#Wolkoshka writes

[wolkoshka]

Paranormal II

summary: after your injury in the birthday party, Ghost takes you home, takes care of your wound - and finally gives you a night you’ll never forget… Simon Riley/Ghost x Reader

warnings: slow-burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, mutual pining, excessive drunk flirting, slightly dark!Simon, touch-starved Simon, trying to get into Simon’s pants (and sort of succeeding??), nsfw-themed

•this is a simon riley ficlet, I repeat, this is not a one-shot but contains a bit of plot and character development, bcs god knows we need 'em

•part 2/3

an: here is part ii, and yes, yes, I know! It’s long overdue. You’re gonna have to forgive a girlie and her lack of awareness to the passage of time.

"I said go get him, not split yer head open. Ooch, lassie, look at ye bruising up. That's an ugly one."

Johnny hassled over you, thumbing your temples as he examined your wound.

Ghost had temporarily dropped you at the bar to go hunting for a med kit. When your gaze had arrayed the room, your best friend had caught your eye, smirking - only to then gasp and push his way to you.

"So what happened?"

"Mating dance," you retorted dryly.

You pressed the glove back to the wound when Johnny released you, leaning against the counter in a snort.

"Did he fall for it?"

"Hardly." Your shoulders slumped defeatedly. "I don't think he likes me very much, Johnny."

"That's Lt for ye, lass. Guy wears a skull for a face. Says he sleeps soundly in it. Shudders, I tell ye. You'd think that'd make ye think twice before approaching him, eh?"

"I think my brain short-circuited precisely for those reasons. I think maybe this hit to the head will remedy that. God knows I need to get him out of my system. A full-on purge. Like those, uh, uh, really intense only-water-for-dinner kind of diets."

"It's hard to get someone ye don't know out of yer mind."

"Exactly! Jokes aside, this is insane even by drunk me standards. Never thought I'd have a crush at this age, but, whelp, here goes nothing! Will get him out of my mind as soon as I stop gawking at those muscles, okay?"

Your friend chuckled.

Over Soap's shoulder, you caught sight of Ghost's form paving way to you, broad shoulders squared, back straight and gait commanding. And yet, there was an almost endearing swagger to his stride, subtle as it was, and it only added to the unmistakable confidence simmering underneath that quiet outfit.

Suddenly, you were air-headed. In the manner people jumped out of his path like he was the most lethal being they'd ever beheld had you seeing rainbows and hearing angelic hymns.

A stupid girl with her big, stupid crush. When was the last time you got one, anyway? High school, that's when. And you felt like a silly schoolgirl again, all those eighth grade magazines on how to talk to boys and attract your crush flooding back.

You wondered what three-way advice they would spell out for someone like Ghost.

Bathe in the blood of his enemies. A sexy look can go a long way!

Rip out the heart of his enemy and gift it to him. All men enjoy a sincere show of affection every now and then!

Take a bullet for him. Take several! Nothing says I have the hots for you like bleeding out in the arms of your crush!

When his eyes found yours, uncompromising and intense even from such distance, the choir increased until you felt like your chest might implode.

"Never mind," you dreamily sighed. This particular crush wasn't leaving anytime soon.

"Johnny," Ghost voiced, coming around the man. To you, he crooked a finger. "They got band-aids, but I need to stitch you up. We'll resolve the matter in your place."

Your head perked. "We will?"

Was your night actually going to end with Ghost in your apartment? Maybe even bed?

You looked at Johnny, Johnny looked at you - and you both raised your eyebrows in a knowing look.

"What the bloody hell you two peepin' at each other for?" Ghost growled.

"Peepin'? What's peepin'?" Johnny.

"We're not peepin'." You.

Eager, you hopped down - and immediately regretted it when your vision swayed. Whoops... You clutched your head tighter.

"Easy there," Johnny voiced, hands supporting your shoulders.

Once you righted, you looked up at Ghost. Expectant. Would he carry you?

You kind of, sort of, definitely desired his arms around you again.

As if seeing right through your needs, the muscle below his eye twitched. He set a challenge with his gaze, forcing you to admit defeat and walk a soldier's walk.

You faintly winced. Shrugged. "Owh, my poor head. I feel...dizzy. So dizzy. Don't know...might even trip in the rain. Get a concussion..." Another meek yet daring shrug. "So inconvenient, no?"

"Maybe ye need to go the hospital, lass - Umpf!"

You shut Johnny up with a backward punch to the groin, attention never wavering from Ghost.

There was a soft inquisitive sound, an arch of your brow, before he conceded with a weary blink of his eyes. You had to love the way his lashes fanned every time he did that. Long, thick, and softly curled, they might just make a girl jealous.

Internally, you performed a victory dance. Externally, you outstretched an arm.

His killer biceps bulged around your frame, tugging you close, as he lifted you off your feet. When you corded your arm around his neck and nestled your face on his pec, lashes batting up at him, Ghost looked like he was near to dropping you on your arse and dragging you by your heels instead.

"Don't get used to it, poppy," he grated low.

You wore a look of mock-surprise. "Never."

Gaze too slow to leave your face he spoke to Johnny next, "I'll meet you at the base." He strode past, strong legs falling into pace. "Don't be late. And for fuck's sake, Johnny, get some rest."

Johnny grinned, the act slightly laced with pain due to your earlier assault. "Ye got it, Lt." To you, he gave you a proud thumb's up.

Over Ghost's shoulder, you blew him a kiss and mouthed happy birthday, and I love you big time, you sucker.

When the bar door closed behind you, you pointed out to Simon that he'd forgotten your umbrella and proton pack.

For the umbrella, he said the rain might help sober you up. As for your proton pack, he didn't even bother providing an answer as he took down the street, all pleased with himself as rain mercilessly pelted your face.

When lightning crackled and thunder roared overhead, you thought you felt his arms slightly draw you closer, a bit nearer, but dismissed it, blaming it instead on your active imagination and stupor.

.

What the bloody hell was he doing, Ghost questioned, standing in your open kitchen and preparing tea for two.

Steam curdled up, obscuring his masked face as he poured green tea into two cups. Clasping the handles, he turned from the counter to place them on the marbled island.

Your abode was a spacious loft with four large windows peering out into the bustling city, the London Eye and the River Thames a distant view, with a ceiling that rose six meters high.

Before him was a sitting area with a comfortable couch, plush armchairs and a TV stand. Fully-stacked bookshelves flanked either side while pots of myriad flowers and wild ferns decorated the space.

A dining table perched to his left, a family photo and Mesopotamian antiques lining the dark cherry wood surface in display. He spotted Johnny in the frame, younger than he's ever seen him, dimples deep in a cheery smile, and he spotted you, hanging onto his shoulders with an eye-crinkling laugh of your own, also young and exuding innocence.

To his far right was your bed, propped against the wall and neatly made, accompanied by nightstands and a reading lamp. To its left was the entrance, separated by a narrow wall of stained glass depicting two mermaids frolicking about. By that, he clearly meant the large cock sprouting from the merman's groin and gripped by the mermaid's slender fingers, their tails entwining as deeply as their tongues, their bodies writhing in unabashed pleasure. It was beautiful, no doubt, made to come alive in colors coral blue, golden, and violet, but Ghost also knew it was custom made.

Anyone would've missed the unorthodox tableau at first glance, but he wasn't anyone.

You had wild fantasies, it appeared, and he wanted to bash his skull in for taking interest in that.

Just like he wanted to bash the mug of green tea in his hand because he couldn't will his feet to walk away.

Granted, you'd asked he stay, at least for a little while, to thank him for taking care of your wound, and sprinting to your bathroom thereafter for a quick shower.

It's been ten minutes now, and Ghost should've been long gone. He couldn't be here. He didn't do one-night stands. He had a number for that, a special visitor, that took care of his needs without him ever needing to undress. Left just as wordlessly when the deed was done. No unnecessary pillow talks, goodbye notes, or call me laters. No strings attached, just as Ghost preferred it.

But you...

The way you wanted him, the way you watched him, eyes growing dark and heavy with desire, it made him realize he'd never been pursued that ardently. Sure, he had instances where he attracted certain women his direction - any bloke with a look like his warranted that - but a simple glower from him had them scurrying off just as quick.

He should be scaring you off too, not exciting you.

Not making you out to be an intoxication he was uncharacteristically impatient to divulge in.

Hell, with his given background and formidable expertise, no one even dared to hold his gaze for longer than three seconds. When he talked, everyone shut up. His reputation preceded him. Yet you... Bloody hell, you not only held your ground, but also eye-fucked him every chance you got.

Ghost didn't quite compute; you were a perfect stranger to him, someone he met but once, and yet you had a face that could make a man happily dream into an early death.

God, there was something about you that made his palms itch for a touch...itch to wrap that hair of yours around his fist, lift his mask, and descend for a proper feeding. A sick, twisted part of Ghost perhaps wanted to see how good you could get him to pillow talk.

It was a passing thought, but chills abraded his forearms. The challenge in it gave him a heated rush of red.

What the hell was the matter with him? he questioned for the umpteenth time.

He shouldn't be wanting such nonsense.

He shouldn't be caring for it either.

He should walk away now. But...

The moment he chose to act, turning, the exit his target, the shower stopped running. The naked pad of footsteps resounded. A towel flapped open. More footsteps, and then -

You emerged from the bathroom, all robed and clean, leaving steam in your wake. It looked like you'd just walked out of a dream, cherub cheeks flushed pink and skin dewy, almost satiny, and - fuck. He internally groaned. He wanted to bite.

What in nine hells? He popped his jaw in frustration.

Upon spotting him, excitement flashed in your eyes, and you nearly skipped over.

"You stayed," you breathily commented, the towel you were using to dry your hair tossed atop the dining table. Traces of vanilla and coconut saturated the air, infiltrating his mask, and his mouth involuntarily watered.

He needed to call that special number tonight, he decreed, or else he wouldn't survive the coming days. Days? More like hour. Keep it together, soldier.

Such unpalatable delight seeped from you, he slowly shook his head.

If only you knew he sewed another man's skull on his mask, beaten to a pulp before stripped clean of all tissue. A constant reminder of what he’d lost. Who he'd lost. If only you knew he viewed the outside world from the eyes of a dead man. If only you knew poison swam in his veins, immortalizing the infectious ichor that damned any soul to near him. Touch him. You would flee the other direction.

You would curse at him, curse him, see him for what he truly was.

A rotting corpse unleashed to the world to haunt. To terrorize.

Would you crave him then, knowing those very hands you wanted wrapped around you had ended lives, and most not so humanely?

He wasn't capable of holding you without hurting you.

Anything good and decent in him had long ago been buried away, and in their stead festered rancid tendencies that worked his mind and body tireless.

Nothing survived him, and you would be no different.

Even tonight, his somber mood a result of the death toll that ripped through his heart, deadened as it was, when he heard - witnessed - the scream of little children blown to pieces by a human bomber he was meant to stop, was no coincidence.

His main objective was to retrieve classified documents, but it had come at a cost when the enemy understood they were compromised.

He had done a bloody good job clearing the entire building, knives soaked crimson, fists even more so, but he'd forgone the basement, a bunker where bombers kept their own hostage. It was a gruesome tactic the enemy utilized to throw their foes off balance. He had a moment's decision before the bomber pressed the button - shoot him with the off-chance of saving the children, get obliterated to pieces and fail the mission, or succeed.

It was either them or the classified intel. He’d ducked for cover.

Choices have consequences, he remembered telling Johnny once, and, fuck, if he didn't hate himself for his.

He tasted the sulfur, the clogging dust saturated with human remains, in the back of his throat. He couldn't wipe those deaths from his eyes no matter how many times he bathed, scrubbed, scraped.

So, no matter you being a perfect stranger, feeding him look upon look of insatiable hunger any man would gladly sacrifice a limb for, he couldn't go down that road.

Especially when you meant so much to Johnny, his brother-in-arms, a man with a heart of gold that reminded Simon of his own. He couldn't do that to him, to you. Christ, he couldn't walk through fire again.

He wouldn't survive it.

And - bollocks, he nearly chuckled - he never sounded more miserable. It didn't matter. He'd be dodging a bullet with you, all right. All his physical needs, he could deal with them like a grown man in the confines of his own four walls.

Besides, he was a goddamn mess tonight, his feelings and thoughts blown asunder. He hadn't slept for seventy-two hours and was in desperate need of some shut-eye.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost," your lilting voice broke through his thoughts. He blinked down at you. You shrugged, a small smile forming. "Funny how that works, don't you think?"

Maybe he should give you a taste of what it meant to know Simon Riley. Maybe then, and only then, would you understand the favor he'd been extending you.

Silently, he pushed the steaming cup of green tea your way.

A soft gasp. "A man after my own heart." Your fingers came around the mug, hugging it close to your chest and taking a cautious sip. "Mmm. Just what I needed."

"You feelin' better?" Christ, he might as well have spat out shards of glass with how rough he'd sounded.

You licked your lips, pink tongue darting out. "Yeah. Much," you whispered. "Thanks."

Your lips enclosed around the rim again, plump, red and eager. Red as poppies. He imagined them closing around something else, something harder, hotter, sweetened by your spit.

His muscles stiffened, the itch flaming his palms. Palms he then curled into tight fists - before releasing.

He unsuccessfully cleared his throat. "Right, then, you get that rest, poppy."

He turned on his heel, the exit never appearing more distant as he marched to it. At the end of the island, he'd left the box of med kit and his glove, and he reached for the latter as he bypassed.

