⟡ ˖ Just A Cloud Passing By ‧₊☁️

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Your world is small, contained.

A dim operations room buried somewhere deep in the base, humming with electricity and recycled air. The overhead lights are always too soft or too harsh—never just right—so you’ve taken to leaving only your desk lamp on. It casts a warm, golden pool over your workspace, leaving the rest of the room in a kind of permanent twilight.

Screens line the wall in front of you—six in total, each flickering with different feeds: satellite imaging, drone footage, helmet cams. One is always reserved for him.

Ghost.

Though you never call him that out loud. Not really.

To you, he’s just a voice. A presence. A constant thread in your ear during long nights and longer missions.

You know the cadence of his breathing when he’s crouched and waiting. The way his voice drops half a register when something’s wrong. The quiet, almost imperceptible hitch when he’s injured but refusing to say it.

You know him in pieces.

“Talk to me, bird,” he says one night, softer than usual.

You glance at his feed. He’s tucked behind a crumbling wall, dust coating the camera lens. There’s blood—dark and drying—on his glove.

“Two tangos left,” you reply. “One on your six, slow approach. Other’s posted near the exit.”

A pause.

Then, quieter.

“You always watchin’ me that close?”

Your fingers still for half a second before you recover.

“It’s my job.”

A faint huff of something that might be a laugh.

“Right.”

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It becomes routine.

Late hours. Your voice guiding him through shadows. His voice grounding you when the silence between updates stretches too long.

Sometimes, when the mission lulls, he talks.

Not much. Never too much.

But enough.

“You ever leave that room, bird?” he asks once.

You glance around at your little corner of the world—half-empty coffee mug, a blanket thrown over the back of your chair, a sticky note peeling off your monitor with scribbled doodles and coordinates.

“Sometimes,” you say. “I think.”

“Think?”

“It’s… easy to lose track of time in here.”

A quiet hum through the comms. Thoughtful.

“Sounds like a cage.”

You swallow, eyes flicking back to his feed.

“Not really.”

A beat.

Then, softer than you’ve ever heard him.

“Still.”

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You imagine him, sometimes.

Not the mask—that’s all anyone ever sees.

You imagine the man underneath. The lines of his face, the thoughts in his mind, the way he probably looks at a room before stepping into it.

You build him from fragments.

From silence.

From the way he says your name—rare, but it happens.

From the way he says bird—like it means something.

The first time something goes wrong, really wrong, your hands shake.

“Ghost, you need to move. Now.” Your voice is tighter than you’d like, eyes darting across the feeds. “They’ve rerouted—there’s a squad heading straight for you.”

No response.

“Ghost.”

Static.

Your chest tightens.

“Simon.”

The name slips out before you can stop it.

And suddenly—

“I’m here.”

Relief hits so hard it almost hurts.

“I lost visual,” you say quickly, forcing yourself back into focus. “Camera’s down. You’re blind to me.”

“Not blind,” he mutters. “Still got you, don’t I?”

Your throat goes dry.

You guide him anyway. Off memory, off instinct, off the rhythm you’ve built together over countless missions.

Step by step.

Breath by breath.

Until he’s out.

Safe.

They tell you later it was close.

Too close.

You stay in your chair long after the room empties, screens dimming one by one until only your desk lamp remains.

The silence is louder than gunfire.

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You don’t expect to meet him.

Handlers don’t meet operators. That’s not how this works. You’re voices, not faces. Ghosts in different ways.

So when your door opens one evening—quiet, deliberate—you don’t look up right away.

“Room’s off-limits,” you say absently, eyes still scanning reports. “You’ll need—”

You stop.

Because the room feels… different.

Heavier.

You look up slowly.

And there he is.

Filling the doorway like something pulled straight out of shadow. Broad shoulders, tactical gear, the skull mask stark in the low light. Real in a way that steals the air from your lungs.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then—

“…Bird.”

It’s quieter in person. Rougher. Real.

Your heart stutters.

“You’re not supposed to be here..” you manage.

“Yeah,” he says, stepping inside anyway, boots barely making a sound against the floor. “Got that impression.”

He looks around your space—your screens, your notes, your carefully controlled chaos.

“This where you’ve been watchin’ me from?”

You nod, suddenly very aware of how small the room is. How close he is.

“All of it,” you say. “Every mission.”

His gaze shifts back to you.

You can’t see his eyes. Not really. But you feel them.

Heavy. Intent.

“Then I figured,” he says slowly, “it’s about time I saw you back.”

Something tightens in your chest.

“You didn’t have to—”

“Wanted to.”

The words land heavier than they should.

Silence stretches between you, but it’s not uncomfortable. Not like before. Not like the empty kind.

This is… full.

“You’re quieter in person..” you say softly.

A faint tilt of his head.

“Am I?”

“Yeah.” You hesitate. “But less… hidden.”

A low exhale. Not quite a laugh.

“Funny..,” he murmurs. “Was gonna say the same about you.”

Your lips twitch.

“Guess we’re both a little different off comms.”

“Maybe.” He steps closer—slow, deliberate, giving you time to pull away if you want to.

