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skzdarlings · 11 months

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part iv: bodyguard!felix x reader

masterlist.

PART I ; PART II ; PART III ; PART IV ; PART V ; PART VI ; PART VII ; PART VIII ; PART IX ; FINAL PART.

( READ ON AO3. )

Your father hires an inconspicuous bodyguard to accompany you at school and supervise you at home. What seems like an innocuous change in routine eventually spirals into a forbidden romance that grows more passionate over the years.

pairing: lee felix/reader content info: smut. violence. parental abuse. situations of intense peril overall. forced proximity. enemies2lovers. angst with eventual happy ending. (chapter word count; 10k words)

warning for this chapter: the usual story dynamics plus explicit sexual content.

“All right, gang,” Jisung says. “Final year of school together, you know what that means?”

You and Felix are on your way to class when Jisung literally throws himself between you. He hands each of you a print-out before you can answer his question or even say hello.

“The Three Musketeers,” Felix reads. “Peas in a Pod, Rule of Three…?”

“This is our final year as a best friend trio in the hallowed halls of high school,” Jisung says. “And next year? Who knows what happens! Marriages! Mortgages! Babies!”

“Jisung, we just turned eighteen,” you say.

“Which is almost nineteen, which is almost twenty, then we’re practically forty.” He waves a hand around. “The point is, this is our last opportunity to solidify a name. For us. For the group. It’s necessary.”

“Is it though?” Felix asks, squinting as he skims the sheet. “BLT? Who’s the bacon?”

“I am, obviously,” Jisung says.

“Why is that obvious?” you ask.

“How is it not obvious, Lettuce?” Jisung says, scandalized. “Anyway, we can workshop the names. This is just to get the ball rolling. I expect results by lunchtime tomorrow at the latest.”

Jisung continues his endearing but admittedly inane blather, at least until Hyunjin comes sauntering up the hallway like it’s a catwalk, then he just frowns. Jisung has never warmed to the popular pretty boy and Hyunjin does not seem particularly inclined to rectify any bad impressions. He is astoundingly self-confident.

People move out of his way. Some girls downright swoon if he deigns to cast them even a fleeting glance. You can’t really judge any of them seeing as you were the same when Lee Minho still roamed these halls. You are not totally immune to Hyunjin either, though your attention is somewhat scattered these days.

You look at Felix.

He is re-reading the class schedule for this year, mumbling reminders under his breath. His hair is a sunny yellow blonde and freshly trimmed to frame his face, thanks to your help. He was cutting his own hair which made sense, not just logistically but stylistically, seeing as it was often a shaggy mess. You have taken to helping him so it looks a little neater.

You look at the fuzzier hair on his nape, recalling how your fingertips pressed there as you tipped his head for a better angle.

Your eyes meet when he looks up, but you are drawn apart when Hyunjin claps him on the shoulder with a greeting. They sat beside each other for most of their first year and formed something of a friendship – only something, because the plucky, likable Australian transfer student is a fabrication.

You once told yourself you would never fall for the schoolboy routine, that you would always remember his real identity, but you never considered what might happen if you cared for the real him anyway.

“Heeey Fee-lix,” Hyunjin says in an emphasized, overly friendly way. He draws out your name with the same saccharine pleasantness, all while ignoring a scowling Jisung.

Hyunjin leaves before anyone can reply, but Jisung still thumps Felix on the arm.

“Traitor,” he says.

“What? He’s nice,” Felix says, exchanging an amused look with you.

“You know, Jisungie, maybe you’d get along better if you stopped trying to trip him everywhere he goes,” you say, pointing to Jisung’s presently outstretched leg.

Jisung stands straight. “He tried to kill me,” he says.

“Not this again,” you say. “Jisung, he didn’t know about your peanut allergy—”

“He tried to put his nuts directly into my mouth,” Jisung says, then groans miserably. “That came out wrong.” He spins his cap to tug the brim over his eyes. “Do not repeat that. The last thing I need is freshmen writing fanfiction about us.”

You and Felix pat his back in a consoling manner.

Felix sits behind you in class, dutiful as ever. You are unpacking your bag when Hyunjin walks in with his girlfriend of the week. Rumours about Hyunjin are in never-ending circulation and he seems to help them along. You have caught him in a quiet moment once or twice, curled up in the library alone or lingering after hours in the art room, but that quieter soul seems contradictory to his showman side. Even now, he starts making out with his girlfriend in the middle of the classroom.

You can’t help but stare, mostly because the brazenness is so audacious that it is impossible not to stare, but it also makes you think. You have never kissed anyone, though you have entertained countless fantasies that spiral far beyond kissing, and while you know you are young in abstract way… staring at a happy couple your age makes you feel jealous, desirous, and a little ridiculous. Eighteen, nineteen, twenty, forty…

Felix clears his throat and you realize you have been staring too long.

Not only that, but Hyunjin is staring back, even with his mouth pressed against someone else. It feels like flames erupt inside you. You drop heavily into your seat and stare at your desk, swallowing hard. When you chance a look, Hyunjin is leaning back in his own seat, smiling at you.

Felix clears his throat again.

“What?” you ask, sharp.

“Nothing,” Felix says, casual.

You roll your eyes. He kicks your chair. You turn around and knock his textbook off his desk.

“That’s not nice,” he says.

You stick your tongue out at him.

As seniors, you are allowed to leave campus for lunch. The three of you make your way to a nearby sandwich shop, one naturally packed with most of the senior grade level. You crowd into a tiny booth, so cramped you are halfway sitting on Felix’s lap. Your mood sours as you let yourself wallow in self-pity, thinking about how normal girls get to sit on normal boys’ laps and be excited about it.

You are sulking into your sandwich, thinking about how you are going to die alone and miserable and unkissed, when a chair is suddenly drawn up to your table and Hyunjin sits beside you.

Jisung’s mouth is stuffed full of ham, which you know because he drops his jaw despite all the food.

Hyunjin does not remark on it. He smiles at you and you alone.

“Hey,” he says. He really is stupidly handsome. Even up close, you see no awkward blemishes, not a hair out of place. His uniform tie is a little askew from tugging but that’s it.

Jisung kicks you under the table, probably because you are just staring blankly at Hyunjin.

“Sorry, hi,” you finally say.

His smiles widens. He tucks a bit of hair behind his ear.

“Hey, I won’t bug you and your friends,” Hyunjin says, ignoring when Jisung mumbles too late under his breath, “but I want to walk you back to school after lunch. Alone.”

You are so unprepared for the suggestion that find yourself staring again. He taps your chin to lift your head, still smiling.

“Is that a yes?” he asks.

“Uh, sorry, yeah, yes! Yeah, sure. Okay.” You aren’t even totally sure that is your answer, but it rolls out of you instinctively. Just as instinctively do you whip a startled look to your best friend. Jisung’s mouth is still hanging open. “Umm…” you say, but Hyunjin is already standing.

“Great,” he says. “See you soon.”

You watch him walk away. Jisung speaks through the food in his mouth, chokes, swallows, then clears his throat.

“What was that?” he finally says.

“I have no idea,” you reply, completely honestly.

You cannot compute this situation at all. Your approach to most social interactions is to scowl. Because of your father’s many stringent rules, you have never had an opportunity to be truly social. You play an appropriate role at the functions he forces you to attend, but that entails sitting alone in a corner and sipping soda. Growing up, you were not allowed to spend time at anyone’s house or go anywhere without supervision, so maintaining friendships was next to impossible.

The only exception has ever been Han Jisung. You sat beside each other in your first year and your miserable countenance coupled with his anxious demeanour meant that you spent six months not even talking to each other. Then one day he mustered the nerve to comment on the weather, you replied accordingly, and somehow that opened a floodgate to unleash the goofy boy that would become your best and only friend.

Your social experience is limited to that. You are someone who sits with your best friend in a corner, staring at an unattainable pretty boy at a distance, but you have never had to grapple with the reality of one asking for your attention.

You look at Felix, but he has drawn a somber mask over his face. He pokes at his sandwich. He can’t lecture you in front of Jisung but you know he has something to say. A part of you wishes it was jealousy or any personal feeling, but you know it will only be a reminder about your father, that he wouldn’t approve of you running around with any unknown boys.

When you leave the shop with Hyunjin, you already know Felix and Jisung will follow close behind. Felix has no choice, but you are certain Jisung will require little convincing. You pretend you do not see them trailing six feet back, partially obscuring themselves in the occasional bush, but Hyunjin naturally looks at them.

