simon has an ex wife, he doesn’t talk about her at all, the only one who knows about her is price. the rest of the team don’t even know he has one. it was something, something that left him only with a scratched pair of rings that he wears around his neck, and a photo of a sweet young woman holding a small baby between his books. not that he lets anyone see. not even price.
the new translator who comes to base cam’s head office, with her bright eyes and easy smile, and puts her child in the kindergarten. johnny loves her, when she makes his blue eyes crinkle in laughter. gaz has taken a liking to her and her toddler, since his room is next to hers, always bringing the two of them little treats from the mess. price who puts a large arm around her, always helping her out with being new. his office is right next to hers, and if she wants anything she just “ask.” he’s also giving her daughter, violet, piggyback rides.
ghost comes back from a mission, the past two months in deep cover. and price thumps his shoulder, “c’mon lad, there’s this lovely lass on base i’d like you to meet.”
and when he sees you, his heart crumbles into a thousand tiny shards.
three years ago you’d called it quits with your secondary school sweetheart for his emotional absence.
ghost looks at you, and then at the startling yet familiar brown of his daughter’s eyes.
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Summary: Simon overhears you say his dick is small.
Warnings: 18+. Unprotected piv. Consensual freeuse. Traffic light safe word system. Your boyfriend fucks you rough (but lovingly) while you’re on the phone.
Word count: 3.1k
You were being a good friend.
It really was as simple as that—a woman you’d known for over a decade now was going through the worst breakup of her life, and she needed your support. You’d offered that support without hesitation, thinking nothing of the fact that you were in the healthiest of relationships yourself. You sure as hell never would’ve imagined a conversation like that could lead to this.
“His dick was huge, too,” your friend groaned across the line. You heard a shuffling of pillows and a soft thump, and you pictured her punting one off the bed.
You were lying on your stomach in your own bed several hundred miles away, holding your phone to your ear and trying to bite back a slow-growing grin.
“Couldn’t have been that big,” you hummed.
Again, your best friend groaned as if she were in pain.
“No, I’m telling you, the guy was fucking massive, hon. Just hung like a…a goddamn horse. I’m gonna be sick.”
“You can find another monster cock someday.”
“I don’t want to, though! It was so good.”
“You know, a big dick isn’t everything.”
Now you were trailing a finger over the embroidered edge of a pillowcase, trying your hardest not to think of the man who’d just slipped out of your sheets thirty minutes prior. Right before your friend had called with her devastating news, before you had been obliged to join the I-Hate-All-Men tirade of the century, you’d been getting put through the mattress by your boyfriend—a man who didn’t lie, or cheat on you, or steal, or shatter your heart into a million pieces.
A man whose dick was considerably bigger than most.
Simon was probably already three beers deep with his buddies at the pub down the road, the same lopsided, happy-go-lucky smile on his face he always wore when you and him had just had a quickie before he left home
Suddenly, the tail-end of a sentence snapped you out of your reverie, your friend’s tone loud and a little shrill:
“—easy for you to say!”
You blinked. “Easy f—wait, what?”
“Simon Riley. Love of your life.” You could imagine the woman snapping fingers in front of your face if she had been with you then, as if to say, Ring a bell? “Don’t even try to act like he isn’t a crazy good lay. And huge.”
Your cheeks heated at the accusation. Hell, you’d probably mentioned to friends in passing that your boyfriend was an altogether generous lover, a caring man in every respect, along with a couple other vague intimations about his prowess that would leave a whole lot more to the imagination than not, but this? You hadn’t even touched on anything about his size.
Normally, you wouldn’t engage in that kind of talk—at least not to that level of detail, revealing intimate facts.
But your best friend was hurting, and it seemed like she needed something to feel better in the moment.
So, shortly, it slipped out before you could think better:
“Simon’s not even big.”
Your mouth clamped shut as soon as you said it.
Liar, every fiber of your being hissed at once.
(Shut the fuck up, I’m helping a friend out)
“No way. You’re full of shit,” she giggled.
(Well, yes)
“Nope.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
You swallowed hard. Already hating yourself as the silence across the line stretched on and you knew your friend expected you to elaborate, and then you did.
“Honestly, it’s pretty, um…small. And—And that’s OK! Like, nobody’s perfect. The sex with him is still so great, and if anything, it’s nice not having such a big dick to worry about, y’know? So don’t feel like dating a smaller guy is so bad. You can still have amazing sex.”
You tried to end it on a positive note—the message you meant to get across, which was that the girl could be happy with a guy of any size and she didn’t need to stay hung up on her stupid ex—but it fell flat, even to your own ears. Clearly, you’d dropped a bombshell.
“But he is just…such a big dude. You’d think—”
“No, I know, Simon’s tall,” you interrupted hastily. Wincing. “But like I was saying, you can still do a lot with an average-sized dick. Or—Or even a tiny one.”
“It’s tiny?!”
Fucking shit.
“No, no, no, not tiny! I mean, not that…tiny. He’s fine.”
Your pulse was pounding so loud in your ears you could hardly hear yourself think. Or breathe. Or lie. Or try to piece together the most incoherent string of words that came out a little something like, ‘Seriously, uh…Simon’s the sweetest guy I’ve ever dated, and um…dick size doesn’t even really matter. The big ones hurt. I mean, the guy’s not huge, but not tiny, and—’
“Well shit, lovie, how fuckin’ little are we talkin’ here?”
At the rumble of a voice by your other, phone-free ear, you nearly jumped and catapulted your device across the room. You would’ve yelped, too, had it not been for a big, broad palm clamping over your mouth. As a familiar weight and breadth and scent settled over your being—a body coming to lay on top of you from behind—your friend continued to chatter on the line, clueless.
“OK, OK, I get it. Love a guy of any size. And Simon’s not perfect—even though that fucker’s about as delectable as you can get in every other way…”
While the woman’s voice faded off into a far-distant hum rattling off Simon’s best qualities and lamenting the odds she’d ever find a man quite so wonderful, you were confronted with several of these same features at once: his wide, muscular chest blanketing the back of you entirely; his stubble tickling the cusp of your cheek as he leaned in close; his strength pinning you to the bed and only loosening the grip around your mouth a little; and of course, there was that voice again, lower—
“Too bad about my microdick, huh?” Simon chuckled.
“—and I bet he knows how to use it!” your friend went on, not hearing a word of what was going on with you.
“Hey, uh—hey, I’ve gotta go. I think I—” you started.
As soon as you did, though, you felt the pressure on your spine soar to new heights. You let out a low whine.
Simon was crushing you now.
Your friend cut in, “Yeah? You OK?”
Before you could attempt a reply, the hand that had once been covering your lips lowered to just underneath your chin; Simon squeezed your throat.
Playfully, he made clear by nipping at your earlobe.
“No need to stop on my account,” he murmured.
So, rushed and more than a little flustered now, you made up some excuse on the phone about mistakenly hearing the doorbell, and you let your friend forge on. You dropped the phone onto the bed by your pillow.
Then you turned your head, the rest of your body immobilized by the heft of your boyfriend’s weight on your back, and you finally, finally got to meet his gaze.
Behind you, Simon was smirking.
His whole demeanor betrayed amusement.
It wasn’t every day the man got to hear his dick was the size of something much smaller than it actually was, you reckoned. Still, he deserved an explanation.
“S-Si…” You tried to grit out a whisper, deflated by his weight and forced to hide your words from your friend.
Never mind the fact that your boyfriend looked, smelled, and felt just as irresistible as he had when he left home less than an hour ago. A simple, all-black ensemble fit him like a second skin and accentuated every mouthwatering ridge of his body, most visible to you in the glimpse of his bicep you caught under your chin. He was warm. Solid. Drenched in that dizzyingly potent sandalwood aftershave that you liked so much.
You’d never tapped the ‘mute’ on your phone so fast.
“Shit, Si, I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t mean— I only said it— she’s going through a breakup right now, and I just t—”
Simon hit ‘unmute,’ followed by ‘speakerphone.’
He leaned back.
“…but what reeeally fucked me up was how he acted after. Like, couldn’t even look me in the eye, the dick…”
Your friend prattled on—back to sinking neck-deep in a story of how shitty the dating scene was and how she should’ve given up ages ago—while you flitted your gaze to your phone. You stared in awe, wondering why the fuck Simon had decided to tap those buttons in a moment like this, and questions started to bubble up.
At the same time, you heard the clink of a belt buckle.
Simon knelt behind you. He straddled your ass, and when you tried to sit up, he pressed a palm to the center of your back. He moved about it all swiftly.
Finally, the quietest, quickest hiss, ‘Si, what the fu—’
“Spit.”
That part, he said too loud. But the man didn’t seem to care much at all as he reached with his other hand and stuck his upturned palm under your face, waiting for it.
“What did you say?” your friend cut in presently.
Your face stung with embarrassment—at just the prospect of being found out by someone who had no concept of what was going on—that you forced it out:
“N-Nothing. Keep going.”
You spit in Simon’s hand like he’d told you.
Your phone couldn’t have been resting more than two or three inches from your face on the bed, and the space in general was small. There wasn’t a lot to be done by way of masking your activity, other than to simply hang up the fucking phone, but it didn’t sound like discretion and decorum and being considerate were at the top of Simon’s list of priorities right now.
Still, you felt a press of his lips against the back of your neck before he mumbled, “Remember our safewords?”
You did.
‘Yellow’ to slow down, ‘red’ to stop.
It wasn’t often you had to use the words with Simon, but from time to time, in particularly heated and impassioned moments, you appreciated the safety net.
And freeuse was something relatively new to you both—just accepting him in and letting him have his way with you at random points during your day, casually.
It didn’t make it any less tricky, or jarring, when the man next pushed inside you, bottoming out in one go.
Your sleep shorts tugged to the side, lying facedown underneath this massive, hulking man, you had only to grit your teeth and feel yourself stretched to full capacity with the shove of Simon’s bare cock in you.
“Oh, fuck,” you let out, hoarse.
“No, right? It was so gross, honestly.”
Amidst the airing of your friend’s mile-long list of grievances against her ex, your boyfriend settled his full, thick, demonstrably larger than average dick in your body until it felt like he was scraping your lungs.
You clawed the sheets and squirmed under him.
“That feel tiny to you, sweetheart?” Simon’s mouth was right next to your ear now, whispering filth while your walls stretched and squeezed to accommodate him. Warmth leaked out from where you connected.
You shook your head weakly, barely able to breathe.
It somehow made it even wilder and more maddening to have your senses deprived—Simon behind you, restricting your movements, with you obliged not to make a sound at the pleasure he was inflicting on you.
Your hips pinned to those pretty, floral-patterned sheets and your pussy made to gape in a perfectly wide ‘o’ around Simon’s whole cock, you felt helpless.
Stretched.
Protected, still.
Simon hadn’t even withdrawn to get a full stroke in, and he was already caressing your cheek with the backs of his knuckles, giving you more time to adjust to him. His tip kissed your cervix, and a heat sank in.
“Sweet dove’s still sore from earlier, yeah?” he murmured. “Didn’t think I gave her that much…”
But he did, of course.
“—couldn’t even make me cum—” your friend went on
Simon always gave you enough.
Just as your walls preemptively clenched around that slick, hard length and the man started to stir, rolling his hips against your ass in the shallowest of movements, your lips parted on a half-moan. Your chest constricted
“—it must be so much better with Simon, isn’t it?”
Suddenly, your boyfriend took a fistful of your hair.
In a murmur again, close to your ear:
“Go on, then. Don’t be impolite.”
“S-So, so good,” you rushed out. Those thrusts finally picked up, and Simon fucked you quietly into the bed. You sucked in another strangled breath, and trying your hardest not to moan, “He’s fucking…incredible.”
“I bet,” your friend laughed.
More shit-talking of men ensued.
Simon returned to his original, dominant position blanketing your body completely with his own, forearms planted on either side of your head on the bed and your phone resting inches away from you both. His cock pounded a furious pace inside you, precum and spit and your shared fluids easing the repeated slide. You gripped the sheets tighter, and Simon did the same with his ironclad hold in your hair.
Then his cock slid in higher, a little to the left, and the tip of him hit that special, tender, mind-numbing spot.
You felt the grin against the side of your face before you heard him chuckle, quiet as anything but elated.
Simon was the only guy who’d hit your G-spot before.
He hit it again. And again. And again, shaking the whole bed frame with the force of his thrusts. He kissed your neck and let your head loll back on him. While your friend chattered on, he did what he did best
“That’s a good girl,” he praised. “Gonna come f’me?”
You nodded, head bobbing against his softly.
If there were any moment for retribution, now would be it. If Simon were even the slightest bit the spiteful, insecure type, he probably would’ve taken the opportunity to make you beg for him—tell him how huge his cock was and how lucky you were to get it; how terrible it was to lie about a thing like size. It was.
But Simon didn’t, opting instead to give you pleasure. And he got plenty from you, too, you could tell by the breaths that were growing more and more ragged against your neck and the frantic stutter of his hips.
He was so big it was as if you could feel him in your throat. With every thrust that pushed you closer and closer to the edge, and with every twitch of every inch stuffed inside you, you feared you might not be able to conceal the sounds from your friend for much longer.
Your jaw unhinged on another wide-open, noiseless moan that probably made it look like you were in pain, and at the same time, your friend carried on over the phone, laughing about this loser’s goofy fucking face.
“Yellow?” Simon panted into your ear.
In other words, did you want him to slow down?
You shook your head no. Let him pelt your insides with the force of those hard, merciless thrusts and carve a path clean through your body in a way that only he ever could. He molded you to him perfectly. Tenderly.
Crescents digging into your scalp from how tightly he held you to him, you felt Simon twitch and keep beating your G-spot while you writhed under him, “You wanted a big dick, yeah? Don’t run from it now.”
It was in those words—paired with the obvious stretch and the depths your boyfriend was able to reach with his cock, how lovingly he fucked you while controlling your pleasure—that you broke. You couldn’t hold it in.
At the last possible second, Simon offered you his free hand to cover your mouth, knowing how loud you were liable to get, and you let out a muffled shriek into his palm. You grit your teeth and whimpered and kind of despised how high-pitched and needy you sounded, but you knew Simon loved it, almost as much as he adored the slippery wet noises your body and his made when he was emptying the contents of his balls into your cunt and fucking you senseless through all of it.
You finished as close as you were when you’d started, Simon’s chest glued onto your back. You both were breathing heavily, senses reeling from your highs. Simon’s cum stayed plugged in you with his thick cock holding it there, and the heat burrowed to your core.
You blinked, and you smiled contentedly at the warmth
Simon planted kisses wherever he could find bare skin for them to go, along your jaw and on your cheek and over your ear, like he always did after you two had sex.
“Wasn’t too far, was it?” he whispered. “Know I’m—”
“—big,” you giggled, barely louder than a breath after his hand had slid from your lips and cupped your face.
Then you went on, as the haze in your mind was starting to clear the slightest bit, and you remembered why you were here in the first place, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything about your size, Si. I’m—”
“—going to bed!” your friend announced suddenly.
Your attention and Simon’s snapped back to the phone
With all that had been going on over the last couple minutes, you’d almost forgotten the woman was still on the line at all. She’d been talking before that, right?
“I— OK. Yeah, no, that’s fine,” you said, stupidly. Then, regaining a bit more of your composure, “I’m so sorry about everything that’s been going on with…him. You deserve so much better, and you will find better, OK?”
That sounded coherent enough.
You would call again tomorrow. Really listen and be there to offer more helpful advice than you’d done tonight—this was more about letting her vent, anyway.
So, reaching for the phone and expecting to hear your best friend chirp a quick, simple good-bye at any second, you lifted your hips back against Simon. You angled his still-hard dick inside you and pushed him deeper through the sticky warm mess he’d just coated your walls with, and you bit back a smile when he grunted. You met his eyes over your shoulder, and you felt his grip on your chin flex. His gaze sharpened.
But, before he could smirk and murmur in your ear something like, ‘Round three can be arranged if you really want it,’ your friend cut in again over the line.
Her voice rang louder, and a little lighter, too, this time.
“Goooooodniiiiiiiiiight, hon, I love you so, so much!”
“I love you, too. Night!” you answered reflexively.
Then, your friend added, as swift as anything:
“And goodnight to you, too, Simon! Glad to hear that microdick’s being put to good use, happy for you two!”
Before you could say a word, she laughed and hung up.
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You work at a nursing home in Manchester. It's a quiet job, but you enjoy it, even if you're just an administrator. One day, one of your residents gets a visit from a 6"2, masked, military man who bulldozes his way into your life.
Simon Riley isn't exactly what you'd call boyfriend material.
masterlist ❤️ ao3
tags: angst, fluff, referenced/implied sa (not graphic), violence, past trauma, elderly character in a care home, explicit sexual content, bdsm elements, female reader, reader has a deceased father, readers step dad is a pervert, Simon's brother is a dick, military inaccuracies, cod lore inaccuracies, dark fic
part 2/3, word count: 11.4k
part 1
The days turned into weeks, and you spent them alone.
You weren’t physically alone, you were working and spending time with your mum, but you felt alone. You felt like a bit of you was missing, and you were just going through the motions of life, trying not to let the dejection swallow you whole.
It was an insane way to feel about someone you’d only really known a short while, but it wasn’t like he’d moved home or gone on holiday, he was somewhere hostile fighting people who wanted to kill him, people who might succeed.
