways when the ever-composed Retsu Unohana decided, without warning, to transfer you to the Third Division. You went from the sterile calm of Fourth to full-blown chaos.

Captain Rojuro Otoribashi, better known as Rose, wasn’t a bad man. He had a perpetually bored expression and a laid-back vibe, but he wasn’t unpleasant. Just… hopeless at paperwork.

You were not.

In fact, you were dangerously good at it. You finished your morning assignments in the first hour of the day. And because you weren’t cautious enough to feign incompetence, you soon found yourself staying late with the captain, drowning in documents he couldn’t be bothered to do himself.

It wasn’t all terrible. Rose liked music, talked endlessly about the latest human fashion trends, and had a decent taste in books. But he also insisted on tuning some ridiculous instrument he’d picked up from his last trip while you did his job. He’d slip out with a lazy smile and a too-polite “Could you finish this for me?”

Eleven PM became three AM.

And your temper, unsurprisingly, rose.

You were knee-deep in paperwork, ink smudged on your nose, elbow-deep in regret, when the door to the captain’s office slammed open. The paper slider nearly came off its rails before slamming shut with a dramatic thud. You startled so hard that your brush jerked, splattering ink across your uniform and half the desk.

Offended, exhausted, and absolutely out of patience, you turned to glare at the intruder. Only to find yourself face-to-face with the blonde menace known as Shinji Hirako.

The white haori announced his rank, but not his purpose. Why he was in this division, at this hour, remained a mystery. Still, you stood stiffly, back aching but respectful.

“Captain?” you asked, voice barely audible and breathy in a way that sounded more ghost than girl.

He stood in the doorway like he owned it, all long golden hair, sharp jawline, and narrowed brown eyes full of smugness. You’d heard of him. How that crooked smile and devil-may-care attitude had caused stronger men to second-guess their choices. The man had a reputation.

But what he said next wasn’t dangerous. It was tragic.

“Heeeey. What’s a woman like you doin’ in a place like this?” he drawled, leaning on the desk with lazy familiarity. “Waitin’ for me in my office? That’s bold~”

Silence stretched between you, echoing in the quiet like a bad punchline.

It was a horrible first line. The kind that made you wonder if alcohol was actively eating his brain. You glared, channeling every ounce of dignity left in your paper-stained, ink-blotted body, which wasn’t much. You looked like a living Rorschach test.

“This is the Third Division. Captain Rose’s office,” you informed him calmly, hoping logic might snap him out of it.

It did not.

He blinked, slow as molasses, then his grin widened to show off an unsettling amount of fang. Your heart fluttered against your will. Rude.

“Heeeeeeyyyyyyyyyyyyyy.” Suddenly, he was behind you, sliding his arms around your shoulders like this was some tragic rom-com. His voice was syrupy and slurred. “That’s not nice, cutie. Be nice to your captaiiiinnnnn. I had a long dayyyyyy.”

So he was drunk. Confirmed.

“Gimme a smooch to make it betterrrrrr,” he whispered right against your ear.

You were pretty sure your ears turned red. Maybe your entire soul.

Because, okay, his arms were strong. And warm. And yes, it had been a while since anyone called you “cutie” without it being an insult or an HR incident.

But no. Absolutely not. That was definitely the smell of alcohol.

Hard stop.

“I don’t even know you!” you protested, face blazing. He clung to you like an octopus, undeterred by your stumbling, elbowing, or increasingly unhinged yelps.

“You’re being difficult! Stop being… Difficult and listen. Your making this harder—”

“I’m not hard, sweetheart. At least… not yet.”

His voice dropped an octave with that disgusting little chuckle, and you shuddered full-body. That, of course, only encouraged him. He pulled you closer, grinning like a schoolboy with a death wish.

“Get off me!” you shrieked as he suddenly grabbed a handful of your ass, very much proving the “not yet” portion of his earlier comment had expired.

“Heyyyy, saucy~ I think you’re my new first lo—”

That’s when the puddle of spilled ink came into play.

Your foot slipped, his weight tipped forward, and the two of you collapsed over the desk in a flurry of limbs, curses, and precisely stacked paperwork. You landed hard, wind knocked out of you, the captain’s full weight crashing down on top. Paper fluttered into the air like some tragic romantic comedy written by Satan himself.

His face dropped into the crook of your neck with a soft thump.

Then… he nuzzled.

And then? He fell asleep.

Dead asleep.

Like a bastard.

“GET OFF ME!” you howled, squirming helplessly under the unconscious menace. He snored into your collarbone. Arms still wrapped, rather inappropriately, around your chest.

It took until six a.m. for the Third Division lieutenant to find you like that. You locked eyes with him, disheveled and ink-streaked, hair everywhere, a sleeping Captain Hirako draped over you like a particularly cursed throw blanket.

“I’m sick,” you said through gritted teeth. “Tell Rose I’m not coming in.”

The lieutenant, wisely, did not question you.

By midday, you sat in the barracks wrapped in a blanket, arms crossed, teeth clenched. Your bunkmate had long since scampered off, giving you the solitude you needed to stew in your fury.

And that’s when your captain entered.

Captain Rose stepped into the room, graceful as always, but with the cautious energy of a man who knew a storm when he saw it. Your eyes snapped to him, burning with righteous indignation. He visibly winced.

“I heard you received a… visit from Shinji,” he offered carefully.

You didn’t answer. Just stared.

“I was told he mistook the Third Division office for—”

Your eyes narrowed. Your jaw clenched.

“Mistook?” you repeated, barely able to get the word out without bursting into flames. “Mistook?”

Because mistakenly identifying an office didn’t explain the groping. The unsolicited cuddling. The nap.

What it did deserve was a formal harassment complaint. Not that those ever did much in Soul Society, but the fantasy of writing one helped your blood pressure stabilize.

Temporarily.

Rose, still hovering near the door like he was debating escape, cleared his throat. “Would… a full day off, a bottle of sake, and two weeks of desk-free assignments help… with the healing process?”

You considered.

And very, very slowly… nodded.

But only once.

And only because the thought of paperwork made your eye twitch.

“Well, actually,” Rose added nervously, “he’s hoping you’d talk to him. Right now. He feels… awfully bad.”

Behind your captain, a suspicious blond tuft of hair fluttered into view from behind the doorframe. You hadn’t even felt any reiatsu.

“You brought that man here?” you hissed, arms crossing with the wrath of someone dangerously close to snapping. The blond head guiltily retreated. Rose waved a hand with weak optimism.

“It was an honest accident. And besides, you can’t avoid a captain for the rest of your life—”

“Yes, I can.”

He blinked. “It’s not a healthy solution.”

You hated that he was right. You had been groped. But still, Rose had a point. Maybe if you let the idiot come in, spatula an apology out of his dumbass mouth, and pretended to accept it, you could get on with your life.

“…”

“I’ll give you the weekend off.”

“Fine.”

Rose nodded toward the door, like a coward.

This time, Shinji didn’t bounce in with his usual smug energy. He slunk, frowning, with white teeth too prominent against a nervous grimace. With more betrayal than you thought Rose capable of, he promptly stepped out and shut the door behind him, locking you inside with the source of your humiliation.

Turns out Captain Shinji Hirako wasn’t terrible when he wasn’t drunk.

He was worse.

“Hey,” he said, lifting his hand in a half-hearted wave before realizing how stupid it looked. It hovered in midair before landing behind his head like he was posing for a particularly awkward mugshot. “Sorry ’bout last night.”

That was it?

“Uh. Okay.” The words escaped more out of reflex than any sense of closure. You weren’t sure he even felt sorry. You just wanted this over with.

But he didn’t leave. He stayed. Watching you. Like he knew exactly how empty your forgiveness had sounded.

“I mean, you’re cute,” he began, tone light, “but I wouldn’t have jumped on ya like that if I’d been in my right mind.”

You dropped your arms in disbelief. Oh. So now he was going to insult you?

He paused, apparently realizing what had come out of his own stupid mouth.

You didn’t yell. You didn’t curse. You walked right past him with the grace of someone who’d hit their limit two breakdowns ago and caught a subtle whiff of something foresty and annoyingly nice. You’d resent liking it until much, much later.

“Don’t worry, Captain,” you said coldly, the title sharp as a knife. “As you said, I’m not particularly cute enough to worry about a second… incident.”

You opened the door with more flourish than necessary, just in time to see Rose standing suspiciously nearby, definitely pretending to be interested in the wall. Shinji hesitated, then walked out, halting, regretful. You noted, only distantly, that his eyes were actually a pretty shade of brown.

Too bad he was an asshat.

Just as you started to shut the door, he turned back. That careless glint in his expression was gone.

“I’m sorry. Sometimes my mouth runs away with me,” he said quietly, and for a second, he actually sounded like he meant it.

You met his eyes.

“Then, Captain, I suggest you let it take you far, far away.”

And you slammed the door.

It was the most satisfying thing you’d done all week.

If only he’d stayed gone.

“I ain’t crashing no bitchin’ party,” Shinji grumbled, arms folded deep into his sleeves. “Ain’t my fault the woman’s still mad.”

Across the office, Rose sighed dramatically, flipping his hair over his shoulder like the exhaustion of the world lived in his follicles.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is to find someone with the magic touch for paperwork?” he asked, voice coated in sugar and venom. “She’s blatantly refused all requests for help. Says she has no reason to be insulted and reminded of your face just to get work done.”