“You’re not…” he says slowly. “You’re not dating… one of them… are you? They’re really—”

“They’re just my crazy friends,” you say in an embarrassed rush. “Jisung is like my brother, ew, I could never – ew. Ew. Oh my god, ew. And Felix—”

You woke this morning with Felix’s face nuzzled in the back of your neck. The distance in that big bed closed long ago now. You only sleep apart when your father is home. You also never talk about it, not that you could articulate your feelings anyway. The intimacy and companionship provides more comfort to your soul than you could ever say.

You swallow.

“I’m not dating Felix,” you say. “I’m not dating anyone.” This thought prompts you to look at Hyunjin. Rather ungracefully, you blurt the obvious question, “Don’t you have a girlfriend? Why are you talking to me?”

He laughs into his palm. You realize belatedly just how accusatory you sounded, especially considering his attention might be wholly platonic. Embarrassed, you trip over your words, your tongue a suddenly clumsy thing.

Hyunjin just giggles.

“It’s okay,” he says. “No one ever calls me out like that. I like it.” He bumps shoulders with you. Wait, is he flirting? You have no idea. You stare at the ground with laser intensity. He just giggles again. “We broke up before lunch—”

“Wow, you moved on fast,” you say. Dry remarks tumble out of you easier than anything else. You bite your tongue, embarrassed again.

Hyunjin still looks amused.

“It wasn’t really serious,” he says. “I’m looking for some with similar life experience, to be honest…”

You crinkle your brow and look at him. His hands are in his pockets, his slouch casual, but you swear his eyes sparkle when he looks at you.

“I saw you,” he says. “At that horse race thing. This last weekend? You were in the box with your dad, right? Felix was with you too.”

The horse race was an end-of-summer event your father sponsored, one of his community philanthropic efforts. You spent the whole time frowning under a sun hat, only smiling when Felix muttered something scalding about a particularly overdramatic hat in the crowd.

A crowd Hyunjin was apparently in.

You have always known Hyunjin comes from money, but there is money and there is money. The Hwang family might be rich but your father is powerfully wealthy. You run in different circles. You have never seen Hyunjin at any event so you would never even think to look for him. They must be moving up in the world.

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out, not even a dry retort.

“It’s okay,” Hyunjin says. He touches your shoulder and your attention zeroes in there. You can’t decide if you like him touching you. An hour ago you were idly daydreaming about kisses and touches, but the reality is a different thing. It took you a long time to warm to Felix, bit by bit, touch by touch. Even those touches terrify you in their own way. You are scared of needing them. You do not know how you can simultaneously desire touch and fear it more than anything.

Hyunjin uses a soothing tone, drawing your gaze away from his hand.

“I get it,” Hyunjin says. “You don’t want people to know you’re rich, right? Honestly… I think that’s really cool of you. My dad likes to show-off so I guess I kinda do the same.” You glance at his brand-name leather satchel. “Everything is about appearances to him. It doesn’t even matter what’s true as long as everything looks the way he wants. There’s an… image… for the family. And I’m an only child so there’s expectations. Maybe I’m not making sense.”

“No,” you say, your thoughts drifting to your own home life. “It makes sense.”

“I thought maybe you and me could hang out—”

“I don’t really hang out a lot,” you interrupt. You have been able to spend more time with Jisung now that Felix can accompany you, but it has been at cafes and other controlled locations. You have not gone to any parties since your father beat Felix. He has never hurt him as badly as that first incident, but he has struck him more than once. You have not taken the risk.

“Think about it at least,” Hyunjin says. “Think about me. I think we could be a good match—”

“You mean…” It might be ungenerous, but you weigh his words and form a conclusion. “If you date someone like me, it will get your father off your back?”

He is quiet for a second, surprised, then he laughs again. He finally drops his hand. His next smile is a little lopsided but more genuine.

“Maybe we could help each other,” he says.

“I didn’t say I need any help,” you reply. You cannot help the way you bristle, like a vulnerable animal rearing its defensive spikes. “You don’t know me.”

“I know me,” he says. “And I recognize… well. Think about it.” He looks behind you, his features scrunching with clear repugnance. “I’m gonna go before your not-boyfriend pops a blood vessel. Talk to you later?”

You are still processing the whole exchange but you manage to nod. He turns on a swift heel and struts ahead.

You turn, expecting to find Jisung frothing at the mouth given Hyunjin’s departing words. But it is Felix silently seething, Jisung just cringing beside him.

Felix cracks his own neck, a couple sharp jerks, then he forces that empty smile onto his face.

When you are settled in the car at the end of the day, you are not surprised his first words are, “You know I have to tell your father if you start seeing some guy, yeah?”

“Some guy?” you say just as icily. “You know his name.”

You have been on edge on all afternoon, discombobulated from the exchange with Hyunjin. Felix has been unusually silent, so rigid and ungiving that he reminds you of that mysterious fourteen year old boy who barely did more than blink.

But he is not that boy. You are both growing. You can feel the seconds passing you by, every aching minute that your life does not change from its stagnation, every moment of his own life that Felix has surrendered.

You want to jump out of the moving car. You want to slide across the seat and bury your face in Felix’s neck, no matter that someone can see, and you want him to hug you back.

You stay seated.

“Do what you want,” you say with a sigh.

He sighs too, resting his forehead against the car window.

The house is empty tonight. You can’t concentrate on homework so you shuffle down to the gym where Felix is practicing kicks. You watch him, his nimble athleticism, the perfect arc of each high kick.

One wall of the house gym is a mirror and your eyes meet in the reflection. He holds your gaze for a moment, but then he goes back to counting under his breath, kicking again.

“I thought you liked Hyunjin,” you say.

He stops kicking. His hands are taped up for boxing, so he diverts his attention there, slowly unweaving the tape while he catches his breath.

“This has nothing to do with me,” he says. “You know that, yeah, so I don’t know what—”

“Don’t you want to date someone one day too?”

He doesn’t look up. He drops the tape on the floor and starts on the next hand.

“No,” he finally says after a long pause.

“No?” you repeat. “You don’t want—”

“I can’t want anything,” he says with a mean bite. “I have a job. And responsibilities.” The tape is too light to throw but he flicks it as hard as he can, shaking his head. “Why are you asking me stupid questions? You know how things are.”

Yes, you do.

You know what you feel when you look at Felix. You have been friends with Jisung for years and his proximity has never induced the same feelings. Bursts of heat find you at unexpected times, usually moments when your intimacy feels its most casual. But you never have to think twice about why a crush on your bodyguard is a bad idea, because Felix always reminds you without saying anything. When you get too close, his eyes go glassy with some remembrance and he swiftly pulls away.

You know this does not stop him from thoughtlessly leaning into your touches. He slants towards you with a certain kind of hunger, one you know is satisfied when you touch given how he sighs or relaxes. Then, like someone so used to starvation that emptiness feels natural, he remembers himself and withdraws. You wouldn’t care – or at least, you shouldn’t care – except it leaves you just as empty.

You do not know the details of Felix’s past, but you do know that you carry a similar pain. He recognized it at a glance, all those years ago, seeing past your bravado and calling out your fear. We’re both scared, he said.

You see it now, in the tension across his shoulders, in the way he avoids your gaze. The sharpness of his tone is a twin to your own.

“Yeah,” you say. “I know how things are. You’re a pain in my ass and I hate you.”

It is such an unconvincing lie that he finally lifts his head, meeting your gaze in the mirror. You look at each other for a long moment.

You wonder what someone brave would say or do. Maybe you would tell him the truth and fuck the consequences. Maybe you would kiss him like you were experienced, like you were anyone but an awkward little girl with clammy hands and shaking knees.

You turn to leave. He sighs and says, “Your father said yes.”

You freeze.

“He likes the idea of Hyunjin,” Felix continues. “He thinks he’s… appropriate.”

You remember Hyunjin making out with someone in the middle of the classroom, and you remember how he was once expelled for fighting. You laugh humourlessly, the sound punching out of you. You slap a hand over your mouth to contain it. You suddenly feel like crying and you don’t know why, except that your emotions are in constant flux.

“You mean he thinks he’s rich,” you say.

“I mean… he doesn’t… think it,” Felix says dryly. “Hyunjin is rich.”

Felix can move quietly even in military grade tactical boots. It should be easy in his gym shoes, but he walks heavily as he comes up behind you.

“Why don’t you sound happy?” Felix asks.

You turn around and meet his gaze directly. Your stare is heated, rife with all your mixed-up emotions, but he does not flinch or look away.