Your dad had never come home from his third tour in Afghanistan. One day he’d hugged you goodbye and told you he’d see you soon, and then three months later you were looking at a coffin disappearing behind the doors of a furnace. Maybe seeing Simon off had unearthed some grief in you you’d thought was behind you, maybe you were just terrified you’d lose him in the same way.
Your mum was seeing a solicitor to start divorce proceedings and your heart honestly broke for her. It wasn’t because her marriage was over, you sincerely hoped you never saw Clive again, but because she was alone again. She was feeling a thousand times worse than you were, a million times, and you felt pretty fucking awful.
Subsequently, you spent a lot of time with her, keeping her company, helping her cook, dyeing each other’s hair – it kept you both occupied from your respective man-related troubles. Neither of you uttered a word about it, either, you just got on with it.
All in all, it was a shit few weeks.
…
It was three weeks and two days after the last time you’d seen Simon that Mrs. Riley had visitors.
You’d been visiting her pretty much every shift, because you felt terrible that no one would come to see her. From what you could ascertain, her husband, Simon’s father, was deceased, and you secretly hoped that Tommy Riley wouldn’t come by on his own. He’d given you the creeps the last and only time you’d met him, and you didn’t fancy a repeat of it, especially without Simon around to scare him off. You didn’t need to worry because you didn’t see him at all. So every shift, you sat with Mrs. Riley for half an hour to an hour, going through paperwork and watching terrible day time television or listening to her stories. She told you things about her late husband that made you want to cry.
“He was so cruel to Simon,” she would say, “because he was such a sweet boy, he still is, he would never hurt a fly.” She seemed to know less about his work than you did. She knew he went away sometimes and would be back soon. You kept your mouth shut.
That was why you had your hand raised to knock on her door, and you heard voices coming from inside. Your eyebrows shot up and so did your heart rate. Was Simon back?
You opened the door and your heart plummeted down to the ground. There were two men sitting next to Mrs. Riley’s bed. The taller man had dark skin, neatly combed hair and nice eyes, the shorter one was broader, with biceps maybe even bigger than Simon’s, with a small dark mohawk on his head. They both looked up when you entered.
“Oh, sorry.” You blushed. “I didn’t realise you had visitors, Mrs. Riley.”
“It’s okay, my darling.” Mrs. Riley smiled at you, she looked thrilled. So would you be with two handsome, muscular men beside your bed. “These young men work with my son.”
Your eyes wavered, momentarily worried that Tommy was going to come out of the bathroom and leer at you again.
“Sergeant Kyle Garrick,” the taller man stood, smiling kindly at you and offering you his hand, “this is Sergeant John MacTavish.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” John MacTavish rose and shook your hand. He had a thick Scottish brogue.
Oh, they worked with Simon.
“Holy shit.” You gasped, your eyes going wide. Both men’s kind smiles died immediately. “What’s happened? Where is he?”
“Oh, no, lass-“ John MacTavish put his hands in the air. “He’s fine.”
“Sorry,” Kyle gave you a reassuring, if slightly guilty looking, smile. “Didn’t mean to freak you out like that.”
They both shared a look, like they weren’t expecting you to be so versed on military practise, particularly the one where a soldier’s teammates delivered news of their death in the field to their loved ones.
Your heart was still hammering in your chest, having gone from high to low to high to low again so quickly. You felt a bit out of breath.
“It’s okay.” Kyle’s smile turned sympathetic. “As we were just explaining to Mrs. Riley, Simon is absolutely fine. He’s just not going to be able to visit for a few days until he heals up and gets discharged from the hospital. “
“The hospital?” Your eyebrows shot up again.
“A few bruises.” John assured you quickly. “I’ve seen him bounce back from worse.”
You knew they weren’t giving you the full story, but you also knew that if these men were Simon’s sergeants, then he would have warned them against upsetting his mum. Well, he probably would have threatened them.
Regardless, you felt your stomach unclench for the first time in nearly a month. Simon was okay, he’d come back safe, a little banged up, but alive.
You wanted to ask Kyle and John where they’d been, but you knew that they wouldn’t tell you even if they wanted to. They were so smiley and so kind, laughing and joking with Mrs. Riley, even the act of volunteering to come and check on her in Simon’s absence spoke to their goodness, their respect for their comrade. The difference between them and Simon was night and day, it was hard to imagine them out in the field together.
“It was very sweet of you boys to come by.” Mrs. Riley patted Kyle’s hand. “You have your own families to get to.”
“Yeah, it was kind.” You hadn’t said much of anything during their visit, you were leant against the dresser and lost in thought.
“It was no trouble at all.” Kyle said kindly, squeezing Mrs. Riley’s hand back.
“Aye, it was no trouble.” John assured you, seeking out your gaze with his warm eyes, giving you a smile to try and cheer you up. “Gotta make sure the women in Simon’s life are okay.”
You stared at them, wondering what Simon had told them about you, enough to recognise you, apparently. You didn’t miss the little conspiratorial smirks they were giving each other.
They left Mrs. Riley to sleep shortly after that. You walked Kyle and John through the entrance doors and outside.
“A few bruises?” You questioned as soon as you were outside.
“Yeah, maybe a bit more than that.” Kyle admitted, wincing slightly. “But no loss of life or limb, that’s a win in my book. He just needs a few days.”
“It was a long mission.” John blew his cheeks out. “Takes its toll on all of us. Even Ghost.”
“What?” You blinked. “Ghost?”
The pair of them shared a look, and then Kyle chuckled.
“She doesn’t know Ghost.” John smirked to himself.
You didn’t know what inside joke they were sharing, or what ghost was meant to mean.
“I’ll bring the car around.” Kyle patted John on the front. “Hang tight. It was nice to meet you.” The last part was directed at you.
You echoed it back to him, and watched the sergeant jog across the car park, lost in thought about so many things.
“Penny for your thoughts, lass.” John tilted his head. His smile was warm, his accent was comforting, you wanted to trust him. He was Simon’s sergeant, of course you could trust him.
“He really talked about me?” You asked. It was a selfish question, but you were burning with curiosity.
“Once or twice.” John chuckled. “He’s never really said anything, you know what he’s like, but Simon isn’t that hard to read once you get to know him.”
“That hasn’t really been my experience.” You murmured, because you didn’t really know him at all. You thought back to the last time you’d seen him, he’d told you not to miss him, that you couldn’t be anything…but that kiss, and his hands on you, they’d made you feel something you’d never felt before, for the first time in your life, and ever since then, it felt like you were walking around with a big chunk of yourself missing.
“I won’t pretend he’s any easy bloke.” John admitted, nodding along in a way you could only describe as sympathetic. “Simon thinks that anyone who gets too close to him will get hurt, like being near him is like flying too close to the sun. I think he’s stuck between what he wants to do and what he thinks is best for you.”
“I don’t really think he cares about me like that.” You thought of the cold dismissal in the corridor with his brother. Not as much as I care about him.
John was grinning at you, like he knew something that you didn’t.
Kyle pulled up alongside you both in a black jeep with tinted windows, the driver’s seat window rolled down.
“C’mon, Soap.” He called out. “Cap wants us back at 18:00.”
“See ya, lass.” John waved at you, climbing into the jeep. Kyle smiled at you and gave you two honks and then the pair of them were driving out of the car park.
You stayed outside for a few minutes, trying to process the very odd interactions with the two sergeants, and everything that you’d learned.
…
That night in bed, you stared at your phone, at Simon’s contact number.
There were no texts between the pair of you, just one outgoing call for 26 seconds from when you’d called him from the garden party to come and get you. Was that really all it taken for Simon to decide to rescue you an hour after landing from deployment? 26 seconds.
Your finger hovered over the message button. It had been hovering over it all evening.
What the hell would you even say to him? Ask him if he was well? Tell him you’d missed him?
Don’t miss me. That’s what he’d said. If only it were that easy. He’d sent his sergeants to inform his mother because he couldn’t make it there himself. The S.A.S soldier couldn’t make it there himself. Your eyes misted just thinking about the state he was in. He was probably lying in a hospital bed himself right now. Who was going to visit him? You couldn’t imagine his brother would.
It should have been you.
Cursing yourself, you typed out a message and sent it before you could overthink it. You put the phone down and rolled over in bed, squeezing your eyes shut to try and sleep.
Your phone vibrated less than ten minutes later, and you rolled right back over and snatched it up.
Enjoy that hospital jelly, you’d written.
Strawberry flavoured. He’d replied. I need to get shot more often.
Your heart thumped in your chest. It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he’d be shot in active duty, but it still made tears of fear and sorrow well in your eyes. When you’d been filing paperwork or listening to music or cooking cottage pie with your mum, Simon had been shot, lying on the ground, bleeding out while enemies tried to end his life painfully.
Are you okay?
You weren’t expecting another response.
I’m invincible.
You let out a tearful laugh. He was still cracking jokes. It made hope spark in your chest.
You seem surprisingly cheery
Let the morphine wear off, I’ll be back to normal.
You were still smiling at your phone, feeling suddenly lighter than you had all month.
I didn’t miss you
A reply, less than 5 seconds later:
Good girl
Just the thought of Simon saying that to you in his gravelly accent, maybe with that fucking growl you’d heard from him before, made you want to evaporate in your bed.
Work’s been lonely without you glaring at me
How have you coped?
Had a conversation with a brick wall, but it was chattier than you :(
You felt like you were a teenager again, staring at your phone in the dark and waiting for your crush to text you back. Aside from your age, that was exactly what you were doing.
When can I see you again?
You let out a small breath, and you had to gather yourself before you replied.
…
It was a shitty café not far from the care home, close enough that you could get there on your lunch hour.
You ordered a latte, but your stomach was churning too hard to order any food.
The little bell on the door rang and you looked up to see Simon walking in.
This was the most civilian you’d ever seen him. He was wearing worn jeans, canvas trainers, and a loose-fitting dark t shirt with a faded dire straits logo on the front. His usual black cap and surgical mask were in place and he was carrying his jacket in one gloved hand, while the other was strapped up tight to his front in a medical sling. He spotted you sitting at a table and you saw he had a black eye.
He put his jacket on the table and pulled the chair out one handed, sitting himself down with a sigh, like his bones ached. It actually surprised you that the chair didn’t groan in protest.
His jacket tried to slip off of the table and you grabbed it instinctively. He tracked the movement with his eyes, as much as he could with one eye swollen and nearly closed.
“Good reflexes.” He hummed.
“Thanks.” You weren’t really sure what to say to him. Your last meeting had been intense, and the meeting before that had been even worse, but just seeing him in front of you, alive and well, it almost made you forget about everything else.
Simon ordered a tea off of the waitress, who gave him an odd look, and you fought off the urge to scowl at her.
“How are you?” You asked.
“Better if I don’t have to answer that question anymore.” He grunted.
The morphine had well and truly worn off, then.
“Sorry.” You looked down at your coffee. His tea arrived. This was weird territory for you both, electing to sit down and talk, instead of just strategically bumping into each other. That choice, it changed things.
“You met Johnny and Gaz.” Simon didn’t pose it as a question. He pulled his mask up slightly to take a sip of his tea, so you didn’t see anything except a flash of his chin. He was still hiding his face from you.
He referred to them with different names, but you knew immediately who he was referring to.
“Yeah, they’re nice guys.” Your eyes flicked up to his. That meant that John and Kyle had told Simon they’d spoken to you.
Simon snorted.
“Yeah, that’s one word for them.” There was humour in his voice. Those men were his teammates. Maybe even his brothers.
“You’ve been telling your team about me?” You asked, your tongue in your cheek.
“Easy.” Simon warned, his gaze settling on you.
“That looks bad.” You nodded to his swollen, purple eye.
“I’ve had worse.” Simon shrugged it off easily.
You had no trouble believing that.
“Mum said you’ve been spending a lot of time with her.” Simon changed the subject, staring down at his tea.
“Yeah.” You sipped your latte, suddenly blushing. “I figured…well, I just wanted to…”
“Thank you.” He said gruffly, but sincerely.
“It’s okay.” You murmured, giving him a soft smile. “I actually really enjoy the company. She’s hilarious, your mum. She has the craziest stories.”
“She’s had a crazy life.” Simon took another sip of his tea. “My old man saw to that.”
“He’s…?”
“Dead. Good riddance.”
You didn’t ask any follow up questions.
“She likes it there.” He said. “In the care home, I mean. You’re a part of that.”
You nodded, mind once again drawn to the conversation with his brother that you’d overheard, it was like you couldn’t shake it from your head. You wondered if he harboured any of the blame and the guilt that his brother had thrown at him.
“What made you choose Manchester?” You asked, in lieu of anything meaningful to say.
You could tell Simon was smirking under his mask.
“Nothing made me choose. We’re from here. It’s her home.”
“You’re from Manchester?”
“Yeah.”
“But you sound like a cockney.”
He laughed again. “I spent a lot of time at cadet training in Southbank, maybe it rubbed off on me.”
“You were a cadet? That’s adorable.”
Simon rolled his eyes. “If you say so.”
You blushed softly, but you were still smiling, imagining a teenaged Simon in a little beret.
“How are you?” He asked after a moment, gripping his mug with his gloved hands, his intense, brown eyes on yours. “How have you been?”
“Oh.” You were a little surprised by the question. “Yeah, same old. Same shit, different day, right?”
“The shrimp been giving you any more trouble?” He asked.
You laughed. “No, no. They’re actually divorcing.”
Simon’s eyebrows raised under his cap. “Oh, because you said…?”
You shook your head, trying not to feel guilty.
“I didn’t say anything. He kind of told on himself, in a way.”
“Arseholes usually do.” Simon watched you sip your latte. “What about your dad? Can he help out? You said he’s a soldier?”
Your fingers danced around your mug. “Uh, he was actually…K.I.A, ten years ago.”
Simon didn’t say anything, what did someone say to that? You wondered what was cycling through his mind. Knowing him, it was probably guilt at being so close to you, at potentially putting you through the same trauma himself. That was what John had said, right?
“That’s rough.” He finally settled on. “I’ve known a lot of good men who…” He didn’t finish his thought, probably because he didn’t want you thinking about it any more than you already had.
“That’s why it’s such a shit situation.” You ruminated. “Mum deserves some happiness and she got him.”
“Is she okay?”
You were surprised by his question, and how open and enquiring he was being. It was like you were talking to a different person, like something had changed since the last time you’d seen him. Yeah, he’d nearly died.
“She’s okay.” You said. “As well as she can be, I suppose.”
“Good.”
“I’ve been spending loads of time with her, you sort of inspired me.”
He ‘hmmfd’ but didn’t say anything else.
You blushed into your cup. “She thinks you’re my secret boyfriend, I think.”
“I’m not boyfriend material.” Simon joked. It still stung, it felt like rejection.
“You kissed me.” You reminded him. You had no idea why you said it, maybe to remind him that it had happened, a little dig that it was unfair to kiss you and then act like it had never happened.
“I know.” His eyes focused on you, and there was no hesitancy in his voice whatsoever.
“Why?” You asked him. “I thought we couldn’t be anything.”
Simon tilted his head as he regarded you.
“I can’t figure you out.” He said.
“What?” You asked in shock. “You can’t figure me out?”
“You work with all those people.” He said. He gestured to the waitress behind them both. “You saw that. I’m a freak. Why would you want to throw in with that?”
It broke your heart clean in two to hear that he was aware, hyper aware, of the way people looked at him and treated him, even though you knew absolutely that he always had been, he was too hyper vigilant not to.
“Don’t talk about yourself like that.” You frowned.
Simon’s back straightened. It must have been the most commanding you’d ever sounded.
“I don’t have a reason, I don’t need one. I just like you.” You sipped your latte. “Deal with it.”
“Yes ma’am.” He murmured, his knees shifting under the small table as he adjusted himself. Maybe he needed a stern telling, instead of lovey dovey words. It was the only way he would believe you.
His hand gripped his mug, and you watched his strong fingers in those skeletal gloves. You could stare at them for hours. He’d probably make typing look sexy.
“What’s Ghost?” You asked suddenly. His eyes snapped to you. “John MacTavish called you Ghost, and I saw it in your car that time.”
Simon chuckled, but it wasn’t a happy or warm sound.
“It’s my call sign.” He explained.
That made perfect sense. Simon was enigmatic and mysterious and silent. Ghost and the skeleton motif were intwined, somehow. It was like when he was in the field, he became a dead thing. Maybe that was how he coped.
Your lunch hour started to draw to an end and you both made your way outside onto the street. There were people passing by and chatting, cars going past, noise from a close by beer garden. A perfectly normal day.
“What are you up to now?” You asked him, trying to prolong the time in his company. You hated watching him leave.
“Home.” He said simply. “I’m on leave for a few days. Can’t do much with this thing.” He lifted his strapped arm and he didn’t even flinch.
You imagined Simon in his home. What did he do to relax? Curl up with a book? Binge horror films? Play shooter games on the playstation? Not that he’d be much use with a controller.
“At lease you have a hand free.” You said absentmindedly.
Simon’s cheeks lifted as he broke out into a huge grin behind his mask, it was the biggest display of joy you’d ever seen him show.
“Dirty little thing, aren’t you?”
“Wait, no!” Your eyes widened. “I didn’t mean that.”
Simon was still laughing, his shoulders shaking as he shook his head. “Fucking hell, love. I wasn’t expecting that.”
“I didn’t mean that!” You protested, your face crimson. He’d just called you love. He didn’t seem to realise that he’d just called you love.