You don’t.

Up close, he’s overwhelming. Not just in size, but in presence. Like standing too close to a storm.

But there’s something else, too.

Something familiar.

“You called me Simon.” he says quietly.

Heat rushes to your face.

“I—thought I lost you.”

A pause.

Then, softer..

“Didn’t.”

Your breath catches.

For a moment, it feels like you’re still on comms—like this is just another fragile thread of connection stretched across distance.

Except there’s no distance now.

Just him.

Just you.

Just the quiet hum of the room that’s held your voice for so long.

“Guess I’m not just a voice anymore.” you say.

“No,” he agrees.

A beat.

Then, low and certain.

“Still my bird, though.”

and of course it only gets worse when you finally make it to your feet - teeth brushed twice after two whole water bottles and a shower hot enough to burn the devil out of hell - and notice something silver glinting on the table by your door that most definitely wasn’t there yesterday morning.

“oh…god.” your heart flips up into your throat.

his dog tags.

you’ve known simon long enough to know what this is. he didn’t forget them. he didn’t misplace them. he left them there to tell you he heard every fuckin word you said and he’s not letting you off the hook for it. it’s a test. if you meant it - which you did - you’ll bring them to him. you’ll say it to him sober like he asked.

a man of morals. who knew war criminals had it in them.

you spend what has to be a full ten minutes just staring at them - like maybe you’re still drunk, maybe you’re seeing things and they’ll vanish if you focus hard enough. maybe you can unsay every devastatingly honest thing you said with sheer mental fortitude alone and they’ll magically fly back to him on their own.

spoiler alert: they don’t move. because of course they don’t. and it takes another ten before you finally stuff them into your pocket.

it’s probably best to just rip the bandaid off. bring them to him before you have to face him infront of the others in mess or briefing - damage control before the rest of the world finds out about the stunt you pulled. you don’t even know what you’re going to say - sorry? thanks? let’s just pretend i never told you i fantasize about fucking you when i can’t sleep?

fuck. it doesn’t matter. you know you owe him the return. a peace offering, a penance, a silent white-flag kind of knock on his door.

and so you walk the hall like it’s the green mile. you’ve never done a walk of shame but you imagine this has got to be as close as it comes. his door is shut when you reach it, and you stand in front of it like a coward for another unnecessary amount of time - complexion almost ill. ghostly. like you could float right through the fuckin wood if the wind blew hard enough.

finally, you knock.

it’s a moment, and then he answers, filling his doorframe with those thick shoulders stretching a tight black t-shirt, looking right as rain besides damp hair and bloodshot eyes.

you wonder, fleetingly, if he even slept. but then his gaze drops over the length of you and you busy yourself with fighting the urge to run for your fucking life.

you clear your throat. “can i..uh. can we talk?”

he nods and pops the door open, gesturing for you to come in. you take a few steps into his room - dark, organized, rather sparse - and nearly jump out of your flesh when the door shuts behind you. the click of a cell door closing, announcing your sealed fate.

you spin to face him once his boots have stopped dragging across the tiles, and find him leaning back against his desk - ankles and arms crossed.

you swallow, and pull the tags from your pocket. “i um. i think you forgot these.”

his brow twitches, barely, as he takes a glance at your hand. a flash of something behind his eyes you can’t name.

“did i?” he doesn’t move.

you shift your weight. the mortification could eat you alive. you’re certain it currently is.

“figured i’d bring them back.” you add, quieter now, trying your fucking hardest to sound normal. like you didn’t just spend the night saying all kinds of unholy things into the palm of his hand. “incase…uh, you were looking for them.”

he still doesn’t take them.

“strange,” his lips tilt. the first sign he’s shown that he's enjoying this. “coulda sworn i left em’ somewhere on purpose.”

your stomach flips. you try to laugh but it’s brittle. “right. sure.”

he shrugs. “not the kinda thing i usually misplace.”

you bite the inside of your cheek so hard you think it might bleed, unsure how to respond to that. it’s hard to even breathe with the way he’s watching you - like he’s taking notes - reading everything you’re not saying in the line of your mouth, in the way your fingers tremble around the chain of his tags.

“shaky this mornin, yeah?” he says, just casually knocking the rest of the wind out of your chest.

“i-“

you falter, because what the fuck are you even supposed to say? no, i’m fine. i’m totally good, actually. i definitely didn’t spend all morning curled fetal, praying to gods who’ve certainly damned me for a head injury so i can forget the mental car crash that was last nights events.

simon waits, eyes blazing like you’re a twitchy little experiment. trying to see which wire makes you spark the hardest.

you clear your throat. try again. “m’just tired.”

“mm.” he hums with a lazy nod. “musta been all that talkin you were doin.”

and there it is. here it comes.

“can’t really remember, but i’m sure it’s part of it.” you lie with a forced laugh. lie so awkwardly it hurts. “tequila. you know how it is.”