“You’re an idiot,” you say. “I hate you.”

You have never fooled him with that proclamation. He draws his lips into a thin line, just staring back at you for a moment. When you turn to leave, he grabs your arm. Sparks ignite under his touch, shooting all the way up your arm, tickling your neck, raising each hair. It feels so different from Hyunjin.

You look at him and he lets go, flexing his hand at his side.

“I, uh, I want to show you… something.” He pushes some sweaty hair off his forehead. His deep voice seems lower, the sound scratching at the base of your spine. Tingles run all the way up to your head.

“Show me?” you say. “Show me what exactly?”

“Self-defence,” he says, brow furrowed, like his train of thought was obvious. “If your dad lets you go out with some guy—”

“With Hyunjin,” you say, rolling your eyes. “The dumb gangly gazelle you’ve watched lumber all over the field in gym class?”

“You should still know how to protect yourself,” he says.

“Isn’t that what you’re for?”

“I am going to guess you might be alone with him once or twice,” Felix says dryly, “unless you want to keep me in the room then too.”

The suggestion makes you feel hot, flushed with embarrassment. You duck your gaze to the floor.

“You’re being silly,” you say. “I haven’t even gone out with him yet. And I’ve never even kissed someone.” Felix must know that, but admitting it feels different. You look up, feeling floaty and detached from your body, like you are watching yourself look at Felix.

He clears his throat and looks away, snapping you back.

“Fine,” he says. “We’ll practice another day. But we will practice.”

You know he means self-defence, but your brain supplies the image of kissing practice. Your face must show that thought, maybe a sliver of panic in your gaze, because the tips of his ears turn suddenly pink. He clears his throat again, shaking his head and turning away. You leave quicker than you came, rushing all the way to the top floor to hide in your bedroom where you intend to mull over your day with maximum angst.

By nighttime, everything seems petty and stupid. You are laying in bed on your phone when Felix gets back from his security check. He says nothing, climbing into bed without even looking at you. You just roll your eyes, done with the drama. He looks over just in time for you to butt your head against his arm like a disgruntled baby goat. His laugh is nothing more than a sharp exhale.

It takes some coaxing, mostly in the form of whining, but Felix puts his arm around you. Some of the shadows finally leave his face, a smile even daring to poke through.

You fiddle with the neck of his t-shirt and he does the same with the ends of your hair.

“Your father had an idea, by the way,” Felix says, “for a first date.”

You groan, planting your face on his chest. He laughs, a proper hearty sound.

“What, a picnic in the family dungeons?” The sarcasm rolls off your tongue. “Torture? Flaying the guy alive? Chopping off his—”

“Ouch.”

“I was gonna say limbs—” You swat his chest.

“Okay, okay, ouch, hey!” He is still chuckling when you settle again. He squeezes your arm.

A moment of comfortable silence passes. You resume your absent-minded fidgeting, twisting the loose material of his t-shirt around your knuckles. You do not dare meet his eye when you ask, “I know what you said earlier but… if you could… what would you do for a first date?”

His whole body goes stiff with tension, then he just exhales, a pitiful sound of resignation.

“There’s no point in thinking about it,” Felix says. “And I don’t know anyway. What do people do on dates?”

“Oh come on, you’ve been watching the dramas with me,” you say, keeping your voice light. “You could have some ideas.”

“Well, I don’t,” he says, not unkindly but firmly.

“Fine,” you say. You roll over so you are half on-top of him, a leg thrown over his. You make a show of rolling your eyes, but his returned gaze is too soft for any real animosity to linger. “For the record, I would plan an amazing first date if I didn’t have my dad – blegh – orchestrating the whole thing.”

“I believe you,” he says with a chuckle. “I’m sure you would sweep Hyunjin off his feet, hmm?”

“Hmm,” you echo. “Sure.” You raise your head so you are peering down at him. “I don’t even know what Hyunjin would like. He’s pretty but he’s… I dunno… a liar or something. Like he obviously just wants to date me because we’re both rich, but he wouldn’t admit it till I said it. Who knows what other secrets he could be keeping.”

“Hwang Hyunjin,” Felix muses. “Deep, dark secrets… maybe… hmm… his hair routine?”

You laugh before you can stop yourself. “Don’t be mean,” you say.

“Uhh, I’m never mean,” Felix says. “You’re the one who called him a liar.”

“Or something,” you argue playfully. He says ahh, like that differentiation mattered at all. “Maybe he collects teeth from all his dozens of girlfriends. Or their hair. Maybe he’s a cannibal.”

Felix sighs with theatrical exasperation. “From hair care to cannibalism, really?” he asks.

“Could be,” you say, trying and failing to stifle your giggles, especially when it makes him laugh. “He might gobble me all up on the first date.”

“That would be very rude,” Felix says. “He should wait until the third date at least.”

“Oh, is that what a gentleman like you would do?” You laugh. “Maybe provide a written invitation to the event?”

“Of course,” he jokes. “If I planned on eating you, you’d be the first to know.”

The double-entendre is clearly unintentional, smothering the giggly playfulness with a sudden heady air. You both hear the accidental suggestion, and you both stare at each other, and you both take too long to say something so it turns awkward. You become very aware of all the places you are touching, so aware that you cannot compel yourself to move thanks to sudden nerves.

Felix reliably comes to his senses first. He nudges you gently, forcing himself to laugh as he slides out of the bed.

“Umm, sorry,” he says. He shoves a hand through his hair, the blonde fluffing with his rough touch. “I just need to… uh… bathroom? I’ll be... um, back.”

You return to your side of the bed where you curl into a ball of appropriately eighteen-year-old angst. Your current state of peril has nothing to do with power-corrupt businessmen and their fragile egos, and everything to do with a boy in your bed. You shove your face in a pillow and keep it there until he returns. You do not look at him, still too riled up in the silent tension.

You are convinced you will never fall asleep but it inevitably sneaks up on you. All at once, you are blinking awake in the morning light. You drifted closer to Felix in your sleep but kept your hands to yourself. You are both laying on your fronts, faces turned to each other. He sleeps so lightly that he wakes from the faintest shift in the cadence of your breathing.

The sleepy quiet of morning has none of the awkwardness of late night silence. It feels hazy and gentle in its golden breath, held long enough for your hands to meet between you. It is the only place you are touching, fingertip to palm to knuckle and back again. Your whole head goes fuzzy with tingles when he traces the pad of your palm.

You think about the many romance stories you have surreptitiously read on your laptop, flipping between smut and homework. In all those stories, it seems that when the hapless leads find themselves sharing a bed, they manage to entangle themselves overnight, always suggestively, always accidentally.

You do not appear to have that kind of luck, that accident of circumstance where you are not responsible for your own actions. Instead you are laying in the sunlight, lit up so brightly that there could be no mistaking intention, his dark eyes catching the light as he looks at you as if he knows what you are thinking.

It has to be deliberate. Nothing will change on its own.

Is this combination of terror and desire normal? Is it simply a matter of age and inexperience? Or is it in indication of damage, something inherently broken in you? When your fingers interlock, it feels wonderful. It also activates alarms in your head, none of them equipped with an off switch.

You close your eyes. He breathes and you know him so well that you recognize him by that, by the way he inhales sharply, like he has suddenly remembered where and who he is. You know it means he is about to pull away.

Sudden, sharp, panicked adrenaline propels you out of your timid repose and into his arms. It is not so different from the millions of times he has held you, except this time you are frantic and strange, your heart beating wildly as you hide your face in his neck and cling to him like he will float away if you don’t hold tight enough.

It surprises him. He has the skill to deflect an attack but he lets you barrel into him, taking your weight with little more than an oof. For a moment, he does nothing, his arms open at his sides. You feel his shoulder twitch.

He says your name in sleep-rough voice, barely more than a whisper. A reminder, scolding you but half-heartedly. You know what he sounds like when he is mad, when emotion slips through the cracks of his careful facades. This emotion is not anger.

“Felix,” is your reply.

His next breath shudders out of him, sounding almost painful. Then the arm beneath you shifts. He touches your lower back tentatively, through your t-shirt yet hesitating like the contact might burn skin. Another breath, then his palm is flat on your back and he is rolling onto his side to face you.

Your heart is leaping around like it is being electrocuted, sparks of electricity zapping to every extremity as his other hand curls around your bicep. His eyes are screwed shut and his mouth is open, nothing but another shaking breath passing his lips.