“I’ll walk you back.” He said, his good hand coming up to wipe under his good eye.
“You don’t have to do that.” You said automatically, even though your heart jumped at the possibility.
“It’s alright, lots of dangerous characters out there, especially for a little thing like you. Besides, it’s not like I’ve got anything better to do. There’s only so many times a man can wank in a day.”
“Simon, I swear to fucking god I didn’t mean that…”
You walked side by side down the street. He was massive compared to you, you must have looked quite the sight together. He’d put his jacket on, but hadn’t put his free hand in his pocket. It just swayed gently near yours. You imagined the feel of his gloved knuckles against you. You itched to reach out and take his hand, you wondered if he’d let you.
“Does it ever mess you up?” You asked instead, your mind drawn back to his remark about dangerous people on the street. He looked down on you as you spoke. “Walking around in public and expecting bad guys wherever you go?”
He chuckled softly.
“More than you’d ever know.” Was his response.
You didn’t talk much more as he walked you back to the care home. It wasn’t awkward, it was more like companionable silence. You could feel the warmth coming off of him, and even though you were certain you weren’t going to run into anyone dangerous on your walk back to work in the middle of the day, something about walking with Simon just allowed your brain to switch off. You didn’t have to watch where you were going, or keep your eye on anything around you, you just relaxed. You barely even noticed when you reached the entrance doors.
He stopped outside instead of following you in.
“You coming in to say hello?” You asked.
Simon shook his head minutely. You understood, he wouldn’t want his mum to see him like this.
This was the bit you hated, the bit where he left, the bit where you didn’t know when you’d see him again. If you’d ever see him again.
“Rest up.” You said, a bit stupidly. “Try not to get shot for a few days.”
“I think I can manage a few days.” He hummed.
You smiled shallowly but it didn’t reach your eyes. This was getting awkward now, you were standing there staring at him for too long.
“Come here.” He inclined his head gently.
You didn’t need to be told twice, immediately closing the space between the two of you. He wrapped his arm around you, crushing you to his chest. It was a little uncomfortable, with his other arm strapped up against his chest, but it was warm and safe and you made a little noise, winding your arms around his broad torso. You wanted to stay burrowed within him for as long as you could. He rested his chin on your head and swayed you a little in his hold. You were right, his hugs were as great as you’d dreamed of.
All too soon, he dropped his arm and you stepped back. The cold air between you made you want to cry.
“See you around.” He nodded his goodbye, as he always did, before he turned and walked away. You watched his back until you were scared he might turn around and see you staring.
As you went back inside, you tried to focus on all the positives in this. He was safe, he’d come back to you, but you just felt hollow, because he wasn’t yours, and he never would be.
“Shit.” You murmured to yourself.
“Alright?” Julia asked, walking around you.
“Yeah, just realised something.”
“Can’t be that bad.” She smiled.
Yes, it could. It could very bad indeed.
You were in love with him.
…
You’d recognise that Scottish accent anywhere.
You looked up from the reception desk as John, or Johnny, as Simon had called him, strolled in through the entrance doors with a big smile on his face.
“Aye, lassie, long time no see.”
It had been a while. It was at least a couple of weeks since you’d last seen Simon, and even longer since you’d seen Johnny and Kyle.
“Oh, hi, how – oof!” Johnny leant across the desk and pulled you into a tight hug.
You saw Simon walking in behind him. He was wearing a t shirt, and a black surgical mask, but no cap. His blond hair was a little shorter than the last time you’d seen him with his hood down, the time he’d visited his mother after her fall. He’d been soft and vulnerable in that moment, but now his soldier persona was in full control. You noticed immediately that his black eye was gone and his arm was free of its sling.
“Sorry about the puppy.” Simon admonished roughly, gripping the back of Johnny’s shirt and yanking him back, like he was scruffing him. It was incredibly hot to watch.
“It’s okay.” You blushed, the residual warmth of Johnny’s hug lingering on your skin. He was still smirking, apparently used to Simon’s rough handling. You wished you were used to Simon’s rough handling. Watching his gloved hand clenched into a fist and the muscles on his tattooed forearm tense as he yanked Johnny back actually had you wet. Fuck, you really hadn’t gotten any in a while.
“You lads know it’s past visiting time, don’t you?” You grinned.
“Oh, we’re here for you.” Johnny was practically bouncing on his feet, even though he was stood still. Simon’s puppy analogy wasn’t off base.
“Johnny.” Simon warned, his voice a low growl that didn’t help the mess in your knickers.
“Me?” You asked, surprised. “Why, what have I done?”
Your stomach flipped at the idea that they’d sought you out, that Simon thought about you when you weren’t around.
“Got your arm back.” You nodded at him, and he gave you a curt nod, flexing his fingers as if to prove to you that he was back to full strength. He certainly was behaving oddly, but it didn’t scare you as much as it did intrigue you. You’d seen him angry and you’d seen him closed off and this wasn’t that. He was embarrassed.
“What’s this about?” You asked curiously.
“Tell her.” Johnny nudged Simon in the ribs. Simon didn’t flinch.
“No.” He said.
“Tell her or I will.”
“I swear to fucking god…”
“What is it?” You demanded, watching them bicker like five-year olds.
“It’s stupid.” Simon’s pretty brown eyes were avoiding yours.
“It’s a medal.” Johnny interjected, apparently having gotten tired of waiting for Simon to reveal his news himself. “For bravery, and it was well earned, whatever this sad sack might tell ye. We’re having a little party at the barracks to celebrate and you’re coming.” He pointed at you.
“You got a medal?” You leant over your desk, looking at Simon with hearts swimming around in your eyes. He looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him up whole. “What did you do?”
“It’s classified.” They both parroted. You really should have seen it coming.
You swelled with an emotion that you almost couldn’t identify, until you realised that it was pride. You were proud of Simon, for whatever he’d done, for being a good soldier and a good man, but the aversive look in his eyes stopped you from voicing it.
Ever attentive, the lieutenant noticed your eyes studying his and met your gaze. His brown eyes were slack, shy, even. You almost melted onto the desk.
“Do you want me to come?” You asked instead, your voice so incredibly soft and full of adoration that even Johnny’s eyebrows shot up from the sound of it.
Simon looked so fucking uncomfortable it was hard not to laugh.
“Do you want to come?” He finally acquiesced, his voice uncharacteristically small.
“I’d love to.” You said, smiling hugely. “When is it?”
…
You had nothing to wear.
What did one wear to the celebratory party of the man they were secretly in love with to congratulate them for receiving a medal for acts of heroism you weren’t legally allowed to know the details of?
You’d imagined all sorts of scenarios in your head. Had it been something to do with the gunshot wound? Had he saved someone’s life? Had he saved several people’s lives? Was his apprehension at telling you just Simon being Simon, someone who didn’t pander or brag, or was it deeper than that?
Neither Johnny nor Simon had told you how formal this thing was, because of course they wouldn’t, they were blokes, but you figured it would be relatively formal if the venue was their barracks, and presumably officers and the like would be in attendance?
Johnny had regaled you with stories of the actual ceremony when they’d both been in reception. He told you about castles and royals and generals and it all sounded very impressive. Simon had just stood there and glared at Johnny to the point where you almost feared for the poor Scotsman’s life.
You bought a blush pink dress with a plunging neckline and a flowy skirt that reached your knees. When you put it on, you wondered if maybe the neckline was a little too plunging, before you forced yourself not to panic, this was just a normal amount of cleavage. It wasn’t like you could take your boobs off and leave them at home. You curled your hair and put on some makeup until you figured you looked halfway presentable. It made you feel giddy, getting dressed up for Simon, but it was inevitably twinged by the reality of your situation, and the weird situation the two of you had found yourselves in. He might not have even asked you to come if Johnny hadn’t have bullied him into it. In fact, you were certain of it.
It was a little tough to actually get inside the barracks. You had to sign in and be escorted through gates and buildings, until you were finally delivered to a large room that reminded you of your school hall. It wasn’t decorated or resplendent with anything, it just had the lights dimmed and a pop-up bar in the corner and a buffet to one side. It was absolutely brimming with men and women in full military dress, with medals of their own pinned to their chests.
You spotted Kyle, looking dashing in his uniform, and talking animatedly to an older man with a thick beard and wearing a Captain’s uniform.
“You look bonnie.”
You turned to see Johnny giving you a playful salute. He looked handsome in his khaki uniform and beige cap with the famous S.A.S insignia. He had three medals of his own gleaming on his chest.
“So do you.” You said, and he grinned.
“This is crazy,” you almost whispered it in case anyone heard you. “You said it was a little party.”
“Aye, ‘tis little, this is just the officer’s mess.” He side-eyed you. “The big ape was’nae the only one who was awarded.”
“Still.” You breathed out. You were reminded of the rare times you saw your father in full dress and your chest tightened. It was the first time it occurred to you that he might have liked Simon. He might have patted him on the back and told him he was good enough for his daughter. You refused to cry, your mascara was expensive.
You were itching for a view of Simon but you couldn’t see him anywhere. You thought you might have lost him in the crowd, but Simon couldn’t be lost anywhere. He wasn’t here.
“He did’nae wanna come.” Johnny read your mind, apparently. “But he’ll turn up, he has to, you’re here.”
“It’s nothing to do with me.” You blurted without thinking.
“Aye, well, he’d be a daft buggar not to come and get ye, you’re a knockout, lass, ye look braw.”
His compliments made your cheeks rosy and you didn’t know how to respond.
“Thank you.”
“Oh, don’t let Simon finding me chatting up his woman,” Soap grinned at you before he disappeared into the crowd. You watched him go in confusion, then turned back and jumped when you saw Simon towering over you. He was dressed identical to Johnny, smart khaki uniform with a beige cap on his head. He was wearing his surgical mask and a pair of gloves that were soft and white. He wasn’t wearing any medals, not even the one he’d received, it didn’t go unnoticed by you.
“Hi.” You said weakly.
Simon’s eyes dropped to your chest, and you were overcome with the sudden urge to cover up, maybe it was too much cleavage. “Um…” You put your hand on your own neck.
“Come on.” Simon chuckled at your embarrassment. “I’ll get you a drink.”
“Thanks.” You trailed after him, watching his broad back as he led you to the pop-up bar. The military personnel parted for Simon without really looking at him, and that feeling of safety and security you always felt with him flooded you again. You relaxed as Simon ordered you a beer, as per your request, and himself a whisky.
A few people joined you at the bar, including Kyle and Johnny, and Simon introduced you by your name and nothing else, not your relationship to him, because you didn’t have a relationship with him. You weren’t his wife, you weren’t his girlfriend, you weren’t even sure you were his friend.
It didn’t take long for them to talk shop, or as much as they reasonably could with their husbands and wives around. You weren’t really paying attention to any of it, your attention flitting in and out.
“You could always deploy the Austrian.” Someone said. “If you want to bulldoze it.”
“I’m sure he’d appreciate getting away from babysitting duty for the new recruits and Reinhers.” Simon rumbled next to you, holding his whisky but not drinking it.
“Is he still dating that nurse?” Kyle asked.
“Believe so.” Simon grunted.
You sipped your drink, unsure what to say or do. You felt the soft tickle of a gloved hand running down your back, bracing at the base of your spine and rubbing softly.
You glanced at Simon, he was still looking at his teammates, nodding along to their conversation, but the silent ‘I got you’ was deafening.
Simon was dragged into a lot of conversations by a lot of different people, you’d never heard him talk so much since you’d met him. It was the closest you’d seen him to his military persona, that hard as flint, strictly professional, razor straight confidence that he’d maintained pretty steadfastly throughout your acquaintance, but not entirely, not anymore.
It wasn’t long until some of military wives started talking to you. You got the impression they all knew each other, and you were the fresh meat.
“I must say, I never knew Lieutenant Riley was married.” One with a blonde beehive said, sipping on champagne.
“He’s not.” You replied cooly.
The group of women looked at each other before looking back at you.
“Oh, well, I’m sure it won’t be long.”
“Yes, no time like the present, right?”
“Tell me, does he take the mask off in bed?”
The women giggled and you rolled your eyes; they were no different than your colleagues at the nursing home.
You politely but quickly excused yourself to the bar and just sat there. Your tummy was rumbling a bit, so you ate peanuts and sipped your drink as you stared blankly ahead. What you’d been excitedly anticipating, an evening you got to spend with Simon, had quickly devolved into him being whisked off and you being the weird pariah in a strange space, like the roles in your lives had reversed.
Maybe it was the universe’s way of telling you that everything was wrong. He couldn’t mix with your family or your colleagues, you couldn’t mix with his military life, the people or the job itself, you didn’t even know why he’d gotten a medal. You hadn’t even seen it. You should have been clever enough to end it, to protect yourself, but you were too stupid and too much of a loser to even be able to entertain the idea.
A hand on your waist pulled you out of your head, then the feel of cloth against your ear, a quiet rumble: “pink suits you.”
You smiled a little sadly. “Thanks. Just an old thing.” Brand new, and more than I can afford.
“Boring, isn’t it?” Simon leant against the bar, finally pulling his mask up to just under his nose and sipping his drink for the first time that evening. “I told Soap, he never listens.”
“Go to a lot of these?” Your eyes tracked him.
“Yeah.” He huffed, a ghost of a smile under his mask. “So much more fun when it’s just the boys. Bourbon in someone’s bunk, poker, led zepplin out Johnny’s shitty speakers, Price breaking out the good cigars…” He looked so fond of the memories in his mind that you smiled.
“Sounds fun.”
“You’d love it.” He said it instinctively.
“Does that make me one of the boys?” You snorted. Maybe that was how he saw you. Just a mate. Just a laugh. Nothing serious.
“No, of course not.” His eyes were slack, he sipped his drink again, he sounded relaxed. “You’re a laugh. I always have a better time when you’re with me.”
“Oh.” You looked down at your half-empty drink. “So do I.”
He made a noise low in his throat, and then the whole side of his body was pressed against the whole side of yours. It was scorching. “You wanna get out of here?”
…
You got a cab that cost you a small fortune to a burger place not far from where you lived. You were starving hungry by the time you got there, and Simon actually laughed as he watched you bite into your burger.
“What?” You asked, mouth full.
“You have a pickle hanging out of your gob.”
“Come get it, then.” You said cheekily.
Simon reached across the table and plucked the long slice of pickle from your lips and actually surprised you by lifting his mask and dropping it into his own mouth. You blushed at that, it felt entirely too much like a kiss.
The pair of you had earned a few odd looks from the girl behind the counter and the other patrons, based on your attire. You must have looked like you’d come from a fancy-dress party.
After some questioning, Simon had finally produced his gallantry medal, still nestled safely in its case, and you admired it as he ate chips from your plate. It glinted under the glare of the clinical takeaway lighting.
“Pointless tat,” he grunted, “chest candy.”
“It’s beautiful.” You said. You jabbed him right in the chest. “Will look even better right here.”
“Careful.” He eyed you. “Might think you like me.”
“It’s your fault.” You pouted. “You look so fucking hot in that uniform.”
Simon surprised you by maintaining eye contact, his eyes narrowing a little like he was pissed off by your remark, his intense gaze burning into you.
“What?” You asked, realising you might have fucked up.
“Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish.” He warned you, his voice low.
You felt a shiver shoot up your spine.
“I’m not starting anything.”
“No?” He challenged, tilting his head. “Those puppy dog eyes? That fucking dress? Do you know how hard it’s been to keep my eyes level with your face all night?”
You blushed harder and fought off the urge to cover your face. You became hyper aware of his hand resting on the table so closely to yours. His body heat, the sheer size of him, was way too much to ignore. You imagined his hands gripping your hips like they’d done when he’d kissed you.
“You sound like you’re mad at me.” You laughed nervously, trying to offset the heavy atmosphere that had surrounded you both like fog.
“Mad?” He barked out a short, incredulous laugh. “I’m on fucking fire for you.”
“You are?” You forgot how to breathe for a moment, hearing him saying those words in his rough voice while he was staring at you like he wanted to eat you, it slowed your brain right down to this moment and this moment alone.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” He growled, his fist clenching beside yours. You weren’t entirely sure Simon knew the difference between anger and need. “What you’ve been doing to me? I thought that sundress was going to be the end of me, and now this? Should be illegal, love.”
“Never realised you liked the sundress so much.” You said, shivering.
“I wasn’t going to complement you, was I?” He grunted. “After what happened.”
You pursed your lips together, and your legs, but he didn’t see that bit under the table. “I suppose I could always dig it out for you.”
He made an immediate noise of disapproval.
“Oh no, sweetheart. In fact, I think you shouldn’t be allowed any clothes at all.”
“Simon!” You gasped, looking around you. The few people eating around you were too engrossed in their own conversations to pay attention to yours. “There’s so many people here.”
When you looked back at him, it knocked the wind out of you. His chocolate brown eyes were staring into your soul. His gloved hand curled around yours on the table, and he tickled your palm with the tip of his index finger.
“We could go somewhere with less people.”
You wanted to say yes so badly, you wanted to tell him that your cunt was aching for him, and that you wanted to taste him, to feel him, to crawl into his arms and never come up for air again.
“I thought we couldn’t be anything. I thought you were too worried you’d hurt me.” Your head was so foggy with need and confusion and brown, brown eyes that you forgot that only Johnny had told you that last piece of information.