“do i ever.” he replies, dragging a hand through his damp hair.

silence stretches thick, after that. it’s so thick it makes the walls feel closer, the floor feel further away. you avert your gaze, and realize almost immediately how big of a mistake that is because the motion pulls your eyes across his forearm - his bare, inked forearm, tendons flexing with the movement he’s making.

you remember that arm last night, wrapped tight around your waist. pulling you close before you moaned god yes and please beneath the big hand attached to it like fucking gospel.

when you flinch, he smirks. not even pretending like he didn’t notice. “y’remember nothin from last night, then?”

your eyes snap up to his. you hate yourself for the fact that all of last nights confidence seems to be no where in fucking sight.

“well, uh, it’s fuzzy but…i remember bits.”

“bits.” he echos. nodding. “yeah. must be a shame.”

oh god.

“shame?”

“shame t’forget all that detail.” he lets the words sink in, watching your face as he leans a hand on the desk behind him. “pretty interestin things. real deep. could write a bloody novel, the way y’were goin on.”

“oh.” you choke, again, and mentally slap yourself. get it together. “well. thats-“

he hums again. “suppose i could walk y’through it.”

“walk me-“

earth tilts. he doesn’t let you finish. “y’know. help piece it together. fill in the gaps.”

“you don’t-you don’t have to-“

he lifts a hand to gesture vaguely toward his bed. your pulse races to the moon.

“your room, y’were right there. lookin at me like i was gonna eat y’alive.” his voice lowers. you swallow and it tastes like sin. his finger shifts to the space before his bed. pointing at the edge. “and i was right there, tryin’ like hell t’be a fuckin gentleman.”

you could laugh, maybe cry, or just absolutely combust right there on the floor because it all floods back in an instant. the way you moaned his name when he knelt over you to undo your boots. the way your thighs tensed as you told him you think about him. the way you stared at him while your brain short circuited and your mouth betrayed every secret you thought you’d die with.

part of you did die, you suppose. the part with your dignity. right there on the floor of your room, next to your boots he took off.

“look, simon-“

he steps closer now. just a step. “y’said you’d been into me for ages.”

you blink, holding your breath.

“said y’think bout me when y’cant sleep.” his voice is a rasp now, the muscle in his jaw ticks. “i asked y’a question, then. d’you remember it?”

fucking hell.

“yes.” you exhale.

“what was it.”

your heart is a jackhammer, breaking through your sternum.

“you-you asked if i think about you when…” you hesitate, and he cocks an eyebrow. “…when i touch myself.”

“yeah.” he says lowly. a breath, not a word. “tha’s right.”

your skin is burning and your limbs feel foreign, at this point. you feel nerve endings pulsing in place you didn’t know you even had nerves.

“d’you remember your answer?” he continues, taking another step toward you.

and it’s then that the anxiety takes over - you blink twice and bite down until you taste blood, shaking your head no. not because you’ve forgotten - fucking hell you remember everything - but because saying it out loud feels like jumping out of a plane without a parachute.

he doesn’t buy it.

“mm, sure y’do.” he calls your bluff, says it so soft it’s almost a coo. “y’know i know your tells - two blinks while bitin the inside of your cheek.” his eyes gleam as his lips twitch. “y’can’t lie t’me, princess.”

christ, you can’t help but laugh at that. it’s exactly the reason why you’ve been into him - he’s perceptive and cunning and cocky all at once.

this is the man you’ve thought about fucking for months.

“yes.” you whisper in admittance. “i said yes.”

“god yes.” he corrects with another step until he’s so close you have to kink your neck back to meet his eyes. his shoulders swallow the edges of your vision until all you see is him. “…still true?”

you nod. a broken thing. “yes.”

“yeah?” his head tilts, the heat of him sweltering. “y’think bout me when y’put hands on yourself?”

“simon-“

he hushes you with a shake of his head, eyes dipping to your lips. “tell me.”

it’s then that you realize dragging this on is for nothing. whatever drunken confession you made last night clearly cracked open whatever restraint simon’s been exercising for months.

clearly whatever you feel, he’s feeling it too.

“yes.” you confess, as firm as you possibly can. nothing coy in it now. “yes, i think about you when im alone. when i touch myself…doesn’t even feel right unless im picturing you. your hands. touching me.”

it all comes out of you in a rushed whisper, desperate and dripping sweet from your lips like it’s been saturating behind your teeth for too long. when he doesn’t respond right away, you realize you’ve stunned him, and pull on whatever courage you have left to press forward.

“i’ve wanted you for so long ive stopped tryin to figure out when it started.” you murmur, lost in his eyes. “and you?”

his breath catches. just the faintest hitch, like he wasn’t prepared for the edge of your honesty to turn and face him instead. it’s delectable, the slight composure tilt, but it doesn’t last long. because slowly - slowly, his mouth curls into something wrecked. something that says fuckin hell, it’s on.

his knuckles come up to graze your jaw, he lowers his head until his lips find your ear—

“y’askin if i think bout you when i’ve got my fist wrapped round my cock?” you inhale sharply, then choke on it when his mouth brushes your lobe. “course i fuckin do.”

your hands lift timidly to find his shirt, curling into it, dog tags still clinking between your fingers.