You touch his face with trembling fingers, the very tips lightly brushing his temple. You know, on some level, this is nothing deserving of alarm despite the cacophony still ringing in your head. This is little more than an intimate embrace, fully-clothed and only barely touching each other.

You are not even kissing. With your adrenaline in the dregs, you cannot push yourself across that space. Instead, you find yourself staring into his face when his eyes open. You look at each other, forced to reckon with your proximity, looking at his mouth while he looks at yours. There is no denying this could be a kiss, that it would require very little more than a lean.

His knuckles skim your side as his hand slips from your arm to your waist. Your breath catches when he lays his hand on your hip, not moving or pushing but holding.

Still such simple touches. You wonder how other people can do more so easily when this alone is overwhelming.

Your morning alarm is not due to ring for another twenty minutes. There is nothing to disturb you. You press your fingers into his shoulder. This already has him tensing, then you scratch your nails along the nape of his neck, up into his hair, and it unravels him with a shiver, eyes closing and cheek pressing hard into his pillow.

He wrenches away all at once, making a noise like it hurts to do so. You feel dizzy as you stare at the indentation on his pillow while he swings his leg off the bed. He doubles over, elbows on his knees, hands on his face. He digs his fists into his eyes and scrubs hard. He takes a minute to catch his breath.

Eventually he stands. He pauses like he intends to speak but then he just pivots into the bathroom. The door shuts with a heavy click.

You roll onto your back and stare at the ceiling. You have no idea if he is coming right back, but you know this intimate moment has conclusively ended. Your whole body is alight, the places he touched you still radiating sensation. There is such a desperate pulsing between your legs that you can’t help but touch there, palm pressing hard to quell the incessant thrum of want.

You really do not intend to do more. You only just barely know the mechanics for touching yourself thanks to reading, but you are afforded little opportunity for discovery due to obvious reasons. You do not know how fast he will return, but you doubt you have enough time to work it all out.

You slide a hand under your clothes only to temper the worst of that wanting, applying pressure clumsily. Your eyes close when you feel how ridiculously wet you are, far more than you have ever felt before. Your mind then projects the unbidden image of Felix, wondering if he is on the other side of that bathroom door touching himself in a similar way.

It makes you gasp, turning your head, heel of your palm still pressing down hard inside your shorts. You open your eyes just in time for Felix to step back into the room.

He looks at you and completely freezes. You have never felt more like a deer caught in the headlights.

He turns and stumbles back into the bathroom, uncharacteristically clumsy. You yank your hand out of your shorts and roll onto your front, shrieking into your pillows with a combination of frustration and embarrassment.

What is my life, you ask yourself. You really have no answer.

The first date with Hyunjin is not a proper date at all. Your father extends an invitation to Hyunjin and his parents, requesting their presence at another one of his good-press charity functions.

This one is a silent auction and banquet in a luxurious hotel ballroom. Despite the fact you attend the same school, you are formally introduced at the party, the whole charade making you feel like a ridiculous character in a historical drama.

You are already more than a little grumpy because Felix is not here, your father logically determining that his own security entourage was plenty for the night. There is also the matter of Felix’s cover. Hyunjin knows him as a student and your friend, not a bodyguard. You will have to tell him eventually if this goes anywhere but—

That thought abruptly sends you on one of your overthinking spirals. If your father intends to force this relationship along, you do not know if he will fire Felix rather than explain him, if one day you will suddenly go home and your bedroom will be empty, Felix gone without a trace and you with no way to contact him.

Your throat strains with a choked back sob as you struggle to remember every little detail about Felix – the animes he claims he only watches because Jisung does, but that he definitely secretly enjoys, the horrified lemon-sour face he pulls when he accidentally drinks your coffee instead of his sugar-laden tea, the way he likes taking apart electronics and rebuilding them, his sharp mind, his goofy wit, his complete and total weirdness that he skillfully masks in public but drops at home. That house could be full of people but if Felix was no longer there, it would feel horribly empty.

“Are you okay?” Hyunjin asks. He looks resplendent in white, his dark hair a sharp contrast to his dress shirt and pants. Other people are swooning at the sight of him. You have not looked at him for longer than a few seconds at a time.

“Sorry,” you say. You take a swig of water like it’s hard liquor. You try to smile but you can feel how crooked it is. “Just… the parties are a lot.” It is only a partial lie. Your mind is somewhere else, but the parties are a lot to handle.

Hyunjin smiles. He props his chin in his hand and leans towards you. “Good company makes them better, though,” he says.

“Yeah.” You look away again, staring out the window at the cityscape and thinking about Felix. “It does, doesn’t it?”

The ordeal is a success by your father’s standards. You sit with Hyunjin all night. You dance a few clumsy dances where you scuff his expensive dress shoes with your missteps. You wander onto a balcony and he gives you his coat. Beat for beat, moment by moment, it all goes perfectly.

A moment that genuinely moves you is the only one your father does not care about. Conversation between you and Hyunjin is stilted for a long while, then someone mentions one of the paintings up for auction and he lights up. No one else acknowledges it, so you ask him about it. You do not miss the warning look his father shoots him, but when you smile at Hyunjin like he is the most charming person alive, it placates him.

Hyunjin does not observe most of this. Once you let him talk about the art, he cannot stop. He becomes someone else when immersed in this subject, more animated, more open, much more sincere. You could almost like this Hyunjin.

You like him even more when he forgets his propriety and snorts at your derision for a few pompous assholes. This party is crawling with creepy elites, only a few known to Hyunjin. You catch him up on the latest high society nonsense, pointing out the affairs and scandals, as well as telling him which few individuals are somewhat more tolerable.

You are leaning against a wall, licking the icing off a cupcake, when he suddenly smiles at you, big and huge. You choke on the sugar. You feel hot under your skin, wondering if you were accidentally suggestive with your licking, but he doesn’t comment on that at all.

“I’ve never known someone who sees people so well,” he says. “Especially somewhere like this. Everyone is a bit—”

“Off in their own world?” You share a giggle. “I’m just bored,” you say, deflecting the compliment because Hyunjin doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You do not see anything special in your observations, just your own loneliness as you sit back and watch the world go by.

You don’t tell him that. You distract him by pointing to another figure across the room, a well-dressed older man flanked by his own entourage. You can separate the immensely wealthy from the nouveau riche by appearance. The former are sleekly sophisticated at events like this, almost nonchalant in their presentation, whereas the latter overdress themselves to flaunt their wealth, as if they feel the need to prove they belong. The former know where they belong.

This man is undeniably the former.

“You see that man over there?” you whisper, pointing discreetly with your cupcake. “That’s Mister Miroh. He is my father’s biggest competitor and most hated rival. They are exactly the same person and trust me, that’s not a compliment. They hate each other more than anything.” You say this very casually then take a bite of your cupcake.

“Huh?” Hyunjin’s brow furrows, making you laugh. “If they hate each other, why was he invited?”

“Because rich people are insane,” you say. “It’s just about keeping up appearances. Yeah, they’re rivals, but that also makes them equals, so it’s bad form to neglect them in public company.” Hyunjin nods here, clearly understanding. You remember what he said about his own parents and appearances. You must admit, it is nice talking to someone who understands you from his own first-hand experience. “Also,” you say, “I’m sure it’s like that saying, keep your friends close and your enemies closer. If Miroh is here, then he’s not off somewhere disrupting my father’s business while his back is turned.”

“This is exhausting,” Hyunjin says, shaking his head.

“No kidding.” You laugh again. When Hyunjin looks at you with a dimpled smile, you smile back. It feels friendly, not like his forced flirtatious grins earlier in the evening. You like this Hyunjin more. “You want some cupcake?” you ask, holding up the very big, very rich dessert.

Hyunjin eyes it then shakes his head. He tucks some hair behind his ears.

“I’m supposed to be on a diet,” he explains, laughing at your expression because you cannot hide your horror. “It’s not a bad thing—” he starts.

“You are so skinny, a hard wind could blow you out the window,” you say, shoving the cupcake at him. “You said I was good at seeing people, well, I can see you want the cupcake. So eat it or I’ll push you off the balcony.”

He looks around to see if anyone is looking but his parents are occupied with their own conversations. He looks at you conspiratorially then acquiesces, finishing the cupcake in just a couple big bites. You applaud and he shakes his head, laughing and spitting little flakes of cupcake. It makes you laugh more. He is in good humour the whole time, even if it takes a second to swallow all that cake.

“What else do you see?” he says when you are both settled. He is relaxed from all the giggling.