A blur of white and he was staring down at your delicate features again.

"Wait, wait, you can't just leave. And you definitely can't take this." You snatched the glove from his grasp and quickly hid it behind your back. You pursed your lips at his quiet glower. "Because I'll, uh, wash it for you. More polite that way."

Bollocks. You meant to keep what was his, you wily little thing. He could easily wrestle it out of your hands, but he didn't want to give you more incentive to put your hands on him. Or, worse yet, his on you.

"You got somethin' you wanna say?" he roughed out.

"Only that I want to thank you. Properly."

"Properly thanked. Now out of my way."

He meant to sidestep but you halted him with a soft, warm palm on his chest. His heart, for the briefest second, quickened at the gesture. Didn't need incentive at all, it seemed.

You struggled for purchase. "Well - Well, what about your tea?"

"I'll live, poppy."

Another step, another pressing of your hand against his body. More adamantly this time.

Bloody hell, such a tiny thing, you were, but he'd never encountered a bigger hindrance. Especially when he was oh, so close to the exit. He was positive you were going to lock your door and swallow the key if he did not indulge you a moment's courtesy.

His abrasive exhale of defeat finally brought your palm down from his chest, and he - what? Wanted to beat your white-bricked walls in at the loss of contact? Absolutely not - couldn't have felt better.

His lids dropped, and his look of defiance rivaled yours. For a second too intense for his liking, both of you were stuck in a battle of wills.

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Four se -

Christ. That pulled a reaction from him, primal and almost aggressive. The kind that had the blood in his veins rushing hot and wild.

His low, grumbling voice, a contrast to the sudden, violent need unfurling in his lower abdomen, vibrated the still air between you.

"Properly thank me how?"

Of all the answers he could've expected, with how your teeth worried your lower lip, nibbling at the fleshly petal, or how your lashes fluttered, somehow nervous, or even with how your cheeks dusted pink in evident arousal, that is, a meek, "Biscuits?" was definitely not it.

His head jerked back, a frown creasing his forehead. "Biscuits?"

He fuckin' loved biscuits.

"Yes. With tea?"

Hell, he loved that more.

He let your words sit for a while. Then, "You got any ginger nuts there, poppy?"

A bashful smile revealed a row of straight, white teeth. He wanted to scrape his own against them, his tongue coaxing in to steal a little taste of you. At the heady image, he tensed.

Growled.

You swallowed. "You don't have to be so angry about it. I've got them. Come on, then, I'll share my favorites with you."

In under five minutes, you had the Ghost sprawled atop your bed goddamn picnicking with a plate of biscuits and a mug of tea in hand.

Having made away with his leather jacket, he leaned back into a heap of pillows you'd placed for him, and - oh, that felt good - his muscles hissed in pleasure at having finally relaxed.

He grunted, his lids threatening to drift shut. Your bed was warm, soft, and smelled of wild lilacs - all qualities Ghost was estranged to in the field, which happened to dominate the better part of his life.

"You'll love this," you said from your spot next to him. He'd momentarily slacked off, and your voice brought him back from the abating garden of flowers he was surrendering himself to.

He breathed in deep, pulling focus.

Having dimmed the lights to your loft, you wiggled to a comfortable position and succumbed to your own nest of pillows.

You smelled like a peachy sunset over a beach of glistening sands, and if he touched you, you'd feel even better.

And now he was turning into a bloody poet.

If 141 ever saw him like this, Ghost would never live it down.

He balanced his plate of biscuits and mug of tea on his lap, but when you pressed your shoulder to his, he nearly spilled the hot liquid over his pants.

It also chased the sleep from his burning lids, and, quietly, he suffered your presence.

His body seared where you touched him, but he made no show of it.

You outstretched your lithe legs, soft and enticing, over the bed, and crossed them at the ankles. At the movement, your white robe parted in the seams, revealing the supple flesh of your thigh, but you made no move to cover it. You simply lay there, still delectable with a kind of sweetness Ghost wanted to languidly lap at with his tongue.

So much so that the muscle now ached in his mouth.

He swore under his breath, his own legs shifting to distance his body from you. His booted feet, he dangled at the edge of the bed. He wasn't that barbaric.

"I thought you were the patient one," you chided, misreading his mood. In your fingers, you clutched some kind of a remote. It possessed two buttons. "Watch this."

You pressed the green one.

A soft whine reverberated from above, and then a portion of the sloped ceiling slid up to, inch by inch, reveal the thundering clouds in the sky.

Not many things had the power to surprise Ghost, but this... Well, suffice it to say, his jaw slightly slacked open.

Rain dazedly pelted the glassed frame, the droplets snaking down in rivulets, and distant strikes of lightning illuminated the cloudy world above, and in consequence, the dark room.

You dreamily sighed, sinking further into your pillows. You reached for the biscuits on his thighs.

Simon hadn't realized he'd placed them too close to his groin, and thought you went in for a different feeding, body abruptly tensing.

The faintest drop of your hand's weight on him had his throat contracting.

Subtly, he had the plate relocated to his abdomen. Much better.

"I had it installed when I moved in. It helps me sleep better at night. Oh, especially in such nights." You hummed out a chuckle and pointed. "Look at that cloud. Kind of looks like the head of a chihuahua, don't you think?"

Lightning crackled. The sky brightened in hues murky gray and electric blue - before plummeting into darkness.

He followed your finger, and released a contemplative sound. It was all he offered, but it seemed to be enough for you.

There was something about the sound of rain and your soft breathing that had Simon lulled to a cozy quiet. Snugged by the pillows, his weight sank deeper into the mattress, and he thought he was in a haven of your making.

This could put him dead out if it weren't for the tempting graze of your shoulder against his, forcing him awake ever time his lashes sluggishly fluttered shut.

You sipped your tea and reached for another biscuit.

Slowly, he lifted his own mask 'til his nose and watched, warily, if you'd sneak a peek. You did no such thing.

Ignoring the twitch in his brows, he bit into the biscuits. The tea smoothed them down his throat, and the warm nourishment felt good in his stomach.

All the while, you talked about your sweets and pastries, the corner shop you bought them from, and how it was your favorite with it having opened almost eighty years ago. And how he also should visit it once he gets the chance.

You finished your tea and placed the mug on your side of the nightstand. Brushing the crumbs from your fingers, you plopped back down, head on your pillows this time.

You still did not look at him.

Sober you seemed to have a few bit reservations than wasted you, it appeared, faintest traces of amusement pulling at the corners of his revealed lips.

Downing the rest of his tea, he put away the empty plate and mug to his side of the nightstand. With that, he masked his lips anew.

In the silence, the only sound the pouring rain, he dwelled in the dark with you.

Then, so softly, you said his name.

"Simon."

His breath hitched dead center in his chest. His eyes arrowed down at your lying figure.

You continued to look away, spiky lashes fanning delicate cheekbones.

"You can stay the night, if you want," you made out, swallowing tentatively and moistening your lips. With a tiny jump, you turned over - and finally tilted your face up to look him in the eyes. You cupped the underside of your cheek. "We don't have to do anything. Not that you - Not that you said you wanted to. I'm sorry. I only mean, it's late...and you must be tired." Then, oh, so gently, "Heard you had a long night, too."

Ghost remained silent for the duration of your speech, and at the last sentence, quirked a brow up. "Yeah? And who told you that?"

"Johnny," you murmured.

"Johnny," he echoed. A low crackling sound sizzled in his chest, but it dwindled out before ever reaching his throat. "You discuss me with Johnny, do ya now, poppy?"

Your eyes dropped from his masked face, and your fingers drew small circles into the pillow next to his.

"Sometimes, I do, yes." So effortlessly admitted. Fuck. "It was merely an evaluation of your person, is all. I could see it too. Your eyes are red. Bit groggy too."

He rasped out a low chuckle, if it could be called that, seeing as some sounds tended to get lost in the wide expanse of his chest. "That it, eh?"

A small smile crinkled the corner of your eye, and if he had a heart, he might've gone as far as to call you a darling right then and there.

You shrugged. "Yeah."

He ran the tip of his tongue against his teeth. Simon knew it was best he end the conversation now, rise from your bed, and exit your apartment. Your life. He got his proper thanks, after all.

But, like a damned fool he could only blame on his exhausted state, he stayed put - and probed further. "What else you bothered Johnny about me, mm?"

You licked your lips again, the tip of that tempestuous pink muscle wetting the seam, and he bit back a wanting grunt.

He'd never been more arrested by a mundane act.

Focus, soldier.

His eyes trailed the gentle curve of your jawline...and down your slender neck.

No, not there, you daft geezer. Away.

"Your mask," your tentative voice filled the room.

"What's wrong with it?"

Your soft hair rustled against the sheets as you shook your head. "Nothing. It's merely got something honest about it, is all. As paradoxical as that may seem, I realize now. It's pleasant."

Pleasant? That's a new one.

But he couldn't have you building false notions about him like that. Maybe it was time he warned you away for good.

"I have more blood on my hands than the one running in your veins, poppy. There is nothing honest about me," he coldly provided.

"Well, I think you're wrong."

Bloody hell, what would it take to dislodge you?

You moved, body climbing up the pillows until your head rested close to his shoulder. And then a little bit more, until you leveled with his face.

The sheer heat emanating from your skin traveled past his clothes, seeping into his pores.

Yeah, you were a darlin', all right. A damn appetizing one, at that.

You shifted slightly, weight on your left hip and bared legs so dangerously close to his.

Through the thick rim of your lashes, you regarded him. "Ghost," you said, and he nearly corrected you. "Would you like to know what else I discuss with Johnny?"

A burning sensation infiltrated his cheek, and he realized you were tracing your fingertips over his masked features. Carefully, cautiously, so as to not chase him away.

"For one, those pretty eyes of yours," you hummed lowly. On cue, you gently trailed a finger down his brow bone.

Heat speared his cheeks at that, and he was grateful for the coverage. Simon Riley, blushing. His lashes fluttered a bit, but other than that, you remained clueless as to his expression.

"And they change color every time I look upon you. Sometimes blue, sometimes silver, other times brown, like sweet caramel, and my favorite, pitch black. How do you do that?"

You studied him enough to have a favorite? At that revelation, his throat tightened.

Wordless, he performed a small, almost undiscernible, shrug, the pillows underneath shifting.

A slow, deep smile curved your cheeks. "You should let me study them in broad daylight. I'm sure I'll solve the mystery in no time." With a cheeky air, you booped the tip of his nose with your finger.

Quietly, he watched your face, coal-dark eyes intent and focused, the only sounds from him his steady breathing.

"God, they're so black." Tenderly, you ran your knuckles across his jawline, angled your head, and then softly guided his face closer to yours.

Once, someone had told him he had no present, past, or future, and he'd told them that he'd see them in hell. Now, Ghost realized hell was here, in the breath of a space between you, where you sat so close to him, and yet he could not close it.

"None of that, poppy." He nudged your hold off.

Disappointment colored your eyes, drooped your shoulders, and brought those pearl-white teeth to gnaw at your fleshly lower lip. And with so much bite, he spotted teeth marks form.

"Easy there," he murmured, fingers acting without his explicit permission and pinching your chin.

At that, the discouragement washed away and your eyes clouded with something dark and promising, putting the storm outside to shame. There you went again with that look. If his career in the Special Forces hadn't driven him mad, this surely would.

Understanding that he shouldn't have touched you, he made to move away, but your fingers wrapped around his wrist, keeping him close - and sliding your body closer.

The second your hip meshed against his, his muscles seized up, locking tight upon his bones.

God, you were hot against him. Burning up.

Simon nearly bolted from the bed when he felt your legs entangle with his, the blistering tension having unwittingly made away with much of his resolve and rendering him stimulated in places he'd rather not feel stimulated in.

Your toes teased his legs, rubbing up against the coarse material of his pants. Then, they glided over them, finding purchase in his inner calves - and massaging. Up, up, they traveled, then dooown they dropped, creating a spine-tingling friction.

Ghost grunted, shoulders bunching before undulating. He straightened a bit. Good God. He was suddenly too aware of his own body heating up and all his intimate areas. All too aware of his blood pumping and where it was rushing.

"You better stop that before you get hurt, yeah, darlin'?" he grated past his teeth.

You sighed, no doubt relishing in his deteriorating strength. "A little pain never hurt nobody. Isn't that right, Lieutenant?"

As you said that, you wedged your leg more firmly between his, parting them, and slid your knee upward to lightly grind it against his sensitive groin.

Christ. He grunted with less control now, the feeling slowly slipping through his fingers.

You shouldn't be using that kind of language with him. Shouldn't be talking in such a tone. Because addiction was another sin he didn't mind adding to the list.

His body sweltered from the inside and his heartbeat increased, beating in his ears. He had to leave.

Jerking slightly at another shiver inducing motion, he pushed at your leg.

A final, "No, poppy," scraped past his throat.

"Simon," you tugged at his wrist, voice hoarsely breaking at the end and so desperately, it nearly unmanned him, "I - I'm on fire. It hurts. It hurts so bad. Need... I need you. I can't stop. I don't know why I can't stop. I just - God, I've been needing you for so long now. Every night, I dream of you, do you know that? Every night. Please, please...I'm going insane. I'm - "

That did it.

With a ferocious snarl that was more animal than man, his arm shot forward, calloused fingers latching onto your cheeks and unchivalrously burying your head in your pillows with the abrupt maneuver of his body over yours.