“y’think i haven’t been losin sleep over you?” he continues, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “think i didn’t cum with your name in my mouth last night, after you begged so nice n pretty f’me to fuck y’senseless?”

your lashes flutter. his free hand slips around your waist. “fuck, simon-“

“i know, sweet’eart.” he murmurs it, almost gentle, like it’s something you share. “tha’s what y’need, ain’t it? f’me to admit you’re not the only one losin mind here.”

you nod, partly frantic and partly delirious, and he exhales something strained - something from somewhere deep, catching on the parts of him dying to stay patient.

“good.” his hand slides up the back of your shirt, while the other finds the one of yours still holding his tags. “y’really come here just to return these, then?”

“no.” it chokes out of you instantly, mouth tilting toward his. “you wanted me to say it to you sober. made a promise bout what you’d do if i did?”

something feral flashes over his face, at that. translated through the grip he tightens on your waist, the exhale he washes over your jaw.

“yeah.” he says, tight. “i did.”

his mouth is barely a breath from yours.

“well here i am. sober.” you whisper. “wanting you more than i did while drunk.”

he makes a sound you’ve never heard before. not a groan, not a moan, something deep and feral punched straight out of his chest.

“fuckin hell.”

and then he’s kissing you.

no more waiting, no more games. simon’s a man of his word and it shows in the way his mouth crashes into yours - hungry and bruising and impatient - teeth knocking, one hand fisting in the back of your shirt and tearing it off you while the other pulls you in. he spins you both so your ass hits the edge of his desk, and then breaks away - trailing spit slick lips down your jaw and throat, thick fingers working to tease the band of your sweats.

“tell me where y’want me, sweet’eart.” he growls into your pulse.

you blink, dazed. “i-what?”

his teeth graze just enough to make you whimper, before his mouth drags back up beside your ear - ruinous in the inflection.

“tell me how you’ve imagined it,” his finger tips slide under your waistband, just teasing. “what you’ve pictured when you’re thinkin’ of me like this. right ‘ere.”

“oh god, simon.” you moan by his words alone, too wound to be embarrassed, fingers cinched tight in the fabric of his shirt. “your-your fingers. your mouth. your cock-“

that sound again. deep and devastated. restraint being ripped out by the roots.

“fuck. filthy thing f’me, aren’t you?” he says, as two fingers slide lower, slipping under heat soaked fabric and finding your slit, pressing in no further than they need to before circling back up - spreading the mess you’ve made just to feel it. “you’re fuckin soaked.”

you whimper as he teases your clit. his mouth finds your throat again, teeth grazing where your pulse stutters wild beneath flushed skin. you don’t trust your legs to hold you upright under the weight of it all - his touch, his voice, the feral gleam in his eye when he looks at you like you’re some prophecy being fulfilled.

“s’this what i do t’you?” he murmurs. “just from talkin t’you like this?”

you nod, a frantic little thing. “yes-god, yes.”

he exhales hard like it's kicked out of him, tugging your sweats down until they slide off your ankles before he lifts you back onto his desk and parts your thighs with hands so big they nearly span the entire width of them.

you fucking moan at the sight.

and of course it only fuels him - braces you back on your elbows, spine arched, breath caught in your throat as he steps in close between your legs. his eyes drag down to where you glisten in the dim light - slick, flushed, waiting - and he lets out a curse before returning his fingers to your aching cunt.

he presses in one digit slow, then adds another. knuckle deep until your eyes roll, hips jerking at the stretch.

“oh, fuck-“

he hisses through his teeth. “tight little cunt. fuckin meltin f’me.”

his thumb catches your clit in the same motion - rubbing soft circles, pushing you closer, dragging you toward the edge with every brutal curl of his fingers inside you.

“that feel good?” he growls against your jaw. “touched y’self in bed thinkin bout me between your thighs like this?”

you’re panting now. shaking.

“i-“ you gasp. “yes, simon-yes-“

“yeah?” his thumb speeds up, his fingers pump deeper, your head spins. “and did y’cum like this? like you’re about to f’me now?”

you don’t answer fast enough. he bites at your jaw.

“tell me.”

“no-n-never like this—”

he growls something vile under his breath. “poor thing. s’okay. i’ve got you.”

your walls flutter around him, your thighs shaking where they frame his hips, and he feels it - feels the beginning of the end stutter through you.

“simon-“ you whinge.

he cuts you off. “look at me.”

you do. barely.

“tha’s it,” he breathes. “cum on my fuckin fingers. show me what i’ve been missin.”

you’re starved for it, beyond saving, and its only a couple more deep pumps before you break.

it floods through you - white hot and searing. you cry out his name as you clamp around his digits, trembling apart on his desk while he watches you like you’re art - jaw clenched, pupils blown - his fingers still moving, dragging you through it until you’re sobbing into his shoulder.

“there we go.” when it passes and you’re limp, blinking up at him stunned - he withdraws slowly. “attagirl. s’fuckin good.”

you swallow, watching wide eyed as he brings those same fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean.