Simon made a noise, half-growl, half-grunt, and brought your hand up to his mask. You saw the cloth covering his nostrils twitch as he buried his nose against your palm and his eyelids blinked slowly, tranquilised by your scent.
“I can be angry with myself in the morning.”
You felt everything unravelling around you. The walls that he constantly had built around him were dropping, maybe just for tonight. You didn’t know why and you didn’t care, you couldn’t think of anything with Simon looking at you like that, like he wanted to devour you.
…
You locked the door of your flat with a dry mouth. You could feel the presence of Simon looming behind you, you could feel his body heat, and the tension coming off of him, and then you could hear him breathing, and you could feel his gloved hands gripping your hips, pressing you against the door. You felt his front against your back, you felt every hard line of his body, and then you felt the cloth of his mask against your neck, and the way he purred like a big cat smothering a prey animal.
“Simon.”
He drew your hair off of your neck and you tilted your head back.
“Simon…”
“Eyes forward.” He instructed. You complied without question, his tone of voice leaving no room for disagreement. Your eyes hit the door as you shivered in anticipation. You let out a very undignified noise when you felt the soft press of his bare lips against your neck.
“Oh, fuck.”
Gentle, wet kisses trailed slowly down your neck, ghosting over your pulse point.
“You going to be a good girl for me?” It was purred against your neck.
“Yes.” Your breathing was laboured, your hands bracing against the door. It felt like he was everywhere, pushed against your back, trailing warm, wet kisses down your neck, arms curling around your belly, hands cupping your breasts and squeezing firmly.
“Yes what?”
You whined, feeling overly hot, and unsure if you wanted to push forward into his hands or back against his body.
“Yes, sir.”
He chuckled darkly against your ear and you moaned. Your whole body felt like it was on fire, your heart thumping in your chest, and your underwear soaked under your dress.
“Like it when I tell you what to do, sweetheart?” He growled smugly in your ear.
“How can you tell?” It was a pathetic, breathy response. In your defence, there was very little blood in your brain right now.
“Your nipples are hard.” His thumbs and forefingers pinched softly where your erect nipples tented your bra.
You moaned into the door, the sensation of pleasure coursing through your nipples and straight to your core.
“Do you have any idea how long I’ve been thinking about these tits?” He growled, his voice dripping with arousal as he slowly dragged your bra down, freeing your breasts from your low-cut dress. He squeezed them again, brushing his fingers over your nipples, the fabric of his gloves on your sensitive peaks making you mewl. “Fantasising about them? Wet. Sopping. The noises you’d make when I played with these sensitive little nipples?”
You whined, pushing your arse back against his thighs as he rubbed your stiff nipples with those rough, rough gloves. You felt like you were going to dissolve.
“Eager little thing, aren’t you?” He nipped at your neck and you groaned, tipping your head back. Your eyes slid shut as the feeling of him taking you apart overwhelmed you. “So sweet.”
“Please, Simon, I need more.”
“Please who?”
“Sir, fuck, sir!” You gasped, trying to wriggle against him, to gain any sort of advantage, to get any sort of reaction. “Please.”
He licked a stripe down the back of your neck and you whimpered, your head falling forward and hitting the wood of the door with a thud. He was barely touching you and yet you felt like you were going to collapse, like a fly in a spiderweb, or stuck in tendrils that were ensnaring you.
“There’s so many things I want to do to you.” He pulled your hips back against his, and you gasped when you felt him grind his hard-on against your arse. “I want to make you moan, I want to make you cum. Will you let me?”
“Yes, sir.” You panted.
He pulled away from you completely and your eyes burst open, and then you felt a strong hand curling around the back of your neck. “Stay.”
The hand dropped and you shook where you were standing as you stared at the door. Your nipples were on fire, your breasts exposed, your knees knocking together. You could hear the rustle of fabric behind you, the metal of a belt unbuckling. You swallowed, shivering in need and arousal. You were dying to turn around and see him, but you didn’t dare to disobey him. You whined softly just at the thought.
“Turn around, sweetheart.” His voice was lower and softer, and you turned around.
He was naked. Every inch of his body, bar his face, was exposed. He had strong legs, and his thigh muscles were bisected with scars. His cock was long, hanging heavy and hard between his legs. It curved upwards a little bit, swollen head peeking out from retracted foreskin. He had a smattering of light pubic hair that was neither neatly trimmed nor out of control. His stomach was pure abdominal muscle, and he had a large scar on his side that looked suspiciously like a burn. His pectorals were swollen and he had very little chest hair. His arms were large and thick, his tattooed sleeve a stark contrast to the rest of his pale skin, and his hands were bare and open. He looked like he was carved from marble. It was a body that had known violence, being both the cause and the receiver.
His black cloth mask was still on the lower half of his face, intense brown eyes under short blond hair watching you intently. He had no embarrassment or nervousness about being so exposed before you.
“Jesus.” You murmured, without even thinking.
“He can’t help you right now.” Simon chuckled, closing the small gap between you. His hands swept up your sides, sliding up your shoulders and cupping your face.
You wanted to lean forward and kiss him, but there was black cloth in the way, as there always was.
“I don’t care how bad it is.” You said softly, eyes travelling over the mask, where you’d caught a brief glimpse of the scar that carved through his upper lip. “It’s you, that’s all I want.”
Simon groaned, his eyes dropping to your lips. “It’s not just that.” He murmured, his voice low and gravelly, his eyebrows pinched.
“It’s okay.” You encouraged him softly, your hands closing around his wrists, pushing yourself up on your tiptoes and pressing your forehead against his chin. He groaned again, his eyes sliding shut and his thumbs stroking your cheeks. You took the moment to slide the rest of your dress down. The sound of fabric hitting the floor caught his attention and his eyes opened, watching you as you unclasped your bra and discarded it, standing before him in just your underwear.
You weren’t as confident about your physical appearance, and you felt nervousness creep in as his eyes looked down on your naked body.
“Beautiful.” He said quietly.
“So are you.” You whispered back.
Simon’s eyes never left yours as his strong hands hooked under your thighs and lifted you.
Your legs wrapped around his waist, his cock nestling against your still-covered arse as he walked you through your flat and to the bedroom.
“Thought about this the last time I was here.” He said as he laid you down on the bed, his fingers gripping the flimsy material of your underwear and drawing the garment down your legs. “You stretched out across the bed, fingering yourself thinking about me, one stupid wall between us.”
“I didn’t finger myself thinking about you.” Not that night, anyway.
“Of course you haven’t,” he sounded amused, pushing your thighs apart and revealing your glistening pussy to him. You watched his eyes darken and you whined and bit your lip. Your heart was hammering in your chest. Having Simon stare at your most intimate area, and see the moisture he’d put there, was something you could hardly handle. “Hmm, look at that fucking pussy, baby.”
His voice was so low and panting that your cunt clenched, right in front of his face.
Simon surprised you by yanking you down the bed by your thighs, forcing them to rest across his broad shoulders as he knelt on the floor. “Like it when I call you baby?”
“Are you a mind reader or something?” Your hands flew to cover your red face.
“Not a mind reader,” he gave you a rough chuckle, hands gripping your thighs, growling at the sight of the soft, jiggling flesh denting under his strong fingers, “but I still have a pair of working eyes.” You clenched again, and his eyes were glued to your wet cunt.
“Speaking of…” His hands found your wrists and drew your hands gently away from your head. “Let me see that pretty face.”
His warm eyes were watching you, his hands leaving your wrists to brush a strand of hair from your face. His other hand swept up your thigh and gripped your arse. You yelped, your legs falling back onto the bed. You gripped his shoulders, leaving crescent marks in his skin from your nails. He had scars on his shoulders too, and a fresh one right on his upper arm. It was puckered; the shape of a bullet hole. You leant forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the tender flesh, as if it could make it all better, and he made a quiet noise.
“Soft arse.” He spanked yours, hard, and you squeaked. “Lie back down, love, let me look after you.”
“Yes, sir,” you said cheekily, smirking breathlessly as you flopped back onto the bed.
“Little brat, aren’t you?” He growled, drawing your legs up onto his shoulders again. You moaned at the stretch, at the uninterrupted access he had to your unprotected, throbbing cunt.
Simon stroked his thumb over the head of his cock, spreading the pre-come that was pearling, white and glassy, at his slit, and using it as lubrication to give himself a few light strokes, from base to tip. He watched your cunt while he worked himself, before he dropped his cock and leant forward, his shoulders pushing your thighs up against your front and spreading your wet pussy wide. He groaned at the sight of your shiny labia and your sweet little clit poking out shyly from its hood. He framed your pussy with his big hands, pulling your lips apart and showing off your pink, glistening slit, the bunched flesh where your body parted, and the soft, wet, tight cavern that was inside you.
You were trembling, with embarrassment, vulnerability, excitement, you couldn’t tell. You had to put your fist in your mouth to stop yourself from making stupid noises.
“It’s okay.” Simon’s hand found your hip bone, stroking it softly, his eyes on you. “You’re safe. We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to.”
Your heart lurched in your chest, and you reached down and cupped his jaw.
It would have made Freud entirely too happy for you to call him sweet, even if you felt it with your whole chest. Instead, you said: “Thank you, I want to. It’s just so much.” You bit your lip. “I’ve wanted you for so long, please don’t stop.”
Simon watched you for a long time, processing your words, or gauging your comfort levels, perhaps, before he slowly lifted his cloth mask to the top of his lips and lowered his head. You couldn’t see anything from this angle except for the top of his blond head, but you felt his lips kissing your thighs, his hands curling under your arse and hauling you against his mouth. Your moaned as you felt his tongue exploring your folds, parting them gently to get deeper into you.
He sucked your clit into his mouth and your whole body arched on the bed. He pulled the little nub taut, stretching it out as far as it could go, before releasing it again with a wet pop, watching as the bundle of nerves settled back between your labia. Your breath hitched as he drew your clit straight back into his mouth with wet, tight suction, licking it while he trapped it, lathering the sensitive head of it with his tongue until you wailed.
“Simon!”
He made a wolfish noise, playing with your clit how a lion would play with its prey, drawing it out from the safety of its hood with his mouth, and then overwhelming it with sensation with his firm, wet tongue.
He quickly established a rhythm, sucking your clit relentlessly, his head bobbing up and down between your legs, his velvet mouth a tight vice until you thought you were going to die. He flicked his tongue right on the top of your clit, right where he’d learnt you were the most sensitive, and you scattered, cumming with a warm rush of slick that dribbled down his chin. He growled and you whimpered in your orgasmic haze as he mouthed and licked over every inch of your cunt, probing tongue dipping at your entrance to taste every single drop of you.
You slurred something unintelligible and collapsed against the bed, your drawn, taut body releasing in bliss.
You felt the bed dip as Simon climbed up your body, his knees on either side of your legs, his hands on either side of your arms. His mask was still pulled up over his lips, which were wet and parted and dripping with your cum, but the whole of his nose and the midsection of his face was obscured. You’d never hated the mask as much as you did in that moment.
He watched you twitch beneath him, before he groaned and lowered his head, his tongue dragging along your breast before latching onto your nipple and sucking. Your fingers raked through his short hair, anchoring him to your chest as you whined and mewled.
He wrapped your legs around his waist as he lathered your tits with attention, moaning against them as he licked and sucked at every inch of your nipples, areolas and breasts like you tasted delicious. Your eyes fluttered closed as your hands massaged the back of his neck. He rumbled against you, like he’d never been more satisfied in his life.
“Simon,” you moaned, when you felt his cock nudging against your wet pussy. Your orgasm had done nothing to quell the fire inside you that was burning for him. “Please, please fuck me.”
He bit down on your nipple and you gasped, your entire body arching up. He soothed your peaked nub with his tongue before he pulled off and looked at you, his eyes were searching.
“Is that really what you want?”
“Yes.” You didn’t hesitate. An idea sparked in your mind. “Yes, sir.”
Simon’s eyes darkened and then his hand disappeared between your bodies. You felt his thick tip gliding through your folds and then pushing bluntly against your entrance. You moaned as he sunk inside you. You were loosened by your orgasm, and the copious evidence of your arousal, but that was all, and you felt every thick, meaty inch of him as he sunk deliriously slow inside you. When his hips were flush with yours, your thighs were shaking.
It hurt a little bit, but it was overwhelmed by the feeling, the knowledge, of Simon inside you, exactly where he was meant to be.
Everything changed for you in that moment, every single thing. You wanted Simon in your life, you needed him in your life. He was yours and you were his, and there was nothing you could do to change that. There was nothing you wanted to do to change that. He was your one.
Simon’s eyes searched your face for any sign of discomfort, but when he saw only arousal and yearning looking back at him, he buried his head into your neck.
Your hands found his strong shoulders and hung on as he began to roll his hips, moving inside you with sure, slow, steady thrusts. You gasped, your eyes rolling, and your nails dug into his skin, giving him a few more marks as his cock massaged your g spot. Your cunt relaxed around him, your arousal drenched him and he sped up, thrusting into you harder, and your legs fell from around his waist, your head hit the bed and your cunt pulsed around him erratically.
“I’m going to…I’m…” You tried.
Simon panted and captured your mouth. You kissed him, sloppy and uncoordinated, as you came on his cock, clenching on him so tightly that he grunted as he fucked you through it. His hands slid under the small of your back to hold you tight on him as he rutted into your cumming pussy.
“Again, love.” He commanded against your lips, slipping his tongue in your mouth and silencing any kind of reply you might have given. Your eyes slid shut and you lost yourself in the wet heat of his tongue against yours. His hands on your lower back kept you tight on his cock as he fucked you, his pelvic bone rubbing your sensitive clit with every thrust. You moaned into his mouth as you came again, your pussy warm, your clit twitching, delirious and lost and found all at the same time.
“Fuck, you feel so good.” He moaned wetly against your cheek, his hands framing your head as his hips pounded your orgasming pussy into the mattress. You squealed desperately now that your mouth was free, his cock hard and unforgiving in your overstimulated walls.
“You’re gonna make me cum, baby,” his voice was uncharacteristically breathy and high pitched, moaning with the force of his impending orgasm. “You’re gonna make me cum so hard…fuck.” His voice cracked on the last word and his hips slammed into yours as his warm, wet load shot into your cunt.
You shook as you clamped down on him, whining and cumming weakly for a fourth time as he finally stilled inside you.
“Fuck,” Simon cursed again, pushing himself up and letting his cock slip out of you, leaving behind a swollen hole and a gush of white fluid. He gripped his shaft and his sack protectively as he buried his face in your neck again. “Squeezing me so hard, christ, you fucking she-demon.”
You were half-unconscious with pleasure, your body limp against the bed as your cunt clenched hard and tight on nothing but Simon’s leaking cum as you spasmed in the aftereffects of your orgasm.
You both laid there, panting against each other, for what felt like an age. Simon was holding his weight on one elbow so not to crush you, until he pushed himself off and rolled on his back next to you.
“That was…” You croaked, voice lost. How did you describe one of the most pleasurably and life affirming experiences of your life? “Wow.”
“Yeah, wow.” He echoed, still sounding breathless.
You slapped your hand against his belly harder than you meant to. His whole body jerked and his head turned to you. He’d drawn his mask down back over his mouth.
“Sorry,” you laughed deliriously, flexing your fingers. “You’ve fucked the motor skills out of me.”
“What are you trying to get?”
“You.” You whined.
Simon chuckled and rolled onto his side, wrapping his arms around you and drawing you against his chest. It was sweat slicked and his heart was hammering. You lost yourself in his warmth, your eyes fluttering closed as you breathed in the smell of his sweat, his deodorant, his musk.
Simon’s hand started stroking down your back and you moaned softly.
“You want to shower, sweetheart?”
You made a noise of disapproval. He was too warm, too comfortable. You weren’t awake for that much longer.
…
You woke up alone a few hours later. It was dark in your bedroom, and dark outside your curtain. It took you a few minutes to fully wake up. You patted the bed next to you, but it was empty.
Your stomach dipped, worrying for a moment that Simon had left you, but once your eyes adjusted, you saw light spilling in from under your bedroom door.
You got off of the bed, pulled a big top on over you and padded outside into the hallway. The light was coming from the kitchen. You walked in quietly. Simon was stood there, wearing only his boxers and his mask. His hands were on the countertop and he was looking down at a glass full of water, with tears tracking silently down his cheeks.
“What’s wrong?” You asked quietly.
His hand flew to his face and wiped the evidence of his perceived weakness away.
“Nothing.” He said hastily.
You were careful as you approached him. You’d never seen him like this before. You understood some people got scared when they saw strong men cry, but you weren’t scared. You just wanted to make whatever was hurting him stop. You wanted, more than anything, for him to feel like he didn’t have to hide his pain from you.
You slipped your arms around his waist and leant against his back. He took your hand in his, holding it to his chest. You both stood like that for a few long moments.
“It’s okay.” He assured you. “Just a nightmare.”
You had a feeling that it might have had something to do with his latest deployment. He’d been acting differently since he’d come back. He’d been more open with you, and he treated his gallantry medal like he was offended by it, or scared of it.
“You want to talk about it?” You murmured against his back muscles.
“Can’t.”
“You want to talk about anything?”
Simon sighed and stood straight, turning around and facing you. His face was wet with tear tracks. He looked tired.
“No.” He drew you into his chest. “Let’s go back to bed.”
You led him back to your bedroom and laid on your back. Simon put his head on your stomach and wrapped his arms around your hips and held you like that.