His weight suffocated you into the mattress.

You gasped, eyes gaping wide in alarm.

His ire flared, his desire, even more so.

"Shut the fuck up," Ghost gritted in your face, now panting hot and fast. "Shut your fuckin' mouth now, poppy. Fuck. You ever heed a warning? You ever heard of using your own goddamn fingers? You ever use that pretty little head of yours? Bloody fucking hell, darlin'. Bloody. Fucking. Hell."

You squirmed under him, releasing small, breathless sounds.

The image of you rendered so helpless roused the most primal parts of him and his cock painfully hardened, straining against the strap of his pants.

It was blooming into an ache his hands alone wouldn't be able to assuage. Goddamit.

Your eyes searched his, arraying back and forth, attempting to grasp what just occurred within the span of a blink.

Then, they narrowed, pretty lashes fusing. "I have," you ground out, baring your teeth at him. "I do. But they're never enough." Fuck, you were talking about your fingers. You almost pouted insufferably. "Never what I want. Need. Crave."

"And I am?" he growled out, baring his own teeth. You seemed to like the intensity he exuded, even heatedly roamed your eyes over his masked lips, expression devoid of all fear.

You nodded eagerly.

Yes.

He cursed under his breath.

Lowly, lethally, "How hard did you hit that head of yours, mm?"

You bit your lips to suppress a moan, "Hard enough to get you in my bed."

"That mouth of yours is goin' to get you in trouble, poppy."

You keened at the warning. "Promise?"

At that, he couldn't will himself away even if he wanted to. Not even all the soldiers in his team combined could drag him away when you stared up at him so wantonly, so desperately, silently begging to make away with the terrible ache that shadowed over your every need.

So be it. You would learn your lesson.

"Open your legs," he growled - and slipped his hand underneath your robe.

an: i made it into 3 parts bcs, well, i just had too much fun writing ghost suffering in his self-imposed ✨ agonies ✨

suffice it to say, the next part will be pure filth. pinkie swear this time. strap your seatbelts, girlies, we’re going to the horniest, dirtiest bangtown.

on another note, if anyone is willing to chat/discuss fics relating to cod or any other fandom of their liking, I’ve created a new discord server and pinned it on my blog; all are more than welcome to join ✨

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost x reader #ghost #call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #cod mw2 #cod #john soap mactavish #soap mactavish #john price #task force 141 #Simon riley smut #smut #slow burn #slow romance #mutual pining #paranormal #paranormal part 2 #Wolkoshka writes #when Simon’s so mean and intense i gush #uh i meant blush

[wolkoshka]

Paranormal

summary: you meet Ghost for the second time at Soap’s birthday/costume party and this time, you promise to get a taste of the man behind the mask. Simon Riley/Ghost x Reader

warnings: slow-burn, eventual smut, eventual romance, mutual pining, excessive drunk flirting, slightly dark!Simon, touch-starved Simon, trying to get into Simon’s pants (and sort of succeeding??), nsfw-themed

•this is a simon riley ficlet, I repeat, this is not a one-shot but contains a bit of plot and character development, bcs god knows we need 'em

•part 1/3

word count: 5k+

London was drenched, blinding flashes forking out amidst midnight clouds rolling in a hailing storm.

Or it was pishin' doon oot there, as your childhood best friend would call it.

His birthday, along with the rain, had just stormed in, and since he was being deployed on another mission tomorrow, he wanted to party as soon as the clock struck midnight.

Excitement buzzed in your veins, and not because of the party - well, partially - but because of a certain someone you were impatient to meet again.

On cue, lightning flashed as a strong kick to the bar's door burst it open - and in strut you, Ghostbuster uniform on full display. Except, this one's slutty. And there's only one ghost that needed catching tonight.

All commotion stopped to regard you.

Tossing the umbrella into a rack, you kicked the door shut with your heel.

With shorts hugging the plump of your ass, a form-fitting jacket unzipping down the front to reveal your salacious cleavage, and waist and thigh straps securing the proton pack to your back coupled with the knee-high boots four inches tall, you knew you were a sight to behold.

The bar was swarming with familiar faces of both military and mutual friends.

You dramatically posed, the gun of the proton pack activated. “Heard there was something strange in your neighborhood.”

Low whistles and compliments rebounded. “There’s something strange happening in my pants right now!” one male enthusiastically called from the back.

“Haud yer weesht,” a familiar voice reprimanded, soon followed by an effective smack.

From a sea of shark fins, faerie wings, and numerous superhero costumes, a Mohawk head popped out. Your expression abruptly brightened and you twirled performatively as Johnny shouldered through the bodies and took you in a big, tight hug.

The heat of his body singed into your chilled one, enveloping you.

“Ay ye bastard. Ye actually made it.”

Embracing him equally as tightly, you smothered him with kisses on the face. You hadn’t seen him for three months now. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Johnny-bo-bonnie. Mwah, mwah, mwah. That one’s from mum.”

A hearty laugh. “Don’t tell me - she baked me something real delicious and you ate it.”

“Guilty as charged.”

He put you down, and you stepped back to take in his outfit: a bathrobe, slippers, and polka dotted blue swim trunks. His chest was bare and suave sunglasses perched on his head.

“And what are you supposed to be?”

He splayed his arms wide open, a shit-eating grin revealing straight, white teeth. “A man on a well-earned vacation.”

You playfully slapped him on the chest. “Good one.” From your proton pack, you withdrew a box. A present. “Here. Gotchu something.”

“Please don’t tell me it’s another soap.”

“Why? Were you showered with them tonight?” A snort-laugh. “Get it? Shower? Soap?”

“Harr, harr, harr.” He thumbed over his shoulder at a shrine of soaps forming a pyramid on a table. “Suddenly, everyone’s so bloody hilarious tonight.”

You made a noise of intrigue. “Do they smell nice?”

“Don’t care. What did you get me?” He palmed the box, opening it.

“I’m taking some if they do.”

“Go crazy, lass.” A soft gasp. Then, “O feckin’ feck me.”

“I know, I know. I know you too well. It’s my curse,” you sighed, but smiled when he took out the expensive bottle of GlenDronach, his favorite scotch.

“Happy birthday, sucker.”

He looped an arm around your neck, hugging you close and kissing you on the temple. “And that’s why you’re my favorite best friend.”

"Other best friends, huh? Take that back or I’ll Bath and Body Works your arse next time I see you.”

“Roger that.”

Arm still corded around your shoulders, he turned your bodies to the bar - and there he was.

Ghost.

Simon Riley, you learned his name was.

The muse that lingered in every afterthought, in the darkness of the night, while sleep cooed you into a moment of silence your heart beat fast and loud enough to fight off - just to win more time thinking of the man who did not even care for your existence.

A soft gasp parted your lips.

His back was to you, broad and tall, as he conversed with Price, head tilting ever so often in remark.

He sported a dark brown leather jacket over a black hoodie and equally as dark cargo pants. His combat boots hugged up his strong calves, his legs parted over the bar stool he perched on, meaty thighs barely fitting.

He wasn't in costume. You guessed he dressed as a ghost mirroring a civilian.

Despite the chaos circulating him, his poise was calm and collected, but not unaware, the stiffness in his shoulders stating as much.

A killer of killers, apex predator of the fittest, his prowess was unmatched in the battlefield, and to witness a man of his caliber exist in environment simple and mundane had a startling effect.

Menacing, you thought, a bite to your lower lip.

"See somethin' you like?" Soap humorously chuckled.

You'd met Ghost three months prior, while Task Force 141 was deployed on a private mission to locate Shepherd's current hideout, and as a private contractor who'd built many commercial, private, and government facilities - wherever the clients needed them built - you'd come across one personally requested by Shepherd himself.

It was a long time ago, but your memory had not failed you.

By the shores of Chile, was a property laid out by you, the blueprint of it handed off to Soap to investigate.

Screw client confidentiality when your best friend's life was put in danger by a betraying bastard.

It was then, as you'd climbed into the SUV to hand the blueprint, you'd made out a humongous shape in your peripheral and screamed out in reaction.

It hadn't helped when it was a skull staring right into your very soul.

"Ah, a common reaction to Ghost," Soap had commented. "Lt, meet my best friend," he said your name, and to you, "meet Lt. Ghost. Simon."

Simon.

You'd wiggled your fingers a hello at him. "What a name. Pleased to meet you."

He hadn't responded, had merely stared before looking out the window.

Right then and there, he was an enigma you couldn't deny. You'd decided to make him look your way however and whichever way you could.

"Johnny, be done with it," he'd grated out when you and Soap got lost in the gossip, the husk and deep gravel of his voice eliciting a full-on body shiver from you.

You'd stolen the name he'd given your best friend, calling him Johnny from that day onwards.

Now, here he was anew. A few more steps and within reach, you merely had to walk to him.

Excitement buzzed in your veins.

You smoothed a hand down your outfit. "Do you think he'll appreciate the joke?"

"Knowing Lt and his humor, or lack thereof actually, he might just hate himself for loving it too much."

A giddy feeling spurted in your chest. "You think?"

"Oh, yea. But go easy on him," he added, peering down at you, brow arched, "the man just landed from a solo mission. There's an uneasy air about him tonight. The fact that he's even attending is gift enough for me."

"That means he's tired, grumpy, and susceptible to an easy one night stand. Just my type of target."

"Ay ye vixen. I said go easy. Here," he lowered the zipper on your chest, revealing more of your cleavage, "that's better. Now go get him. God knows he needs it," he grumbled the last part.

Happily, you almost skipped your way to him. But just before reaching, two bodies swarmed you, hugging you close and screaming in your ear over the bar music. Your friends from college.

"Where have you been!"

"It's so good to see you again, come!"

You were dragged away, more distance than you'd like being put between you and Simon. Nooo.

It wasn't after two hours of losing yourself in the crowd, dancing with people, with Johnny, backs pressing together to roll to the beat of the songs in your sickest moves, that you, downing more margaritas than you could count, summoned back your wits and sauntered your way to the bar.

Plopping down on a stool next to his, you mirthfully laughed, buzzed out of your mind.

The melodious sound cut his conversation short with Price and dragged his attention to you, and - oh, fuck.

Those eyes.

Even in your stupor you admitted to their allure.

He walked, talked, like a man who's had his flesh peeled from his bones. Eyes too haunted to be alive, too haunted to be dead.

A man imprisoned in the infinite present that neither knew him reprieve or end.

You were so lost in them that you didn't say anything to him for a long moment. Then, "Hi," you lowly voiced, grinning like a fool who just got the best present under the Christmas tree.

Reminding yourself to be sexier, you opted for a, "What is a girl like you doing...sitting all alone when a hunk like me is right here?"

Your brows furrowed in the middle. No, that didn't sound right. You tried again.

"What is a girl like me doing with...with a hunk like you, sitting...all... No, that's not it either."

The bulk of him shifted in his seat, whiskey in a gloveless hand, as he now regarded you.

To be the sole focus of those eyes, it killed you. Like honeyed whiskey swirling with the silver clouds of storm outside, it made you feel more drunk than you already were.

But you could see how tired he really was, eyes rimmed red, thin veins stark against the white of his sclera.

"All right," he spoke, tone indulging, but rigid and gravely as the rest of him. "You have my attention."

You did? Success!

Even with the balaclava hiding that no doubt beautiful face of his, you complimented him, afraid that if you didn't, you'd be committing a heinous crime.

"You are." You hiccupped. "You are so pretty."

"And you are shit-faced. Had too much to drink, did ya?"

You leaned in, eyes twinkling with something wicked that even he could not deny.

"Liquid courage," you drawled. And then laughed again, dusky and free.

Price, having noticed where the conversation was heading, turned away with a warm chuckle.

"I'll leave you two to it," he said, giving his attention fully to Gaz, who sat to his left.

You waved at the boys, all giddy. And then motioned with your finger to Ghost's waist, as if to say you were going to get inside his pants. Oh, yes, he was the object of your desires.

Gaz chocked on his bottle of beer.

Price palmed his mouth to stifle a laugh. Unsuccessfully.

Ghost, on the other hand, when you glanced up at him, had his lids hooded.

In his language, that might as well translate to a glower.

"You have one minute," he almost barked out. Glower, indeed.

You straightened, expression serious. You gave him a captain's two-finger salute. "Sir, yes, sir!"

Then, before he could toss you out the window of the bar, you followed it up with, "Heard you like jokes. Do you like mine?"

You motioned to your costume.

He followed the movement, gaze raking down your body, and then slowly up, blond lashes fluttering. When his eyes landed on your cleavage, heat filled them, and in reaction, warmth spooled low in your belly.

"Clever," he throatily remarked, glancing away to his whiskey.

All for you.

His compliment added even more heat to your belly, and you blushed, biting your lip.

"I have more where that came from."

A low rumbling sound. It took you a while to decipher it as a hum. "Is that what the courage was for? Not in the mood, poppy."

His rejection would have floored you had you not been already sat.

Not giving up, you leaned further in, fingers trailing over his leathered forearm that rested on the counter. If one focused enough, they'd also spot the slight tremble in them.

At the closeness, he craned his head down slightly to give you a warning look.

It was dark and foreboding, commanding you to watch the boundaries he'd laid or you might just pay the price.

Any man would have run the other direction. But you were not a man. You were horny. For him. Your desire for Ghost had been stoking for months now, and this very moment, so close to him, you thought you might burn alive with it.

You needed him between your legs, feeding his length into you, assuaging the ache that had made a home there with a friction only he could create.