“What do you mean?” you ask, trying to keep a straight face as you remember the cannibalism conversation, supposing he might not want to hear that precisely.

“When you look at me,” he says. He tips his chin as if striking a pose. “Tell me my fortune.”

“I’m not a psychic,” you say, nudging his shoulder, but nonetheless you oblige and strike your own pose, a finger on your chin as you consider him. “Hmmm.” You look him up and down, the showman smile, the little crumb of cake on his lip. “I think you’re very smart and very handsome,” you start.

“I like it so far,” he says.

Smiling, you roll your eyes. “And,” you say, “I think you know your strengths and how to use them to make people look at you. Or at least – to look at what you want them to see.” You watch his brow furrow, his hand disappearing into the length of his sleeve as his fingers curl up. “I think you have more going on than anyone knows,” you say. “And I think those parts of you might be the best, and I’m sorry that you have someone telling you it’s the part you have to hide.” His gaze is cast low at nothing in particular. It seems to scan the floor thoughtfully. You laugh to brighten the mood. “Parents,” you say. “Image. Expectation. Whatever.”

“Yeah.” He smiles at you again. It is not one of his fake, smarmy grins, but it is not his carefree smile either. It is polite, and it doesn’t reach his eyes, darkly reflecting a familiar sadness back to you. “Whatever,” he echoes. Then he stands straight and offers his hand, his face once more shielded with a showy, flirtatious demeanour. “Wanna dance?”

You do, and it pleases the parents, and the night passes. You and Hyunjin share an amiable glance before going your separate ways.

When you arrive home, Felix is sitting in the kitchen reading a book for school. He is not obliged to do the readings but he seems to enjoy it, certainly more than you. You never thought you would be so happy to see such a simple sight, Felix at the counter with a book. Fortunately, you are a smart enough to mask your enthusiasm around your father.

You don’t have to worry because your father pays you no mind. With your purpose evidently served, your father dismisses you for the night and calls Felix to his office for a debriefing.

You step inside your walk-in closet to change clothes. You frown at your dress, once more thinking about all those romance stories. If the dress had a zipper, you would need help, then you could ask Felix to unzip it, and it would be an excuse to initiate contact without you truly propositioning him. But the dress slides off easily, so you put on shorts and a t-shirt, then you are sitting in bed scrolling on your phone.

You are in a good mood as you usually are when you get back from a party, happy it is over. The energy you stored to endure the socializing can now simmer to a pleasant hum. You are also extra happy to see Felix after dreading his demise all night. Those worries seem silly now. You will always need a bodyguard and Felix is reliable.

Then you feel terrible for thinking that, because you should want Felix to go. He should not be here at all, trapped with you in this nightmare. Then you start thinking about Felix and his past nightmares. If Felix disappeared without a trace one day, it would not be to freedom. It might be to something worse again.

Even though you feel uneasy, gazing at his empty side of the bed, you fall asleep before Felix returns. You wake in the darkness to Felix leaning over you. He carefully extracts your phone to place it on the bedside table. You fell asleep awkwardly slumped, clutching it.

You are barely awake, still half-dreaming about him disappearing, about what worse nightmares might chase him from your arms. You wrap yourself around him completely, arms around his middle, head on his chest, leg curled around his, the totality of your embrace surprising him. He chuckles, a low sound that vibrates in his chest.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, settling as comfortably as he can with you twisted around him like an amorous vine.

“Nothing,” you mumble into his shirt. “Just missed you.”

“It was just one night,” he says.

“Mmph,” is your sleepy rejoinder. You reach for his hand and slap it onto your back, groaning. He gets the message and strokes your back with a gentle sweep. You start to doze again, snuggled and warm, then he clears his throat. You recognize the sound as his warm-up to vocalizing something awkward.

“I guess, uhhh, I guess things went well… with Hyunjin… tonight, yeah?” he says. He clears his throat again. “Your father gave me an itinerary for future dates and arrangements…”

“I’m gonna blow this fucking house up,” you grumble.

He chuckles. His touch is absent-minded now, a lazy caress as his attention strays.

“Did he, uh, did he… kiss you?” Felix asks. His hand stops altogether, freezing low on your spine. “Not that I—I’m just wondering. Because of what you said before. It’s, like, a big deal to girls I guess, right. So I wasn’t sure—”

“No, Felix,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I’m still very unkissed and very pathetic, so don’t worry about my honour.”

You lift your head to give him a withering stare, but his face is very close and he is already looking at you. You have not spoken about the previous morning. Every second comes rushing back when you meet his eye, when his gaze flickers down to your mouth for a brief but hypnotizing second.

“You’re not pathetic,” he says, just above a whisper. That ridiculous voice of his rumbles so low when he speaks this softly. It’s like the sound is directly connected to something inside you, tugging when he speaks, waking up every sleeping nerve.

“Sure,” you reply, at a loss for any other retort.

His mouth is a perfect bow. You look away from it, resorting to your natural expression: a glare, intensely and resolutely locked on his eyes.

“Well, I’ve never kissed anyone,” Felix says, drole. “Am I pathetic?”

“That’s different,” you say, not meaning anything by it. It’s an automatic response, meant to simply dismiss his very good point.

But you feel him tense. The silence feels heavy. You belatedly realize how he might have interpreted that. That’s different because you’re not a person like the rest of us.

You are trying to think of an appropriate apology when he gently moves you, shaking himself free of your embrace.

“You should sleep over there tonight,” he says. “Your father is home and I’m— I’m. I should be over here. Anyway.”

He turns over, putting his back to you. Even though it feels like your whole head is on fire, you muster the resolve to slide closer. Then you lean over and kiss his cheek.

You flop onto your back and stare at the ceiling.

“Sorry,” you say.

You look at him but he hasn’t moved. Your lips are tingling from that simple, stupid touch and you feel so ridiculous that you want to shriek. You suffice to close your eyes, shaking your head like that will erase the last sixty seconds of your life. You look at the ceiling again, face twisted up with pain.

That falls away when Felix flips over. He was so still and so quiet that it genuinely startles you. You swear your heart stops when he leans over you with a determined expression, one you usually only see when he is working out hard. Your stopped breath is a cluster in your throat, your voice tangled in it. Your mouth is open and eyes wide when he cups the back of your neck and lifts your head.

Your heart starts all over again, pumping so fast that you are scared it will leap right out of your chest.

He leans down. He kisses your forehead for one second, two, three. You count it. Your fingers curl up. Your eyes feel huge. You look at him when he pulls away, his expression morose. He does not meet your gaze.

“I’m sorry too,” he says.

He lays your head on your pillow and rolls away, his back to you once more.

You fall asleep on opposite sides of the huge bed, so close and so far. Your sleep is fitful and uneasy and you keep waking to check if he is still there.

It is very early when you fully wake, the pale blue of morning only just seeping into the gloaming. It is a quiet hour but despite its gentle ambiance, you are woken with a fright. You settle when you realize it is just Felix grabbing you. He crossed the bed to gather you into his arms, mumbling an apology but nonetheless wrapping himself around you.

You realize he had a nightmare. He has not had one in a while. Your back is to him so you reach around to pat him consolingly.

You shiver when he exhales, his warm breath brushing the back of your neck, but you do not linger on the sensation. The previous morning and all its stirrings are far from mind now. He is upset so you comfort him, simple as that, letting him wrap his arms around your middle and rest his head against yours. Your thighs sit neatly against his, bodies slotted together neatly, like it is the most natural place to be.

“Can you, uhh, just…” He clears his throat. “Can you talk… to me… please.”

Felix does not like to talk about his nightmares but he does like a distraction. You are the same. There are times you wake in a fit and he speaks in a soft voice to lull you back to rest. Your voice is not as unique as his, lacking the deep dulcet colour, but he seems to like listening anyway.

You tell him about the party, all the frivolous details and gossip. Two women wore the same dress, what a scandal, someone dropped a pearl earring, what a loss. This couple broke up, that couple is having an affair. Miroh was there and predictably austere the entire night—

Felix was beginning to relax but he tightens his grip when you mention Miroh.

Your voice trails off.

Your father has many enemies but Miroh is his only true rival. You are not directly involved in any business but you pay attention to your father and his work. You know about the political bribery and the underhanded dealings and the illegal trading. You know Miroh is the same except he is also a military man, that he has dark connections and turns a profit on some very backward schemes. Of course, your father depicts his rival as a worse villain than himself, so it is hard to say precisely what Miroh does, but you know the look of a bad man regardless.