Shinji slouched further into his chair, lips jutting into a pout.

“Shame. She’s a cute one.”

“Mm,” Rose hummed, tone a bit too airy. “Not many women think you’re an attractive captain and a competent one. And you managed to ruin it with the one who did. Tragic, really.”

He said it like a casual jab. A lie he wanted caught.

And sure enough, Shinji sat up like someone lit a firecracker under him.

“Wait. Waitttt. Hard stop, Rose, my man.” His grin grew dangerously wide. “You sayin’ she thinks I’m all that jazz?”

Rose gave him the driest look imaginable. “I said she did.”

“But did is past tense,” Shinji argued, already halfway to standing. “And I’m very charming in the present tense.”

Rose rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out. “Yes. And very punishable in the future tense if you blow this twice.”

For the record, no, you had not said you thought Shinji was attractive.

What you had actually said, when Rose asked if things were “resolved,” was: “It’s too bad a decent captain could be such a creep.”

You’d blushed, sure. Mostly out of residual mortification at remembering those slender fingers grabbing your ass, not out of secret affection.

Naturally, Rose had taken that out of context.

And Shinji, being a blonde disaster wrapped in a haori, had somehow interpreted all of this as you playing hard to get.

You weren’t.

You were playing stop-being-stupid, which turned out to be infinitely harder.

The next day, a bouquet of flowers appeared on your desk. No card. Just a dramatic, ill-advised splash of bright yellow roses.

You stared at them.

Yellow.

So, basically, you were his grandmother now.

With absolutely no ceremony, you dumped them straight into the trash bin while he watched.

“Hey!” Shinji whined from the hallway, clearly scandalized. He turned to Rose, hands thrown up. “I hand-picked those this morning! Cost me an arm and a leg!”

“For such an intelligent man,” Rose sighed, flipping his perfectly maintained hair over his shoulder, “you truly have no finesse.”

“Whadda mean?”

“I mean, she’s not the type of woman impressed by… whatever that was. You need a more intelligent approach. More thoughtful.”

“Shuddup,” Shinji scoffed. “You don’t know who you’re talkin’ to. I’m the king of smooth moves.”

He was not.

But Rose didn’t have the heart to tell him.

His next tactics included chocolates, awkward scrolls filled with poetry, and a collection of increasingly obnoxious trinkets that made it abundantly clear he had no idea what he was doing. Each gift screamed I read too many romance novels, likely borrowed from Captain Kyōraku’s personal stash. None were signed, but they didn’t need to be.

It wasn’t just the gifts. That would’ve been bad enough in a “creepy high school crush” sort of way.

No. It couldn’t be easy. The man checked in on you.

Constantly.

Like a jealous boyfriend who wasn’t even dating you.

“’ Sup,” he asked, appearing in the exact same doorframe he’d burst into that first night. You and Rose were elbows-deep in division paperwork, but your captain didn’t so much as blink.

“Hey, Shinji,” Rose said smoothly, not even looking up. You had no choice but to acknowledge him with the barest nod.

“What are you doing all the way over here?” Rose asked, tone polite.

“Oh, just seeing how things are going,” Shinji replied, grinning like a fox who thought he was subtle. Spoiler: he was not.

These casual pop-ins became frequent. Too frequent. And just suspiciously normal enough that if you complained, you would sound unhinged.

You were approached, interrupted, followed, and hovered over. The bars you liked? Now his hangouts. Your favorite tea shop? Suddenly, “his regular.” Even your hobbies weren’t safe.

He once showed up at your embroidery circle and tried to make a sock puppet.

So, you did what any rational woman at her wits’ end would do.

You grabbed his poor lieutenant by the collar and hissed, “Keep. Your captain. Away from me.”

Sōsuke Aizen, who looked as threatening as a sad cloud, gently blinked at you.

“I’m sorry,” he said with the kind of soft, noncommittal dread that only came from years of dealing with Shinji. “But I don’t… really control him. Any interference from me might… worsen things.”

He wasn’t lying.

You eventually wrangled an exhausted, verbal agreement out of him anyway.

Which, as Aizen warned, only made it worse.

Shinji somehow interpreted this as a challenge. You saying no? Clearly a flirty come on. You asking for space? Obviously, a sign that you were growing emotionally invested.

Thank the Soul King for his duties as a captain, because anytime he wasn’t working, he was hunting for you.

This is why, on one otherwise peaceful afternoon, while wandering the farmer’s market, you picked up on the barest shift in spiritual pressure. Faint but unmistakable.

“Captain Hirako,” you said without turning around, “please stop following me.”

He emerged from behind the cabbage stall like a blonde ghost of regret, hand behind his head, long hair shining in the sun, white haori billowing dramatically like he meant to be seen.

“Hey,” he said casually, eyes crinkling. “How’s it goin’? Did you find those leeks you were lookin’ for?”

You froze.

Your eyebrow twitched skyward.

Because yes, you had been looking for leeks. Silently. Ten minutes ago. On the other end of the market.

And despite his generally idiotic behavior, you were struck with the sudden realization that Shinji Hirako wasn’t just a mess.

He was paying attention.

Creepily well.

“Please,” you said, turning to him with the exhaustion of a woman spiritually hunted. “What do I have to do to make you stop?”

You stood between the tomato and potato stands, glaring up at him like the produce could back you up. The vendors looked on in hushed awe, unsure whether they witnessed a romantic drama, a public meltdown, or a hostage negotiation.

Shinji straightened, visibly delighted. His smile bloomed across his entire face, so wide it nearly curled into his ears.

“Well,” he drawled, tone pure mischief, “how ’bout we hit a club tonight? One’a mine.”

Your soul tried to leave your body.

A club.

You hated clubs.

The music, the sweat, the people grinding without consent, every inch of it made your skin crawl. Which, naturally, meant he would love it.

You stared at him. He grinned wider. A blonde threat in white robes and poor impulse control.

So you did the only thing you could think of.

You agreed.

“Fine,” you said flatly. “Let’s go.”

He blinked in surprise. “Wait—really?”

“Yes.” Your voice was hollow. “Tonight. Your club. Great.”

You said it with the firm conviction of someone signing a peace treaty in a war they never enlisted for. Because if it got him off your back, if this ridiculous date made him lose interest and leave you the hell alone, then so be it.

Maybe then you could return to your peaceful, unremarkable life.

Unbothered. Unfollowed.

Unfondled.

And yet… something in his eyes sparkled.

The jazz club was one of those strange new human trends that had taken the Soul Society by storm, especially among captains. Rose, in particular, had spoken with open jealousy about how Shinji owned something called a record player, a human device capable of playing music on demand. He’d sounded betrayed.

But it wasn’t just the music. The fashion had caught on, too. People dressed up in slim, modern garments; shorter hemlines, sharper silhouettes, all the rage in certain districts.

Wanting to blend in, you traded your usual shihakushō for a sleek black dress that hit just at your knees, edged with a flirtatious fringe at the hem. Long gloves, bare shoulders. It was bold for you, maybe even a little edgy. But compared to the showier outfits floating through the club, you looked modest.

Shinji was waiting outside.

Still in his captain’s haori, of course. It made sense. As a seated officer, he had a duty to always signify his rank, even in places like this. But the stark white robe looked almost out of place against the smoky glow of the neon sign behind him.

“Captain,” you greeted, trying to stay neutral as his gaze slid over you appreciatively.

“Just call me Shinji,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Calling me ‘captain’ is for people I don’t like.”

You’d barely opened your mouth to protest before he added, “And you don’t wanna be one of those, do ya?”

Despite yourself and everything that had come before, you found yourself humoring him.

To your surprise, once inside and tucked into a quieter booth away from the crowd, he was… actually fun to be around. Genuinely funny. Charismatic without trying too hard. A natural storyteller who laughed at his own dumb jokes and didn’t even flinch when you landed a solid jab at his pride.

There was a rhythm to it. Easy. Unexpected.

And as much as you hated to admit it, you really hated to admit it. There wasn’t anyone quite like him.

Toward the end of the evening, you excused yourself to visit the restroom. Not because you needed to. But because you needed a minute. A moment to step back and reassess the situation. The night. Him.

This wasn’t where you’d expected to be.

You’d always kept to yourself, intentionally skirting recognition. Performed just poorly enough to never qualify for a seated position. Only excelled in paperwork because doing nothing drove you insane. You liked privacy. Quiet. Simplicity.

And now here you were, in gloves and fringe, sipping a smoky drink across from a captain who once fell asleep on top of you, wrapped around your neck like a scarf, and yet somehow managed to charm his way into your guarded evening.

It was disorienting.

You stared at yourself in the restroom mirror. Same face. Same eyes. Same dull ache of not knowing what the hell you were doing.

But when you walked back out into the haze of warm light and low music, your eyes instinctively found him, lounging in the booth, one arm slung over the backrest, head tilted as he watched the band.

Sighing and deciding to just wing it, you stepped out of the bathroom and back into the haze of warm lights and swinging jazz. And the moment he spotted you, his grin returned like it was instinct. Like he was happy to see you.

Unfortunately, fate decided you needed more complications tonight.