His scent filled your lungs, and you visibly shuddered. He smelled of the storm outside and something else, something masculine and singular only to him.

If you weren't already drunk, the mere heat of him would've rendered you stupid.

Maybe it had, because the next words out of your mouth were sultry and promising.

"You know, it is not ghosts that haunt, but rather they are the haunted. Give me one night, and I might just chase them all away."

You gently dropped from your stool then, stepping into the space between his parted legs, hands daringly skimming over his robust thighs - before warmly palming them, fingertips digging in his cargo pants.

And he was letting you. That fact alone made your head reel.

Face tilting up, you bopped your chin against his clothed one.

At that, Ghost breathed in deep, and then breathed out slow.

Were you getting to him? Or was he really just tired to deal with you, as Johnny had warned?

Only one way to find out.

"I have another joke for you," you hummed. His lids dropped to your lips, and stayed there. You licked them for emphases, the pink tip of your tongue leaving a glistening trail in its wake.

A sound started in his chest, the beginnings of a groan, you guessed, before he quashed it, and you wanted to whine like a little girl who'd been denied her favorite sweet.

"Be out with it," he lowly grinded out.

A small, playful smirk. "What do you call a man who's great at sex with a sigh and moan in his name?"

An intrigued huff, but it came out rasped. "Go on then."

You stretched to your toes, back bowing and perked breasts brushing against his hardened chest. As you dug the heels of your palms into his thighs, your lips trailed up his jawline and nestled right at his ear.

"Simon," you heatedly whispered, making sure to actually moan the last syllable.

When you pulled your face back an inch, you saw his pupils blown, a frightening darkness overshadowing all color. His breathing had deepened, turned almost harsh, but quiet, as his suddenly ravenous look made your knees weak.

You'd never seen his eyes glimmer like that, so predatory, and that turned you on more. So much so that molten heat drooled out of you, soaking your panties. Did he know the effect he had on you?

His hand traveled up between your bodies, and blood rushed in your ears, your heart palpitating. Had you done it? Were you finally going to know the taste of him? Know how his lips felt against yours, moving, devouring? How hotly his kiss melted every inch of you?

As anticipation coiled tight in your stomach, his iron knuckles pressed into your lower chest, right below your revealed cleavage - and nudged you away.

You plopped back down to your heels, taking steps back the more he outstretched his arm and pushed you farther, like he couldn't stand being in the same vicinity as you.

Confused, hurt - a look you did your best to mask - you searched his expression. There was nothing to gain, masked as he was.

"Point made, love," his deep - deeper - timbre chafed the air between your bodies. "But not tonight. Not in the mood. Go on, now. Dance with Johnny, will ya?"

Humiliation blistered your cheeks and you quickly sobered - and felt increasingly sick to your stomach.

He'd just dismissed you like you were some schoolgirl acting out in his classroom.

Hands balling into tight fists, you stole a determined step toward him. You'd worked quite hard on those jokes, mind him.

"Some fun, you are. What, afraid of a little pleasure?"

He leisurely blinked. "Pleasure's not what I'm afraid of," he began only to cut himself short. A glower crowned his ashen brows, smudged by the eye paint, and he grumbled something under his breath you could not make out.

Swaying a bit on your feet - liquid courage, your arse - you flipped back your hair. "Fine. I'll find somebody else to have fun with." Then, inching closer to him, you leaned in to drunkenly whisper, "And when they're balls deep inside of me, I'll still wish it was you."

The glass of whiskey shattered in his grasp when he fisted it too hard, and that groan, that heavenly, wonderful sound of peak male frustration, finally escaped.

"Bloody fuckin' hell, poppy."

With a cheery twirl, you marched away, lithe shoulders blanketed by the crowd, and left the ever stunned lieutenant to his devices.

But his rejection still chafed you, and, oh, God, you needed to get wasted. So wasted, this night would never come back to haunt you again.

. ☾ .

It wasn't after another hour of dancing, partying, and singing sappy songs at the top of your lungs with Johnny and the gang, even tipsily sniffing some stacked soaps and secretly hiding the ones you liked in your bra, you finally found yourself in your designated spot - hunched over a toilet seat and vomiting the contents in your stomach.

It was expected. You'd drank and drank and drank... And now, your whole world swam.

A wretched sound tore from your throat as another round lurched out of your mouth, splattering into the toilet.

You groaned, vision blurred. Ew.

Settling back, you wiped at your lips with your wrist, heaving. So much for having a good time. But Johnny was happy, so you were happy. With his dangerous line of work and your stressful one, you two deserved such nights of peerless fun.

Like the good 'ole times, something Johnny must've needed too, since he didn't usually celebrate his birthdays. But when he did, oh, shit hit the fan in the most amazing ways.

Recalling some of your escapades, you smiled to yourself, completely unaware of the large silhouette shadowing past the doorway.

The lavatory door whined closed.

At the sound, you looked up.

Ghost stilled in his steps, cocking his head at you in question.

You huffed. "What are you doing in the ladies' bathroom?"

"This is the men's." He thumbed his right, where the urinals lined the wall.

What?

This whole time you were hunched over the men's toilet seat?

Another round of nausea shot up your throat, uncalled for, and you bent over the toilet in time to unflatteringly decorate it.

Gross!

This was so not how you wanted your night to end with Simon, either.

At his retreating steps, you immediately clambered to your shaky feet. "Please, don't leave. I get scared when vertigo hits." Such pathetic admittance, but it was the truth. When your world spun out of control, so did your fears.

He stopped. Looked over his shoulder.

You tried to hurry to him, but knocked one ankle against the other, and unceremoniously tripped. Hard. Head first, down you thwacked against the marbled flooring.

You blacked out.

When you slowly came to, webs of darkness blurring the edges of your vision, you moaned your distress. Bit by bit, Ghost's face registered, hovering over yours, his Manchester accent thick with how he roughly ordered you to come to.

Blinking up at him, you deliriously raised your hand to pat his masked cheek but to no avail. Darling man. Were you dreaming? If so, you never wanted to wake up. You smiled a small smile at him.

"Hi," you whispered. You sounded so wasted and oh, so enamored. Sober you was going to have a serious conversation with drunk you tomorrow.

"Don't move. Easy, now, yeah?" He pushed you down when you weakly fought to rise up. "You're bleedin' all over the place, poppy."

You tried to reason with him, say how disgusting the floor was and you could never lay down there.

"Should've thought of that before drinkin' your posh arse stupid, yeah?" was his argument.

Dream Simon was mean.

"I'm posh," you hummed out a silly laugh. "Posh like a Spice Girl."

"Be quiet," he roughed out, unimpressed. From his pocket, he withdrew a glove and pressed it against your temple.

A throbbing ache hissed where the clothe touched your skin, and you winced.

After a stringing moment, "Why do you hate me?" you softly asked.

His eyes focused on you then, deep and intrusive, and you licked your lips in consequence.

"I don't hate you," came his gruff retort.

"So then why won't you kiss me?"

A slow blink away from your face. He might as well have rolled his eyes. "You don't want to kiss a man like me, poppy."

Why? Because it would rock your socks off? Render you into a silly little mess? Make your dirtiest dreams come true?

Even with a bleeding temple, you understood the meaning behind his words. Maybe even rejection. He was a dangerous man, callous and brutal. Men like him only caused pain and destruction, spawned nightmares and reveled in the blood spilled.

But from the stories you've heard of him, especially from Johnny, and from your own little interaction, you saw more than the mask he donned. Saw past it to something buried in him. Something guarded so very deep inside, not even sunlight could pierce the shadows around it, but it was there. And you saw it even now, drunk and utterly wasted you may be.

Maybe he thought he'd hurt you. Maybe he tumbled rough and mean under the sheets. At the image, arousal ignited in your veins, backlit behind the wall of drowsiness and pain that still coursed through your system.

"And... And if I still do? Would you kiss me then?"

"Negative."

A pout.

"How's your vision?"

With you in it, "Good."

A clipped nod. "I'll help you to your feet. And then we can take care of that nasty little wound there, yeah?"

"Aye, aye, captain," you murmured.

When he pressed the glove a bit too deeply into the wound, you immediately rectified your words. "I meant, yes, sir. As you say, sir."

A hum, low and raspy. "That's more like it."

Slowly but surely, you climbed to your feet. For a moment, your vision went black and your ears rang, and you paused, waiting for the darkness to pass. Simon waited with you.

"Better?" he asked when you straightened, touching where his glove pressed against your temple. Your fumbling hand fell upon his leanly adroit one.

Skin grazed skin, electrifying warmth rivaled warmth, and you softly gasped. You nodded, gaze lost in the sheer view of him.

Ghost towered over you, your head lining his broad chest, and you suddenly felt engulfed. It certainly didn't help when the reality of him ending you with just the flick of his wrist if he so willed hovered over your consciousness.

God, he was so big. Just the mass of him and how he crowded any room he was in, made your mouth salivate.

And now, enveloped in his masculine heat, he was all you could see, hear, smell.

Feel.

"Don't look at me with eyes like that, poppy," he gravely warned, lids hooded as he stared you down.

Your throat tightened, lungs drawing in as all air escaped you. "And how am I looking at you?"

"Like I'm dinner."

You moaned despite yourself. It was achingly soft and needy.

You wanted to taste him in the back of your throat, feel his throbbing weight on your tongue, mouth working him mad enough that being pushed over the edge of insanity was his only option. And when that happened, you wanted to know how he sounded as all shred of control left him, his back arching as he spilled all he was worth in you, pumping and pumping, still in desperate chase of that high.

"Bloody hell, still with that look. Not a good listener, are ya? Come 'ere." He dragged you between the two sinks. "Lean against the wall." You did as told, back flattening against the large mirror mounted to it. He opened the faucet and let the cool water run as he wet the glove.

Ruggedly, "Stay still."

With that, he squeezed the water out and slowly got to work, dabbing around the wound and cleaning you up. It was a painstakingly tedious process, but you didn't mind, wincing here and there as you watched him tend to you.

See? Something more in there.

You studied the furrow in his brow, the sharp concentration in his eyes, the even rise and fall of his shoulders, and thought you lost a little bit of your mind for him.

He rinsed the glove, squeezed it, and resumed his task. His hand palmed the whole top of your head as he maneuvered you in whichever way he liked, tilting your face up, down, to the side, as he reached all spots inflicted.

The rough pad of his thumb pinned over the arch of your brow, and you thought you felt him subtly brush at it in his nursing.

When he caught you dumbly staring up at him for the third time, he broke the comfortable silence. "Shouldn't be drinking that much."

Had he been keeping tabs on you? Such wishful thinking, but butterflies still took flight in your tummy. You watched his masked face.

If his lips weren't shielded, you thought you'd feel his breath ghost over your cheeks.

Instead, you innocently batted your lashes at him. "Am I in trouble...sir?" you teasingly - sultrily - added.

He was in the process of wetting the glove when his gaze snapped down to you.

It was brief, but there was a flash of desire behind those lidded eyes before he subdued it with the subtle clench of his jaw.

The air in the room, on the other hand, he could not manipulate. It altered, thickened, became...hotter. Tension pulsed from his body raw and electrifying.

When he gradually straightened, protruding his chest, you suddenly felt suffocated - in the best of ways.

In the sizzling silence, you felt cornered, and your lips parted in anticipation.

He spoke, his words measured and roughish, betraying nothing. "You're bleedin' all over the place and yet you still can't keep it in your pants, mm, poppy?"

You bit your lip, a muffled sound of excitement building up in your chest for provoking a Special Forces soldier - Lieutenant - of all people. "Mhm."

You were stupidly giddy. He merely shook his head at you.

Then, he was watching you again, blond lashes fluttering as his gaze traced over your features, slowly, so agonizingly slow, before settling on your lips. You felt the heat of his stare on them.

A small sound got caught up in your throat, and it wasn't missed by him.

"Do I excite you, little one?" he quietly hummed, the sound rumbling in his chest, crackling ever so slightly, and it felt like honeyed butter melting down your skin.

A tremor racked your entire form, arousal burning your pupils wide and your breath scorching hot - all for him to witness and take in.

It must've pleased him, because he gave you the sexiest bedroom eyes you've ever beheld, the sheer fever in them sweltering and wild.

Huskily, "Yeah?" He stepped forward, large boots emitting no sound. You pressed further up against the wall, chin brushing over the leather of his jacket.

A thin layer of sweat dotted your skin at his nearness, your body involuntarily heating up, an unbearable ache building up between your legs.

And you thought Simon knew exactly what he was doing to your senses, because he followed it up with, "You look at the mask and think you're goin' to get fucked hard, is that it?"

His fingers lightly pinched your chin, his thumb darting up to caress the underside of your lower lip, grazing the edges and eliciting a ticklish sensation.

A needy whine from you caused that broad chest of his to collapse in a visible shudder. Seeing the reaction you pulled from him, your mouth fell open in want, and you meekly grinded up your hips against his thighs.

Your clothed core skimmed over the rough texture of his cargo pants, catching on a crease, but it was enough friction to have your head falling back against the mirror and you keening.

"More," you hotly moaned, feeling wetness seep out of you.

You tested the waters again, widening your stance and rolling your hips upward. Your clit meshed tight against his solid thigh, and when you rubbed it in gradual circles, grinding down, his thigh muscles bulged in response, hitting a sensitive nerve.

"Fuck," you gasped, mouth parting wider. You hadn't expected it to feel this good. "Ghost, please."