“been dreamin bout that taste, knew it’d be sweet.” he purrs as he leans down, wiping his spit slick digits over your cheek. “gonna need it proper soon.”

you don’t even have time to question or respond to that, because then he’s unbuckling his belt.

when you finally look back up, his eyes are wild.

“s’this what y’want?” he murmurs, tugging leather through loops before undoing the button at his waist. “when you came t’me this mornin, all flushed and pretendin t’be innocent. was this it? wantin’ me to bend y’over and take what y’fuckin offered?”

you choke as he tugs himself free - thick, leaking at the tip and throbbing - bigger than anything you’ve ever seen, nevermind taken.

the nod that follows is compulsive desperation. “holy fuck-yes-“

he smacks light at your thigh. “stand up. bend over f’me.”

you do as you’re told without hesitation - legs shaking as you stand spin and lean forward over the desk - breath still stuttering in your chest, heart going a mile a minute. your hands barely meet wood before he’s on you - no preamble. no breath between. grabs your hips like it’s instinct, like his hands were molded to hold you like this, and yanks you back against him with a roughness that steals whatever’s left in your lungs.

you shudder when he slides his cock against your slit once - twice - dragging the head through slick and stalls notched just shy of your entrance, breathing hard like it’s killing him to wait.

“y’remember what else y’said last night?”

you barely manage a nod. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. he exhales something like a laugh.

“not compliments. not the fantasies. not the whining.” he drags through your mess again, slower this time. deliberate. “you said—“ his hips press forward just enough to make you gasp. “—you wondered if it’d hurt.”

you whine, embarrassed, but god it shoots straight through you. he bends low now, chest flush to your back, mouth to your ear.

“truth is, it might.” his lips curl into a smile. “so don’t fuckin run now.”

and then - only then - he pushes in. you gasp so hard your chest deflates on impact, thick head stretching sopping walls wide and dragging deeper than you’ve ever imagined - too much and not enough all at once.

“ohfuck-simon-“ your head drops toward the desk, eyes stinging.

“mm. tha’s it.” he groans, loud, burying himself halfway before pausing there. “tightest fuckin—bloody hell.”

he presses forward a little more - just enough to make your knees shake as he steadies you with one hand at your hip and grits his teeth. he pulls out just to feel you clench, then shoves back in - hard enough to jolt the desk and feed you all of him before you can even brace for it.

“ffffuck-ohfuck-“ you wail, knuckles bloodless where they clutch the desk. “you-you’re-“

“deep.” he bends over you, grabs a fistful of your hair, and drags your head back to his mouth, voice hot on your skin. “i fuckin know.”

he thrusts once. hard. then again. slower. deeper.

“jesus christ,” he undoes your bra with his free hand, paws at your tits until it hurts. “walked around this whole time with this cunt made f’me and didn’t say a fuckin word.”

“fuck simon-“

“yeah.” he grits against your ear. “tha’s how you moaned it last night. just like that.”

it’s punishing, the pace he sets. each snap of his hips smacking against your ass drags stars down into your retinas - body rocking and cervix kissed with each thrust - his grip is bruising and his mouth works at your neck, forcing noises out of you loud enough to rattle the fucking walls.

it doesn’t take long before your chest collapses onto slick wood, drool coated cheek pressed to the desk - vision bleeding white around the edges. he’s relentless - driven, brutal in rhythm, like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your voice out of his head, the memory of your thighs pressed together last night when he walked away instead of dropping to his knees and giving in.

he groans, open-mouthed, flushed everywhere. he’s not just fucking you. he’s wrecking you. dragging you across the edge by the throat and holding your broken pieces together with his own.

“mmf-fuck.” he snarls, burying his fist back in your hair. his palm cracks hard across your ass before snaking around your thigh to find your clit. devastating. “this. this is what i thought of for months. you. fuckin boneless f’me.”

he pulls out slow with a shuttering exhale, just enough for you to whine before he roars back in - hard and fast, fingers never slowing.

you shriek, squirming with no where to go.

“y’got no fuckin clue what y’did to me last night.” he’s panting, fingernails burning your scalp. “sat there slurrin filth. darin me t’do somethin bout it. tested every fuckin moral i’ve got.”

your second orgasm is a charging tide - and god, you know he feels it. you know by the way he rolls his fingers faster to chase it, moans in your ear when your walls flutter around him, fucks you deeper and slower just to drag you over by your hair.

“cum f’me. give me another.” he grits. “let me fuckin feel it sweet’eart.”

“ff-fuck simon! yes-yes-“

you sob, and then it hits you - violent and wet and cataclysmic - like every single one of your fantasies brought to life, like every pathetic orgasm you gave yourself to the thought of him and his fuckin hands all combined to create this. it’s stratospheric depths of bliss, all the colours of the rainbow erupting behind your eyes as he fucks you through it, not stalling his fingers until you’re sobbing.

“mhm. messy little thing.”

he growls with it before pulling out just enough to slap his cock against your soaked cunt, watching the slick stretch, the way you whine and arch out of pure fuckin instinct.