You barely made it past the bar when a middle-aged man, clearly several drinks past charming, caught sight of you and lit up like a bonfire.

“Hey, dollface,” he slurred, grabbing your arm. “How ’bout we spend the rest of the night together?”

You didn’t even blink. Channeling your inner secretarial menace, you neatly pried his hand off your arm with a look so sharp it could’ve cut glass. He stumbled backward, right into a group of burly, bad-attitude muscleheads.

One punch later, your drunken admirer was on the ground, groaning.

The muscleheads turned to you.

Menacing and ready to fight.

Until a white-robed arm slid smoothly over your shoulders.

The air shifted.

The men glanced up, eyes landing on the haori, then on the expression underneath it.

Shinji looked offended. Not angry. Not irritated. Personally offended.

Teeth bared, eyes narrowed, he didn’t even say anything. Just existed.

It was enough.

The men backed off, muttering apologies and vanishing into the crowd.

He led you away from the chaos, hand warm on your arm.

“Captain—” you began.

“Shinji, dollface,” he corrected smoothly, voice lazy but possessive. “And I’m the only guy who gets to call you that, m’kay?”

The tone was somehow both reassuring and insulting. A neat trick.

You stared at him. “Why didn’t you help earlier?”

He turned his head, the grin back in full force. “You talk such a rough game. Figured I’d give ya a chance. See if you were gonna ditch me for that guy. If ya had, I would’ve backed off for good.”

You blinked. “Dear Soul King… that’s all I had to do?”

“I knew you wouldn’t,” he said cheerfully. “You’re too honest, cupcake. You really are my first love.”

You went scarlet.

“Don’t say that!” you hissed. “Besides, why let the creeps crowd me if you thought I could handle it?”

He winked, tugging you closer.

“It’s one thing for a guy to flirt with a cutie like you. But if they really come after my girl?” His hand tightened gently on your shoulder. “Then there’s hell to pay.”

You opened your mouth to correct him, to say you weren’t his anything.

But nothing came out.

Because despite the teasing, the nonsense, the full-force Shinji-ness of it all… There was something oddly wonderful about him.

Something marvelous, even.

It took Shinji five years to get you to verbally commit to him.

Another fifteen to convince Rose to finally let you transfer.

He’d also been forced to transfer his fourth seat to another division to avoid a scandal, which caused a minor upheaval and many long nights of paperwork. Paperwork you were now, conveniently, there to solve.

But even with you in the Fifth Division, and the obvious familiarity between you and the captain, most of the squad still didn’t realize you were a couple. Shinji never formally announced it, and you weren’t the type to overshare. Instead, it lived in the details. In the way he leaned into your space when he didn’t have to, the way you snatched reports from his hand before he could ruin them, the way he muttered lovingly vulgar things under his breath while arguing with the record player like it owed him money.

You had even, eventually, apologized to Sōsuke Aizen.

Much to his amusement.

And Shinji’s visible disdain.

Still, he never really minded your independence. He let you go on missions as you pleased, so long as you came home to him.

Lieutenant Aizen, for his part, looked increasingly grateful whenever you swept in, shooed him out, and took over the ungodly mountain of paperwork. You had a strong suspicion that Shinji made the poor man’s life harder than necessary, deliberately assigning him nonsense just to test his patience. Or yours.

Shinji also never left the two of you alone for long.

He said he trusted you. He did. But that didn’t mean he liked the way Aizen looked at you when you were deep in thought, biting your lip and drafting reports with that efficient little frown.

Shinji liked to tease you, summoning you with all the power and authority of a squad captain just to whisper some horrifically embarrassing pet name and grin when your ears turned red. Sometimes you’d storm off in a rage, only to end up at Rose’s office, dramatically throwing yourself into a chair.

“Please, Captain. Take me back.”

“I can’t kidnap you from your husband,” Rose replied, deadpan.

“He won’t even notice,” you lied. “He’s been complaining about bananas for three hours. I need a break.”

Rose would roll his eyes, and Shinji would appear minutes later, smug and unrepentant.

But then the nights came. Quiet, golden-lit nights. Jazz playing on the record player. A steaming drink in hand. Shinji stretched out on the floor, arms crossed behind his head, humming along and grinning when you walked into the room like he’d been waiting for you the whole time.

And you’d remember why you gave in to the exasperating, ridiculous, deeply devoted man who fought with the lieutenant from Twelfth Squad like it was a hobby.

Your life in the Soul Society had once been predictable. Quiet. Manageable.

Now it was chaos. Loud, exhausting, infuriating chaos.

And somehow… better.

Learning to see the world in color had taken time. Years. But watching it fade to black and white again took only a moment.

“He’s gone.”

Sōsuke Aizen stood alone in the long hall, voice low but sure, watching your face with clinical precision. You’d never been alone with him before, never had reason to be. Now, with no one else around, no laughter echoing down the corridor, no footsteps to fill the silence, it felt as if the entire world had tilted.

“The captain and several other powerful captain-level members were convicted by the Gotei 13 for illegal experiments,” he said.

It was delivered as fact. Crisp. Final.

Friends, mentors, people you’d known and trusted—loved—disappeared from your life as if they’d stepped into fog and never turned back. Shinji among them.

And the worst part?

It had happened on a regular day. He’d been called out for a simple mission. No fanfare. No goodbyes.

By the time you realized it was real, it was already done.

It crushed you. But you were not thin-skinned. Lazy, yes. Irritable, definitely. But not fragile. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you had always known that captains lived dangerous lives. Still, you had never imagined he’d vanish like a ghost. No body, no word, just gone.

You nodded with a grace you didn’t feel.

“Pardon me, Lieutenant.”

Aizen stepped aside, recognizing the finality in your tone. But just as you passed him, his hand settled lightly on your shoulder.

You stopped.

When you turned to look at him, there was a flicker in his expression. Something that didn’t belong. Triumph? Disappointment? Like your reaction had let him down. Like you hadn’t fallen apart enough.

That flicker vanished as quickly as it came, his eyes growing colder in its place.

You turned from that look.

“I’m so sorry,” he said softly, almost rehearsed. “Would you like to stay here this evening? I could make some tea. Just sit with you, if you’d prefer not to be alone.”

It sounded kind. It should have been kind.

But something in his voice, in the weight of those perfectly formed words, made your skin prickle.

You stared at him.

Hard.

And something shifted. He withdrew his hand.

His expression wasn’t cruel. But it wasn’t comforting either. It was a quiet wall, built deliberately between you.

“…No.”

He froze.

“Excuse me,” you said instead, voice clipped and clean.

You walked into the night, shivering, not from cold, but from the lingering press of his gaze. It wasn’t violent, but it was invasive. Alert. Hungry. You tried to dismiss it. He had lost his captain, too. And no matter how irritating Shinji had been to him, how immature, how unpredictable, lieutenants still took that kind of loss hard.

Still… you remembered the only time Shinji ever looked truly furious outside of battle.

It was when Sōsuke had casually asked if you’d like to accompany him on a mission.

“No,” Shinji had said immediately, voice sharp as a blade. “Do yer own work, Sōsuke. She ain’t pickin’ up your slack.”

You’d both been shocked. It was the first time Shinji had ever spoken to him like that in front of you.

And like a madwoman, you laughed.

Laughed until it cracked into sobs, curling in on yourself on the floor of your quarters. You wept until dawn, and then rose the next day with your uniform pressed and your hair immaculate. No one would see the wreckage.

You watched as Aizen became captain. Selected a new lieutenant. He tried to give you a ranked seat, which you declined. You kept your desk. Kept your distance. Watched him try, and fail, to breach your quiet, well-armored grief.

The years passed like paperwork, fast, impersonal, endless.

Shinji Hirako had been dead for ninety years.

And the light in your life had never fully returned.

With time refusing to rewind, it was only now that you let yourself realize it. To truly realize it.

It was over.

The vibrant color he had brought to your world had faded, slow and unnoticed, until now it dripped like paint down a wall, pooling into gray.

Into silence.

All that remained was memory.

A golden-haired idiot. Loud, crass, warm. A man with a grin that could cut through dimensions and a heart so loud it anchored yours. A man who made you feel seen. Pulled you into the chaos. Gave you reason to resist the creeping numbness.

And now he was gone.

Ninety Years Later

Karakura Town was one of those places. The kind of place where spiritual activity ran thick through the air. A hotbed for hollows. A nightmare for patrol shifts.

And, for you?

Right now, a whole lot of boring.

You sat on a rooftop, knees drawn up, arms crossed over them, chin balanced lazily on your forearms. You’d been assigned solo to this sector, and there hadn’t been so much as a weak hollow all night. Even the humans were too quiet.

Unseen, a short distance away, several spiritual presences flickered behind layered concealment. Too subtle for even your sharp senses.

“Dollface.”

The nickname cut through the air like an old scar tearing open. Your shoulders twitched, instincts snapping to attention before your brain caught up.

Shinji sighed from his hidden perch, watching the back of your head like a ghost clinging to the last thread of a life he couldn’t touch.

“That’s my girl.”

There had been hollows earlier. But the second your spiritual pressure had flared near his location, he’d annihilated every single one. Viciously. Quietly.

She doesn’t even know, Rose thought with quiet dismay as he stepped beside him in the shadowed loft of the old industrial building the Visoreds had claimed as their hideout.