With a commanding grip of your hip, he stilled your ministrations. "None of that, poppy," he hoarsely warned. Then, "Shit," he lowly grunted when he felt your hips fight his hand for more stimulation, "That bad, huh?"

You mustered a nod, eyes never leaving his. "Want you," you breathed out.

"Can't have me." A small shake of his head. "Won't give you what you want. 'Sides, you're drunk out of your mind, love."

With that, he released you, backing away before you could reach for him.

Suddenly bereft, you wanted to shout your dissent.

Instead, your body laxed against the wall, palms clutching the coolness of the tiled wall. You already missed his nearness. His hands on you. You didn't want this moment to end.

You didn't want him to go.

Not so soon, anyway. Because God knew he'd make promise to his sobriquet.

"Wash your face. And get your shit together. That's a direct order," resounded his harsh command. If you hadn't wallowed too deep in his rejection, you might've caught the way his hands fisted at his sides when you whined in frustration.

With a defeated slump of your shoulders, you commanded your legs work and rounded the sink.

Palming the rushing water, you went about washing your hands and thoroughly rinsing your mouth. All sensation of him drowned with the water, leaving your skin cool to the touch.

"I'll take you to the hospital," he added more softly, which still grated the air.

Your heart seized in your chest. Why the sudden care?

What game did he play with you? Because one moment, he looked like he wanted to ravish you and the next, like he couldn't get away from you fast enough. Which was it, did you repulse him or attract him?

When he touched you, it was never deeply, desperately, but lightly, airily, leaving you begging for more.

And making him ever estranged.

What was his problem?

What was yours?

Why did you desire this particular man so wantonly? You had to find yourself a fling for the night. You had to flush Ghost out of your system for good.

You had to go home.

How you were going to accomplish both in one night, though, you had no clue.

Yes, while sober, you might have soldiered through the trauma to your head, but right now, still drunk and dizzy, you couldn't tell your elbow from your arse.

Splashing another round of cool water over your face, you grunted when you accidentally swept over your wound.

Appearing much like a drowned rat than the intended sexy Ghostbuster, you shut the faucet, clutched the edges of the sink and lifted your head to stare in the mirror.

Your eyes fell on Ghost.

He quietly watched you watch him from the reflection, a looming shadow in the background, waiting. You expected him to abscond you, but he remained - and that gladdened you beyond belief. Which also now irritated you.

He extended his glove to you.

Breath suddenly shaky, you turned around, the ugly bruised cut on your temple momentarily forgotten. When you made to step forward, crimson blanketed your left eye, and you swiped at it. In the haze, you saw your fingers coated in dark red.

"Bollocks." You started bleeding again. "No need for a hospital. I live a street down. I have a med kit. I'll..." You creased your brows in thought, still tipsy. "I'll care for it at home. Yes. And since you blue-balled me, I intent on finding someone to do the naughty with. I need you out of my system and out of my mind."

Oh, sober you was really going to sit you down tomorrow morning, all right.

He didn't respond to you.

The journey to Ghost proved to be a dangerous one, as the floor and walls adamantly dodged you, making your world swing whichever way you grasped for leverage.

You felt like you existed in a gigantic ball rolling down a hill at full-speed just waiting to burst and send you flying through the air. And you were in a hell of your own making.

Barking out a curse, you heard Ghost stomp your way - before you felt strong arms band around your shoulders and under your knees, effectively hoisting you up in his arms. "You are trouble, poppy. And you won't be taking care of anything in this state. I'll drop you home."

With that, he carried you out of the restroom, the bar, and into the chilled night of London city.

an: it got too long, yall, too long! this is part 1 of 2 for now. i couldn't help it, when i write, i write. part 2, we're ghostin' it up! (therell be smut) hope you enjoyed it!

part two

#simon ghost riley #simon riley #ghost #call of duty #cod mw2 #soap mactavish #john price #task force 141 #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #ghost x reader #simon riley fic #simon riley smut #slow burn #slow romance #mutual pining #call of duty modern warfare #part 1 of 2 #sfw #wolkoshka writes #ghost smut #cod mwii fic #this fic is a mixture of fun and games but also romance and a deeper take on simons character so read at your own peril #i wanted a fic where we could have both the smut and character development 🤌 #alright captain OUT 🫡

[wolkoshka]

JJK: | SWEET ESCAPE |

characters: gojo satoru x y/n, gojo x you, kento nanami, itadori yuuji, megumi fushiguro, nobaru kugisaki, yuuta okkotsu, maki zenin, inumaki, panda, etc

synopsis: after surviving a night you shouldn't have, sorcerers and curses alike come after you, and the only thing standing between you and ultimate demise is a 6ft4'' wall in the form of gojo satoru

warnings: m for now; fluff; sfw; slow-burn; eventual romance; smut in later chapters; violence and death; will turn explicit in the future

•Chapter one: the Blackout•

On the seventeenth of September, at exactly 01:47 AM, in Eastern Tokyo, you knew time struck a second too late when your past caught up to you. Your end had come, and you were going to be devoured. By a set of forty-two teeth. It could’ve been worse. For example, it could’ve been two mouths instead of one, as you’d witnessed some possess.

Okay, never-mind. Two heads just sprouted from its fat, bulbous neck. Definitely could get worse.

Moonlight bathed the dark indigo monster towering over you in silver hues. Kami, it was so huge, as big as a building—and it gawked straight down at you. You were its target. Other hideous creatures collected behind its form, all of myriad colors, but all wearing the same look of insatiable hunger. You were going to be their dinner. Kami, you were going to die. Was this the end of the road for you?

At that, the last bit of sarcasm evaporated from your tongue, and you felt dread grip your insides in tight, vengeful twists. Twenty-five years. Well lived? You couldn’t quite be sure. You spent all your life avoiding people, friends...your family. You chose a life of an exile. But you had kept your vow.

Yes. At least, in that, you’d kept yourself safe and the memory of your brother unsoiled. He would be proud. A life-long bet you won against all odds when you couldn’t even win one with him.

You could run, you thought, but your legs felt boneless in the heap of rubble you lay in. A nest of concrete your monster friend over there had curated when it’d thrown you ten feet in the air before punching you into the wall of the supermarket you wanted to purchase your favorite can of soda from.

Now, you wished you’d drunk water instead.

Was it too late?

Talons pinched the back of your shirt and you were lifted off the ground—and all the way up to hover over the gaping mouth of the monster. And then you were dropped into absolute darkness.

Yes. It was irrevocably late.

The built-up panic and terror, alongside your stomach, lurched up your throat, and you screamed as loud as your lungs would permit you, burning the air before you. Burning the last desperate thoughts from your mind—I don’t want to die; no, no, no; I haven’t lived like I wanted; I haven’t lived at all; I haven’t lived, please!—as you tightly shut your eyes and shielded your face with your hands. Your chest hotly constricted, and then…

A violent explosion abruptly tore through the space, and then enveloping darkness stole your consciousness.

You were no more.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

You lay in demolished rubble—this one, of your own making. Maybe. You weren’t quite sure as you uncurled to unstable feet, bleary vision attempting to take in the tableau before you. It was still pitch black. The moon hid behind plumes of wafting smoke.

Smoke?

Then, you slowly gazed down.

You stood in a massive dent, the size of it at least eating up five commercial buildings, and littered around you were exploded cars, torn, sizzling electric poles, and utter destruction.

“I…” you whispered, shaken. What… Your head shook in little No’s. This was not real. You weren’t seeing right. You’d died? Yes! Yes, you’d died. This wasn’t real. The monsters weren’t real. You weren’t real.

This wasn’t real.

In the distance, the blaring sound of sirens resounded, and reality crashed on you like falling bricks—and you ran.

You clambered up the dent, dirt and soil smudging your person, coating you, burying you, but you still ran. And ran, and ran, and did not stop running.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

A week in, and you were adopting the ‘hey, wrong place, wrong time’ thought process pretty efficiently. One, you couldn’t possibly be the culprit for the destruction that happened since, duh, you were only human and innocent. Very innocent. Two, news suggested an unexpected 4.7 earthquake hit the coast of Japan, hence the so-called “Blackout”. That took out all of Eastern Tokyo. Anyways, natural disasters happened all the time, so who were you to argue with solid facts? And three, if not the aforementioned points above, then it was simply the monsters, you concluded with a reaffirming nod, grabbing your cup of hot caramel mocha from your favorite coffee shop—and completely ignoring the news spokesperson on the flat-screen reiterating the events. Or the fact that the monsters had never blown themselves up before, especially not when they were on the cusp of eating you alive.

“—following those studies, experts have yet to draw a conclusive report on the catastrophic Blackout that left fourteen injured and seven buildings demolished, but resulting in no fatal human casualties. Over a hundred million yen for restoration projects is now in process of—“

No fatal human casualties. Another fact you were extremely grateful for. But only because it would’ve been devastating, as it would be for any other person, hearing such morbid news and not because you personally felt involved with the incident. You almost died! If anything, you were the only fatal human casualty concerned.

And over a hundred million yen! In the coming winter, no less! Kami, you had to get yourself out of here and away from all these news. But not because you were guilty. You couldn't quite grasp the notion that fourteen were also injured. You hoped they were okay. Maybe you should send each of them a gift basket as recompense for the trauma inflicted. But that would suggest you were the instigator... Kami, your brain hurt. What happened that night?

You brought your black cap lower over your face and, huddling into your oversized jacket, made for the glassed door. Dressing yourself in plain clothes that, for the most part, kept you way under the radar than usual cast its own different kind of hurt. You really missed your designer bags and killer pumps.

The door slid open before you could clutch the handle, and the chill of crispy September afternoon, alongside the fresh scent of mint and heady sandalwood, whisked into the small coffee shop in an intoxicating rush that momentarily paralyzed your lungs. So much so that you almost forgot how to breathe. You blinked. Kami, that was a really good perfume. I want.

A body of dark blue blocked the view of your sweet exit, and you side-stepped to give way. Funnily, the newcomer stepped in the same direction. You apologized, and moved left. They moved left. Right. They moved right. Center. Left. Center again. Okay, what!

“Excuse m—!”

“Whoops. My bad.” A warm chuckle, clearly masculine, vibrated the small space between your bodies. And clearly shiver-inducing deep, but that wasn’t the point. You chinned up, deciding to ground the guy with your infamous viper-glare that should have him running for the hills soon enough, but your eyes kept traveling upward…and upward…and upward…

Okay, woah. He was tall. So tall, you were sure he had to bow his head to come in through the door. The door you had to get to anytime today. But the more you examined him, the more rooted in place you became.

Possessing a bed of snow-white hair and equally as smooth-looking fair skin while wearing the most hedonistic smirk on the plumpest, pinkest lips you’d ever beheld in your life, you, for the first time in forever, found yourself utterly speechless. He also sported a blindfold. Was it, like, a fashion statement for the…blind or something?

Wait. Was he blind?

Suddenly mortified, you apologized, face heating. “I-I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. That was so thoughtless of me. I swear I’m not a bad person. Kami, I should move,” you muttered to yourself, hastily stepping out of his way.

Bemused, he tilted his head at you. “Hmm?”

“Or do you need— Like, maybe some guidance? I can point out the free seats for you.” Yes. Be cordial, you reminded yourself. You signaled a few. “So, over there, is one empty slot and then in that corner— Wait, I’m pointing. I shouldn’t be pointing because you obviously can’t… Right.” You swore to yourself that you were not an actual moron. “I should stop. Yes. I was leaving, so I should just...” You absently pointed at the door.

A quizzical pause. Then, “You are absolutely right. You should guide me.”

“Uh…yeah?”

“Yeah.” He shrugged a broad shoulder, and the small, miniscule, almost mundane act caused a ripple effect on the rest of his body, noticeably tightening the fabric of his outfit over some well-defined muscles. Aaand you were not going to eye-fuck a blind person. Because that was unmistakably immoral. Yes. Eyes on the prize, you reminded yourself. No! Eyes on the task at hand! You reprimanded, giving yourself a mental slap in the head. What was wrong with you?

You eased beside him. “Would…you like to order first?”

“Oh, yes. A cup of hot caramel mocha. My favorite.”

“Oh, that’s my favorite too!”

“No way!”

For some reason, you found his excitement of false nature, like he was somewhat…mocking you. But that couldn’t be true. He had no reason to. You wanted to take a step forward but saw the busy queue—and stalled.

You looked down at your cup, the queue, the cup, the queue, the cup…and sighed in defeat. Your lower lip was not wobbling. You were a grown adult. “Hey, you know what? You can have mine. Haven’t taken a single sip. Hot caramel mocha, just like you wanted.”

He palmed his heart. “No.”

You meekly shrugged. “It’s okay.”

“You’re an angel.”

A blush bloomed in your cheeks. “No…”

“Oh, yes, I really think you are.”

The blush darkened. “Well…if you really, absolutely think so, then who am I to tell you otherwise?”

A warm chuckle, so warm, that your insides melted. Gosh, you had to get it together. He was only a stranger! A quite attractive stranger, you had to say. Hey, after a week of lucking out on the whole Blackout thing, closing your week with a compliment from someone as good looking as him wasn’t a bad thing at all.

He lightly chucked you under your chin and turned on his heel toward the door. A step, and he was pulling it ajar. “After you.” He gestured.

You paused, slightly perplexed. How did he… You shrugged, dismissing your doubts. Some blind people operated differently, so, really, you shouldn’t be assuming about matters foreign to you. Besides, he must have some coordination established if he walked himself to the coffee shop.