“look at this pretty cunt,” he rasps, teasing his tip over your clit. “drippin. tremblin. fuckin cryin f’me.”

you try to say something, try to catch a breath, but that all falls void as he thrusts back in without warning - one brutal, complete thrust, pushing everything out of you. screams, his name, your fucking soul. he groans as his hand finds your jaw, forcing your head to turn just enough so he can see your face. cheeks flushed, tears caught in your lashes.

“shh. don’t run—don’t fuckin run,” he growls against your mouth, arm cinched tight across your waist when your hips jerk away like it’s too much. “y’asked for this. said it t’me sober.”

“si-simon. please.” it’s breathless, ruined, wrecked beyond meaning, your mouth falling open on another sob when his hips grind deeper, when the head of him kisses a spot that has your knees giving out entirely. “fuck. s’good. s’m-much-“

“yeah?” he snarls. “s’good, huh?”

you nod something pathetic, lost for words. broken around him.

“want y’to think bout this when you’re alone.” his free hand drags down to your stomach, rests just high on your pelvis, feeling where he’s drilling. “how deep m’buried in this tight little cunt. how good my name feels in your fuckin throat.”

another nod. another hiccuped moan dragged out of you. “y-yes-yes i’ll think about it-mmff-“

“mhm,” he kisses you once. fleeting and viscous and hot. “good. s’good.”

a few more ragged thrusts and a sound gets torn from him, pulled from somewhere deep, feral and hoarse and ragged. his hips punch forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and then—

“fuck—fuck.”

he lets go.

he groans, voice breaking at the edges, forehead falling to the space between your shoulder blades. he pulses deep inside you, all of his pent up heat flooding you full until he’s spent, until he’s got nothing left to give and collapses against your back in one shuddering, boneless exhale.

and when it’s over, it’s just breathing - a long quiet moment full of everything neither of you know how to say before you register that he’s moving - leaning over you to grab at where his dog tags were discarded on the desk.

he slips them around your neck, and then pulls out.

When she reached him she leaned on his chest, pressing her stomach to his and wrapping her arms around his waist, melting into him. This was one of her favorite things, just standing with him.

And normally it was his too.

But this time he went ridged underneath her hands, spine ramrod straight. He tried to pull in his stomach, praying that she wouldn't notice his odd behavior. Praying that she wouldn't notice anything.

Unfortunately for him, his wife noticed everything about him.

"Simon," she pulled back slowly, just enough that she could see his face but still held him in her arms. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, dove." He cleared his throat, avoiding her eyes. "Why do you ask?"

She eyed him suspiciously, then sank back into the hug, watching him in the mirror. "Okay."

He exhaled, glad that she was gonna drop it. At least, that's what he thought.

She slowly unwrapped her arms, sliding her hands to meet his soft sides. Simon tensed back up, reaching to grab her hands and gently put them back around him.

"What're you doing baby?" She asked, closely observing his expression.

"Just really love hugging you, 'sall." He murmured into her hair, still avoiding her eyes.

Y/N pulled away again, cradling his face in one hand and running her fingers through his hair with the other. Simon sighed, closing his eyes and sinking into her touch.

"Well I'm flattered Si," she whispered, "But I know that's not quite the whole reason."

He froze, still not opening his eyes.

"Talk to me," she pressed a kiss to his cheek, "Let me carry this with you."

Simon could feel his resolve melting away with every time her hands ran through his hair. Maybe he would share this with her, as embarrassing as it may be. His sweet wife had never been the type to make fun of him.

He opened his eyes and stood up straight, keeping his arms wrapped around her but watching himself closely in the mirror.

"Do you, uh-" he cleared his throat. "Do you think I've gotten too soft since retiring?"

She tilted her head up at him, "What do you mean?"

Simon pulled away from her fully and gestured to his gut.

"Look at me, when we got together I was damn near bloody chiselled, and now," he took to squishing his stomach, then turning to look at her.

"Look how tight my pants are now." He pulled at the waistband. "I can barely get 'em zipped anymore."

Simon plopped himself onto the edge of the bed, putting his elbows on his knees and staring at her feet.

"Guess I'm just worried I'm not quite the man you fell in love with anymore."

It was silent in the room for a few moments, the only reason he knew she hadn't left was because he'd been watching her feet. He could feel something welling up in his chest, fear, sadness, and resignation.

An ugly combination.

But slowly, her feet started moving. And soon enough, his wife was standing right in front of him.

"You're right Simon, you aren't quite the same man I fell in love with."

His head snapped up, the same time he felt a crack in his chest, but before he could get a word out she had his face cradled in her palms.

"And I'm not quite the same woman you fell in love with. That's what happens when you spend years of your life with someone." Y/N gazed down at him with such adoration that he could feel her love radiating into his chest.

"And yes love, you are much softer than you were at first, and I'm mighty proud of that."

His head tilted in confusion.

"I've worked real hard at getting you nice and plump." She squeezed his side. "Now that you're able to relax, I wanted to make sure that you were eating enough. Have to keep my husband nice and full."

Simon blinked at her. "Dove, are you telling me that you've been fattening me up on purpose?"

She blushes violently, glancing away from him as her ears burned. "That's not the point, Simon."