“You still love her?” Rose asked softly.

Shinji’s lips pulled back in a flash of teeth, disapproval first. Then, a dreamy sigh.

“’ Course. She’s still cute as a button.”

The look on his face made several of them groan audibly.

“But you’re not going to see her?” Rose pressed, glancing down at you from their hiding spot.

“I thought you’d tackle her,” Hiyori muttered from her perch, arms crossed tightly.

“He never shuts up about her,” she added. That earned her a sharp side-eye from Shinji, effectively shutting everyone up.

“She’s under that bastard’s thumb,” Shinji muttered finally. “I show my face, he’ll know. And he’ll use her.”

A beat passed.

“I ain’t gonna ruin her life som’more.”

“You’re assuming she’s not already ruined by you not being in it,” Rose replied, voice light but serious beneath.

“Yoruichi said she doesn’t have a boyfriend,” Kensei offered, stepping forward. “Said she doesn’t trust Aizen. She just… floats. Gets by. She might help us get close.”

“I’m not draggin’ her into this!” Shinji snapped, eyes flashing. “She ain’t got nothin’ to do with this mess.”

“She’d call you out for that,” Hiyori said dryly, standing and dusting off her shorts. “Say you’re full of crap and kick your ass.”

“Both,” Love agreed from the lower level, sprawled on the couch.

“Yay! True love!” Mashiro chirped brightly, clapping her hands.

Shinji gritted his teeth hard enough to crack one.

“Ain’t gonna happen. And if any of ya even try, I’ll kill ya.”

Before anyone could reply, his eyes flared, locked on a spike in spiritual pressure.

“Gotta go,” he said quickly. “Don’t let her outta yer sight. Or I swear, I’ll crush ya.”

With one hand gripping the brim of his bucket hat, he darted through the door and vanished into the shadows.

Rose exhaled long and slow.

“Goodness,” he murmured, almost fond, “he’s still a fool.”

“Should we get her?” Kensei asked, expression unreadable.

Rose watched the skyline.

Then shook his head.

“He’s not that much of a fool.”

The eventual defection of Aizen was not something you were incapable of comprehending in the moment.

His bald-faced betrayal, buried within the chaos surrounding the human intruders, blindsided nearly everyone, including you. There had always been something off about your captain. But you had chalked it up to awkward social behavior. Maybe a little too polished. Maybe trying too hard to make you like him.

You hadn’t realized you were just a pawn.

A decoy.

Collateral damage, meant only to hurt someone else. His old captain, the one who once snarled, “She ain’t picking up yer slack.”

Aizen destroyed lives like he was brushing lint off his shoulder.

Yours? He didn’t even bother aiming. Just stepped on it as he walked past.

You took some petty satisfaction in knowing you might be the only person who ever threatened him and lived. Just once, though, you would really like to hit him with a very big stick.

But there was no time for curling in on yourself, no space to cry or vomit or fall apart like Momo had. Not then. Not now. You didn’t crumble. You wouldn’t crumble.

Captain Yamamoto had forcibly promoted you to Third Seat after the former one disappeared. You hadn’t had the guts to refuse.

So you picked up the shattered pieces of the squad. Held Momo while she wept. Screamed at stunned officers to focus. Filed every soul-shattering report with mechanical efficiency. Including the one that read, in uncharacteristically blunt handwriting:

“Defected because he is an evil bastard.”

Central 46 didn’t even challenge it. Captain-Lieutenant Chōjirō may have even chuckled when he signed off on it.

When word came that Aizen was targeting Karakura Town, you personally tried to enlist. Yamamoto told you, in short: No. You’re too valuable here.

Paperwork over vengeance. As always.

So once again, you sat in the Soul Society, doing the boring, practical thing while someone else fought the world-ending battle. Whether or not you’d get breakfast the next morning depended on whether someone else won or lost.

(For the record: no. You didn’t get breakfast.)

But not because the world ended.

Because your world was about to punch through the roof, upend itself, and drag you kicking and screaming into the kind of chaos you were built to file around, not through.

You were keeping order, as usual, when it happened.

“Hey!” a young Shinigami ran up to you, beaming like an idiot. “The captains are back! They got the bastard!”

Relief flooded through you. Maybe now, finally, you could relax.

“And guess what! A whole bunch of old captains showed up too! Like, surprise, they’ve been alive this whole time!”

Your hand paused, hovering above a new form.

“What?”

“Yeah! Captain Yamamoto reinstated them to their old positions! One of the returnees already got squad five! Some dude with blonde hair—”

You cut in darkly, voice low and sharp:

“And a creepy smile?”

“Uh… yeah? You know him?”

You stood slowly.

And then, for the first time in your professional life, you shoved the entire stack of papers off your desk.

The desk followed.

You threw your ink pot at the door.

And then you stormed out, blazing past the bewildered officer, down the corridor, past the barracks, through the market stalls, shoulders squared, eyes wild, fists clenched like divine retribution made mortal.

You didn’t stop until you reached the edge of town.

To that house.

The one by the river.

The one you hadn’t visited in ninety years.

Dust covered everything. The windows had held up. No one had looted a thing, not even the record player on the table, silent and ancient, buried in a decade’s worth of stillness.

Your possessions sat untouched.

You stood in the doorway, seething.

And for a moment, just a moment, you considered throwing the whole house into the river.

But that would be childish.

No.

You would throw him off a cliff.

You squinted blearily at the flash of bright blonde entering the club. The bar you’d chosen specifically for not being associated with emotional trauma.

For a moment, your heart leapt in panic before your alcohol-soaked brain confirmed.

Too short. Hair too stiff. Definitely more “depressed poetry club” than “chaotic jazz menace.”

Not him.

Just Izuru Kira.

Welp. That called for another shot.

He gave a little wave in your direction. You raised one limp hand in what you hoped looked like “I acknowledge your existence, not your presence.”

Great.

He slid into the seat across from you, too polite to comment on the empty glasses littering the table.

“How are you holding up?” he asked gently.

You downed the shot in response. If he was looking for insight, that was all he was getting.

“Right,” he said. “That well, huh.”

He looked tired. More than usual. Dark circles under his eyes, posture like a melting snowman. A bandage peeked out from under his collar when he reached for the bottle.

You didn’t reply immediately, staring down into the molten burn of your next shot. After a beat, you muttered, “Heard about Cap… Gin. I’m sorry.”

He nodded again, jaw tightening. His already pale face seemed to drain further. A bandage peeked from beneath his collar as he shifted.

“It’s over,” he said in the tone of someone who absolutely hadn’t processed anything. “Change is inevitable. Resistance is pointless.”

Right. You forgot how inspirational he was.

Still, tonight? Melancholy was your drink of choice, so you slammed back another shot like it owed you money. He mirrored you. It was… oddly comforting.

“So.” He blinked. “Why are you drinking like someone canceled your soul?”

You stared at him.

You took a breath.

“My dead husband,” you began flatly, “who has been moonlighting in the human world like some trench coat-wearing drama king for ninety years, has just reappeared and been reinstated as my squad’s captain.”

There was a moment of silence so heavy you could’ve folded it into a futon.

Kira blinked.

“Holy shit,” he breathed.

“Exactly,” you said, deadpan. “I have officially entered Prime Asshole Territory.”

Kira poured another round like a man settling in for a slow descent into mutual disillusionment.

He let out a low whistle. “That… yeah. That’s a new one.”

“Oh, wait,” you said, grabbing the bottle and sloshing a bit too enthusiastically into your glass. “It gets better. Everyone’s thrilled. Like he’s some long-lost golden retriever who has come back from war. Meanwhile, I’m on drink number nine, drafting a comprehensive list of cliffs.”

He raised his glass, brows arched. “Is he on the list?”

“He is the list. Everyone else is a bonus entry.”

You clinked glasses like it was a sacred ritual.

“To absolute disasters who somehow get promoted.”

“To emotional damage wrapped in a haori.”

You both drank.

There was a beat of silence that tasted like shared bitterness and impeccable comedic timing.

And for the first time that day, you almost smiled.

Almost.

A little ways away, behind two poorly held menus, two absolute idiots crouched like spies with the subtlety of a brick.

“Yer kidding,” Shinji hissed, face twisted in righteous offense, teeth bared like a raccoon caught mid-heist. “She finds out I’m alive and she’s getting drunk?”

“She doesn’t exactly look like she’s planning a romantic reunion,” Rose murmured, shifting the menu to block his face from a particularly judgmental waiter. “You might, and I say this with love, desperately need a new strategy. Preferably one involving an apology and not teeth.”

“She’s drinkin’ with him!” Shinji seethed. “That paperclip-lookin’ bastard!”

“Kira is sad,” Rose said flatly. “Drinking with him doesn’t count as emotional infidelity. At best, it’s group depression.”

“Still!” Shinji hissed. “He’s leanin’ close! He laughed at her joke!”

“You haven’t made her laugh since before you faked your death and abandoned her for nearly a century, so—”

“Okay!” Shinji smacked the table, rattling the soy sauce. “That’s it. I’m goin’ over there.”

Rose calmly stuck his arm out to block him. “You’ll make it worse.”

“She’s makin’ lists of cliffs, Rose!”

“You read her cliff list?”

“She left it on the desk! In bullet points! And she doodled me falling off one in the margin!”