Tossing him an appreciative smile he couldn’t see, you stepped out into the chill, and instantly stuffed your hands into your pockets. You felt his presence settle by your side, followed by the delectable scent of mints and sandalwood. As pedestrians bypassed you, all murmurs and laughter, and as honking cars and rumbling trucks blurred down the street, you peeked at him from behind your lashes. Was he waiting for something?

He stole a sip from the hot caramel mocha, head generously tipped back, and your insides churned in want. Damn courteousness. He smacked his lips in appreciation.

“Good stuff.”

“Tell me about it,” you seconded. Silence. The sun broke through the thick clouds, momentarily setting the camped world below aglow, before another set of clouds rolled in and obscured it from sight. He took another sip.

You pursed your lips. Having finished your lunch break, you wondered at the time it would take you to walk back to office working as a full-time interior designer. Probably like every other time—fifteen minutes—as you eyed the crosswalk and the traffic lights.

He sipped anew. Smacked his lips again for emphasis.

Okay. Didn’t he have some kind of destination to get to? Why was he lingering by your side like that? Was he indirectly rubbing in the notion of you not getting to enjoy your favorite coffee like he was? You snorted. That’d be ridiculous. And mean. So mean if that were true.

Nonetheless, he was odd...and the energy you sensed from him appeared more coiled and reigned in than anything his physical appearance suggested.

“You really like it, huh?” you asked when he gave an appreciative rumble preceding another sip.

“Mhm.”

Clearing your throat, you stared ahead at the crosswalk light signaling red. When it signaled green a second later, you prompted into action. “Have a good day!” You waved.

He waved back. “Watch out for the cars, angel!”

You froze cold. You. Have. Got. To. Be. Shitting. Me. Slowly turning, you leveled him with your infamous viper-stare, then, backtracking, unceremoniously slapped the cup of your favorite coffee right out of his lying hands!

“You can see!”

He gave a moment of silence for the coffee wasted—before regarding you. Then, lush and unmistakably indulging, a smile quirked his devilish lips up. “Never said I couldn't. Hold on. Did you assume I was blind just because I was wearing a blindfold?”

Your jaw slacked to string a coherent response. “Uh, yes!”

“That’s just rude,” he tsked. Oh, you knew he knew that you thought him blind. The unashamed audacity! He flippantly buried his hands inside the pockets of his pants. “But I guess not as rude as when you blew up half the town.”

Now, you definitely couldn’t string any response.

He stared down at you from his head above the crowning sky-line, it appeared, because you suddenly felt so small, so guilty, so caught. Maybe you misheard.

Your voice came out small. “W…What?”

“It took me a while to track you down, and I figured it was because of how much you keep your curse energy in a limit, a very low one at that, that it was hard for me to trail your residual energy after you left the scene. But here I am, your knight in shining armor, if you will.”

A moment so tense, so frighteningly disquiet, impregnated the space between you, that your breath threatened to choke you. Who was he? And curse energy? Limits? What was he saying? But more than that, how did he know?

Oh, kami. Oh, shit, shit, shit. You were exposed. Someone knew. This guy knew you were there that night. You had to run. Yes. But your legs refused to move. Twitch. Anything. It was happening again. You were freezing up. Were you always going to freeze up?

“Listen, who— Who do you think you are—“

“—Gojo Satoru,” he interrupted, tone laced with rigidity—before he suddenly grabbed the collar of your jacket and jerked you close. You sharply gasped, your body unflatteringly meshing against his. Despite the proximity, he wore an unimpressed expression that quite literally spelled he was going to give you a beating at the value of over a hundred million yen. You gulped.

“Okay, wait, wait,” you pleaded. “I know what happened is absolutely wrong and vile and so dangerous, but it wasn’t me! I didn’t do it, okay! I could never— I mean, I can see them, yes, but that? That wasn’t me. You have the wrong girl, and you need to let go!”

He only jerked you closer, one hand still nonchalantly buried in his pocket. This time, the sheer masculine heat of him sank into your very pores. Kami, he was so warm. And that tantalizing scent of his, heavy with the freshness of winter and dark with the musk of rainforest, almost drugged you out of your current predicament.

Focus!

You licked your lips. “It was just— It was just a wro—“

“Wrong place, wrong time kind of thing?” he finished for you, concealed brow cocking. The heat of his breath fanned your naked cheek, and you swallowed, lashes fluttering. “Little mental comforts like that can only keep you happy for so long. But, no. The place and timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Now, hold on tight.”

You blinked. “What? Why?”

“I’m saving you from your execution.”

And with that, your world was turned into a nauseating blur.

next chapter

a/n: that gojo brain rot is gettin' too real 🫠🫠🫠 and yes, i made you twenty-five y/o here, embrace it | 💟 support me on ko-fi 🪴🧋

#•fics #jujutsu kaisen #gojo satoru #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x reader #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #jujutsu kaisen gojo #jujutsu kaisen fic #sfw #gojo fluff #fluff and romance #gojo satoru x female reader #this man is so contagious 😷💖 #sweet escape #chapter one #wolkoshka writes #jjk fic #jjk men #jjk gojo

[wolkoshka]

hey guys, quick announcement: I will turn this blog into more of a writers blog, so if you followed me for anything other than that, well, you'll be getting more writing now as well.

I will focus mainly on the three animes that never leave me alone - bleach, jujutsu kaisen, and naruto. Since I'm always curating stories for them, this site is where I'll dump them to enjoy for later. Alright cheers then🥂

#•fics #jujutsu kaisen #bleach #naruto #wolkoshka writes #ill also repost my obito fic since it be lookin horrendous

[wolkoshka]

title: cold little heart character pairings: obito uchiha x original female character(s) warning(s): NSFW + adult themes/dark + traumatic/triggering/love + romance/eventual smut + angst chapters: i/ii/iii +

chapter iii

‘A SPECIAL ICHIRAKU RAMEN VALENTINE’S DAY DISCOUNT FOR ALL COUPLES! COME AND ENJOY!’

Mirai put her palms up in innocence as Obito, having read the poster by the entrance to Ichiraku Ramen, leveled her with a questioning look. “I didn’t plan this.” It was the truth. She had forgotten it was Valentine’s Day. Which was odd. Oh, well. “But you also cannot deny the fact that it’d be a total tragedy to pass out on such an opportunity.”

Taking a moment to consider her words, he tipped his head to pass below the short noren curtains. With a giddy internal clap, she followed him.

Okay. Woah.

The place was packed, and chatter, coupled with raucous laughter, gorged the space. Almost every seat was taken, couples leaning on each other, shoulders pressed and words of intimacy being whispered into twitching ears. So many blushed faces. So many shy giggles. And so. Much. Love. Love was literally in the air. Seina would’ve gagged.

When she clocked a couple suddenly get up and leave, she automatically pushed Obito toward the empty seats. “There, there, there!”

“I see it,” came his grunt. They settled side by side, shoulders almost touching. She crossed her legs and began rhythmically tapping her foot to an invisible beat. A Valentine’s Day meal with her crush? Hands down, the best day ever!

“What will you have?” she asked.

“The usual. Tonkotsu Fried Chicken Ramen. You?”

“Spicy Miso Ramen. Dumplings. Dessert of the day. Yummy, yummy, yummy me.”

He raised two fingers and summoned Ayame out of the blue. Impressive, but then again, he had a commandeering presence. And she wasn’t simply saying that because she liked him; it showed in the way he held himself, walked, talked. Breathed. The moment they stepped inside, heads had turned, but he hadn’t cared to notice the eyes on him, some admiring, some fearing, some merely acknowledging. But all revering.

“Have you guys decided?” Ayame inquired, all smiles.

He gave their order, and Ayame nodded. “Got it! It will be ready in a few. Until then, have some of our free Valentine’s Day chocolates! Made them myself, so leave a review!” She gifted them heart-shaped chocolates in a pink heart-shaped plate.

“Oh!” Mirai’s eyes glimmered. “They’re so beautiful! I already love them!”

“A beautiful gift for a beautiful couple!” she responded, and before they could correct her, she was gone—but not before Mirai caught the not-so-subtle secret wink she threw her way. The giddy feeling inside her bubbled and frizzled over, and she reeled.

All right. Calm down, Mirai. You’re not a couple. Seduction first, remember?

At that, an idea bloomed in her mind, and she mischievously rubbed her palms together.

Obito caught her in the act. “What are you doing?”

“Digging in.” With that, she pinched one chocolate and bit into it—and moaned in pleasure. “Sooo tasty.” Another bite, another deep moan, one only he could hear, as she directed it closer to his ear.

He slightly shifted in his seat—success?—and turned his head away—but not before she caught his reddened cheeks. Success!

Did that mean he..? Keep at it, Mirai! Finishing the piece, she licked her fingers, making sure to suck them clean. Her eyes collided with his when she popped! free her index finger from her lips.

“Stop that,” he growled, eyes heatedly fastened on her mouth. Did he realize his pupils were blown, swallowing the midnight black in a never-ending void? So, so close, Mirai!

She fluttered her lashes at him, voice dropping an octave. “Stop what?”

“And don’t talk like that.”

“Like what? Like this?” She dropped it even lower, huskier, a tone more suited for the bedroom.

He swallowed thickly, crossing his arms against his chest, biceps bulging. I want to grip… “You promised.”

“No, I made an exception. Now, I’m simply enjoying my chocolates. Speaking of, you should try one.” She made to feed him a heart, but he snatched it out of her grasp. Grrr.

Gritting, “Behave.”

Ooof, sexy man. She was starting to love his domineering side. “I am. This is as behaved as I can get.” Biting into another delicious piece, she now dragged the tip of her pink tongue across her plump, fleshly lips, catching his attention—much to his dismay. He appeared pissed off that he was actually falling bait to her tricks. But then, his head tilted, as if grasping something.

Now, it was his turn to eat the heart in his hand. He chewed, but it wasn’t a normal chew. No, she soon realized. The muscles of his sharp jaw popped and strained in the most attractive of ways as he purposefully drew it out. Were cheekbones supposed to become this prominent whilst eating? He stole another bite…and another… Snap. Snap. Mirai gulped. The sensuous pout to his lower lip had it glisten as he momentarily dragged the dark surface of the chocolate against it—before devouring it. I want.

Her heart drummed, her pulse faltered, the chocolate caught between her lips nearly falling out in her stupor. Was he…seducing her back? No, she concluded, he was merely playing a cruel game with her. Test me, and I’ll taunt you with what you’ll never have. The ultimate Hell.

“Naughty man,” she rasped, cheeks bleeding pink. That little play had caused heat to pool between her legs. She rubbed her thighs together to subside the ache that had bloomed, but the friction only worsened it. Did he even realize the effect he had on her?

His spiky lashes fused, eyes growing darker. “My patience is wearing thin, Mirai.”

A light gasp. Her name on his lips… The syllables dipped in the melting chocolate that was his voice. “Say it again,” she whispered.

“Um, excuse me?”

At the feminine voice, Mirai turned, ready to slaughter the person who’d dared to interrupt their moment. She was greeted by a lady. Scratch that. A pregnant lady. “I know I’m asking for too much, but is it possible you…lend me your…seat?”

“Uh, what?” she retorted.

“I just wanted to have some nice lunch with my husband and there’s only one seat available. It’s okay if you don’t want to; I’m only asking if you could?”

Mirai glanced over at her husband, mid-forties, who waved, and then at the lady. Why me? Obito, having overheard the conversation, made to rise. “Have this seat—“

“No,” Mirai interjected, pushing him back down by the shoulder. “Have mine.”

“Really? Thank you so much!”

“Absolutely.”

With that, she scooted off her seat—and into Obito’s lap.

Test me, and I’ll test you right back, Uchiha.

He started, his large physique jolting. “What are you—“ Caught completely off-guard, he flustered. Obito Uchiha. Flustering. She settled comfortably into his lap, ass wiggling.

“There. Now be a sweetheart and don’t move too much.”

Austere fingers suddenly gripped her hips, digging in, and she yelped. Thankfully, everyone was busy with each other to pay too much attention to them. His hot breath fanned her ear as he next hissed, “Are you hoping to die?”

Oh, sweet heaven. His intensity. Her back involuntarily arched as his words traveled down the length of her spine, circling around and feeding the growing fire in the pit of her belly. Wetting her lips, she slowly turned around, her cheek brushing against his scarred one. The friction...a most delicious contrast.

He sharply gasped.

She sweetly sighed, leaning into him. Yes, yes. More. She wanted everything he had to offer.

“Only through intense pleasure,” she breathed into his ear—before lightly grazing her teeth against it. Another gasp, but this one softer. Emboldened, she darted out her tongue and ran it under his earlobe.

“Don’t—“ His jaw clenched. The grip on her hips tightened, almost bruising. More, more, more.

“You want me.” She gently sucked on the soft flesh. His entire body racked.

“No,” he ground out, even as his neck craned a bit to the left to grant her more access. He really wanted her. She wasn’t conjuring lies. He desired her, whether he admitted that to himself or not. His body easily betrayed his thoughts. But she wouldn’t hold that against him; she would be a benevolent receiver. She would take great care of him.

Palming his cheek, she kissed the sensitive spot between his ear and jaw.

“Stop,” he said, but it was more a plea, his tone losing its former rigidity.