He stood up in front of her, wrapping his arms around her waist. "I think that's very much the point, sweet wife." He chuckled to himself. "Here I was worried you wouldn't be attracted to me anymore, when this had been your sneaky little scheme all along."

She shook her head, burying her face into his chest. "I can't help that I like you soft." She murmured. "Means that you finally feel safe. And besides," she pulled back and looked at him directly.

"You don't mind that I'm soft, do you?"

Simon scoffed immediately, like the very notion was preposterous. "Absolutely not." He grasped her waist, squeezing appreciatively. "I love my wife with some softness on her. Just gives me more to love."

Y/N hummed with a smile, burying her face back into his chest. "And I love you Simon, no matter how soft you are."

a/n

the grimace on his face deepened, brows furrowed so tightly the crease threatened to become permanent, his nicked lips twisting into a displeased, dangerous snarl, wearing a wolfish muzzle.

he didn't want to yield, throwing his resistance back into the room with a heavy, thundering grunt. yet you merely arched a single eyebrow in response, letting out a soft sigh as you stood up with a noticeable struggle, your palm immediately cupping the low, heavy fullness of your pregnant belly.

the fur pelt dangled loosely from your delicate shoulders in a futile attempt at a robe, leaving your body entirely unguarded. your plump breasts fully revealed, bouncing with the waddling movement, and your shadow drenched cunt completely exposed as your dewy thighs parted to bear your weight.

simon shifted, not yet releasing his captive, though he had lowered him close enough for his boots to graze the rug, relieving the tension on the body but keeping his iron grip locked. brawny back seeming to stretch even wider, rolling beneath fur lined robe, blocking the entire room, keeping you covered behind him, as he would take the head of any man, brother in arms or not, who dared look at your bare skin.

you placed a gentle palm right between his shoulder blades, feeling the muscle twitch and knot under your fingers, almost shivering, his spine locking as your nails dragged along the ridges of scarred back. he glanced at you over his sharp shoulder, expression menacing as he loomed, angular jaw tightened so fiercely that a muscle leaped in his scarred cheek.

his defined features twisted, dense eyebrows scrunched tight enough to harden his gaze into ice. “leave him be, husband” you repeated, your voice firmer this time, dropping all the softness, a command issued to a beast that obeyed no one else. finally, his fingers loosened, agonizingly slow, knuckles giving out, as he made a deliberate show of his reluctance.

had it been up to him, the man's throat would have been snapped by now. his scarred fingers stretching apart one by one until his grip was torn away, and the poor, raggedly coughing man crumpled to his knees, unable to utter a word.

“if i sei yau around the next' morning, yau're gonna be fed to the wolves until yau stop screaming” it is an easily understandable warning, more of an animalistic bark than human speech. the wretch didn't wait around, scrambling frantically from his knees, wobbling so violently he nearly struck his head against the doorframe, before disappearing with a ragged heave as the ogive arched door slammed shut, the force of it shaking the flickering flames within the hearth.

simon wheeled around toward you with a slow, heavy deliberation, wanting you to see the raw anger burning in his chest, anger meant for you, too. but the silence held, no words escaping him the moment your lips smudged softly across his bicep and your hands reached upward. you beckoned him in, and he bent without a shred of resistance, allowing your fingertips to trace a small, intricate braid at his dirty blonde temple, his short hair kept presentable in the proud tradition of the north.

slowly, his rigid features began to soften. his eyes shut, eyelashes swooping low across high cheekbones while your thumb smoothed each hard wrinkle away. finally, his massive hands reached out to settle upon your hips, girdling the full, plush curve his fingers had kneaded into.

“he had no right' to sei yau lik' that', the bastard” simon let out a low, resonant thrum rather than his usual rasp, affectionately butting his head into your open palm, and you nodded, offering him a tender smile. he didn't, that's right, but the door wasn't closed, and your moans were swallowed by a hungry, canine mouth as your sweat salted body bounced up and down his gorged cock.

pussy lips split wide as you creamed, slick spilling out to drench his coarse pubes, nails digging into his belly, into fat and muscle, scratching at the hairs there. breaking skin while he helped your hips roll, pregnancy making you restless, but quickly to exhaust, panting against his kiss swollen lips, your swollen flesh hot and pulsing around his throbbing girth.

his hands ascended your curves, bypassing the hips he had kneaded raw, calloused palms slowing to a crawl the second they glided over your baby bump. he cradled the low fullness for a quiet moment, feeling for the warmth and shifting shape of the life growing within, before mapping his way further, though not without tracing the silver web of stretch marks with a gentle thumb.

you trembled as he cupped your breasts, fitting perfectly into his large palms, settling heavy into the curve while your nipples peaked instantly at his touch, prompting him to circle them just to hear you whimper. your spine arched, frame straining closer to his solid heat as you tilted your head to burrow beneath his stubbled jaw, seeking his support.

simon hushed you with a low, purring rumble “my gorgeaus wife'” hooking his fingers into the fur pelt collar that still dangled from your shoulders. he let it slide down, cascading across your back with a ticklish whisper before pooling on the floorboards, discarded at your trembling feet.