“She is an artist,” Rose said solemnly. “And you are the subject.”

They both peered over their menus again.

Across the bar, you were staring down into your empty glass, muttering something under your breath. Izuru, meanwhile, had his forehead pressed to the counter like he was trying to phase through it.

“She looks like she’s gonna cry,” Shinji whispered, panic edging into his voice. “Or throw hands.”

Across from him, Rose held his menu up like it was a holy shield.

“She’s not exactly looking happy, Shinji. You might need something radical. Like tact.”

They sat hunched in the corner booth of the bar, both hiding behind laminated menus far too small to conceal two full-grown captains. It looked as stupid as it sounded.

Very, very stupid.

“What are you planning to do?” Rose muttered, peeking over the top like a raccoon in a scarf.

“Dunno.” Shinji slouched lower in the booth, chewing the inside of his cheek. His eyes hadn’t left the back of your head since you slammed your fourth shot like it had insulted your family. “Wait it out? Die again? Somethin’ like that.”

“You can’t leave it like this. She’s in your squad.”

“Yer bein’ Captain Obvious again,” Shinji said flatly, rolling his eyes so hard his hat nearly slid off.

“Well, you better figure it out quick. She seems to be getting friendly with the lieutenant—”

Shinji’s neck snapped toward him. “What?!”

Rose smirked. “—and he seems to be getting friendly with her.”

SLAM.

The menu hit the table so hard that the entire room jumped. Half the bar turned to stare, including you.

Shinji froze.

So did Rose.

From your booth across the bar, you blinked mid-weeping-laughter at Izuru. Your brow furrowed as you scanned the room. The booth was suddenly empty.

But your senses prickled. A tug. A presence just familiar enough to set your blood to simmer.

“I sense… a bitch,” you slurred.

Izuru snorted into his drink.

Then, he slowly tilted forward and slammed his face onto the counter.

You stared at Kira for a long, judging moment as he groaned face-first against the counter.

“…Lightweight,” you muttered, with all the authority of someone currently losing a debate with gravity.

At some point after that, you must’ve finished drinking. You weren’t sure when. All you knew was that the bartender gave up trying to stop you, and even sloshed, you did not attempt to return to the barracks.

No, instead, you took the long way home, past the canal, past the silent shops, through the darkened alleys of a town that no longer felt like yours.

Eventually, you stumbled through the front door of your long-abandoned house, humming a stupid old jazz tune you hadn’t heard in decades. It wasn’t even a real melody anymore, just slurred pieces of a song that had once meant something.

Your voice swayed along with your steps, just loud enough to chase off any remaining dignity still following you like a loyal dog.

You didn’t notice that the old phonograph in the corner was already playing.

Didn’t notice that the cushion you collapsed on didn’t puff up with dust or that the floor had been swept. Didn’t notice that the faint scent of smoke and lavender was lingering like a memory.

You just dropped to your knees, face half-pressed into the floor, and sighed. “Tomorrow,” you muttered. “I’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

And familiar footsteps.

The far door creaked open, and a slim figure stepped into the room in quiet white socks. Short blonde hair. Human clothes. A face you had spent ninety years trying to erase and failing miserably.

You blinked, fuzzily confused.

“Hey, doll-face,” he said gently, like no time had passed at all. “How you holdin’ up, sweetheart?”

You stared.

“Asshole.”

He paused.

“You… you…” You squinted harder, vaguely certain this was just another dream. Another cruel hallucination conjured by your traitorous heart and seven too many drinks. “You’re not real.”

He stayed quiet.

“I’ll deal with you to–to–tomorrow,” you slurred, waving one hand halfheartedly in his direction like you were swatting away smoke.

And then you collapsed backward.

Shinji caught you.

Cradled you to his chest like he wasn’t the reason there was a fire burning quietly under your ribs. Like holding you wouldn’t undo him completely. His grip was careful. Hesitant. Like he wasn’t sure he still had the right.

He looked down at your sleeping face. Lips parted, expression still tense, eyebrows furrowed in what had probably been the prelude to a legendary insult.

“Ain’t that the truth,” he murmured, gently brushing your hair from your face. “Let’s save tomorrow’s problems… for tomorrow.”

He got to hold you again for the first time in ninety years. Really hold you. Not in a dream, memory, or quiet corner of Karakura Town where he had to pretend not to care.

No ghosts.

No masks.

Just the quiet creak of the record player, and you breathing softly against him. After all, how long would it be until you properly forgave him.

“Uh… Captain,” came the hesitant voice of Lieutenant Hinamori from the hallway.

“Lieutenant?” Shinji replied innocently, just as an ink bottle sailed past his head and exploded against the wall behind him.

He didn’t flinch. Just blinked.

“Well,” Momo said carefully, peering into the office from a safe distance away, “I think the Third Seat is… unhappy.”

From the other room, a loud thunk followed. You were still out of sight, but judging by the steady barrage of thrown objects, you were very much in the mood.

Shinji tilted his head, still wiping ink from his sleeve. “Nah. That’s just her love language.”

Another object launched through the doorframe with such accuracy that it smacked the exact center of a stack of paperwork and sent it flying like confetti.

Later, much later, he would discover you’d honed that particular throw by daydreaming about pegging Aizen in the face on bad days.

A noble tradition, really.

“She’s gonna kill you,” Momo whispered.

“Not if I win her back first,” he muttered, ducking as a second ink bottle whizzed by and barely missed his ear.

She gave him a flat look. “That’s what you’re calling this?”

He grinned like an idiot. “Courtship.”

Crash.

“…You’re bleeding.”

“Romance is pain, Lieutenant.”

A paperweight dinged off his head with a soft thunk. He rubbed his temple and sighed.

“Yeah, I know she ain’t pleased,” he muttered sarcastically, ducking a pen that embedded itself in the doorframe. “What clued ya in?”

“Well,” Momo offered delicately, “perhaps I could speak with her? Suggest that criticizing her captain so openly might not be… appropriate?”

“Let it go.” He didn’t look up. Just flipped through a squad roster while sidestepping a stapler. “She already took a knife to my hair this morning.”

There was a long pause.

“You mean that literally, don’t you?”

“I do.”

To his credit, Shinji had thought he’d planned it well.

You’d wake up in the home he’d carefully cleaned. The old record player would be spinning that stupid jazz song you liked. A vase of peach roses, your favorite, which he had learned eventually, even if it took a few years of marriage, would be sitting beside the bed.

He’d be nearby. Gentle. Warm. Offering you love, apologies, and irrefutable proof that he’d never stopped waiting for you.

Instead, you’d woken up and assumed you’d been kidnapped.

The panic had been immediate. The elbow to his face was devastating. He’d staggered back, hands to his bleeding nose, as you scrambled to the nearest weapon.

You chose scissors.

He’d tried to calm you and explain everything, but there was only so much he could do while shielding himself from wild swings and muffled screaming.

Once the fear had faded and recognition dawned, your eyes filled with shock, then fury, then tears.

You hadn’t said a word.

You’d stomped out of the house silently, fists clenched, eyes shining. And he’d been too concussed and guilty to follow.

You hadn’t shown up to the squad introduction that morning.

He didn’t blame you.

Now, sitting in a newly shattered office, dodging desk supplies and trying to memorize the names of subordinates with titles like “fourth seat, temporary, maybe,” Shinji could only sigh and brace for impact.

Another bottle whizzed past.

He ducked it. Barely.

“Y’know, Momo…” Shinji muttered, rubbing the fresh lump forming on his forehead.

“Yes, Captain?”

“I deserve this.”

It took you three days to return.

Three days where Shinji held out a shred of hope that maybe, maybe, you were just cooling off.

But then it came to light you’d marched up to the Captain-Commander’s office and demanded to be reassigned. Immediately.

When that was denied, you went to Rose.

Of all people.

Traitor.

According to Rose, the two of you had a tearful reunion over tea and emotional closure, during which you both reached the heartfelt, devastating consensus that it was entirely Shinji’s fault you’d never been contacted.

Rose, smiling like a backstabbing angel freshly polished for court, swore he’d defended him.

“It would’ve been dangerous,” he had pleaded, apparently. “Shinji never meant to hurt you.”

He even claimed you’d softened, that your eyes got misty. That you forgave Shinji’s intentions, if not his actions.

That you whispered something like, “Maybe he thought it was for the best.”

Or so Rose said.

Shinji had doubts.

Chief among them: Rose was a dramatic little liar who enjoyed stirring the emotional pot like a theatrical soup witch.

There had been no softening. There had been a shoe. And a stapler. And that near-miss with a decorative vase that still felt personal.

Rose had returned from your chat humming like he’d just orchestrated a tragic opera, giving Shinji the kind of cryptic advice that made him want to commit crimes.

“She just needs space.”

“She’ll come around.”

“Try poetry. But not your poetry.”

Shinji’s eye twitched. Because you, his wife, were now being defended by his alleged friend, and he was pretty sure Rose had taken your side before you’d even knocked on the door.

Worst of all?

He probably deserved it.

“She’s been throwin’ things at me all day,” Shinji muttered, sporting a bruise on his cheekbone as he glared across the room.

“Let her,” Rose replied serenely. “She’s processing.”

“Yeah, well, she’s processin’ her emotions directly into my face.”