She pulled back enough to meet his heated gaze. Turbulent storms brew in those deep, dark depths. A few more pushes, and she might just get what she desired. His lips, his praises, his pleasured noises.

And his pain, her inner voice reminded. She ignored it.

“Make me,” she cooed against his lips. “No, scratch that. Kiss me.” Please, oh, please. She wanted to feel those sinful lips, red and plump, grinding against her own. Wanted the sighs that escaped them melt her own. Wanted his rich, singular taste to saturate and brand her tongue, never knowing her reprieve. She wanted it all so bad. And she didn’t know why.

Why him? Why so desperately? Did it matter? He was here, and he was responding.

His nostrils flared, his nails completely digging into her soft flesh. She would bear the bruises with pride. “Never.”

Her tongue, wet and hot, slid across one of the scars closer to his lips, lips he involuntarily parted in answer. “Liar.”

“Here you guys go!”

Both of them started, suddenly realizing where they were. Despite herself, Mirai felt her face flush. “Aaand I’ll be going now.” Ayame, having served them their bowls of Ramen with a plate of steaming dumplings, disappeared as fast as she’d come.

Obito’s fingers, one by one, released her, and she pouted, mourning the loss. Mourning the very heat of them ghosting into her skin. The moment was gone, over, never to return. She felt the energy within him shift, sensed him distance himself even as she sat perched in his lap. It was colder, lonelier. The walls now mountains. Should not have advanced too hastily, she internally scolded herself. Should have been more delicate. But how could she have been and done so when he sat there so…beautifully?

“You—” he started but she sighed, cutting him off.

“Save it. I know what you’re going to say. Yes, I’ll never do that again, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. Let’s just eat.” Who was this sappy person? Was she going to cry now? Rejection was almost always in the plans—he refused her, even when he clearly reacted to her. Was there no chance?

Pout deepening, she dug into her Ramen. Different spices and tastes exploded in her mouth, almost making her forget about her soured mood.

“No,” he lowly, consolingly, began, hands once again, though hesitantly, settling around her waist. She gasped, looking over her shoulder at him. He didn’t meet her gaze, just said, “You need to move aside a bit so I can eat as well, is what I wanted to say.”

Oh. Oh. “Right,” she muttered, shifting her weight to his left thigh. He anchored his foot against the stool’s leg, giving her better balance. “Thank you,” she voiced, hiding her smile behind her chopsticks.

“Eat.” His voice steeled as he leaned over, broad shoulders caging her in. His warmth and masculine scent enveloped her entirely, and for a moment, Mirai felt as though nothing could ever harm her. “Then you and I are going to have a little chat.”

Never-mind. Pursing her lips, Mirai resumed her eating without complaint.

.

OBITO. WAS. IN. HELL.

He had to be.

What else could describe this eternal agony he’s being put through, sovereign to every torturous second of his past?

As Mirai shifted anew, the act prompting the waist of his pants to stretch tight against his groin, he bit back a responsive groan, the chopsticks in his hold snapping. Food choked his throat as she turned around, her pert buttocks skidding over a sensitive zone. He coughed into his fist. Shit, Obito. Shit. Get a grip.

She patted his back. “There, there. Better?”

He ignored her, managing to swallow down the rest of the food. “What does it take for you to sit still?” he gritted.

“I wasn’t moving! You were choking. Fine, I’ll let you die next time. Happy?” With that, she turned around, causing another tugging in his pants, another knotting in his abdominal muscles. What was happening to him?

Ten minutes into their meal, but all he could smell and taste was peaches and apricot. All he could hear were her soft breaths, sighs, and gentle slurping of the Ramen. All he was attuned to were the subtle drifts in her body, and how if she’d just move another inch to his center, she’d rub his hardening member just right.

Hardening. Shit, shit, shit. Not here. Not now. Not ever. He didn’t want to give Mirai more reason to pursue him—he’d already given enough. Recalling their earlier frolic made him internally groan. Lips softer than the softest silk…tongue hotter than the hottest fire…and breath steamier than— Enough. What was he doing?

Was he a closeted pervert like Kakashi?

Actual fear gripped him, clamping his muscles unto his bones. He entered a spiraling vortex of existential questions, his principals nowhere in sight. Nothing grounded him. He was lost. Lost in the hellishly blissful sensations the kunoichi in his lap incited.

She wasn’t Rin, he coldly reminded himself. No one would do. No one could. Cease this madness. Yes, madness. That’s what she brought into his life. Now, Obito.

“You’re not eating,” she commented, her voice knifing through his desire. He couldn’t desire her. Perhaps it’d been too long since he last...touched himself. Yes. That must be it. A cold shower would do away with these nagging sensations that really didn’t frequent his musings much as they came and went every few months.

And yet, why did it feel like a part of him would perish if it didn’t confirm the thought of her thighs feeling as supple and satiny as they appeared? If he reached out now, would she part them for him? He didn’t have to mull twice. Yes. Yes, she would. Suddenly, the tempestuous image of him writhing between them, sweat-slicked hips thrusting forward, feeding the hardest part of him into the softest depths of her, invaded his mind—and Obito’s entire body violently throbbed.

Blood rushed to his loins, searing pleasure pumping through the length of him, and so mercilessly, he hardened instantaneously. Fuck! He—

To make matters worse, Mirai wiggled on his thigh, pressing her core into his firmness. Every sane thought he possessed went out the window. Instead, his blood boiled over, causing his dick to painfully strain in attention. It hurt. It hurt so good—no, not good, bad—sweat beaded on his temples and his hands trembled.

He covered the tent in his pants the best he could, concluding to simply abscond as she sat on his lap. How did he allow their interaction to get to this point? What was he hoping to prove by accompanying her to lunch? That he could successfully ward her off? How mortally foolish of him.

But he needed to leave. He needed to—

“Oh, pffft, duh,” Mirai voiced, as if understanding something, “you don’t have chopsticks. Here, let me grab you some.” Lifting her ass, she draped her upper body over the counter, reaching for a new set of chopsticks in the lower back shelf of the wrap-around luncheonette. But by performing so, she unconsciously hiked up her skirt, exposing the black lacy panties she wore underneath.

The tableau nearly knocked him off his seat. But, sweet hell, was it a sight to behold.

The material hugged her smooth globes just right and tight, curving over their mesmeric suppleness and disappearing into the gap between her thighs in one sleek line. It clothed her core, soft and enticing, as it stared up at him in challenge.

His dick twitched in answer. Something primal in him awakened a beast of a different kind, and the thought of spreading and stretching that softness apart, rubbing himself into its slickness, blurred his vision white-hot—before red and inflamed as his Sharingan activated.

He didn’t want to, but the image before him would now forever be imbedded in his memories. At that, something burned and leaked from the tip of his member. He felt it and abruptly brought his thighs closer. What the hell was— Was he… No, no, that couldn’t be right. Even he knew what ejaculation felt like. This was something else. He was excited—feverishly so—hence his reaction. She was going to kill him.

He didn’t want his death to be in Ichiraku because of some panties. No, not panties. The blonde who occupied his lap like she owned it.

“I swear they used to be here— Ha! There!”

Before Obito could direct her motions, she sat right back down—right on his erect member. Instant pleasure lanced up his shaft and straight into his balls, clenching them. His abdominal muscles burned, and, raw and sensitive, his jaw slacked open in a soundless groan. Too much.

Leave. He had to leave. Now. Or else…

Mirai gasped from above him, definitely feeling his rock-hard member poking her from behind. She turned to face him, but even that small, insignificant movement made his dick weep and thighs quiver. “You are…” she started, licking her lips. Her ashen eyes had darkened, like two tornadoes coming to sweep him off his feet.

“Your eyes. They’re… Obito,” she moaned his name, the sound thrilling him beyond belief. She discreetly spread open her thighs, cushioning his girth into alignment with her wet core. She was wet. Shit. So wet, he felt her fire even past his own pants. But the feel of her… He wanted to arch his hips for a deeper contact, a deeper angle, grinding against her…in her…until he was hitting all the right spots inside her.

Her eyes fluttered shut, teeth coming to nibble on her lower lip. “You feel so…”

“Pay up,” he hoarsely ordered.

“What?” she whispered, mind still on his raging erection. As if unable to help herself, she lightly rolled her hips against him, earning a hiss from him. Sweet heaven. She did it again, and his forehead fell on her shoulder, fingers digging into her waist, trying to subdue her titillating motions.

“Stop. Not here. Pay up so— Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew some cash and slammed it down on the counter. “We are going to have that chat now.”

With that, he teleported them out of Ichiraku and into the farthest corner of Konoha—and straight into a bank of river.

#yumyumyum #i love when obito just cant give in #stop it sir im falling more in love with u #obito uchiha x oc #obito x oc #obito uchiha #obito smut #kakashi hatake #naruto fic #wolkoshka writes #uchiha gang <333 #story can be found under the same title on ao3 #cold little heart #<33333333333love yall<33333333333

[wolkoshka]

title: cold little heart character pairings: obito uchiha x original female character(s) warning(s): NSFW + adult themes/dark + traumatic/triggering/love + romance/eventual smut + angst chapters: i/ii/iii +

chapter ii

The next day, Mirai spilled everything to her sister.

A horrified gasp. “No, he didn’t.”

Seina reclined against Mirai’s bedpost in her bedroom, painting her toenails baby blue, while she paced back and forth. Once she finished her story, Seina, brush hovering mid-air, gaped at Mirai.

Mirai only nodded. “Said I wasn’t his type.”

Seina looked puzzled. “But you’re everyone’s type.”

“I know.”

“He has no idea what he’s missing out on. What a loser. And you’re so pretty,” she pouted.

“I know,” she agreed with a sadder pout. “I don’t know what his problem was.”

Twisting the cap shut over the bottle, her sister stretched out her legs, wiggling her toes. “Cute,” Mirai complimented, for a moment distracted by the color.

“Right? It’s for my new job.” Her sister eagerly drummed her fingers together. “I want to impress.”

“Hokage’s Assistant? You sure?”

A sigh, before she wrapped her arms against her midriff, appearing too small. She loathed making her sister feel so inadequate when she was everything but. If Seina willed, she could’ve become their clan’s prodigy, her inner strength overcoming every threshold of pain ever tested on them and with such ease, jaws had hit the floor. But, for reasons that evaded her, she refused to partake in the prowess her innate talents bestowed her. She accepted the least customers, interacted little with the elders of the clan, and dismissed her responsibilities for different opportunities—like the position for the Hokage’s Assitant. She just…never fit it, and never wanted to.

“I only want what’s best for you,” Mirai sat on the bed and rubbed her knee in support, “and if you think you can become the best assistant a Hokage has ever had in the history of Konoha, then by all means, sister mine, rock everyone’s brains off.”

A small smile crept across her expression, crinkling the top of her petite nose. “You know I will,” she muttered. “Plus, that astronomer woman left, something about wanting to spend more time with her stars.” A small shrug. “I’ve heard weirder things.”

“Have you shopped yet?”

Seina’s head perked up. “Not yet. Will you help?”

The excitement in her tone was not missed. Mirai wiggled her brows. “You know that’s, like, my favorite thing to do.”

False. You like tearing into other people’s most vulnerable moments more.

She dismissed her inner voice and gave her sister’s lap a quick smack. “Rise and shine, because I’ve been summoned and I’m not going to miss another moment moping over some nobody.”

Her sister winced, before rubbing the spot and hopping off the bed. She lived in a separate apartment from her clan, closer to the Hokage Mountain with its splendid view of the east side of Konoha, decorated in beautiful lush trees and colorful parks. With ceiling-to-floor windows leading to a spacious balcony littered with myriad flowers, it was her little slice of personal heaven.

“You know,” her sister started, joining her as Mirai rummaged her closet for an outfit, “Maybe he’s the different type.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe…he’s just shy.”

She paused, arms half buried in her heaps of clothes and brows furrowed in deep thought. “So you’re saying I should seduce him?”

“No, I didn’t sa—“

“Why, of course!” She gave herself a light smack in the head. “That’s, like, so obvious. You’re so smart, Lord Sixth will be lucky to have you. Come on now, help me pick something slutty.”

Seina sighed, shaking her head. “Your bravado is inspiring. Since everything romance disgusts me, don’t forget to fill me in with all the details.”

Mirai warmly laughed. “You’re worse than me, but you asked for it.”

.

RAP, RAP, RAP.

“Oi, Obito.”

Kakashi’s voice infiltrated Obito’s empty apartment. Stealing a five-minute break from his duties and his comrade was nowhere to be found. After another round of unanswered knocks, the Copy Ninja released a weary sigh, scratching his nape. Then, he craned his head towards the trees, listening to the quiet rustle of the leaves and the cheerful twitter of hummingbirds.

.

KAKASHI found him in the cemetery. Obito was laying down fresh flowers on Rin’s gravestone.

He sensed his friend settle by his side, masked and in equal mourning, no matter the passage of time. Some things never faded away.

“What are you doing out of office?” Obito questioned at last, gaze still fastened on the flowers. A soft breeze swept across the field, fluttering the violet petals awake.

Kakashi stuffed his hand into the pocket of his pants. “Visiting an old friend, it appears.”

After a moment, he began to speak, “Sometimes, I think maybe it is a good thing she’s gone. It would’ve been devastating for her to witness me as the monster I was...” The monster I am.

Kakashi tsked, a weary sigh following his displeasure. “That would’ve earned you a severe beating.”

Despite everything, Obito chuckled, a reaction that Kakashi shared, and they stood there, shoulders softly shaking, humoring some imaginary moment.