You have suspected for some time that Miroh played a part in Felix’s dark past. You do not know what or how or why, as you have never pushed Felix to tell you, but you know Felix well. Your father has many enemies and Felix is always alert, but Miroh receives extra vigilance. Every trace of your companion will disappear before your eyes, replaced with an emotionless soldier.

You feel all that tension in his body now. He is holding his breath.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask in a small voice. It is a vague admittance to your suppositions.

A little tension leaves his body with a humourless laugh, the breath bursting on your neck.

“No,” he says. “Not… not right now.”

“Okay,” you reply. There is a moment of silence. Your heart is beating hard, his pounding as fast, his chest pressed against your back. You shift in his lap. “What do you want then?”

That laugh again, a little more pained. Then he sighs.

“I don’t know,” he says in a rough voice. “Just… distract me.”

Just like that, the energy shifts, at least inside of you. You know very well what would distract him, having witnessed the other morning just how to rattle your bodyguard. The recollection alone has you flushed with heat, embarrassed and nervous and exhilarated all at the same time.

It has always been hard for you to do the simple, normal thing. You cannot smile for a long time, you cannot make pleasant small talk, you cannot kiss the boy you like. But the difficult feats, the outlandish actions, those you have always done with ease. You argue with your terrifying father, you break out of cages, you throw yourself into dangerous situations with little sense of self-preservation.

You cannot turn and sweet-talk him. You cannot lean over and kiss him. You cannot smile and implore him.

You can stare ahead through the pale light, warm with memory and fantasy alike, and slide your hand down between your legs. With a little swivel of your hips, you press against his lap. The effect is remarkably instantaneous, the adrenaline of his fears seemingly diverting course at the merest suggestion.

He makes a choked noise, then his hand is overtop yours. You always forget how strong he is, all that hidden power and dexterity. He clutches your hand with ungiving control, down between your legs, over your shorts, preventing you from going further.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, his stern voice as affecting as a touch. It makes you whimper.

His hips shift. His baggy shorts do little for modesty and you can feel him twitch with interest, stiffening against your backside. You try to move your hand but he pins your wrist and says your name warningly.

“I won’t touch you,” you whisper. “You don’t have to touch me.”

“Other people are home—”

“Then stop talking and be quiet,” you say. It is always easier to be brazen when you are arguing or asserting a point, so when he releases your hand, you slide it into your shorts without a second thought. It is only once you’re there that you realize you don’t really know what you’re doing. Your belligerence only takes you so far.

Then Felix breathes a surrendering sigh. He squeezes your hips with trembling hands and rolls away, onto his back. You spill onto your back too and look at him. You feel vulnerable and uncertain until he closes his eyes and touches himself through his shorts. The sight makes it easy to stir a reaction under your clumsy fingers, watching his hand cup and stroke the shape of himself through his shorts. You slip the other hand down there too, spreading yourself to your own exploratory touch. You press and rub and circle, your heartbeat thundering erratically when he opens his eyes and looks at you.

Your lips part but you withhold all noise, breathing hard into the dark as his hand dips under his waistband. His eyes are cast low to where your own hands move under your clothes, your fingers moving more frantically than his lazy stroking.

When you finally find a place and pattern that feels right, your breathing gets heavier, a soft whine slipping into your exhale. His reflexes are quick as ever. His arm slips under your head and curls around your neck, hand covering your mouth to catch the surprised yelp that passes your lips.

“Shh,” he says.

And for some reason that takes you over the building crest. Your body curls, tight as coil even while a white heat unravels inside you. You gasp into his palm, eyes closing, swallowing down your own sounds.

You are still twitching with aftershocks when you grab his hand with your very wet fingers. You are not thinking about that, you are still hazy and powered by instinct, prying his hand off your face.

But he realizes it. He makes another choked-up sound and looks at the closed door, his breathing coming out hard through his nose. He pulls his arm back, closes his eyes. His hand, wet with you, just hovers for a second.

You watch him. His mouth is open and his eyes are closed and his hair is falling in a messy sweep around his handsome face. You are slow in your approach, giving him time to open his eyes, to see your own hand near his face.

He exhales sharply and his eyes close tight. He grabs your hand and pulls it to his mouth, your own sex pulsing with renewed interest when he licks across your fingers then lets two curl into his mouth, just resting on his tongue. He finishes a second later, shoulders hunching and face screwed up, freckles dancing like a dark constellation.

You bring your shaking hand to your own lips, tentatively kissing the fingers he had in his mouth. He blinks his eyes open slowly, gazing at the ceiling for a second then looking at you. When he sees you, your lips pursed against your fingertips, his mouth opens and closes with some unspoken thought, desperate to vocalize. In the end he swallows it down and closes his eyes. He nods sharply.

“Okay,” he says, his voice ragged. “Thank you. Sleep. You should… You should. Um. I’ll just—”

He shakes his head and rolls out of bed, then darts into the bathroom. The shower starts. You look at your clock and see you have more than an hour to your alarm.

You lay your head on your pillow but you do not fall back asleep.

#skz smut #stray kids smut #lee felix smut #lee felix x reader #felix x reader #skz x reader

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lvlyghost · 5 months

Text

In the Midst of War: IV

PAIRINGS: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Shadow!Reader

SUMMARY: Home is no longer where it used to be. Left with no one else you wonder who your friends and foes are.

WORD COUNT: 2.3k

TW: poorly written action lol. Fluff, hurt with so much comfort 🤭. Suggestive but no smut yet🌝. Mind the english!🐸 lmk if i missed any.

A/N: okay so this was supposed to be longer but decided to split the last part for chapter v 🐣 it'll be worth it i promise. next part is coming up sooner! as you know i do a lot of double shifts at work and December is the busiest season for me at work lol, just bear with me💖 comments, likes and reblogs are highly appreciated 🩵

Masterlist✨

"𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒕𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒎𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒅."

It's a cold night by the time you get to the safe house in a secluded street somewhere outside Kaindorf. Ghost grunts standing next to you, one of his arms draped over your shoulders to help him keep steady or at least as much as you can help with someone his size. The mission —your first mission since Las Almas— had been successful until it wasn't. You type the code and wait until the door opens with a mechanic sound revealing a not so bad interior. The whole place is silent when you walk in, mirroring the dead of the night. No sound of cars outside not even the sound of the wind to accompany you.

"How are you doing Ghost?" You turn your face to him, he's already staring down at you, noticing the struggle that comes with trying to hold part of his weight. This is not how things should've played out. Yet there he was. A nasty bullet wound on his left shoulder and another to his leg; the latter being just a graze but still hurt like hell.

"Never been better." He growls. And you know he's trying to act nonchalantly. That's just who he is. Who you've come to know. But his injury, especially the one on his shoulder is no joke. You had tried to stop the bleeding right before digging for the bullet. The amount of pain he must've been in was as bad as yours a few weeks ago "How did we miss them?" He mutters under his breath, no doubt recalling the events.

"I don't know. But we'll find out." You lead him to the nearest couch in the corner of the living room and turning on the lamp next to him. Ghost sits down struggling to find a position where he feels comfortable enough. "Alright..." swallowing down you look him in the eyes. "I need to check your wounds again and clean them up properly, okay?"Ghost closes his eyes for a second before nodding, he's too lightheaded to do anything else or maybe it was the morphine you gave him before, he doesn't know anymore.

Trotting back to the truck you unload the duffel bags where all your weapons and medical supplies lie. Closing the door shut and locking it before returning to where the Lieutenant rests. The lamp is turned off again so you can only make the outline of everything. You stop in your tracks dropping one of the bags and shuffle nervously.

"Umm, Ghost?" He hums in acknowledgment. "I can't see anything, do you mind turning...-"

"No." His response comes fast. "I'm not wearing the bloody mask."

So he had taken it off the moment you walked out.

"Then how am I supposed to look at your wounds?" Rolling your eyes you start approaching.

He growls something unintelligible and then adds:

"Fine just don't bloody look up or...-"

"Don't worry, I've no interest in looking at your face."

But the truth was that you wanted nothing more than to see him. The real him. You had dreamed about his face. What would he look like? The small parts of Ghost that you had taken a glimpse of were not enough to make you any less curious. For all you knew was that he most likely was blond. His eyelashes are so light that you wonder if his hair is the same shade. He has soft pink lips and a strong jaw. All of him was huge. Massive. You would never say it out loud but you felt drawn to him.

"Afraid you might like what you see?"