his palm glided down the length of your spine, tracing every vertebrae, fingers pressing into the sensitive notch of your tailbone before settling lower, dimpling at the pert asscheeks. corded forearm hooking securely beneath to hoist you upward into his embrace, bed a destination.

simon laid you across the thick furs and wooly blankets, the sheets crumpled and still reeking with his raw musk, a heavy blend of warm spice and rich, winter pine wood, with the sweet note of your spring petals and fresh citrus tangled underneath, until the pillows were drenched in it. he ripped his robe away, tossing it carelessly toward the bed's edge.

the warm firelight caught the expanse of his fair skin and the hairs dappled across his ample chest in gold and red. his jagged scars almost gleam in the guttering shadows, precum droplets pearly at his swollen, rudy cockhead. he's hung, brought to fully erect quickly, ballsack heavy, and had the two of you not been interrupted, he would have already been driving you into another relentless round.

your cunt spasms at the sight, hole still loose and slick drenched, spongy walls needily empty, aching to be plugged to the brim. he did not hurry, whispering tender nothings as he leaned over you, stretching his massive frame out over the mattress. too large for the frame, his legs extending past the edge when straight, hulking shoulders forcing your knees wide to accommodate him.

he showered every exposed inch of your skin with branding kisses, crooked nose nuzzling against your pelvic bone, carefully avoiding the fleshy nub for now. he moved upward to your pregnant belly and lingered there, his kisses turning featherlight, while his hands glided up your heaving ribs and sternum to curve beneath buxom breasts.

thumbs stroking sensitive skin in lazy, heavy circles, melting into the mattress, while your fingers nestled deep in his messy blonde hair, scratching his scalp until a low, animal thrum vibrated from his chest and through you.

ghost who spots you standing near the barriers and physically slows down. after months away it's always a little shocking, seeing you in person again, seeing someone soft after spending so much time surrounded by hard things seeing home

ghost who notices you're trying very hard not to move, hands clasped together, biting the inside of your cheek, eyes already shiny. he instantly realizes this challenge is about to fail spectacularly

ghost who feels his chest tighten the second your eyes meet. god, he missed you. he missed you so much it stopped feeling like a normal emotion somewhere around month two. after that it became something else entirely, something that sat permanently beneath his ribs

ghost who watches your entire expression collapse. the determination? gone the attempt at self-control? gone. because suddenly you're looking at him like you've been holding your breath for months

ghost who doesn't even make it a second himself. that's the funny part: everyone assumes it'll be you. but the second he sees your face his feet are already moving

ghost who starts walking toward you immediately, long strides, eyes never leaving yours and you break the second you realize he's coming

ghost who sees you start running and for one brief moment he actually smiles, a real one, the kind that almost nobody ever gets to see

ghost who opens his arms before you even reach him. there is absolutely no universe where he's making you stop at arm's length after months apart. absolutely none

ghost who catches you when you practically throw yourself at hiim, arms wrapping around his neck, face immediately buried against his chest. his arms lock around you so quickly it's almost startling. like muscle memory, like instinct and like he's been imagining this exact moment every night before sleep

ghost who lifts you clean off the ground without thinking because he needs you closer. having you pressed against him still doesn't feel close enough somehow

ghost who buries his face against the side of your head, eyes closed. just for a second, just long enough to breathe you in. he missed that too: your shampoo, your perfume. you

ghost who doesn't say anything immediately. his throat suddenly feels tight: emotions have never been his strongest skill. he's spent months imagining this and somehow reality is worse or better, maybe both

eventually all he manages is "there she is." voice rough and completely wrecked

ghost who keeps one hand cradling the back of your head the entire time, fingers tangled in your hair: protective and grounding like he's reassuring himself you're real

ghost who notices you're crying immediately because he notices everything about you. especially now "hey." forehead pressing against yours, gloved thumb wiping beneath your eye "don't cry." meanwhile he's holding you like if he lets go you'll disappear

ghost who absolutely forgets there's an audience. forgets about soap filming, forgets about the entire base. the second you're in his arms nothing else matters. nothing

ghost who gets mercilessly teased afterward when everyone watches the video. the footage shows you breaking almost instantly but it also very clearly shows ghost reaching for you first before you've even started moving, before the challenge technically begins. already opening his arms, already walking toward you

soap replaying it over and over

"look at him." "lt lasted about half a second." "didn't even pretend."

and ghost just stares at him, expression completely blank before taking the phone and secretly sending the video to himself

ghost who watches it alone later that night, not because of himself but because of you because it catches the exact moment your face lights up when you see him. the exact moment you stop trying to be brave. the exact moment you run straight into his arms like you belong there and for a man who's spent most of his life feeling untethered from everything

that's his favorite thing he's ever seen

© BITTERSWEETLYBLUE. do not copy, translate, edit my work then claim it as your own, attempt to plagarise or repost it on any other website nor feed into AI. you will be blocked.

A/N: bro ive been pumping two of these (one for rafe) and im so tired i was convinced i spelt ghost wrong lmaoo, hope you guys enjoy