.

STROLLING shoulder-to-shoulder through the streets of Konoha, they conversed of Obito’s latest missions, Kakashi’s duties, students, and present events. The Chunin exams were right around the corner.

“Yare, yare,” his masked friend stared up at the sky, white clouds wispily stretching across the blue canvas, “I still think this job would’ve better suited you, Obito.”

He smirked, his scars tugging at his skin. “Don’t lose hope yet. We’ve only just begun.”

A soft smile crinkled the edges of his deep silver eyes. Since he retained his Sharingan, Naruto Uzumaki healed Kakashi’s missing eye. “I don’t have to look through your eyes anymore, Obito,” he remembered him saying, “We can now look toward the future together.”

Once the war was over, as the new Hokage, Kakashi pardoned his past actions, seeing as he aided in turning the war around, as well as Uchiha Itachi’s, celebrating him as one of Konoha’s heroes, but as protocol demanded, had him first serve six months in prison and, as such, take an oath to then serve the Hokage and the village in any means plausible, ensuring its prosperity and safety. ‘Til now, he’d completed sixty-seven S-rank missions. Tomorrow night, he’d be departing for another few weeks’ long journey. Whatever the village, Kakashi, needed, he would deliver—no questions asked.

“Completing a mission or two with you wouldn’t be so bad,” he countered, as if reading Obitio’s mind, to which he merely shrugged.

“You’re the Hokage. All you need to do is—“

A body, having just exited a clothing shop and draped in shopping bags, crashed into him, and with such force, he was sent toppling into Kakashi. His friend braced his back on time.

“Oi! Watch where you’re— Obito!“

A blur of sunshine blonde strands and impossibly delicate features graced his vision. A wave of familiarity washed over both their features. Excitement, Mirai’s. Aversion, his. The disgruntled expression flattening his lips could only mean his displeasure, and not because she suddenly smelled like literal sunshine. Yes. Peaches and ripened apricot, his least favorite fruits from now on.

“You’re still here? That’s so funny!”

He didn’t understand how it could be. He lived in Konoha…

His eyes narrowed. “That’s Obito-san to you. Are you following me again?”

“Not today.” At his bewildered expression, she waved a dismissive hand in the air. “Relax. I stopped after yesterday. Which means today. A girl can only try so much. Plus, what was I even thinking? There are so many other fish in the pond. No hard feelings though. Speaking of, how do I look?”

She performed a happy twirl, all ‘aren’t I a sight to behold!’ Adorned in nothing but a short, black skirt that rode up her thighs in the most tantalizing manner, a stomach-revealing crop top with the thinnest shoulder strings he’d ever witnessed, and knee-length heeled boots, she was…yeah, a sight to behold. Even her hands, being fully gloved, somehow added to the appeal.

He’d heard rumors about the Kanekura clan, their abilities, and wondered if that’s why she protected them…

Obito cleared his throat, looking away. But her golden strands still managed to snag his attention, even for just a little bit, as they luminously cascaded down her back in velvety waves, their ends tickling the creamy skin of her naked waist. There was an odd itch to his fingers he didn’t understand, hence he ignored the sensation.

“You like?” she playfully implored. Did she just wink at him? She was a bizarre woman with bizarre questions. Recalling her unabashed approach yesterday, he felt heat creep up the back of his neck. Say yes, and we can make this a night of white, hot ecstasy.

No one had ever dared…

He coughed into his fist, dispelling the memory. “You look…fine.” Why bother asking him? Did he resemble someone of high taste? He was a simple Shinobi. She should get the opinions of someone meriting the praise she deserved.

Her shoulders suddenly drooped, and her lively expression fell equally as fast. “Oh,” she whispered, before straightening and flipping a curl over her shoulder. “Anyways—“

“—So many shoes! Mirai, help! Shoes, shoes, shoes falling— Ah!”

With the stack of boxes blocking her view, a second female crashed into him, and while he held his ground this time around, Kakashi, or more correctly his face, on the other hand, had the boxes greet it in rapid secession. Smack, smack, smack!

“Oh, I’m— Lord Sixth!” the female exclaimed, immediately reaching over, apologetic gestures spilling from her. Kakashi rubbed at his reddened cheek. “I didn’t— I swear I was— I’m so, so sorry—“

“Lord Sixth?” Mirai questioned, looking over. Then, jolting, “Lord Sixth!”

The Hokage fanned an abating hand in the air. “Hai, hai, just call me Kakashi, please.”

The second female covered her face with her hands, disgraced. “If I had known you were there, I would’ve watched my step. This is sooo not how I wanted to make my first impression. Now it’s all ruined! Ruined!”

In less than a second, Mirai tossed her shopping bags and was next to her, wrapping her in her arms and consoling. To Kakashi, she pointed an accusatory finger. “How dare you make my sweet sister upset!”

Sister? They did look quite alike, and yet not at all. While her sister was on the more petite and plumper side, wearing a yellow summer dress and slippers, Mirai was tall and curvy, a sensational tableau of every man’s wildest dreams come true. Not that he cared to dream that.

“I…” Kakashi fumbled, evidently feeling lost and responsible at the same time.

He tilted his head to the side. Clearly, she was protective of her loved ones. In that case… “You are addressing the Hokage,” he reminded her.

His masked friend elbowed him in the side. “Oi…Obito,” he gritted in warning.

While he fought a smile, Mirai tossed a wary glance their way. “My apologies, Lord Sixth. It’s in cause of your new regulations that people who’ve fled from war were permitted to settle in your village. I should know better.”

Huh. That was an easy win. Perhaps she feared the notion that any form of disrespect toward the Hokage and his leadership might have him rescind such verdict?

Embarrassment burned his friend’s face a stark-red. “Now, now,” he attempted a remedy but to no avail, “Let’s not make a big deal out of it.”

“Yes. Let’s not. Overpraising is not my thing and you were just doing your job.” No, she feared no such notion, Obito concluded, surprisingly amused. Perhaps she just knew where to place her gratitude. “Anyways, I’m hungry. Let’s go eat, Seina.”

Her sister sighed loud and long. “Foolish Seina,” she mumbled under her breath as Kakashi, ever the well-mannered man, aided her collect her stack of shoeboxes.

“You know…” Kakashi began, still opting for a more easy tone. “It’s really not that big of a deal. You don’t have to be so…upset.”

“Please don’t talk.” Seina accepted the boxes from his hold, not meeting his gaze. “I feel so ashamed.” She whipped her head the other direction. “I deserve to burn in the deepest depths of my well-deserved hell.”

“Seina,” Mirai pouted, eyes glossing over. “You would never.” Were they serious?

“LORD SIXTH!” a third female voice boomed in the distance, albeit vexed. In sync, they tilted their heads to see past the females—and spotted a furious Shizune approach. Both Kakashi and Obito made a neat turn to escape the impending scene.

“Stop right there!”

“Obito, you called me.” He felt more than heard Kakashi gulp.

“I absolutely did not. I’m not dealing with her anger.”

“If you do this, consider yourself released from all your future missions.”

“Jokes on you, I actually like my missions.”

“A free meal. Ramen. Whatever you want.” Shit. That was a good one.

But… “No can do, Kakashi. You’re on your own.”

When next he met his friend’s gaze, he might as well have stabbed Kakashi in the back. That look of betrayal…

Shizune stopped right in front of them.

“Ah, Shizune-kun—” Kakashi began, but was bluntly interrupted.

“Lord Sixth, I have had it up to here! You keep disappearing! You can’t do that! You’re always late! I even have to make excuses on your behalf when you miss meetings! Brief certain decisions regarding missions! Keep track of your visitors. Village emergencies. File more documents. I’m. Only. An. Assistant! And now, you miss another meeting! I can’t keep doing this. I reprised this role because I respect the position of the Hokage! I was never meant to stay this long! This is unacceptable, unprofessional, un—”

“Hi, Shizune!” The girls waved at her in greeting.

“Hi, girls!” She cheerfully waved back at them. The hell? Back to them, “This cannot go any longer. I’m at my limit and, respectfully, I must say that I— Oh.” She stopped. Turned. “Seina Kanekura?”

Seina nodded, all proud. “In the flesh.”

She pivoted back to Kakashi and pointed. “Lord Sixth.”

“Hai…”

She released a breath of relief. “Oh, and here I thought you had gone and missed another meeting.” Wiping the sweat off her brow, she laughed. “But you were simply having it outside. Ha! Good one! I think I honestly would’ve murdered someone if you’d missed it. Close call.”

Seina visibly paled. “T-The…interview? For the assistant position?”

Mirai cursed under her breath. Shizune nodded. “Well, yes!”

The boxes dropped from her hands. THUD! “The interview was today?”

Shizune blinked. “What?”

Seina blinked back. “What?”

A moment of intense silence. Then, Shizune resumed her laughter, and it went on…and on… “You’re so funny. Isn’t she so funny, Lord Sixth?”

He scratched the back of his head, awkwardly laughing along with his assistant. “Ah, ha-ha…Ha…Ah…”

Seina joined him her own nervous laughter, a terrible addition, at that. “Yes…funny…so…Haa…Hee….ah…”

Obito pressed his fingers to his pursed lips, concluding then and there he’d never let Kakashi live this down.

Swiftly turning to Mirai, Seina spoke through a forced smile. “Be a team player, take the boxes, and don’t say a word to anyone. I’ll meet you later.” To Kakashi, “Let’s go, Lord Sixth! I have yet to show you all of my…all of my…skills!”

Mirai’s mouth parted. “But—“

“Ah, yes,” he echoed, clasping Seina’s shoulders and hurriedly guiding her past Shizune. “Those wonderful skills. See you around, Shizune-kun.” With a friendly wave, the two sauntered off, leaving the three of them behind.

“Now that that is settled,” Shizune voiced, brushing her hands together, “I can have the afternoon all to myself. See ya!”

With that, the kunoichi was gone, leaving him alone with Mirai, who spun around, lips pursed. Before she could speak, he cut in, “I’ll be off as well.”

He made to depart, but adroit fingers gripped the sleeves of his jonin uniform. “Wait.”

His eyes steeled. “If you’re still planning on…”

A huff. Then, unconvincingly, “No. I would never. Didn’t I already tell you? Never.”

At his expression, she sighed. “Talk about hard to get. Anyway. I was merely wondering if you could have lunch with me. I enjoy a meal shared. Ichiraku Ramen. With dumplings. My treat.”

Well, shit. Even though he never really actually got famished due to White-Zetsu, he'd begun to appreciate the texture of myriad meals since his arrival to Konoha, and decided he couldn’t well refuse a second offer at a free meal. He pointed a finger at her. “Behave.”

A sly smile. “Or what? Afraid you might actually give me a chance?”

He crossed his arms against his chest, his glare deepening. Did she derive merriment from testing a person’s patience? When her smile deepened, he concluded, yes, she very much enjoyed the provocation.

Palms up, she continued, “Under normal circumstances, I’d say make me. But for you, I’ll make an exception. I’m kind like that.”

“Are you now?”

“Is that you pressing your luck, because I could totally—“

“No.”

“Boring man.”

Boring? His stance changed, arms uncrossing. His tongue twisted to retort, but he bit it, catching himself. There was no need for comment; let her think what she wanted. Besides, he’d heard worse. After lunch, they’d go their separate ways, and he’d attempt his absolute best to never cross ways with her again. Simply because, well, he was not a fan of the feelings she provoked inside him. Foreign and irking.

Like the rest of the Shinobi in the team, he’d hand-picked her himself for the Mist mission—he’d liked what he’d seen—but never would he have guessed her to be…like this. During their mission, she was quick, analytical, and rewardingly austere. Yes, at times, he found her jesting with the rest of the team, but it was all done in good faith. Her ninja skills, he acknowledged. And yet, her Kanekura skills, he never witnessed. Those gloves of hers never came off. Hence, she was turning out to be a surprisingly different character. Hard to read.

“Give me a moment.” Her voice dragged him out of his musings. Shaking his head, he straightened, watching as she summoned two clones. Poof!

“All right, girls!” She suddenly palmed her heart. “Wait, I know I looked good, but I didn’t realize I looked this good. Give me a spin.” Her clones performed more of the same ‘aren’t I the best thing to walk the face of this earth?’ twirls, blowing kisses. Mirai clapped her hands in praise, and Obito contemplated just walking away from the scene. This wasn’t happening. “So pretty! But enough. Take these bags and boxes to our place. Thanks, girls!”

She just thanked herself.

Hands shooting into the air, she stretched like a feline, her curves deepening into the arch. Obito suddenly felt his throat muscles enclose, and immediately shied his gaze away. What he wouldn’t give to switch to his Tobi persona and drive her off with an aggravating joke or two.

“What a beautiful day!” Twisting, she smiled wide, somehow managing to ground him. “Shall we?”

In a sea of many heads, Obito followed the beacon that seemed to prefer skipping instead of walking down the streets of Konoha.

#hes so hot lmao <//3/3/3 #obito uchiha #obito uchiha x oc #obito uchiha fic #obito x oc #obito smut #uchiha gang #kakashi hatake #naruto fic #wolkoshka writes #story can be found under the same on ao3 #mine

[wolkoshka]

the feminine urge to write a piece for one of benicio del toro's characters. god, he plays them so hot and rich and captivating and sexy and wholesome and dangerous and corrupt and riveting and pure and and and

#alright wolkoshka #lets write one for the big bad wolf #benicio del toro