Simon is having the best time of his life.

For the last couple of weeks, he's been deployed away from home on another grueling mission where he was more machine than man, more weapon than human, and there's nothing that helps him relieve stress more than when he's like this, sprawled out on his bed, the laptop next to him playing one of his favourite productions on full volume.

He's lost in his own imagination, the sounds coming from the small speakers amplifying the scenarios playing behind his closed eyes. His eyebrows furrow, sweat rolling down the valley between his wide shoulders, lips parted, bicep flexing with every-

A sharp, loud knock cuts through his concentration. The image in his head scatters like puzzles, and he groans, loudly, in frustration. The knocking doesn't stop. He pauses the video and tips his head back, staring at the ceiling for a moment before he forces himself up, replacing his earlier thoughts with thoughts of kicked puppies and sad kittens.

When he opens the door, you blink up at him, seeming just as confused by this interaction as he is, as if you're not the one to initiate it.

"Uh, you're loud."

"Was I?" He says, slightly out of breath. "I'll keep it down."

You nod, shifting from one leg to the other, cheeks flushed. "I have work early in the morning, so just for tonight..."

He quickly nods. "I got you, don't worry, luv. I didn't realise I was being so loud."

"Thank you..."

He swallows, trying very hard to keep his eyes on yours instead of on your bare legs. It's not the first time he sees you. He often runs into you when he's off duty, either when you're on your way back from work or shopping or running errands, but god, he'd be lying if he said this isn't, by far, his favourite look of you: hair a mess, oversized, sleeping shirt barely skimming your thighs, eyes half lidded from sleep and, his favourite part, a little spark of annoyance in your gaze.

His cock twitches in his sweatpants.

"Your, um, lady friend, too," you add.

Simon blinks down at you, confused for a second, and then it hits him. You thought he was in there fucking someone. As much as he wants to correct you, the truth is far more embarrassing.

He smiles, all neighbourly and polite like he wasn't just imagining dicking you down mere seconds ago. "I'll let her know, luv. Need anything else?"

You give him a slow once over, and Simon is actually glad he didn't think of putting on a shirt before opening the door. His cock presses against the soft fabric of his sweatpants, hard and throbbing just from that little up and down look you shot him.

"No," you say, already turning to leave. "That's all."

Simon tilts his head and watches you leave. He's painfully hard now, and seeing your behind doesn't help at all. What it does help with, however, is providing more scenarios for him. He shuts the door and goes back to his room, putting on headphones this time. As much as he likes the echo of the moans and whines in his bedroom, mainly because he imagines you're with him and the sounds are coming from you, he's a gentleman. He wouldn't want you to miss on precious sleep just because he's deprived and downright filthy.

This time, he doesn't take off his pants. He stuffs his hand inside and imagines you're jerking him off hard and fast, little fist wrapped mercilessly around his leaking cock as you gaze down at him with that familiar spark of annoyance in your eyes.

And as much as Simon loves the idea of you resting, sleeping as much as you want and waking up refreshed, it also means he doesn't get to see you again. Not until a few days later. And even then he doesn't see you. You just text him it's a girls' night and you'll be out late, so he can do his thing.

Simon stares at the text, certain you got his number from the obligatory tenants group chat where the landlord keeps saying the elevator is out for maintenance every few weeks.

He can do his thing without bothering you. He'd much rather be doing you. But he can't. He tells himself it's complicated, but he knows better. He doesn't have the faintest idea on how to approach you. Your interactions can be counted on one hand, your conversations even less, but it was enough for Simon to be intrigued. You're almost introverted to the point of being antisocial, but you seem to open up a little when he's around. Twice he helped you take the groceries up to your apartment and you asked him to stay for tea, and on one of those occasions he got to catch glimpses of you smiling and laughing. It was enough to have him think about you, curious, and then, a few weeks later, fantasize about you, hard.

Much like he's doing right now, fist wrapped around his cock, porn playing loudly from the speakers of his laptop. He groans, panting, eyes screwed shut as he imagines you on your knees, lips sliding past the tip of his cock.