“Good! That means you still matter.”

Shinji groaned into his hands. Patience, Rose said. Time, Rose said. And Shinji tried. Really, he did.

But patience had limits.

For heaven’s sake, you were his wife. The woman who once kicked a hollow in the face for getting slime on his coat. The woman who used to argue with him about dish soap. The woman who made fun of his poetry and then secretly saved every single one.

You would remember.

Eventually.

Probably.

Maybe.

A shoe flew into the room like divine judgment and smacked him square in the face. He crumpled over his desk with a dramatic thud, forehead thudding against unfinished paperwork.

Momo winced from across the room. “Captain—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Shinji groaned into the wood. “She’s been talkin’ to Hiyori.”

Because that wasn’t an everyday shoe.

That was a tactical-grade, steel-toed, airborne message of rage.

It had the distinct chaotic energy of Hiyori Sarugaki’s life philosophy: If you can’t say it with words, throw it.

He lifted his head just enough to glare at the door.

Another shoe, its matching twin, sat ominously on the floor where it had landed after bouncing off his forehead. The pair now framed him like a shrine to his poor decisions.

“She’s escalatin’,” he muttered, rubbing the new bruise. “This is organized.”

“I think that was organized,” Momo whispered, staring at the aerodynamic arc the shoe had clearly taken. “Sir, I think it was aimed.”

“No kiddin’,” Shinji said, dragging the shoe off his desk like it personally offended him. “She’s weaponized household objects. She’s past passive-aggressive. She’s in full Cold War mode.”

Momo glanced at the paperwork. “Do you want to reschedule the squad meeting?”

“What I want is to go back in time, not fake my death, and maybe write her an actual letter instead of disappearing for ninety years like a dramatic bastard.”

“Should I… write that down?”

“No,” he sighed, dragging a hand down his face. “Just get me a helmet.”

He needed a new plan.

A better plan.

One that didn’t involve dodging household objects like a circus act.

One that said: I love you, I’m sorry, and please stop weaponizing your shoe collection.

Shinji knew gaining your forgiveness would take time.

Hell, he deserved that much.

But he hadn’t expected you to refuse to speak to him at all.

He may have been your captain. He may have once been your husband, still might be the love of your life if you ever felt like confirming it, but you weren’t a pushover. You didn’t hand out grace just because someone came back crying with flowers and a bruised nose.

So he gave you space.

Time.

Distance.

It hurt him, watching you turn away from him day after day, leaning on others, laughing with other men. You wouldn’t meet his eyes. Wouldn’t acknowledge the bond that had once made him whole. Wouldn’t even throw things anymore.

Eventually, the fury cooled into something worse.

A silent, cold sort of anger. Impersonal. Efficient. You spoke with him only when necessary, your tone clipped and professional. You didn’t scream anymore. Didn’t cry.

And somehow, that hurt more than the shoe.

Everyone else was healing. The Soul Society was rebuilding. Friends reconnected, old wounds closed, but you and Shinji? You were stuck in purgatory.

Until the day he heard the rumor.

You’d visited a lawyer. One known for handling private marital dissolutions. Quiet, clean breakups were especially useful for Shinigami, who didn’t want to deal with the politics of divorce in the court guard system.

He tried to convince himself it was a rumor.

Until he found the papers, mourning in your office after you had fled.

Divorce papers.

Sitting quietly at your desk.

Unfiled. Unsigned.

But there.

The breath left his lungs.

He didn’t scream. Didn’t throw things. Didn’t laugh it off like a joke he could charm his way out of.

This wasn’t flirty, loudmouth Shinji Hirako anymore.

This was stillness.

The kind of stillness that came before a storm. Before a blade was drawn. Before someone vanished from existence without a word.

Spine straight. Jaw locked. His gold eyes narrowed and fixed on the papers like they had insulted something sacred.

Because this wasn’t just heartbreak.

This was the moment he realized he might lose you for real.

And that was something Shinji had never prepared for. Not even when he’d walked away the first time, thinking it would protect you. Not when he watched you from the shadows in Karakura, swallowing his own want every time you looked lonely, and he couldn’t reach you.

No, this was different.

This was final.

And he was angry.

Not teasing. Not wounded. Not desperate.

Angry.

The kind of anger that didn’t raise its voice.

The kind of anger that moved like a sharpened edge.

Captain Shinji Hirako at his most dangerous.

You went to one of his favorite clubs out of sheer spite and maybe a touch of self-sabotage.

The jazz joint with the swinging lights, the late sets, and the signature cocktail he used to claim “tasted like music and bad decisions.” You went with the most scandalous crew you could assemble on short notice.

Rangiku, of course, with her legendary reputation for trouble (undeserved, but so very useful). Captain Kyōraku, who brought alcohol with him and insisted on flirting with the bartender before even sitting down. Shuhei Hisagi, who joined out of chaos loyalty and a mild hope that someone would eventually punch him for fun. And Izuru, quiet and grim, but a grounding presence at your side. Thank the Soul King for that.

It didn’t look good for you to be there.

And it didn’t feel much better.

Rangiku had loaned you human clothes for the occasion. The kind that shimmered in the wrong light, hugged a bit too tight, and dared anyone to judge you for looking phenomenal while emotionally compromised.

The whole night, men kept approaching the table. You waved them off with practiced politeness, claiming fatigue, headache, and disinterest. Whatever it took to keep them moving. You weren’t there to flirt. You weren’t there to be admired.

You were there because he loved this place.

And you wanted to ruin it for him.

You stared out at the jazz dancers, moving in elegant rhythm to the beat. The music was fine. The crowd was lively. The laughter around you wasn’t forced. But none of it touched you.

Not like it used to.

Not like it had when you were here with him.

Shinji had come back. He was home.

And yet somehow, he had never felt farther away.

You must have been obvious, too stiff, too quiet, too sober for the company you were keeping, because halfway through the clubbing, Izuru slipped into the seat beside you, exhaling like someone who’d just barely survived a conversation with Rangiku and Kyōraku.

“For someone trying to get back at an errant spouse,” he said dryly, “you’re not being very flirty.”

You folded your arms with a sharp huff. That had Rangiku written all over it. She’d clearly been drunk-talking again.

“Maybe you should reconsider the separation,” he added bluntly, and you shot him a glare.

As if summoned by chaos, Captain Kyōraku appeared on your other side, raising his glass with a half-smile and flushed cheeks.

“Spare the man,” he drawled. “He’s been through a lot.”

You hissed at him.

Actually hissed.

Kyōraku raised both hands in surrender, grinning like a man who’d dodged worse in his time.

“Ninety years,” you snapped, “and he didn’t even have the balls to apologize properly. For all I know, he could’ve been off with other women the whole time!”

Izuru gave you a long, tired look and raised a brow, quiet, sad, and knowing.

“Do you really think that?” he asked. “Or are you just mad that the only way he knew to protect you… Was by breaking your heart?”

Damn him.

Damn him and that quiet little voice of his, always full of knives dressed up like reason.

You deflated all at once, like a stack of cards collapsing in slow motion. Kyōraku patted your back, far too pleased with himself for someone so drunk.

“Don’t be so harsh,” he murmured, though you suspected it was mostly to keep the peace, and possibly the whiskey.

You shrugged off the touch, staring at your drink as if it might answer for you.

“No,” you admitted, voice low and raw, “he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t do that to me.”

You stared ahead, throat tight.

“It just… it makes me so angry to think anyone else might’ve touched him. Might’ve held him when I thought he was dead.”

Izuru nodded solemnly. “You can’t hate him for that.”

You looked up at him, and his expression said he knew. They all knew. How much everyone had lost. How long Aizen’s shadow reached.

“We were all fooled,” he said softly. “By Aizen. By Gin… for so long, it’s almost unimaginable.”

He looked utterly worn down, with dark circles beneath his eyes like old bruises. You reached over and gently patted his back, like he’d done for you when everything collapsed.

“I don’t hate him,” you whispered. “I hate that I love him. I hate that I still love him. And I don’t know if I can let him back in.”

The confession sat there between you, raw and honest.

Izuru didn’t flinch. You just nodded and looked ahead, to Rangiku laughing too loudly, her shirt defying physics, her joy a shield she never quite set down.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I understand.”

And for a moment, the chaos around you fell away, just a little, and you all sat with the ache of loving someone you didn’t know how to forgive.

“There was so much pain,” you said, finally folding in on yourself. The words cracked something in you wide open. The realization really hit this time. He was alive. He had been alive. And you were still so, so tired from trying to hold the world together by yourself.

Izuru didn’t say anything. Just reached out and pulled you under his arm. Gently, platonically. You weren’t crying, but your face had gone pale, and your shoulders trembled with the weight of it.

You must have looked bad.

Because that’s when a zanpakuto slammed into the bar next to Izuru’s face, the blade humming as it embedded deep into the polished wood.

You both flinched.

“What the hell do you think you’re doin’?”

Not a question for you. A threat to him.

Shinji stood there, golden eyes narrowed, one hand clenched white around his sword hilt. His jaw was set, furious in that lethal way that made everyone in earshot go quiet.

Izuru went even paler. Slowly, he let go of you, both hands up.

“Yer the bastard tryin’ to steal my wife?”