“You don’t have to hide from me.” You told the air, not expecting a response. You found the back of his neck and massaged it softly. He’d seemed to enjoy that earlier.
You couldn’t tell if he was still crying, but you knew that all you could do for him was this; be there for him and try to keep him calm through it.
“I fucked up.” He murmured into the darkness.
“How did you fuck up?” You knew Simon too well to do anything other than talk to him plainly.
“Hesitated when I shouldn’t have.” His voice sounded blank. Empty. “Too focused on getting home. Never happened before.”
Your eyes closed in a wince.
“I’m sorry.” You whispered.
He didn’t say anything, but he shook his head no against your belly. His arms curled tighter around your hips. It was like the cover of night and darkness helped him to be a little more vulnerable than his usual tough exterior.
You heard his breathing even out after a little while, and you let your own eyes flutter closed.
You couldn’t change the past, or shape the future, but you could both share this little moment of peace.
a few friends had gathered to celebrate a mutual friend’s engagement, and of course, to fawn over the giant rock sitting pretty on her left hand.
“it was the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen,” she says, eyes misting up. “flowers everywhere. candlelit dinner on this beautiful terrace. he even hired a string quartet.”
everyone awws at once.
you twist your own ring around your finger.
“you’ll never believe what james did for me!” someone else says, and like it always does when you all get together, it becomes less of a conversation and more of a contest.
they all take turns gushing over their partners and all the grand, romantic gestures that have happened recently, each story somehow bigger than the last. flowers. surprise trips. hotel rooms covered in rose petals. tickets to shows they had only mentioned wanting to see once.
all in some absurd, glittering attempt to prove who is adored more.
they all turn to you.
what had you and simon been up to recently?
you swallow.
the last date the two of you had been on had been watching a movie on Netflix, takeout and wine littering your coffee table, your legs thrown over his lap while he rubbed absent circles into your ankle.
it had been nice.
it had been normal.
but at this table, normal feels embarrassingly small.
“when you’ve been together so long, and with his schedule, it’s hard, y’know, to find those moments—”
another friend waves her hand, not unkindly, but ready to move away from what clearly wasn’t going to be an interesting enough story.
“that’s why you have to find those moments. what has he done for you lately? like for example, jack just planned this entire weekend getaway for us after my boss had been such an asshole and it was so romantic. he bought us tickets to—”
her voice begins to fade into the background.
you look down at your ring again.
it’s not that you think simon doesn’t love you.
of course he loves you.
he loves with the weight of his hand at the small of your back in crowded rooms. he loves with the way he always sleeps closest to the door. he loves with the way he notices when you are too tired to eat and sets something in front of you without asking. he loves with the way he comes home half-dead and still checks the locks, the windows, the thermostat, anything that might touch you before it touches him.
but sitting there, surrounded by candlelit dinners and surprise weekends away, a different question curls itself beneath your ribs.
does he still care?
you had already known what you’d signed up for when starting this relationship. simon was never one for giant declarations of love or grand, pretty spectacles. he didn’t perform affection well. never had.
hell, you couldn’t even remember the last time he’d brought you flowers or planned a proper date.
you shuffle in your seat.
“that’s really sweet,” you sigh.
rugby playing on the tv is what greets you, simon fully settled on the couch, a beer in hand.
his head lifts as soon as he hears your key in the door, shoulders falling even more relaxed at the sound of your footsteps entering the house.
usually, that would be your cue.
you’d toe your shoes off by the door, wander straight to the couch, and drop yourself onto him like it was the most perfect fit. he’d grunt like you’d knocked the air out of him, even though you both knew he could carry you around the house with one arm if he wanted to.
you’d recount whatever pointless gossip had been fed to you that morning, and he’d pretend not to be listening while remembering all of it.
instead, you busy yourself with the mail in the kitchen.
simon notices.
because of course he does.
you try the sink next, if only to give your hands something to do.
the tap sticks.
you yank it harder, and when nothing comes out but a high-pitched wheeze, you let out a frustrated groan.
simon is behind you before you can even turn around.
“probably clogged,” he says.
you sigh.
“i can call a plumber tomorrow.” then, before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn to face him. “we should do something tonight.”
his head tilts.
“we are,” he says, voice low and rough with confusion. “watching that new movie you wanted to see.”
you make a small noise under your breath.
his eyes flicker from the sink to you.
“no, si. i mean get dressed up. go out.” you swallow around the embarrassment already forming. “a real date.”
“why?”
your stomach lurches.
you know him. know he doesn’t mean it with any malice or cruelty.
but after an entire morning of listening to women talk about being chosen loudly, extravagantly, beautifully, that one word lands like proof.
why would he need to?
why would he think to?
why would he care to?
why would you ask for more when this is what you agreed to?
“forget it,” you say quickly, already stepping away. “i have a bit of a headache. ’m going to take a nap.”
simon says your name, but you don’t turn around.
the clanking of metal banging against each other is what wakes you.
for a moment, you don’t move.
you just lie there, blinking at the dim light of your bedroom, listening to the low metallic scrape from somewhere down the hall. the house is quiet around it, warm with evening, the television now turned down low enough that you can barely hear the commentator’s voice.
another clank.
a muttered curse.
you rub at your eyes and make your way to the kitchen.
simon has wedged himself inside the cabinet beneath the sink, broad shoulders barely fitting in the cramped space, one arm braced against the floor while the other reaches up into the mess of pipes above him.
“si?”
he grunts, focused on giving the valve one final screw and your gaze follows down to the toolbox lying next to his hip.
“line was damaged,” he says from under the sink. “it’ll need replacing proper, but i’ve got it for now. try it.”
wordlessly, you step to the sink and lift the handle.
water rushes out, hot and clear.
for some reason, it makes your eyes burn.
simon shifts, dragging himself out from under the cabinet with a quiet exhale. he sits back on his heels and looks up at you from the floor, forearms smudged, hair mussed, expression unreadable except for the little crease between his brows.
“i told you i could call a plumber,” you say.
he shrugs.
“got me right here, don’t you? i don’t mind.”
your chest tightens.
because it was never going to be flowers. it was never going to be candlelit dinners. it was never going to be a string quartet playing underneath a perfect night.
it was always going to be simon, sitting on your kitchen floor with a wrench in his hand, looking at you like the solution to a problem is obvious because he’s already there.
you sit down at your kitchen table, eyes already watering from overwhelm, when a memory comes so quickly it almost embarrasses you.
you, curled on the couch with him months ago with your laptop open, showing him a table from architectural digest with the sigh that you do when you’ve found something you absolutely loved.
“look at this, simon. isn’t it perfect?”
he had just hummed as you continued scrolling before you start laughing.
“absolutely not. who spends five thousand dollars on a table?”
simon hadn’t said much at the time. he rarely did when something lodged itself somewhere deep in his mind. continued stroking your hair, looked at the screen for a second longer than necessary, and went back to whatever match had been playing on the tv.
three weeks later, there had been lumber in the garage.
then sketches.
then sawdust tracked through the hallway.
then simon, scowling and cursing at a video tutorial, rewinding the same twenty seconds over and over until he understood the joint he wanted to make.
you’d laughed then.
you remember that, too.
you remember standing in the garage while he sanded the surface smooth, remember telling him he was insane, remember him saying it wasn’t that hard with all the grim seriousness of a man who had absolutely made it hard.
you remember the first night you ate dinner at it.
you remember how pleased he’d looked when you wouldn’t stop touching the grain.
you remember tearing up at the effort before sinking to your knees beneath that very table and thanking him so thoroughly that, to this day, he can’t sit at the damn thing for too long without his eyes darkening and his pants growing tight.
your eyes move across the room.
towards the cabinets he sanded down because you said the old ones made the kitchen feel too dark.
the backsplash he learned to tile because you had paused too long on a photo of handmade ceramic.
the wall he knocked through because you hated how boxed-in the room felt.
the bedroom he painted three times because the first two colors looked different once they dried, and he had only sighed, changed shirts, and opened another tin.
a house that had been perfectly fine when you bought it, just never quite yours, until simon got it in his head that he could make it so.
your heartbeat quickens.
the whole morning suddenly feels absurd in a way that makes your chest ache.
his gaze lands heavy as he watches every expression form across your face.
“you wanna tell me what got you in a mood earlier?” he asks.
his voice is even, but his hand drums once against his thigh.
your six-foot-four lieutenant of a husband, nervous at the thought of upsetting you.
you shake your head at first
then stop.
because no, that isn’t fair either.
he does love you. he loves you in fixed pipes and sanded wood and walls torn down to let in more light. he loves you in the things he can touch, carry, mend, build. he loves you so steadily that it has become the floor beneath your feet.
but you still want flowers sometimes.
you still want to be asked to put on a dress.
you still want him to look at you across a dinner table he did not build and make you feel, just for an evening, like loving you is not only something he maintains but something he celebrates.
“i know you care about me,” you say quietly.
his brow furrows.
“never said you didn’t.”
simon stills.
“i know that,” you repeat, softer this time, because you do. God, you do. “I just… I think I need more sometimes.”
something shifts in his face.
“more,” he repeats.
you huff a laugh, embarrassed now. “not more than this.”
your hand moves over the table again and his eyes follow the movement.
“just more…” You search for the words, then give up on making them perfect. “more on purpose, maybe. dinner. flowers. you telling me to get dressed because you made plans. stupid things.”
“they’re not stupid.” he immediately corrects you, firm and like he’s already offended on your behalf.
you look up at him and he pushes himself off of the floor.
you watch him stand, slow and heavy, wiping his hands on a rag before setting it aside. he comes toward you with that careful, deliberate look that always makes your stomach dip, like every bit of his attention has narrowed down to one target.
you.
“friday,” he says.
you blink. “friday?”
“dinner.” his gaze drops over you, not subtle in the slightest. “wear somethin’ nice.”
despite yourself, you laugh, small and wet in disbelief at how easy it is with him.
simon’s hand comes up, thumb brushing beneath your eye before a tear can fall.
“are you asking me on a date, riley?”
his mouth twitches.
“seems like i am.”
you look down at the table, at the careful seams, the polished wood, the impossible thing he made with his own two hands because you wanted it and he saw no reason you shouldn’t have it.
then back at him.
“good,” you say, standing slowly. “and since you fixed the sink…”
simon’s eyes darken.
you take one step toward him, then another, until your fingers catch in the waistband of his jeans and tug him close.
his hand finds the edge of the table behind you.
your table.
his eyes flick down to it, and whatever memory crosses his mind makes his jaw tighten.
you smile.
“careful,” you murmur. “you look a little proud of yourself.”
his hand settles heavy at your waist, lifting you to rest on the edge.
You work at a nursing home in Manchester. It’s a quiet job, but you enjoy it, even if you’re just an administrator. One day, one of your residents gets a visit from a 6”2, masked, military man who bulldozes his way into your life.
Simon Riley isn't exactly what you'd call boyfriend material.
masterlist ❤️ ao3
tags: angst, fluff, referenced/implied sa (not graphic), violence, past trauma, elderly character in a care home, explicit sexual content, bdsm elements, female reader, reader has a deceased father, readers step dad is a pervert, Simon's brother is a dick, military inaccuracies, cod lore inaccuracies, dark fic
part 1/3, word count: 10.6k
“Don’t stare. That’s Mrs. Riley’s son. He won’t appreciate it.”
Your mouth was open as he walked through the entrance doors and into the reception area of the care home.
He was over 6 foot, the top of his head nearly brushing the lintel as he entered. He was as broad as he was tall, wearing tan cargo trousers, boots laced tight and uniform, and a black crewcut t shirt that showed every muscle on his torso. His biceps were large, easily the size of your head, and his left arm had a full sleeve of black tattoos. He was also wearing a black cap, with the peak facing forward, and a black surgical mask, the type you hadn’t seen on a civilian since the pandemic days. The cap was pulled low over his eyes, so you could barely make out an inch of his face.
“That’s her son?” You asked, turning to your line manager, Julia, who seemed far more interested in her chart than the militant, mysterious man who had just walked into reception. “The ‘sweet boy who looks after me ever so well’?” You quoted Mrs. Riley directly, from the conversation you’d had with her just this morning.
Mrs. Riley had moved into the care home you worked at as an administrator less than a week ago. She had no end-of-life ailments, she was just a sweet old lady who needed more care around the house than could be provided by her children. She was quiet, but also kind, and she spoke non-stop of her son, her sweet Simon, who would be visiting her any day now. You’d expected a kindly, baby-faced young man, not the hard muscled hulk of a man who was clenching his fists and surveying the reception area like he expected assassins to jump out from behind the magazine racks.
“He might be sweet.” Nicole, a young care assistant, leant over the reception desk to join in on your conversation, her eyes glued to your new arrival. “He’s hot, that’s for sure.”
“So sweet he put his mum in a care home.” Julia reminded you both, with raised eyebrows.
“He’s military.” You said. “Must be away a lot, right? Maybe there was no other choice. He’s paying for it all, apparently.”
You blinked when both of the girls stared at you.
“What?” You asked.
“How do you know he’s in the military?”
“Oh.” You blushed a little. “His bootlaces. My dad served in Afghanistan before he died.”
“No wonder you’re still single if you’re looking at his laces.”
“Nicole! You can’t say – Oh shit, he’s coming over.”
“Haha, bye!”
Julia and Nicole suddenly disappeared from the reception desk and you fought off the urge to curse them as you saw that the scary looking man was indeed walking over to you. He stopped in front of the desk, looming over it, and you. You peered up at him looking down on you, eyes shadowed under the cap and above the mask. They were brown, and hooded in a sort of resigned boredom. You felt like you were standing at the bottom of a mountain and looking up at the peak.
“Are you still allowing visitors, ma’am? I’m later than I was expecting to be.”
His accent was gruff, cockney, low and muffled incrementally by the mask he wore. It wasn’t out of place to wear a mask in a care home, and it was easy to believe that he was just being cautious, but everything from his attire to his guarded, boxy stance and the cagey look in his eyes told you he did not want to be looked at.
“Oh.” You were caught off guard by such a polite question from someone who looked like they could snap you like a dry twig – who looked like they did snap people like dry twigs on a regular basis.
You glanced at the clock. 3.40pm.
“There’s still 20 minutes left.” You opened the sign in book and pushed it across the desk with a pen. “Could you sign in here, please?”
He took the pen and you noticed that he was wearing gloves. Black gloves with skeletal hands printed on them, mimicking where the bones would be under his flesh.
He wrote his name down in the next available box. Simon Riley. Your eyes travelled over his arms while he did. They were thick with muscle, his tattoo sleeve was made up of skulls and guns, his biceps were vascular. The sound of the book being pushed back across the desk made you blink and look up. He was staring at you, his brown eyes hard as flint, and clearly unimpressed that he’d caught you staring.
“Uh, thanks.” You blushed, looking down at the book. He’d written 3.41pm as the sign in time and left the sign out time blank. Feeling guilty, you wrote 4pm down in the sign out box.
“There. You signed out at 4pm. You can stay as long as you like.”
His eyes wavered.
“Thanks.” It was a short, gruff remark and you knew that you weren’t forgiven for your misstep, but you could also tell that he hadn’t been expecting the generous action.
He walked from the desk without another word and through the second set of doors to the resident’s rooms like he’d been there before. Every single person in the reception stared at him until he disappeared and he didn’t acknowledge any of them. Maybe they were too short for him to see.
The next time you saw him was a little after 5pm. The reception was largely empty now, but even so, he was hard to miss – tall and built and intimidating. You glanced up on instinct and were surprised to find his eyes on you. He didn’t drop the eye contact, giving you a curt nod before he left through the double doors.
You blushed furiously, a result of that burning gaze.
…
He came back two days later.
You hadn’t expected it at all, bent down behind the reception desk to retrieve a file for Nicole, before straightening up and nearly jumping out of your skin when you saw the imposing figure of Simon Riley standing in front of the desk, unnaturally still like a statue. He was wearing jeans this time, and a black hoodie that was zipped up all the way, the hood pulled up over his head. He was still wearing the same black surgical mask and black skeletal gloves. You could see a tuft of blond hair peaking out from under his hood. The sight of his forehead gave you more of an indication of his age. He looked younger than you’d initially suspected. He looked different from the last time you’d seen him, too, if only for the fact that he was chuckling quietly.
“Scare you?” He asked rhetorically. The timbre of his voice struck you all over again. Gravelly. Deep. Like he’d been punched in the throat and never recovered.
“Yeah, sorry.” You shook your head, trying to not blush again and probably failing spectacularly. “Didn’t even hear you.”
He chuckled again, but this time to himself, like he was enjoying a quiet joke that you weren’t in on.
“Visiting mum?” You asked, putting Nicole’s file to the side and reaching for the sign in book.
“No, I’m here for the jelly.”
“It’s good jelly, understandable.” You joked, picking up on his sarcastic remark.
His eyes narrowed at your response, not in a nasty way, but rather like he was sizing you up.
He wrote his name down in the book and pushed it back to you.
“What do I call you?” He asked, inclining his head down to the book as you closed it and put it away.
It felt like you told him your name under duress. Did he even realise how intimidating his eyes were? How intense? Maybe they weren’t, maybe it was just particularly striking because you couldn’t see the rest of his face. You burned with the question of why he wore the mask. He was a big guy, and very attractive in a terrifying sort of way. You supposed his size and his razor straight confidence spoke to your cavewoman instincts, but then his guarded attitude and attire spoke to your gut instincts, and neither one of them could figure out what was more important.