You snort, walking towards him and kneeling in front of the couch he's sitting on. His eyes follow every move you make, never looking up in the process. You slowly peel off the bandages you had previously wrapped around his right leg.

"Does it hurt?" You ask, taking the disinfectant out as you begin to clean up his wound again.

"Not that one." For a moment you almost forget that you're not supposed to look up, but you do. You were trying to take a quick glance to his shoulder, instead laying eyes on his face.

"Shit." You bow your head down as quickly, apologizing profusely to Ghost and expecting some sort of angry reaction from him but he remains in complete silent. "I- I didn't even really see anything, forgive me Sir."

"Fucking hell." He growled. "It doesn't matter. Just don't do it again."

It was true. You barely even saw the entirety of his face. Just pale skin, light brows and a crooked nose from being broken too many times.

"Okay." You swallow hard, hands slightly shaking when your skin makes contact with his much colder one.

Ghost shifts in his seat seemingly uncomfortable with something you can't put a finger on. "Think it's time to stitch that one up." You gesture to where his shoulder should be not daring to look again. Fumbling with the needle and thread waiting for his permission. There's no verbal answer to your previous statement, only a low hum that's enough for you to stand up and silently sit on the armrest next to him, his face is turned the other way hiding himself from you. "You know you can just put it back on?"

"Where's the fun in that?"

"Yeah, right." brows lifting in surprise. "Want me to get you something for the pain?"

"Get it done, kid."

Breathing deeply you oblige.

Ghost's whole body tenses with the first sting of the needle piercing through his skin. Your eyes are fixated on your work but every now and then they travel to the back of his head. Blond hair. So you were right; and you can't fight back the grin that appears on your lips. You're marveled by something so simple as that; if only he'd let you come closer...

"I think it's my turn to cook something for you. All this time you've taken care of me."

"You don't have to. I was doing what I was told."

Blinking you tap his shoulder lightly to get his attention. Ghost merely turns so a small part of his side face shows, still not enough for you to see.

"I want to." Even if he says it was his job. Even if it didn't mean anything to him. All you needed was a way to thank him for what he had done. That was who you were. How you were taught to be. Grateful amongst adversity. "I'm a good cook I promise."

One last stitch. One more. And then you're done, and his body relaxes as you come to stand gathering the medical supplies while looking down the floor. Before you leave he reaches out, grabbing your wrist in a gentle yet firm grip. Eyes going wide.

"You can look now." His voice is low and when you turn he's put the balaclava back on. Big brown eyes staring with intensity. "Thanks for what you did back there."

You stutter when you speak, something about the way he holds you makes you forget how to form words.

"I had to. It was my job, although I failed..."

"You didn't fail." He growls. You motion at his wounds, embarrassed because you knew you could do better than that. "I'm here, aren't I?"

Your mouth hangs open, lips quivering when his words reach your ears. All this time you've tried to look calm. To appear strong when in reality everything has gone from bad to worse; it began with the loss of your former team and the people you held close and dear. People you thought would be there for you for eternity. And then all of the sudden there were none. Alone in a dirty side road to die, you guess that in the end there were no good people. Just soldiers following orders. But standing in front of a man who was always portrayed as the devil himself maybe... just maybe not all hope was lost. And not all people were bad. Much to your dismay, Ghost stands from his place on the old couch, rising in all his massive glory as he takes one firm step closer to you. Your hands threaten to let everything fall onto the floor, breath getting stuck in your throat. You're lucky. So, so goddamn lucky that he's your ally. Someone who, in these past weeks has become something you don't dare to name.

"At ease soldier." He commands in a hushed voice. And he's close. Too damn close you feel the heat radiate off of him. It makes your skin burn and hands sweat. "I'm just looking at you."

Ghost is terrifying when you look at him in full gear. The white skull mask a legend itself among all the military forces in the world. Hushed stories told during late nights back on base. You had never met him nor had the chance to work with him. All you knew was that. Never in a million years would you have thought you'd have to be his eyes from the distance; to be the one who guards him. Your finger caresses the trigger of your sniper rifle, ready to shoot at anyone who you deemed dangerous.

"Should've brought my own mattress." You huff, shifting your body to find a more comfortable position.

"You've been out for a few weeks. It can't be that bad." His deep voice talks right into your ear.

"My stomach was literally reattached, Lt."

A deep chuckle that doesn't last long enough can be heard.

"If you can't do it let me know. I can take you back to your room, yeah?"

"I'm having a hard time deciding if that's a good or bad thing, sir."

"The latter, Vesper."

Laughing you turn your head, maybe it's the paranoia of being back but you feel someone constantly watching you from behind.

"How's that a bad thing? Thought you liked me in my room."

You can practically hear him suck in a breath and then a muttered curse.

"Not when you're injured and nearly comatose." He grunts after a few seconds of silence.

Oh.

"Well then's a good thing i'm here."

The mission was rather simple. Break in, gather some intel and get out. Nothing was supposed to go sideways but it did. It had started with the room where the intel was supposed to be.

"Vesper." You hear Ghost calling you. "There's civilians in here." His voice drops an octave.

"What?" A shiver runs down your spine. "They are not supposed to be there." All you hear is the sound of muffled voices. Cries for help. Ghost swearing under his breath. And then shots are fired.

Your heart races when the first couple of hostiles appear through your scope. Not being one to hesitate you aim to their heads and fire.

"Vesper sitrep." Ghost barks, his end way more chaotic than yours.

"Hostiles coming in groups. You need to get out of there asap."

"Bloody hell." It's all he says before another round of shots is fired. "Meet me at the evac point."

"I'm not leaving you behind!"

Shifting your scope to look through one of the windows you watch as a dark figure runs downstairs. Ghost is trying to make his way to the back exit when another group reaches the abandoned building. You effectively take out the first three men that jump out of the black van. Then another ominous creak of crunching leaves in the god forsaken roof of the house across, rolling on your back your turn at the exact moment a bullet is fired your way, and hitting the the ground where you previously laid prone.

Wide-eyed your face pales as recognition hits your features.

You know him. And he knows you too.

His big hand lifts slowly as if asking permission to touch you to which you give a small nod. Ghost is looking at a spot on your left cheek his thumb softly caressing the soft skin of your face. You don't know why but you find yourself leaning into his touch.

"How'd you get this?" An unknown look is all you give him. "There's a scratch, right 'ere." Careful not to hurt you or cause you any pain he keeps his motion.

"Must've been when we ran through the woods." You mumble. "I'm sure I didn't let any of them get me."

"Atta girl." A small pause settles when all you hear is the sound of the night outside. Crickets and the now casual passing of cars far in the distance, returning from work, oblivious to the dangers of the world. Some things they'd never heard of before, things they wouldn't witness in their lifetime. "Better me than you."

You melt at his words. Heart nearly beating out of your chest. It's like your body acts out of pure impulse. Hands —your hands— grab the sides of his neck pulling him down just enough that his forehead touches yours, and you rest there with ragged breathing fanning over his face. Closing your eyes you weigh in your options. Break the moment and tell him about the encounter with the man back in the roof, or let yourself feel him? Because truth be told this could only mean one thing. Ghost wanted to be near you in ways that were not professional at all. And hell you wanted that too from the moment you saw him. You just didn't know it.

If the things you heard were true he didn't let just anyone close to him. What was so special about you? You wanted to ask, but you feared that even if you moved, this thing would be broken and the moment would slip through your fingers.

In a quick movement you go from standing in the middle of the living room to sitting on the nearest table, you shriek as Ghost slots himself between your legs. Seemingly unfazed by what he just did you then see the corner of his eyes crinkle. He's smiling under the mask.

"You're hurt. You'll reopen the wound and..."

"I don't care, sweetheart. I've got you where I want you." A sheepish smile forms on your lips and your cheeks grow hot. "One word. Say it and I will stop."

You nod right before he lifted his mask and his lips crash down on you.

Part 5

TAGS:

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strawberrystepmom · 5 months

Text

malevolent enterprise ch. 2

ceo au series. sukuna and yuji are brothers. gojo x f!reader are endgame but this is backstory/lead up. reader has hair that can be swept off of their face. reader is a lawyer (ive taken creative liberties bc i am not a real lawyer so take it up with god if u find an issue) and has an established platonic relationship with sukuna and has an ex boyfriend that is an oc named shigeo. cw drug and alcohol mentions. wc 1.8k.

masterlist coming soon but in the meantime, ch. 1 can be found here

divider thanks to @/cafekitsune ♡

“Forgot I paid you to stand around, ---.”