Kira blinked. “I—what—no—”

You sat up fully, groaning like a hungover ghost. “Shinji, seriously—”

Captain Kyōraku chuckled from a few seats down. Then he saw Shinji’s expression and, wisely, scooted one stool farther.

Shinji leaned in, crowding Izuru back, placing himself squarely between you both like a jealous cat with a vendetta.

“It’s not like that—” Izuru tried, hands still raised, but Shinji wasn’t listening.

He gripped your shoulder like a man anchoring himself to the only thing keeping him sane.

“The hell it ain’t,” he hissed. “You tryin’ to be my replacement, kid? Huh? Got a hundred years on your scrawny—”

You grabbed his sleeve.

“Shinji. Stop.”

His mouth opened, then shut. His whole posture changed when he looked down and saw your hand on his. The rage didn’t vanish, but it folded in on itself. Contained.

“He’s just a friend.”

There it was. That flash of hope. It made his chest rise, made his expression twitch, like he couldn’t decide whether to be happy or even more pissed off. Still, his fingers unclenched just enough.

“You’re causing a scene,” you added pointedly.

The entire bar was watching now. Half the club had paused mid-drink.

Shinji gave an aggravated sound, yanked his blade from the counter, and, just for good measure, pointed it at Kira’s face again.

Izuru sighed.

Kyōraku downed the rest of his drink. “Ah, young love,” he said cheerfully. “Violent. Territorial. Slightly illegal.”

Rangiku, watching from across the room, just whistled low. “Ten bucks says she throws him through a window in the next ten minutes.”

“She won’t,” Kyōraku replied. “Not until after they slow dance first.”

You massaged your temples. Loudmouth Shinji was back. And unfortunately, he was still your husband.

“Piss off. And stay away if you know what’s good for ya,” Shinji snapped, not even sparing Izuru a final glance.

Kira nodded quickly, like someone who’d just been personally cursed by a ghost. Shinji turned to you and gripped your shoulders, dragging you away through the bar.

Captain Kyōraku waved Rangiku off with a lazy wiggle of his fingers. She looked ready to intervene, but he held her back with a casual “Let ‘em hash it out.”

You hissed at Shinji under your breath as he tugged you along. “Quit manhandling me, you lunatic.”

But no one stopped you. No one dared. Not with the killing aura he was letting out. Even you were beginning to get nervous. He wasn’t yelling now. He was too quiet. Too controlled.

By the time he finally stopped, half a mile out in a dim, less-traveled street, he was sheathing his sword. The silence pressed thick around you.

“I don’t wanna see you talk to him again,” he said flatly. “As your husband, since you won’t listen to me as your captain.”

“Husband?” you echoed, voice rising. You yanked yourself out of his grip, and to his credit, he let you go. “You don’t get to throw that word around like it means something after everything! You couldn’t even be bothered to tell me you were alive!”

His mouth tightened, but he didn’t lash back.

“I wasn’t gonna give Aizen a reason to hurt ya,” he said quietly. Firmly. Like that alone justified the heartbreak.

“You didn’t have to,” you shot back, breath shuddering. “You already did. Just by saying nothing.”

He closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.” The words came slowly, deliberately. “I don’t regret protectin’ you. But nothin’ causes me more pain than seein’ you like this. If I’d known I was wreckin’ your whole damn life… I wouldn’t’ve come back at all.”

And there it was. The unspoken truth.

You had only returned. Only taken your old seat. Because of him.

The air felt colder somehow, even as your anger began to bleed out of you.

“Shinji,” you said softly. “I didn’t try to hurt you either. But letting you back in means opening a door to where I can be hurt again.” Your voice cracked. Emotion built in your throat like floodwater behind a dam. “And I’m so tired of breaking.”

He stepped forward carefully, brushing your hair behind your ear like it might disappear if he wasn’t gentle enough.

“So yer just gonna divorce me then, huh?” he said, voice raw.

You flinched. Your heart twisted. He looked so wounded, like the word alone took a chunk out of him.

You reached up, covering the hand he still had in your hair. He shuddered beneath your palm.

“You weren’t supposed to see those papers,” you whispered. “I didn’t think you’d go looking. Stupid of me.”

His mouth pulled down in that tragic way only he could wear. Eyes shut tight, like he was bracing for a final blow.

“If ya can’t give me anything else without it hurtin’ ya,” he said hoarsely, “at least give me the truth.”

The truth?

The truth was, you still loved him. But you didn’t know who he was anymore. You didn’t even know who you were when you looked in the mirror. So many decades lost. So many words left unsaid.

And yet.

There was a glimmer. Something small. Something stubborn.

You lifted his hand to your lips and kissed his knuckles, soft, lingering.

“Not yet,” you said. “I’m not ready to go back. But I won’t avoid you anymore. Just… give me time.”

His eyes fluttered shut as the warmth of your kiss sank in. And then, slowly, a smile cracked across his face, gentle, weathered, and quietly full of love.

“Well, doll,” he said, voice softer than you’d heard in a long time, “I’ve been waitin’ for my first love at least one lifetime. What’re a few more years?”

As per the uneasy truce you and Shinji had worked out, your reconciliation started small, safe, manageable, and mostly intact in dignity.

Since he was a conveniently very busy captain, it was easy to keep things gradual. You weren’t rushing anything. Just a few evenings a week, in his quarters or yours, listening to music and talking like two people who weren’t still low-key emotionally maimed by unresolved decades-old heartbreak.

To your mild surprise, Shinji had branched out from jazz. He still made dramatic declarations about the superiority of Coltrane, but he’d started tossing in strange, beautiful music from different worlds and eras. A bit of rock. Some samba. A very questionable love of enka.

You would sit there, sipping tea (or something stronger), the two of you arguing and reminiscing and occasionally lapsing into quiet companionship.

Momo found the shift startling.

One day, she blinked at you both during a briefing and said, “It’s… oddly calm in here. What happened to all the screaming and airborne stationery?”

You gave her a look, but she beamed. “It’s nice!”

She also, alarming everyone, began complimenting your paperwork. Regularly. Enthusiastically.

“Third-seat is a goddess,” she once declared with deep conviction, arms full of perfectly filed reports. “An actual divine being sent to save me.”

You didn’t argue. Shinji just smirked behind his fan.

And slowly, very slowly, something unfamiliar began to bloom. Something kind. Something careful.

You liked this new Shinji. Still sarcastic. Still a smartass. But thoughtful in a way he hadn’t been before. Earnest, even.

And, unfortunately for your emotional stability, you still liked him. Quite a lot.

Which was annoying. And also, infuriatingly, a little bit wonderful.

It only took a week for him to convince you to “try out” a goodnight kiss.

“’ Sides,” he said, cornering you at your barracks door with that cocky grin, voice pitched low enough to make your skin buzz, “gotta make sure some things haven’t changed.”

You rolled your eyes, lips already twitching. “Shinji…”

He tilted his head, all charm and wicked intent. “C’mon, dollface. Just a kiss.”

His breath was clean. Mint and effort. You caught the hint of nerves behind his grin, buried deep, like he’d planned this exact moment down to the angle of his lean-in. That made it worse. And better.

Your lips parted in reflex. He noticed, of course.

“Troublemaker,” you muttered, trying not to laugh.

His fingers brushed under your chin to tilt your face up. Delicate, confident, gentle. That was the thing about him: for all his running mouth and boldness, when it came to touching you, he never rushed.

You gave the tiniest nod. Barely there.

He didn’t waste it.

The kiss came down soft, but firm. Not featherlight, not frantic. Just enough pressure to make your breath catch, to open your mouth and give in without thinking. It wasn’t a question, it was a promise. His lips still fit yours like they always had. Like home. Like something devastatingly unfair.

And then… Was that metal?

You blinked, startled, pulling back as his tongue retreated. He kept you in his arms, worried. “Whats’a matter?”

You pointed at him, wide-eyed. “Is that… metal?”

His grin returned like a sunrise. With a flick, he stuck out his tongue.

A piercing. Shinji Hirako had a tongue piercing.

“It’s a human thing,” he said with a wink. “Ya want me to take it out?”

You shook your head slowly, still processing. “Does it… Do anything?”

His grin sharpened to something feral.

“Some grown-up things.”

“Oh?” Your voice dipped into dangerous territory.

“Grown-up, husband-wife things,” he added, low and smug and completely shameless.

Feeling just the right amount of evil, you slid your hand up his chest, curling your fingers in his collar before leaning in to press a long, sultry kiss to his mouth. You felt him stutter against you, his hands tightening at your waist.

Then you broke it, stepped back smoothly, and slipped into your room.

“Goodnight, Captain. Perhaps tomorrow we’ll continue.”

The door closed behind you with a quiet snap.

“Yer the tease!” you heard him groan on the other side, and you grinned as you leaned against it, smug as hell.

Despite his impatient exterior, Shinji was surprisingly good at playing the long game. Maybe it was his century of experience, or maybe he’d just learned that persistence. With just enough charm. It was more effective than pressure. Either way, he made daily goodnight kisses a ritual. A simple request. A moment of softness at the end of the day.

And you, against your better judgment, let him.

It started harmlessly enough. A quick peck, then a few lingering seconds, then the kind of kisses that made your knees wobble and your brain completely abandon post. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. You were still figuring things out. Healing. Rebuilding. But somehow, his lips kept winding their way into your evenings like they belonged there.