You couldn’t imagine he was ugly, though, his eyes were too nice for him to be ugly.
He nodded in acknowledgment of your name before he took off for the resident’s rooms. You were so distracted by him that you nearly jumped again when the next person asked for your help, and you could even see them this time.
The third time you saw Simon Riley was outside of the entrance, on your way inside.
You were running late to your shift – your stupid bus hadn’t turned up and forced you to use a later service – clutching your bag, your coat and your water bottle and succeeding in tripping over your own feet in your haste to get inside.
“Easy.” It was a gruff voice in your ear and a firm hand gripping your upper arm and keeping you still as your water bottle tumbled out of your grip, rolled across the concrete ground and hit the brick wall of the building.
you recognised that coarse accent immediately and looked up to see Simon peering down at you curiously. He wasn’t wearing his hoodie this time, probably with it being a relatively warm day in drizzly Manchester. His shirt was crewcut, simple, black, and his surgical mask and cap were covering most of his face and head, the hand gripping your arm was gloved. Those damn skeletal gloves. Your eyes tracked the ink staining his skin as you looked at his tattoo sleeve, and it was only under the natural light that you really noticed the scars littering his flesh. Some of them were puckered marks and others were long, thin lines, pale white and pink and red, depending on how old and how big and how deep they were.
He released your arm and you blinked. He was unwaveringly still. You hoped he hadn’t noticed you staring at the scars on his arm, but you doubted that you’d gotten away with it. He seemed to notice everything, even now, his eyes were tracking your every movement.
This was the first time you’d been next to Simon without a desk between you and it made him so much bigger now. He was broad, he was eclipsing the sun in the sky behind him as he towered over you. You could smell him now. Soap. Deodorant. Something tangy you couldn’t quite put your finger on.
“Thank you.” You said. He grunted and looked away from you and it was like the spell was over and your brain could finally focus on something else other than endless brown pools.
You spotted your water bottle by the wall and began to rearrange your bag and your coat to give yourself a free hand. You heard boots on concrete and watched as Simon walked a few steps and picked your bottle up. It looked tiny in his hand. He didn’t hand it back to you, instead he walked to the entrance doors and stood in front of them, letting his weight trigger the sensors that opened them.
“After you.” He said, inclining his head inside, his eyes still focused on you, like you were the only thing in the world.
“Oh, thank you.” You hurried forward, pink-cheeked, and he watched you pass him and trailed behind you.
Julia stared at you as you approached the desk, so did a few others, but Simon was only looking at you as he held his hand out. You took your bottle back.
“Thank you.” You said again, not even realising that you were repeating yourself. You just couldn’t relax around him. He was too big; his gaze was too intense. His aura was off, somehow. Different to anyone you’d ever met before. It was something that made him…dangerous? You weren’t sure. Not safe. That was more accurate.
“Got the book?” He asked gruffly.
Julia passed it to you, and you tried not to look flustered as you opened it. Simon wrote his name and the time in, left the pen on the desk, nodded at you, and then disappeared through the doors and down the hall. Simon Riley was enemy number one to lingering, apparently.
“He gives me the creeps.” Julia said, inciting a murmur of agreement from your surrounding colleagues.
You walked around the desk silently. You hung up your coat and put your bag down under your chair.
“Why does he cover his face?” Someone murmured.
“Probably dental, knowing this country.” A man replied.
“Or he’s on the run from the police.” A particularly salacious suggestion. “Can you imagine?”
“Why would he be on the run from the police?”
“Fucking size of him. Looks like he’d attack anyone who got too close.”
“He’s got cruel eyes. Only part of him you can see.”
“Should we even be leaving him alone with Mrs. Riley?”
You put your water bottle down on the desk far harder than necessary. Everyone stopped talking and stared at you. You were staring at the bottle, where the metal had scuffed where it had rolled across the concrete.
“Alright, love?” Julia asked kindly. “I was worried about you when you didn’t clock in.”
“Yeah.” You said blankly. “Sorry. Bus was late.”
…
The paramedics swarmed in down the corridor and you got yourself out of the way, watching a little helplessly as Nicole hurried past you and followed them.
You went back to the reception desk, still trying to look through the doors and down the corridor like it might give you any answers.
“What’s happened?” Julia asked, coming out of the back office.
“Mrs. Riley fell.” You explained. “She got out of bed to use the bathroom and tumbled.”
“Is she okay?” Julia looked concerned.
“I don’t know.” You admitted. “I hope so.”
It was a little over an hour later when Nicole came to the desk, the paramedics filing out behind her and leaving the care home.
“Is everything okay?” You asked.
Nicole nodded before she spoke.
“Yeah, she’s fine. Nothing is broken, thank god. The paramedics looked at her heart and her blood pressure, and they don’t think she needs to go to the hospital, we just have to monitor her for the next twelve hours to make sure.”
You nodded, relieved it wasn’t more serious. She was a tough girl, Mrs. Riley, it must have run in the family.
“We should call-“
“Already have.” Nicole interjected. “He’s on his way.”
“Right, good.”
“Listen, I’ve got to check on the other residents. Sally phoned in sick and Joe got called to another home last minute. I don’t suppose you could sit with her for a little bit? I know it’s not your job, but…”
“It’s fine.” You assured her immediately. “Go, I’ll sit in as long as I need to.”
She gave you a grateful smile before leaving the reception. You headed through the doors and to Mrs. Riley’s room, knocking gently.
“Mrs. Riley?” You called softly, opening the door and closing it gently behind you. “I heard you had a little fall.”
Mrs. Riley looked fine to you, if a little drawn out and tired. She was in her 70’s, her blonde hair greyed, and she smiled when she saw you.
“Oh, hello, my darling. Yes, it’s all a big fuss over nothing.”
“It wasn’t a fuss, they were keeping you safe.” You smiled as you perched on a chair beside her bed. Her skin crinkled around her brown eyes as she laughed.
“Don’t tell me they’ve asked you to babysit me, darling. You’ve got important work to do.”
“I certainly have.” You agreed. “I’ve got to spend time with you. I thought I could sneak in here and we could watch a few episodes of All Creatures Great and Small."
Mrs. Riley’s eyes lit up at the mention of her favourite show. You sat with her for the best part of an hour while Mrs. Riley ate strawberry jelly from her food tray and you were both discussing what good marriage material Siegfried would make when the door opened and Simon stormed in. He was wearing a black hoodie, but he looked soaked through. You weren’t surprised, with the rain lashing down on the windows.
His eyes looked wild, concerned, before narrowing into slits as he walked straight past you and knelt down by the bed.
“Oh, my sweet Simon.” Mrs. Riley cooed, taking his face in her hands and pulling his hood down. He had short, blond hair. You looked away immediately, feeling as though you weren’t allowed to see. “You didn’t need to come all the way here.”
“Of course I did.” Simon’s voice cracked and your head whipped to them both, surprised by it. He was holding his mother’s wrists where she was holding his cheeks. His eyes were wide and open when he looked at her. “You scared me.”
“Silly boy.” She wiped rainwater from his eyes with her thumbs. “Sweet boy. Everything is fine.”
His eyes fluttered closed and your expression softened. It was like watching an entirely different person. That strange feeling that you’d gotten before, of danger and apprehension, it all melted away when you saw him like this, knelt and seeking comfort, a boy with his mum.
“I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner.” He sounded infinitely more relaxed, his eyes still closed. “I was…”
“It’s okay. I know you’re busy. Your work is important.” She said. “I’ve been looked after.”
Mrs. Riley smiled at you, and Simon opened his eyes and looked at you, too. You swallowed, shuffling from one foot to the other. Simon’s burning gaze was one thing, but this open expression made you feel uncomfortable. Not because you didn’t like it, but because you knew you were intruding on something intimate and private and not meant for you.
“I’ll leave you to it.” You said quickly. “I’ll just be at the desk if you need anything.”
Simon turned his attention back to his mother and you shut the door and went back to the reception desk. You could hear your colleagues murmuring and you had a pretty good idea what they were talking about.
“Don’t any of you have any work to do?” You snapped. You earned yourself a few glares, and a few more surprised looks, but they slunk off and left you alone regardless.
The rain got heavier and heavier as the evening went on, so did the wind, until it felt like the building was swaying from side to side. When you clocked out, it was a little after midnight, and you were exhausted. You hated this late shift, the only one you did a week, because it was a little bit too close to the last bus of the night for your liking.
You collected your stuff and grimaced at the lashing rain as you pulled your coat hood up and walked outside. You were soaked within minutes, and halfway across the car park when you pulled your phone out, shielded it from the rain with your hand and pulled up your travel app. You groaned loudly.
“What’s wrong?”
You whirled around in the middle of the carpark. Simon was stood there, half-illuminated by a streetlight casting an orange glow down on the vicinity. If you thought he looked intimidating normally, in the rain at midnight was a different story.
“I didn’t know you were still here.” You said. He’d crept up on you again.
“Mum finally went to sleep.” He said, spitting rainwater from his surgical mask with every movement of his lips. “She made me watch a show about a goat. Or a vicar. I couldn’t figure it out.”
You laughed, losing the fight with the wind and letting your coat hood blow down, soaking your hair to your scalp.
“Why are you standing in the rain?” He asked you.
“My last bus got cancelled.” You said. “Severe weather alert.”
He might have grunted; it might have been the wind. “I’ll give you a lift.”
You blinked in surprise. He didn’t seem to be joking. Maybe you should have been more apprehensive of such an offer, maybe you might have been before, but after seeing him with his mother, you knew you didn’t have anything to fear.
“Are you sure? You don’t have to.”
“It’s pissing down.” He grunted, fishing his car keys from his pocket. Lights flashed on something big and black a few spaces down from where you were standing. “Get in.”
You didn’t argue any further. You opened the passenger door and climbed in. It was dry inside the car and you shuddered from the chill of the rain as Simon got into the driver’s side. The screen on the dash came to life, connecting to his phone as he put his seatbelt on. You could have sworn the word Ghost flashed up on the screen before he reached across and thumbed a plastic button with his gloved finger. You made a little noise of surprise and appreciation as warm air started to fill the car. You were soaked to the bone, your clothes sticking uncomfortably to you. You peeled your coat off and stuck your hands out in front of the warm jets of air.
“Thank you.” You said.
“You say that a lot.” Simon made no move to remove his wet hoodie or wet mask. He did peel a sodden glove off of one hand with the other one and brought it up to the screen, calling up a sat nav with his bare fingertips. His hand was normal. A man’s hand. He had long fingers and scars on his knuckles from years of flesh splitting with every punch thrown.
“Where am I going?” He asked, inclining his head to you.
You rattled off your address without even thinking about it, forgetting for a moment that this man was a complete stranger, and not just a stranger, but a stranger you were fairly sure was a soldier, which meant he’d probably killed people before.
Simon drove out of the car park and you watched the little pulsing light on his sat nav as it pointed in the direction of your flat with more intensity than you’d meant to. You didn’t know what else to do with your face.
“I’m not kidnapping you.” He said gruffly, as if reading your mind. “There are easier ways to do it than this.”
“Like what?” You asked with a quirked eyebrow.
“Chloroform, plastic bag, good old-fashioned choking. No need to waste time on sweet talking.” He glanced over to you.
You shivered, and not because you were scared.
“This is sweet talking?” You laughed.
“It worked on you.” He quipped.
You shook your head with a resigned laugh, rubbing your forehead and scowling at how wet your face was. You must have looked a state.
“Should I be worried you know so much about kidnapping?”
He chuckled, eyes back on the road ahead. “You’ve got a good sense of humour for a drowned rat.” He flicked on the indicator and turned down another road. The headlights illuminated the roads in front of you. “I’ve met my match.”
“Crack a lot of jokes, do you?”
“Sometimes, when duty calls.”
You looked over at him. He was concentrating on the road, his one gloved hand and his one bare hand gliding over the steering wheel.
“You’re in the army?” You ventured.
His eyes snapped to you, and you looked at the road ahead, your cheeks burning.
“How’d you figure that out?” He asked.
You shrugged, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. “Dad was. You seem the type.”
He was silent for a long moment, and then: “I’m a Lieutenant.”
You nodded at the road, pleased that your intuition had been correct.
The conversation lapsed into silence after that, with neither of you really knowing what to say.
“Thanks,” Simon said finally. “For looking after mum.”
“Oh.” You fiddled with your fingers. “No problem. She’s lovely.”
It went quiet again, and soon after, Simon busied himself with slowing down to a crawl on your street, looking for your flat number. You opened your mouth to say that anywhere here was fine, but it only took him a moment to identify the building and pull up on the side of the road, right next to the front door.
“Safe and sound.” He said, looking at you. As soon as the car stopped moving, the rain began lashing even louder against the metal frame. It served to offset the comparative silence inside.
You gathered your sopping wet coat in your hands and thought about apologising for getting his passenger seat wet, but just the thought of the derisive look he’d give you stopped you. “Thanks, Simon.”
“Hmm.” He made a low noise, like he wasn’t expecting to hear his name. “Phone.” He said.
“What?” You asked.
“Your phone, give it to me.”
You passed your phone over with a bemused look on your face, wondering briefly if he was going to check it for bugs or something, but instead he just tapped the screen a few times and passed it back to you.
“My number.” He explained. “In case you get stranded again.”
You felt like it was a bizarre thank you gesture for sitting in with his mother, like some mafia-esque loyalty, and you were so confused by it that you forgot to realise that Simon had just given you his number.
“T-“
“Don’t say it.”
You pursed your lips, fighting off a smile.
Simon was looking you up and down, and you thought he was going to tell you something, before he apparently decided against it, looking back at the dashboard instead.
“Go on, get inside before you catch a cold.”
You hoped he’d never heard the way the people at the nursing home spoke about him. You also had no idea why that thought popped into your head at this moment.
“Yes, sir.” You smirked at him, opening the car door and hoping out. “Getting inside, sir.”
Simon shook his head, and then he laughed. “You’re a fucking nightmare, girl.” He said, and it might have been the first time you’d heard such warmth in his voice.
You gave him a stupid smile before you shut the door. You watched him drive away before you let yourself into your flat. You wanted to grimace at the wet clothes clinging to you, or scowl at how tired you were, but you didn’t.
You just smiled.
…
The days passed, and you didn’t see Simon again.
He didn’t come into the care home at all and you briefly wondered if he was actively avoiding your shift schedule, maybe regretting giving you his number, until Nicole lamented that she hadn’t seen the hot army man in a few days.
You supposed it was a little odd, he didn’t usually leave it this long between his visits, but then you didn’t really know him at all and this could have been completely normal behaviour. You didn’t look up every time the entrance doors opened, you certainly didn’t scan the car park every time you walked across it, and you definitely didn’t check his contact in your phone to see if he’d messaged you and the notification hadn’t popped up. What you did admit to doing was appreciate that you were acting like a schoolgirl, and that it needed to stop.
Luckily, the perfect distraction was right on the horizon. It was your mother’s 60th birthday party at the weekend and she’d invited you and other family and friends to a garden party at your childhood home. The forecast was for sun.
You went to the shops after work, buying her an expensive perfume she favoured, and a box of her favourite chocolates. You picked a card that was purple, with a teddy bear on the front holding a love heart that said, ‘I love you, mum!’ on it in gold print. You thought about all of the older women at the care home that spoke incessantly of their children who you’d never seen visit, and your chest constricted a little. You loved your mum, she was the only parent you had left, and you were only just realising how much you were neglecting your precious time together.
Saturday came around quickly. It was indeed as sunny outside as the forecast had predicted and you put on a cute sundress with yellow flowers and a little bit of makeup before you made your way to your childhood home. It wasn’t far from where you lived now.
You said hello to your mum and gave her her gifts. She hugged you before you went into the garden. There was a gazebo up over a table full of ice buckets, prosecco and finger food. A fair few of your relatives were already ploughing through the prosecco, judging by the raucous laughter you could hear.
“Hey there, gorgeous.” Your stepdad flung his arm around your shoulder and pulled you against his side.
“Oh, hi Clive.” You said, trying to hide your uncomfortable wince as he stroked his thumb over your bare upper arm. Your mum had married Clive a few years ago. You were happy for her, that she wasn’t alone anymore and she had someone to look after her, but you’d never exactly gotten on. He’d always lingered around you, and you didn’t like it.
Finally, he released you and you side-stepped away, nearly jumping when your mum offered you a glass of chilled prosecco, which you took and sipped quickly.
It didn’t take long for a gaggle of aunts and cousins to surround you, asking you questions about work and probing questions about your personal life because, of course, being unmarried and childless at your age was the hot topic of discussion at any event.
“Are you seeing anyone?” Your auntie asked you, and everyone in the immediate vicinity stared at you like your answer would hold the secrets of the universe.
“No, no, not at the minute.”
“There must be someone you like. Are there any nice men at that care home you work at?”
You blushed. “None under the age of 70.”
The tirade of questions began again, about how you couldn’t wait around forever to get married and how the biological clock was ticking, and Clive putting his hand on your shoulder made you jump.
“Come on, why don’t you help me check on the chicken, sweetheart?” He gave you a toothy smile and a knowing wink.
“Yeah, okay.” Goosepimples erupted on your flesh but then he dropped your shoulder and the pair of you went into the kitchen. You sipped your drink as he opened the oven and checked on the chicken roasting inside. It smelt pretty good, actually.