Hearing Sukuna use a shortened version of your full name, you roll your eyes and pull your glasses off of your face, holding them between your thumb and index finger. Meeting his gaze with an indignant look of your own, you toss the pen you’re holding with your other hand down on the desk in front of you and groan in frustration.

You’re only standing in his office because you've been reviewing contract abstracts for hours and could use a break before your brain starts to turn to mush given his absolutely archaic NDA demands that would never be upheld in court.

“Am I not allowed to pace? Is that one of the workplace rules you’ve set we all have to follow, King Ryomen?”

He appreciates your sharp wit if nothing else so he chuckles, walking around you to plop down behind the heaviest and most ornate looking desk you’ve seen in a modern office.

Truly fit for a man who sees himself as a king.

“Can I make all of you start calling me that? Will HR have an issue?”

You scoff and shake your head.

“Yes. I have a funny feeling they would indeed take issue with you demanding your employees call you king.”

Placing your glasses back on the bridge of your nose, you sweep back a few tendrils of hair that have fallen in front of your face and sigh, raking your fingers through the top of your overgrown layers. You’ve been too busy lately to even get a trim, late nights spent at the revenge motivated Ryomen Enterprises preventing you from doing much but provide general counsel, as your position and official title state.

You left one incredibly oppressive job for another and you don’t quite regret hitching your wagon to Sukuna but you aren’t proud of it either, especially putting your own goal of having your own firm on hold to do it.

Leaving the Zen’in firm seemed intelligent three months ago after Naoya was named partner instead of you, the tireless hours you put into the blockbuster Miyamoto v. DTK, Inc. wrongful termination suit, the first of its kind in the country, meaning ultimately nothing when it comes to family ties and misogyny.

You handed your resignation to Naobito the next day who received it with a knowing smirk, glad to see one less bitch too big for her skirt suit step aside. Two months later Sukuna reached out to you and you assumed you’d be stupid to pass up a comfortable and lucrative in-house counsel position in a well funded company everyone had just started buzzing about.

It also helps that the founder of said company is someone you’ve known for long enough you have seen him shuffle through several life phases.

Needless to say the job hasn’t been what you expected it to be since saying yes though, sifting through a bankers box full of Manila envelopes, muttering aloud about all the shit you need to get done and the severe lack of hours in the day.

“The journalist hasn’t sent back her NDA yet,” you remark and he hums. He knows exactly the pretty little pink haired thing you’re mentioning and he smirks thinking about how easily he pulled her apart in a penthouse suite 8 blocks away a few nights ago but his attention is drawn back to the present when you slam a stack of papers in front of him.

“Your brother’s company doesn’t even have in-house counsel.”

Sukuna arches a brow, sitting back in his chair and slamming his feet on the desk. You don’t even jump, perhaps too used to his antics after only a couple months of working for him. It’s not like he was a stranger to start with, the senior you helped through your sophomore Contracts course remembering you fondly for your plucky demeanor and willingness to fight when necessary.

You simply remember him as a smooth talking asshole who charmed you into doing his coursework successfully but he signs your checks so you keep your assessments of his character to yourself as often as possible.

“How do you know what’s going on at Yuji’s company? Are you a mole?”

A snort is your response and you toss him a glance from over your glasses, one he knows means he’s treading in dangerous territory. Tossing down one of the near bursting envelopes in your hand, you pick up your phone and grimace at the text lighting up the screen.

Toge: maki wants 2 eat w u at some point this millennium - her words

Rolling your eyes, you text back and Sukuna watches with a grin, wondering what in the world could have you so irritated on your phone.

“That’s not Gojo is it?”

You scoff again and add nothing further, continuing to focus on your phone despite the second last message Toge sent you containing a link to a headline showing off the man just mentioned wining and dining a pretty dark haired woman across the world last night.

Quickly, you type a reply to Toge’s message to send the bubble with the news article further out of your periphery.

You: are you guys together? where are you?

“It’s my assistant reminding me to eat since I don’t get a spare second to do it working for you,” you finally remark, locking your phone with a wince.

You try to pretend you’re too good to be affected by the latest news of Satoru’s careless public hookups but you did lock yourself in the executive bathroom to cry at your own reflection for 45 minutes earlier so you opt for silence rather than digging the hole any deeper.

Why you care in the first place is beyond you, the two of you only ever orbiting around one another, no serious groundwork for anything beyond neutrality laid. You can’t help who you’re attracted to, though, and while there’s no use in lamenting that you’re nobody to the man you can at least sit down and dye your hair a shade darker to pretend he’d be interested next time you get the chance.

Sukuna pulls you out of the hole your mind is in, swinging back and forth in his chair, making it squeal with each quarter turn and further annoying you.

“When’s the last time you went out and did anything besides look at paperwork and smoke with the window cracked? You look like shit.”

The expression on your face is priceless, shifting to glare at your boss while he snickers to himself and shrugs, knuckles wrapped around his opposite bicep.

“Yuji’s party is the last time I went out.”

Well over a month ago. Sukuna whistles lowly, still shifting idly in his chair.

“I’m just saying maybe you need more than just a bite to eat to feel better. Text your ex or something, didn’t he just get surgery? He’s probably at home.”

The mention of Shigeo, baseball star, makes you exhale as loudly as possible and throw down another envelope. He’s the last person you want to hear about, given you broke his heart just over six months ago, admitting you didn’t see yourself marrying him when he asked about a shared future for the two of you. He’s sweet, he’s wonderful, he’s a good man but he isn’t your forever man and finally, anger makes your face flush and feel warm, your boss successfully making his way under your skin.

“Don’t you have illicit substances to snort out of someone’s asshole?” You look away and mutter under your breath, much to the amusement of the man watching each irritated step you take. “What are you even doing here anyway? It’s after hours.”

Sukuna takes his feet off of the desk and leans forward on his elbows, sucking his teeth. He isn’t sure why he’s here, actually. Perhaps he’s partied out and tired of hosting giggling girls with nothing better to do than hang on his every word or maybe he wants to look over his kingdom without prying eyes judging his every mood. Both of these are a little true but above all, part of him holds the tiniest bit of fondness for you. At least enough that he’s concerned you’re overworking yourself.

“Go out tonight. All this shit will be here tomorrow and I’m sure I’ll give you even more to deal with by the time the sun is up again.”

You sigh and look down at your phone, screen lighting up as another message from your personal assistant comes through.

Toge: den, just sat down. ordered you vodka soda.

“Fine but let your little pink princess know that if her NDA isn’t in by next week I’m going to sit there and watch you two fuck to make sure nothing gets out.”

Sukuna hums, brows raised.

“I always knew you were a freak.” You roll your eyes and he chuckles, standing up from his chair and letting it roll back far enough it bumps against the glass floor to ceiling window behind it. “You’re one of those girls who wears really sexy underwear but never lets anyone see them, right?”

Tucking documents into a box, you snarl. He’s not

flirting, he's making nasty observations as he is known to do. He has known you for long enough he feels extremely comfortable doing so and you can hardly argue with him. Who cares even if he is right? You’re a grown woman with a lucrative career and life, if you wanna wear 50,000 yen silk panties that’s your business.

“That’s more than enough out of you.” Another document tucked and you approach Sukuna, looking up at him with your mouth in a line. “I’ll be in by 10 tomorrow. Don’t fuck my night up.”

He nods, holding his hands up in a gesture of mild surrender.

“I’m serious about the NDA too. I’ll meet with her if you want but I won’t promise to be nice about it.”

Your boss scoffs but smirks.

“You’re always too nice, that's why you don’t have it yet but I’ll talk to her.”

Nodding, you acquiesce, uninterested in arguing while you tie your coat closed. Your phone lights up again and you look down at the message with a groan.

Toge: ice melting…👎🏻

“I mean it, Sukuna Itadori. I do not want to hear a single report of bad behavior in the morning.”

The only person allowed to still call him his family name is you and you turn on your heel, stilettos clacking across the marble floor with each step.

“Whatever you say, boss.”

His sly remark makes you toss another look over your shoulder while opening the office door but the buzz of your phone catches your attention instead.

Maki: If you aren’t here in 15 I’m dragging you out of that building myself.

Knowing she means it, you stiffen and rush to leave.

“No drama, Sukuna!”

You shout over your shoulder and he chuckles, opening his own phone and scrolling to the contact for the pretty little pink princess he hopes to have back between his jaws tonight.

#sukuna x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #kendall writes #malevolent enterprise

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