Three months in, and your make-out sessions had evolved into something borderline criminal. The sort of thing that would’ve gotten you written up if any lieutenant ever caught wind of it. He’d corner you in the kitchen with a crooked grin, or pin you to the doorframe like he’d just remembered he needed to taste you again. The man had no shame. No restraint. And absolutely no respect for how early you had to be up in the morning.

You were tired. You were grouchy. And you were hopelessly, unapologetically addicted.

The worst part? He knew it.

He’d smirk against your mouth and murmur, “See? Still got it,” while you clutched the back of his shirt and tried to remember how breathing worked. His hands always found the small of your back. His mouth always found your weak spots. He wasn’t just kissing you, he was learning you, all over again. And damn it, you were letting him.

One night, you tried to resist. You stood at your barrack door, lips already swollen from earlier, and mumbled, “We should stop. Just for tonight.”

He leaned in anyway, brushing his thumb across your cheek like it was a promise.

“Sure, dollface,” he said softly. “We’ll stop.”

He kissed you for an hour after that.

And when you were finally curled up half-asleep beside him, you could feel the smug grin on his face before you even opened your eyes. He never said I told you so. He didn’t have to.

Because this was Shinji, annoying, brilliant, endlessly patient Shinji. And you were already halfway back in love with him. The only question now was how long you were going to pretend you weren’t.

“Stay in my quarters tonight,” he murmured one morning, voice hoarse from lack of sleep but still obnoxiously chipper. His hair was a mess, his tie half-untied, and he still looked too pleased with himself. “I’ll get ya the day off.”

You blinked at him through bleary eyes, your shirt slightly askew from where he’d been clutching it not ten minutes ago. You weren’t sure whether to punch him or kiss him again.

“I have responsibilities,” you mumbled, dragging your hand down your face.

He leaned in, brushing a thumb across your cheekbone like he had any right to look that soft after keeping you up half the night. “Nah, you had responsibilities. Politics says you can’t be my third seat anymore, remember? Which means I outrank you and can bribe Captain Ukitake with tea to cover for you.”

“That is not how protocol works.”

“Sure it is. It’s just a more seductive kind of paperwork.”

You groaned and tried to shove him away, but he caught your hand mid-motion and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Smug bastard.

“Just sayin’,” he added with a wink. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing to wake up next to me every day, y’know.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart wasn’t in it. Not

An exaggerated groan left him as he flopped back onto the futon like a man denied his final wish. “You’re breakin’ my heart, sweetheart.”

You arched a brow. “You’ll survive.”

“Barely,” he mumbled, peeking at you from beneath his arm. “At this rate, I’ll waste away from loneliness.”

“You saw me last night.”

“Exactly. Withdrawal’s already settin’ in.”

You fought the smile curling at your lips and shoved his leg off the edge of the futon. “Maybe tomorrow,” you repeated, gentler this time. And this time, you meant it. Because the truth was, you were done pretending. Done keeping your distance when the only place you wanted to be was by his side. Annoying habits, ridiculous grins, and all.

You’d made your decision. You couldn’t keep orbiting each other like unresolved ghosts. It was either go home or let go. And letting go? It wasn’t an option.

That morning, instead of heading to your office like usual, you started moving your things into Shinji’s quarters. Quietly. Strategically. Like a very domestic invasion. Just the essentials: clothes, a few trinkets, your favorite blanket, and the one mug you knew he’d eventually steal anyway. No one questioned it. Most already assumed your bizarre, half-repaired marriage was still active, just stuck in a bureaucratic purgatory known as “Shinigami emotional leave.”

Shinji, meanwhile, was in peak form. Harassing recruits with riddles. Needling Hiyori until she threw a sandal at his head. Offering unprompted life advice to confused squad members like some sandal-wearing, jazz-spouting oracle with commitment issues. Morale plummeted in your absence.

Eventually, he got suspicious and sent an unseated officer to check on you. Poor kid looked like he’d been told to face a Hollow with a mop. You told him you were “under the weather” and would be “resting” in the captain’s quarters. Technically true. Emotionally misleading.

Later that night, Shinji arrived looking like the world’s most chaotic nurse, arms full with a half-leaking soup container, a questionably sanitized thermometer he’d swiped from Fourth Squad, and the kind of determined expression that said yes, he would spoon-feed you back into marital bliss if it killed him.

“Hey, ya here?” he called, already setting the soup down with a splatter and the sort of reckless care only he could manage.

That’s when he saw it.

Laid out on the table like a fashion crime scene: one of his human-world outfits. Collared shirt. Slim black pants. A perfectly folded tie. And, of course, that ridiculous fedora he refused to admit he loved. Perched on top was a single note in your handwriting.

Put it on.

He stared at it like it might explode. Then, curious and vaguely amused, he obeyed. No arguing, no questions. The clothes fit just like they used to, which was equal parts comforting and unsettling. They felt like a version of himself frozen in time. The cocky, half-broken idiot who nearly lost you for good.

Dressed and vaguely suspicious that this was some kind of trap (sexy or otherwise), he wandered toward the bedroom, spinning the fedora on one finger like a man preparing to make either a dramatic entrance or a terrible mistake.

Then he saw you.

Sitting on his bed. In nothing but one of his shirts. Legs crossed. Smirk weaponized.

“Hey, dollface,” you said, doing your worst Shinji impression. “How ’bout you come give me a kiss?”

The accent was so bad it might’ve qualified as slander, but he looked like he was about to laugh and cry at the same time. His heart tripped over itself.

He slipped off the tie with two fingers like it offended him, flicked the hat to the dresser with one clean toss, and crossed the room like a man walking into a dream he didn’t dare wake up from.

“I gotta give it to ya,” he murmured, voice reverent as he approached. “You know me better than I know myself.”

“I need a status report,” she barked, arms crossed like she expected him to produce a clipboard.

Rose looked up from his shamisen, perfectly calm. “Good afternoon to you, too.”

“Don’t start. Just tell me—did those two finally get their act together or what?”

He set his instrument aside with care. “If by ‘get their act together’ you mean they’re living together again and she’s reorganized his entire teacup shelf by region and glaze type. Then yes. Harmony has returned to the Seireitei.”

Hiyori wrinkled her nose and dropped into a chair with a theatrical groan. “Disgusting. He’s been humming again. Like actual melodies. Thought maybe he got possessed.”

Rose poured her tea with a graceful hand. “Nope. Just Shinji’s signature brand of romantic nonsense. He seems… sincerely happy.”

She eyed the ornate teacup as she took it. “They’re such a weird pair. She’s all business. Efficient. Probably thinks emotions are a biohazard. And Shinji? Shinji’s a nicotine ghost with a jazz addiction.”

Rose chuckled behind his fan. “He says they balance each other. Yin and yang. Order and chaos. Dramatic sigh and tired eye roll.”

“I still say she could’ve done better.” Hiyori took a loud sip. “But whatever.”

“She did leave him once. He practically disintegrated. I thought we’d have to sweep him into a dustpan.”

“Idiot wouldn’t shut up about her even while pretending he didn’t care,” she muttered, but her tone had softened.

“I’m just relieved they found their way back. It was starting to depress even me.”

She made a gagging sound into her tea.

“Look,” she said reluctantly. “It’s not like I don’t like her. She’s smart. She’s capable. She’s terrifying. And then there’s Shinji.”

Rose raised a brow. “Opposites attract.”

“She’s the only reason his squad still runs. I caught him hiding paperwork in a rice barrel.”

“He says she makes the place feel like a home,” Rose said, smiling faintly. “Also claims she doesn’t yell when he folds towels correctly.”

Hiyori narrowed her eyes. “They have towels now?”

“Color-coded,” Rose confirmed. “Folded. Stacked. Labeled.”

She blinked. “Alright, that’s too far. I gotta go make sure he hasn’t been replaced with a gigai.”

They sat in companionable silence for a beat before Rose tilted his head.

“By the way… have you noticed her spiritual pressure lately?”

“What about it?”

“It’s shifting. Gradually. Subtly. But unmistakably.”

Hiyori stilled, setting down her cup. “You serious?”

“I asked Shinji. He noticed it too. Didn’t say much, just smiled like someone handed him the whole world in a teacup.”

She stared. “You think she’s…?”

He gave a single nod.

“Oh hell.” Hiyori rubbed her face. “That idiot’s gonna be a dad. He’s gonna tell bedtime stories about jazz theory and existential dread.”

“And she’ll make sure the child doesn’t grow up feral,” Rose said.

Hiyori snorted. “Yeah… guess that kid might actually turn out alright.”

“And Shinji?”

“He better not cry when I knit the kid socks,” she grumbled.

Rose laughed softly. “That’s very generous of you.”

“Tch. Whatever. Somebody’s gotta teach the next generation how to kick people properly.”

They clinked teacups without ceremony because, somehow, impossibly, the world hadn’t ended.

It had just gotten a little weirder. And a little warmer.

#shinji hirako #bleach #shinji x reader #shinji hirako x reader #shinji hirako bleach #Second Chances #Estranged Lovers Reunited #Slow-Burn Reconciliation #Weaponized Domesticity #Emotional Maturity (Eventually)#Jazz #Paperwork #and Emotional Damage

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