“Thank you for saving me.” You rolled your eyes at the absurdity of it.
“It’s okay.” He grinned. “Those vultures should know better. You’ll find someone when the time is right, there’s no point rushing it.” He lent against the counter, crossing his arms, and looked you up and down. You suddenly regretted the yellow sundress you were wearing, wishing instead for trousers and a hoodie. “You’ve grown up into a beautiful young woman, you won’t have any trouble finding a man.”
“Thanks.” You forced a smile, trying to relax. You were sure he didn’t realise how creepy he actually came across, especially when he was married to your mother. Some people were just overly friendly, right?
“Just being honest, sweetheart. You’ll attract any man looking like that.” He smirked, toothy and wide. “And not for nothing, but your tits look great in that dress.”
It was either like the planet slowing down to a stop or having ice cold water thrown on top of you, you couldn’t quite tell. Your stepdad was still grinning that lechery grin at you, chuckling at his joke. You weren’t laughing.
“Come on, let’s go back outside before anyone wonders what we’re up to.” He waggled his eyebrows at you. You started to walk outside of the kitchen like an automaton, like your feet were made of lead. You felt him walking behind you, and then you felt his hand trailing down your back. You nearly snapped the neck of your prosecco glass.
He left you alone in the garden, finding a group of your uncles to talk to, and you just stood there for a moment, wondering what the fuck you were supposed to do. Did you tell your mum? Were you overreacting? Would she be mad at you for ruining her birthday?
Your heart was thumping in your chest. You felt like you were going to be sick. After an age, you made a decision. You had to get out of there or your prosecco was going to make a reappearance. You needed to go home and then find the biggest jumper you owned and cover up forever.
“Mum.” You said. Both your mum and Clive looked up at you. He was draped over her. His eyes tracked down your chest. You held your glass strategically.
“Yes, love?” She beamed at you. You felt like the world’s biggest arsehole. Why couldn’t you just let it go?
“Um, I’m really sorry but I’m going to have to go, my last bus leaves in half an hour.” A total lie, they were running every half hour until midnight, but you couldn’t think of any other way of leaving without inevitably having to explain why.
“Oh, love.” Your mum’s face dropped.
“It’s alright.” Clive said, hugging your mum closer to his side. “I’ll drop you back whenever you want, you can stay as long as you like.”
“Oh, that’s kind.” Your mum’s face brightened up. “Isn’t that kind, sweetheart? You can stay for food. I don’t see you enough as it is.”
“Yeah, sounds great.” You forced a smile. There was no way of getting out of this now, and now you had to sit in a car with him, to where you lived, to where you lived alone.
You hovered by the drinks table, necking prosecco’s and wondering what the hell you were meant to do.
You were sure Clive would never try anything, but you sure as hell didn’t want to put it to chance. How were you meant to escape? How were you meant to convince that prick to leave you alone? You weren’t scary or intimidating.
You got your phone out and blamed it entirely on the alcohol when you pulled up Simon’s number. You stared at it for a long time. Did you really want to do this? Would he even come? Why did you want him to? You hadn’t seen him in nearly two weeks, what if he’d forgotten all about you.
He’d given you this number in case you got stranded again. He wanted you to contact him if you needed help.
The image of Simon’s brown eyes flashed across your mind, that burning look he always gave you. You were sure he’d hurt people, but not you, he’d look after you.
You dialed before you could talk yourself out of it, knowing that he wouldn’t answer.
He answered on the second ring.
“Hello?” That coarse accent. The greeting was barked.
“Simon.” You whispered into the receiver. “It’s me.”
There was a beat of silence, just a beat.
“What’s happened?”
“Can you come and get me please?” You really blamed the alcohol, you knew you’d start crying if he said no.
“Where are you?”
You were surprised, relieved, excited. You rattled off your mum’s address quickly.
“I’m on the way. Are you safe?”
It struck you as an odd question, a prepared question.
“Yeah, yes, I’m fine.”
“Don’t move.”
The line went dead but you didn’t put your phone down for a moment. You knew Simon never lingered, but was his haste because of that, or because of how quickly he was grabbing his car keys and heading out? His only hesitancy was to make sure you weren’t in so much danger he had time to reach you. You bit your lip and tried not to cry in front of everyone.
You had no idea where Simon was coming from, nor any idea when he’d get to you, so you composed yourself in the bathroom, grabbed another glass of prosecco – your fifth? – and made conversation with one of your cousins. She’d just had a baby, so you didn’t have to do any of the talking.
The party, getting louder and louder with more alcohol consumed, suddenly hushed to whispers and you turned to look.
The crowd parted like the red sea as Simon walked across the garden purposefully. His gloved fists were clenched, he was wearing khaki cargo trousers, black boots polished to a gleam and a dark top hiked up over his wide forearms, showing off a hint of muscle and ink beneath. He wasn’t wearing a mask, or a cap or a hood, instead he had a balaclava pulled over his face, with a skeletal jaw printed over the front of his mouth. His eyes were the only part of his face that was visible, blackened with war paint, narrowed and furious. He’d never looked more menacing than he did in that moment.
Every member of your family fell silent and shrank back, but you didn’t, the relief you felt was almost palpable.
He stopped in front of you, his eyes raking over you, taking in your dress and your drink, and you imagined he had a few questions about why you’d dragged him here.
“Are you ready to go?” He asked, although his voice left no room for argument.
You nodded immediately, putting your drink down. “Yes, please.”
“Love, who is this?” Your mum asked, giving you a puzzled look, and then giving Simon a horrified one.
Simon didn’t react, he didn’t move, he didn’t stop glaring and he didn’t release his fists.
“A friend, mum.” You said, the prosecco helped the words come easier to your mouth. “He offered to pick me up.”
“Wait, hold on a minute,” Clive moved in front of you, between you and Simon, puffing his chest out. “You’re not going anywhere with this man. He looks dangerous.”
Everyone was staring at you, erupting into whispers, some of them were even pointing. Not exactly the sneaky exit you’d been planning.
Simon’s eyes moved from you to your stepdad, narrowing as they did, like he had a sixth sense for picking up on exactly what the danger was. A sense, or years of experience.
“Sorry to drag her away,” Simon turned to your mother, relaxing his voice a little. “It’s a work thing, I’m afraid, it’s important.”
“Yeah, sorry mum, I’ve got to run.”
Your mum nodded, even though she looked confused and concerned. Clive shook his head, prodding Simon right in the chest.
“Listen here, mate, you can’t come onto my property and accost my daughter. I’ll call…”
Simon looked down slowly, lowering his shoulders to really peer right into Clive’s face, emphasizing the height difference between them.
“Try me, old man.” He growled. “I’ve put better men in the ground for less.”
It wasn’t even his threat that twisted your stomach, it was the growl in his voice. He was speaking a language your pussy understood and responded to with a clench.
Clive’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. Your mum looked startled. You gave her a hug.
“It’s fine, mum, I promise. He’s a friend. From work.”
Your mum nodded a little plainly, stroking your back as she hugged you. “Okay, my love, thank you for coming. I’ll see you soon?”
“Yeah, I’ll call you. Love you. Happy birthday.”
You gave Clive a blank look as you passed him, heading back into the house. You didn’t hear Simon follow you, but you knew he was, looming over you like a shadow.
When you got into his car, you watched in silence as he got into the driver’s side. He didn’t speak to you, he just peeled away from the house far quicker than you were expecting, throwing you around in the seat. The prosecco sloshed unhappily in your belly.
You peeked at him. He was glaring at the road ahead. He looked so furious that you half-expected him to throw you from the car while it was still moving.
“Thank you for coming.” You said, your voice small.
“What happened?” He barked, as if your remark had broken whatever was stopping him from talking.
You pursed your lips, suddenly embarrassed, and trying to find the words to explain yourself, to ask his forgiveness for dragging him there, for your overreaction and for wasting his time.
“It’s okay.” He assured you, his voice forcibly softer. It broke the tension like a hammer on granite. “You’re safe now.”
Your eyes welled up and he glanced over at you. His brown eyes weren’t angry, they were concerned. It knocked the air out of your lungs.
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Here.” He clicked a button somewhere on the steering wheel and his dash screen started playing something quietly.
“I love Sleep Token.” You sniffed.
You heard him chuckle. You wanted to ask him so many questions, but you figured you owed him a few answers first.
“It was my stepdad.” You said quietly, chewing on your lip.
“The shrimp?”
A laugh erupted from you. Hearing that, and seeing how much bigger Simon was compared to him, made him look a lot less scary in your eyes. It relaxed you.
“You don’t have to explain arsehole dads to me.” He grunted, then ironically: “What did he do?”
“He, uh…”
Simon glanced at you again, noticing the way that you were hesitating. “Yeah?” He encouraged gently.
You didn’t know if he was actively choosing to be gentle with you, or if he wanted to be, but regardless, it made you feel safe with him.
You wiped your nose with the back of your hand. “He’s just a creep. He said something gross and…I don’t know, I didn’t feel safe.”
“What did he say?”
Your eyes hit the foot well. “He said my tits look good in this dress.”
Simon’s gloved hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“You shouldn’t have told me where he lives.” He said, his voice dangerously low.
“Why not?” You asked.
“Because I’ll kill him.”
It sent a shiver down your spine, because you knew he meant it. You weren’t even thinking about what an insane thing that was to say, you were thinking about someone going to those lengths to defend your honour. Your cheeks burned.
Simon pulled up on the side of the road outside of your flat – without putting your address in the sat nav, you noticed – and you didn’t know what to say.
It was silent, and awkward, for a few moments, until: “You look lovely.” Simon said, still looking extraordinarily pissed off. “Don’t let an arsehole make you feel bad for that.”
You blushed even harder, looking down at your dress. “Thank you.”
“Go on, get inside. Sleep that drink off.”
“You can come in, if you like.”
“That’s not a good idea.”
“Just for a bit.” You entreated. “He knows where I live and…” It wasn’t a complete lie. You were worried about Clive driving over in a fit of rage, but mostly you didn’t want to watch Simon drive away from you, not again, not yet.
“Fine, for a little bit.” He acquiesced, his tone suggesting he hated the idea.
You felt a little embarrassed opening the door to your flat, praying it was relatively clean and you didn’t have any errant pairs of underwear lying around. Simon trailed in behind you, standing in the hallway and looking very out of place, not sure what to do with his big body. It made you smile.
“Tea?” You offered.
“Yeah,” he relaxed a bit. “Thanks.”
“Sugar?” You asked, showing him to the kitchen.
“No,” he huffed, like it was funny. “I’m sweet enough.”
…
Simon rolled his balaclava under his nose to drink his tea, giving you your first view of his mouth. He was clean shaven, his lips looked soft, his teeth straight. You could see the beginnings of a scar on his top lip, denting it, pulling it up slightly, but the black fabric hid the rest of it from view.
You were curled up on the other end of the sofa, a pair of pj bottoms on under your sundress.
You focused on your own tea.
“Never seen the balaclava before.” You mused out loud.
There was a beat of silence.
“Wasn’t expecting to see civilians today.” He didn’t say anything else on the topic. Right. Army. Lieutenant. That explained his militant attire. You suddenly realised you might have pulled him from work.
“Oh my god, were you at a base or something? I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head. “It’s fine. I landed about an hour before you called. I was just doing paperwork before I went home myself.”
“Landed?” You asked, eyebrows raised. “Like a deployment?”
“Yeah, 10-day stretch.” He explained. He didn’t question your knowledge on the military; he remembered what you’d said about your father. “Fucking knackered to tell you the truth.” Your face betrayed that your brain was working overtime, and he chuckled and took pity on you. “I’m in the S.A.S.”
“Oh!” You suddenly understood so many things, and even less at the same time. So, Simon was scary – scary, then. “It might be pointless of me to ask where you’ve been, then.”
“Maybe a little.”
He hadn’t been avoiding you, then, he’d been god knows where doing god knows what. You wondered how many people he’d killed on his mission, how many people had tried to kill him, how many times he’d nearly died. You didn’t like the knot that thought created in your stomach.
“Why don’t you stay here tonight?” You said. “And don’t just say no. It’s the least I can do to thank you for today. You got me out of a tight spot.”
Simon actually looked a little relieved that he didn’t have to drive anymore today. “Thank you.” He said quietly. “Your mum didn’t look too happy to see me.”
You snorted. “You’re a single man with a working penis. I bet she was fucking thrilled.”
Simon’s head snapped to you and you froze.
“Oh, no. I just… before you came, they were saying about…me being single and…forget I said it. You might not be single. You might not have a…”
Simon smirked and you fell silent, not sure what to say.
“I’m single.” He assured you. “And it works just fine.”
You barely managed to stop blushing when you gave Simon blankets and closed your bedroom door. You put on a clean pj top and crawled into bed, but your heart was hammering as you stared up at the ceiling.
Simon was right on the other side of the wall, probably taking off his mask to sleep, maybe even slipping his cargo trousers off.
You rolled over and wrapped the duvet around yourself, trying to clear your mind and sleep.
Both were impossible.
…
You had about a thousand missed calls from your mum and from Clive, but you didn’t answer them, not yet. You were far too happy with your life at the moment, and you really had no idea why. Your relationship with your stepdad was irreparably damaged, at least from where you were standing, and your entire family had seen you walk off with a masked brute, after vehemently denying having a boyfriend. And the masked brute in question was a semi-acquaintance from your place of work who seemed to feel so sorry for you that he’d started basically babysitting you.
You didn’t care about any of that. Simon had come and saved you, perhaps in a very loose sense of the word, but he still had. He’d spent ten days abroad doing classified and almost certainly highly dangerous work and instead of going home and resting, he’d come to your aid with no questions asked. Well, one question. Are you safe?
Simon had left before you’d woken up the next morning, leaving your blankets and pillows folded up on the sofa far neater than you’d ever managed. Those military corners. You didn’t mind that he'd left. He’d just gotten back from deployment. The idea that you’d given him a place to rest, just for a few hours, made you feel warm and fuzzy inside.
The truth was that you liked him, more than you should have done. He might have been closed off and mysterious, but he made you feel warm and safe whenever you were around him, like no one could hurt you, like no one would ever hurt you again.
You found yourself daydreaming about him wrapping his strong arms around you and holding you tight, how warm and safe he’d feel, how you’d burrow in him and never come out again.
The excitement in your gut was nearly overwhelming when you clocked in. You put all your stuff away and stared at the entrance doors. You could have vibrated to the moon with how anxious and excited you were to see him again.
Nicole lent on the desk with her elbows and smirked at you. “Your boyfriend is here.”
“He isn’t my…” You lowered your voice, trying not to gather the attention of anyone around you. You imagined Simon hearing her say that, and the look he would give you. He wouldn’t be embarrassed or pleased, he’d probably be pissed off, or at best, crack some sort of dry joke about it. The cold, closed off soldier was a flirt, even if he did try to hide it. “Is he?”
“Yeah, he’s in with his mum. He brought someone along, this time.”
“Really?” You wondered who someone like Simon would bring to visit his ailing mother. Your brain immediately went to a wife, but then you remembered him saying that he was single the other night. You chewed your lip. Ex-wife, perhaps? Your stomach churned with jealousy.
In any case, you didn’t bother him in his visiting time. Instead you focused on getting your own work done: signing people in, filing paperwork, getting various requisitions signed and sent off, all that thrilling stuff, while keeping half an eye on the clock for the end of visiting time, which was dragging ever nearer.
You wondered exactly what you’d say to him when you saw him. Would you talk about the other night? Would he want to acknowledge that he’d spent the night on your couch, would he want to know what happened with your family?
You turned a corner in the corridor, heading to the kitchen for some much needed coffee, but stopped immediately by the corner when you saw Simon’s back, broad and covered with his hoodie, his hood pulled up, and talking gruffly to a man lent against the opposite wall. This must have been the friend he’d brought along. He looked older than Simon did, with dark, slightly shaggy hair, stubble on his jaw, dressed in jeans and a jacket and slumping against the wall. The two of them had similar features and similar builds, and yet looked like two entirely contrasting individuals.
“It’s a good place.” Simon was saying defensively, keeping his voice intentionally low. “The people are nice. She likes it here.”
“You put our mother in a fucking home, you wanker.”
You saw Simon’s gloved fists clench.
“What choice did I have? I could get called out at any minute and be gone for days. I might not come back.”
“She could have lived with me, arsehole.”
“No, she couldn’t.” Simon growled.
“Why not?” His brother’s eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
“You’re a drunk, sorry, piece of shit.” Simon stalked forward, towering over his brother. You could only see the back of his hoodie, but you could imagine how terrifying his usually so lovely brown eyes must have looked. “You’d be in prison if your ex-wife wasn’t too fucking scared to talk to the police.”
“I can visit my own mum whenever I like.”
“Once a month, under my supervision, that’s the deal, and that’s only because I don’t want her to know anything. She’s been through enough without knowing you’re just like him.”
Simon’s brother looked away from him, and saw you stood there, half hidden around the corner.
“Hi.” He called out. “Sorry, love, didn’t see you there. Ignore us.”
Simon’s back straightened and he turned. The minute he saw you, his eyes hardened to flint. You were half-expecting to see the skull balaclava again, but the surgical mask was back. The narrowed, furious glare he was giving you made you feel like the other day at the party and on your couch hadn’t even happened.
“Sorry,” you fiddled with your jumper sleeve. You’d heard a lot of things that you weren’t supposed to have heard, and Simon knew you’d heard them. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, I was just heading to, uh…”
The shaggy haired man stepped aside, clearing a path for you in the corridor.
“Tommy Riley.” He introduced himself, holding out his hand. “This scary arsehole is my brother, Simon.”
You walked forward uneasily, you could feel Simon’s eyes still boring into you, and shook Tommy’s hand. Simon glared at the contact, like it was offensive for him to see it. His fists were tightly clenched.
“We already know each other.” He barked possessively.
“Oh, you do?” Tommy raised his eyebrows and then he grinned. It was toothy and cruel; it reminded you of Clive. “You sure mum is the only reason you’re hanging around here so much?”
The situation was so uncomfortable you didn’t know whether you wanted to laugh nervously or run away. Tommy was looking at you like you were a piece of meat, what did Simon just say about his ex-wife? Simon was giving you goosebumps, and not in a good way. You felt like he was going to lash out and knock his brother out any second. He hadn’t seemed so angry up until not, not until you’d showed up.
“I didn’t mean…” You tried.
“You should go.” Simon wasn’t looking at you, he was looking at Tommy, as if daring him to move or speak, but he was talking to you. His order was barked, like a lieutenant to his soldiers.
“Yeah, of course.” You squeaked. Your wavering eyes looked at him, waiting for him to tell you he’d come and find you later, or even just give you a nod goodbye as he was custom to do, but he didn’t look at you, he didn’t say anything, and you just turned around and left.
You didn’t go to the kitchen, because that would mean you would have had to walk back down this corridor again and coffee was now the last thing on your mind. You went back to the desk, sat down in your seat and stared blankly at your paperwork, trying to process everything you’d just heard.
It was hard to think of anything except the way that Simon had dismissed you, like you’d never exchanged more than two words with each other.
He wasn’t meant to hurt you.
You weren’t very productive for the rest of your shift, but you did do as much as you possibly could do in the back office, so you didn’t have to see Tommy again when he eventually left, and so you didn’t have to see Simon dismiss you again like you didn’t even exist.
…
Your mum looked like she’d been crying.
You looked at her worriedly as she wrapped her hands around her coffee and took a sip. The coffee shop you were in was relatively quiet, but you wished for some privacy. You didn’t think you could go to her house at the moment though, not after the garden party on her birthday. You still hadn’t spoken to either of them about it, and honestly, you didn’t plan to, either.
“What’s happened?” You asked softly.
“Clive moved out.” She sniffed. “We had a row after the party. He got drunk after you left and kept hitting on your aunts and your cousins, he made a lot of people very uncomfortable.”
“Oh.” You felt guilty for not saying anything at the time. Maybe if you had, you might have saved your young cousins some pain, but then you could never know if you’d have even been believed or not. “I’m sorry, mum.”
“It’s okay.” She gave you an unconvincing smile. “I told him to. I said I needed some time to think. Things haven’t been great between us for a while.”
“You never told me.” You frowned.
She shrugged and you didn’t press her. You knew she felt weird about dating other men when your dad never came back from Afghanistan, like you’d be upset with her for moving on, or something. You weren’t at all, you just wished she hadn’t picked such a creep to move on with.
“I support you,” you reached over and took her hand. “You’re strong, and beautiful, and you can do so much better.”
“Thank you,” she sniffed again, but she smiled this time.
“I’m so sorry,” you repeated, lost in your own thoughts for a moment. “I’ve been so caught up with myself lately, I…I’ll make more time for you.”
“You don’t have to do that, love. I know you’re busy.”
“I want to. All I do all day is see people cherish the time they’ve got with their family. Why don’t we go out for dinner on Saturday night, just us? Might be a bit too early to go on the pull but it might cheer you up.”
Your mum chuckled and then her eyes lit up like you’d just reminded her of something.
“So, who was that man?”
“Oh, god.” You groaned, covering your face with your hands.
“He was the biggest man I’ve ever seen! Clive was going on and on about what a weirdo he was and I was like, you’ve clearly never seen a soldier before…”
You put your hands down and saw your mum babbling on. “He’s from work.” You finally explained. “Seriously. His mum is one of the residents. He’s been visiting her.”
“Ah.”
You didn’t want to talk about this, but it was distracting your mum from her pain so you bit your tongue.
“Are you seeing each other?”
You remembered the day in the corridor. Simon’s argument with his brother, the way he’d gotten so angry when he’d seen you standing there, the way he’d told you to go away, and how you hadn’t seen him since. Your stomach tightened painfully.
“No. It’s not like that.”
“He was so hot.” Your mum whispered across the table to you. “Did you see his biceps?” She mimicked the size of them with her hands, and you went bright red, hiding in your hands again.
“Mum!” You groaned.
…
You left the care home at the end of your shift. The sun was low in the sky, it was dusk, the air was chilly and autumnal.
He was just standing there, beside the cluster of trees next to the car park, looking like a statue and watching you.
You walked over to him, unsure what to expect, cuddling yourself from the cold as you stopped in front of him. You half-expected him to tell you to get in his car, but he didn’t, he didn’t say anything. His arms were crossed, his hood was up, and he was watching you with critical eyes. He was wearing his skull-print balaclava today, which you knew meant that he hadn’t planned on coming.
“Hi.” You said lamely.
“I shouldn’t have come.” Simon responded immediately, confirming your thoughts.
“Why did you?” You asked.
“I wanted to see you.”
You didn’t know what to say, not after the day in the corridor, which he didn’t look like he was planning on talking about.
“Why?” You asked again, a little guardedly.
His eyes wavered, like he was doubting his decision.
“I leave tonight.” He said instead, sounding robotic. “Could be weeks.”
You could only imagine what deployment in the S.A.S entailed, which meant you knew what he was really saying. I might never come back. I might never see you again.
“Oh.” You felt your eyes collecting moisture. You didn’t know why. Maybe something about your dad, maybe because you liked Simon more than you should. Maybe because, even if he didn’t feel anything for you, which he most probably didn’t, you still didn’t want him to go.
“Don’t miss me.” His eyes hardened in their usual defiant, cold stare. “We can’t be anything.”
“I know that.” Still, your chest tightened. Still, you had to wipe your eyes to stop them from betraying you.
A gentle patter hit the concrete under you both, drizzle soaking your clothes to your body. The rain became a wall between you.
“I have to go.” He said, his coarse voice carrying over to you.
“Okay.” You said stupidly. The rain dripping down your face probably disguised your tears.
Simon stepped forward, closing the space between you and reaching up, swiping a gloved finger across your cheek.
“None of that.” He said softly.
You were too close to each other. Your hands found his chest and just rested there, pressing your face against his sternum.
You felt fingers under your chin, and then you were looking up at his slackened brown eyes. You kissed eachother through the fabric of his mask. It was coarse, and wet, and your hand left his chest and pushed under the black fabric until you felt his carotid artery pulsing under your fingertips.
Simon growled quietly and yanked the mask the rest of the way up, resting the bunched up black fabric on the bridge of his nose, just as he’d done the other night sitting on your couch.
Your hand touched his jaw, and the skin-on-skin contact felt electric. His brows furrowed in need and he pushed his head against your hand, like a big cat, and then his lips were on yours.
Simon made a noise low in his throat while you whimpered, his hands gripped your hips and pulled you against his front as his lips moved against yours insistently. It was raining harder now, but neither of you seemed to care.
He pulled back far too soon, his mouth parted slightly, his wavering eyes watching you.
You trembled against him, your head fogged, your body sluggish and unresponsive.
“I don’t…” You murmured pathetically. You couldn’t even finish your sentence. I don’t want you to go. I don’t want you to die. I don’t want you to leave me. “I can’t…”
Simon looked worried, and careful, but not regretful. Neither were you, even though you were still crying, and even if it would make everything hurt that much worse in the end.
He pulled you closer to him, until you could feel the fabric of his mask and the softness of his skin again.
“Close your eyes.” He breathed against your cheek.
Your eyes slid shut. You felt his hands move from your hips. You felt the cool air against your front when he moved back.
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Out drinking with your friends and suddenly you hear yours and Simon’s “song”
cw: drunk calls/texts, as vague of a description of throwing up that I could manage
-
You thought you were over it. Over him. It’s only been a couple months but they weren’t really a hard couple months. You were fine. You were fine. So there was no reason for you to be staring at yourself in the bathroom mirror listening to the muffled sounds of the bar as mascara runs down your cheeks. Because you were fine.
There were more drinks than you could count buzzing through your system and it was like your phone was screaming your name, begging you to take it. Call him. Text him, anything. Just hear his voice again. It was a stupid idea but you were too drunk to care anymore. You fish your phone out of the pocket of your jacket and sway on your feet as you slowly unlock it and find Simon’s contact.
You dial the number, half expecting to have been blocked but it rings. And rings. And rings until you’re sent to voicemail. You hang up and try again. Voicemail. But by the fifth call, you decide to actually leave a message.
“Hey. S’me. Uh…” you exhale through your mouth, laughing at yourself for being so stupid. “M’drunk. But that- that’s not why I’m callin. I mean it kind of is, but I miss you.”
You stop talking for a few seconds, staring yourself in the mirror again. “Heard our song. Remember that one I kept playin in the car until you started singin along? Now I’m cryin in the bathroom and-“
You’re cut off by the time limit on the message and the call hangs up. But that doesn’t stop you, you call again and leave another message until you’re cut off and keep repeating that until you’ve said all that you’ve needed to. Then you put your phone away and stumble out of the bathroom, slurring to your friends that you were going home and you walk out into the cool night.
It was three in the morning and you were hammered crying over your ex. You check your phone for any response but there was nothing so you get to texting.
Hey.
Didyoh get ym messged?
I miss au si
Can I come iwvr?
Imco mign over
You look up at the street signs and try your best to remember the way to his apartment. Not that it was difficult, you would go out of your way to drive through his neighborhood sometimes. You find your way to his building and have to crawl up the stairs because you could barely walk anymore. Once you find his door, you lean against the door frame with your face in the crook between the frame and the door and start your drunk singing to try and get his attention.
“Simon, m’here. Open the door yeah? I wanna talk.”
You keep on with your mumbling and pitchy singing until the lock clicks and the door opens, revealing an out of focus but peeved Simon meeting your hazy eyes. “Y’have any idea what time it is?”
His voice made you want to cry. Even sounding angry with you, it was so nice to hear again that you almost broke down into tears right at his doorstep.
“I miss you.”
“Y’drunk.”
You whimper and push past him to get inside, not that he made any move to stop you anyway. You bump into walls and take a deep breath, remembering everything you’d ever done together. You start crying again as you make your way to his couch and flop face down, falling asleep immediately. Simon watches everything and sighs deeply, closing his eyes before locking the door again and laying a blanket over you. He leaves a trash can and water close enough for you to reach and goes back to bed.
The next morning, you wake up slowly and are immediately overcome with unbearable nausea. You shoot up and find the bin, emptying your stomach into it all before you could realize where you were. When you were done, you look around and your heart sinks.
“Oh fuck. Oh no. No no no no no.” You shakily stand up and pat yourself down to make sure you still had your things and book it to the door to make your escape.
“Y’should eat somethin before y’go.” Simon’s voice stops you in your tracks and you turn to see him standing there with a fresh cup of tea. He holds it out and you kind of have to take it, he already caught you trying to leave.
You say nothing and go to sit at the table while he makes something easy on your stomach, also in silence. He brings you a plate of toast and some eggs, sitting across from you. You eat as quiet as you could and stare at your plate just wishing you could disappear.
“Why’d y’only call me because y’were drunk?”
You look up at him and struggle to swallow the bite of toast you’d just taken. “I…I’m sorry.”
“Not what I asked.”
“I heard that one song. And it just brought me back.” You explain, fighting back another wave of tears. “I miss you, Simon. I thought I was over you. I’m not.”
“I can see that.” He huffs and leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “And what, y’thought callin me at three in th’morning would change my mind? Instead of actin like a normal person and givin it a try sober?”
“I said I was sorry, I-“
“If you’re sorry, you’ll call when you’re coherent and not pityin y’self. Try again and maybe I’ll wanna talk.” Simon stands up and start heading back to his room. “And be out in ten minutes, I got work.”
You watch him disappear and can’t even finish eating. You leave, waiting until you got home to cry. But there was an odd sense of hope. He said to try again, maybe you could fix what you broke?
f!reader, smut mdni, PIV, blood, mentions of violence, size kink.
You only notice it because your hand slips.
It had been curled at the back of his neck, fingers buried in his hair beneath the edge of his mask, holding on until your knuckles went bloodless because there is nothing else to do when Simon Riley is above you like this; one forearm braced beside your head, your knees spread and pulled back to your chest, his weight pressing you into the mattress with his hips grinding slow and mean like he has all the time in the world to ruin you.
You’re boneless under him - open-mouthed, shaking, letting him take you apart more and more with each of those deep, deliberate strokes that make your thoughts scatter into useless little pieces.
All is perfect until your hand slips, and you feel your thumb drag over something tacky.
You blink up at him through the haze, thinking maybe you’re imaging things - but then you see it. There, smeared dark along the thick column of his neck, just under his jaw.
Blood.
Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”
He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.
“What?”
Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”
For a second, he just stares at you.
Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”
The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.
Not mine.
They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.
So you just stare at him.
At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.
His gloves, first.
They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.
Your gaze flicks lower.
His shirt, too.
Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.
He cleaned up.
The thought comes through the haze in pieces.
Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.
You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”
Simon watches your mouth form the words.
Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.
His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.
“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”
A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.
You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.
“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”
Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.
His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.
Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.
“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”
Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.
For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.
But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.
“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”
Your nails bite into his shoulder.
“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“
His hips move before you can say anything else.
A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.
“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”
Your stomach twists.
You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.
He pulls out just to thrust in again.
Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.
Simon feels it.
“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”
Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.
There is blood on him.
Someone else’s blood.
Graves’s blood.
The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.
You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.
Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.
Simon watches the realization move across your face.
“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”
Your voice is barely a whisper.
His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”
The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.
You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.
He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.
Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”
For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.
His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.
“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.
Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”
Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.
It doesn’t.
It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.
But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.
It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.
Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.
Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.
Simon feels it. Of course he does.
He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.
Your face burns.
“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.
His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”
The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.
Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”
“There she is.”
Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.
Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.
“You liked that.” He croons.
You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.
“N-no.”
His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.
“Liar.”
Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.
And now he has caught you reacting to it.
Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.
Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.
“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.
His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.
“You should be callin’ me reckless.”
Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.
His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.
Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.
It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.
“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.
You swallow. “You can’t—”
He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.
Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.
Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.
“I can’t what?” He murmurs.
You try.
You really do.
You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.
“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”
“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”
You can’t.
Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.
Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.
“Too far gone to scold me now?”
You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.
And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.
“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.
“So am I.”
“Simon—”
“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”
Your breath leaves you in a gasp.
He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.
“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”
Your face burns hotter.
You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.
But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.
He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”
“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”
His eyes flash. “There she is.”
“I mean it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.
“Try that again.”
You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.
“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”
“Probably.”
“Price is going to—”
“Already did.”
You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”
His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.
“Read me the riot act.”
Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”
“Yes.”
Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”
Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.
When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”
God. You think he’s lost his mind.
“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“
He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.
“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”
His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.
“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”
The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”
You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”
“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”
You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.
He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”
You do.
“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”
You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.
“And if he talks about you like that again?”
You barely manage the whisper. “What?”
Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”
For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.
One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.
“Leave it.”
Your breath trembles. “Why?”
His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”
And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.
Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”
Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.
You’re Simon’s for as long as you’re both breathing.
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Ghost who doesn’t know how to flirt like a normal person, instead asks “How much d’you weigh?”
Shadow falling over you, broad enough to swallow the reflection in the mirror behind the machine you were just using at the gym. You look up and find Ghost standing there in a black compression shirt stretched tight across his chest, mask in place even here, eyes flat and unreadable above the fabric. One gloved hand resting on the frame of your machine.
The question lands blunt, no lead up, no softening. Like he’s asking for the time or the weather. Your mouth goes dry. He’s too close, too big, the sheer width of him making the space between you feel airless.
You could tell him to fuck off. Should. But the words stick somewhere behind your teeth, and what comes out instead is a mumbled number, barely loud enough to carry, your eyes dropping to the seam where the mat meets the floor.
He doesn’t react at first. Just tilts his head a fraction, that slow, assessing cock of it Then, low and rough through the mask: “Lighter than I’m used to.”
Confusion flickers across your face but he’s already moving, already loading the bar next to you with plates that match the number you gave him exactly, no hesitation, no adjustment. The barbell settles across the padded support with a dull clank.
You should look away. You don’t.
He lies back on the bench, plants his feet wide, and rolls the bar into place across the jut of his hips. One smooth motion and he drives up, hips snapping high, the loaded bar rising clean with the power of it, his body locking into a straight line from shoulders to knees. The muscles in his thighs flex hard under the fabric of his shorts. Up, hold, lower. Up again. The bar doesn’t even tremble under the weight.
It takes a beat for the meaning to sink in. Heat crawls up your neck, tightens in your chest, but it doesn’t stop there. It drops lower, coils hot and insistent right behind your navel and settles between your legs with a heavy, liquid pulse, cunt clenching around nothing. The reaction is immediate and traitorous, slick gathering hot and fast, soaking into the seam of your leggings, clit throbbing in time with every snap of his hips.
Oh.
(Ghost who doesn’t know how to flirt but somehow it works every time.)