Pleasure shoots up his spine, biceps flexing as his hand moves up and down in a brutal pace, his hold vice-like, stomach contracting as-

Someone inserts a key in the door to his apartment. Or at least, they try to, unsuccessfully. Anyone else would have missed it, the small sound drowned out by the porn still playing on his browser, but Simon is not anyone. He's trained to isolate these small sounds because they're the ones that matter in life and death situations.

His hold falters and he reaches over to his laptop, pausing the video.

The rustling of keys and spitting of curses continues.

Simon tips his head back and exhales in frustration. The one time you're out and he gets to do this the way he likes it, someone is trying to break into his apartment.

He gets up, puts on his pants, and goes to open the door.

You blink up at him, keys in hand.

"What are youuuuu doing in my apartment?"

You're drunk. And you think this is your apartment.

Simon's body is still thrumming from nearly cumming all over himself just thinking about you, and now you're standing in front of him, an alcohol induced flush covering your cheeks. He's never seen you like this, all dolled up, and his cock gets rock hard in less than two seconds.

"It's not your apartment, luv."

You frown, eyebrows knitting together. He can't help but watch every expression you make closely. It'll feed his delusions later, and he finds everything you do quite endearing.

"3B is my apartment."

"That's correct," he says with a patient smile. "It doesn't say that on the door now, does it, luv?"

He watches as you look at the door, frown deepening, and then look back at him. "No, it doesn't."

"That's right, luv."

"I'm drunk."

"I can see that."

"I feel like I'm going to throw up."

Simon sighs, but it's not out of irritation. It's something akin to fondness, something soft he never thought he'd be capable of feeling. "How about you come in? I'll take care of you."

You eye him for a second and then step past him into his apartment. He catches a whiff of perfume and something else, a scent that's entirely just you. Perhaps your shampoo or your body wash, because he always smells it when you're around, and it doesn't help his aching cock. But even with the inconvenience of being horny to the point of desperation, he focuses entirely on you. Helps you out of your jacket, leads you to the bathroom, gathers your hair and holds it in a makeshift pony tail in his fist.

You groan into the toilet. "I'm never drinking again."

"Wise decision."

You don't puke. He leads you to the bedroom, shoves his laptop away, offers you a comfortable shirt and sweatpants to change into. You start stripping before he leaves the room, and his dick starts twitching again.

He flees to the kitchen, mainly to give you privacy and partly because holy fuck. He pours himself a large glass of water and downs it in one go. Then he fills it again and takes it to you.

You're in just his shirt, laying on his bed, the sweatpants abandoned on the floor. He swallows, hands clenching, then loosening when he remembers he could easily shatter the glass.

"Drink up."

With some difficulty, you open your eyes and take the glass from him.

"Didn't like the pants?" He asks.

"Too big."

You take two sips of water, lips glistening. Simon watches, enthralled and barely breathing.

"Why are you hard?"

He snaps out of his trance. "Huh?"

You point to the bugle in his pants.

The tips of his ears feel warm. He works his jaw, trying to find a fitting answer. With the way you're looking at him, sitting so close, on his bed, in his clothes, he can hardly think of anything else.

"Because you're in my apartment," he says.

You raise a brow. "You're that easy?"

"Just when it's you."

That sobers you up. He can see it on your face. Your eyes focus in on him, appearing less dazed. He doesn't like that. He was hoping you were drunk enough to brush away his words and chalk them up to alcohol induced delusions the next morning, but alas.

"Why?"

He shoves his hands in his pockets so he could clench them without your notice. "You're hot."

"Such high standards-"

"And interesting." With a soft grin, he adds, "and you don't interrupt me when I'm speaking."

"What do you find interesting about me?"

Christ, straight to business. He exhales. He was not planning to pour his heart out to you tonight. His plans were pretty clear actually: fuck his fist while fantasizing about you until he falls asleep.

"You're drunk," he says, a detour to a different topic.

You scrunch up your nose. "That's what you like about me?"

He grins. "Who said anything about liking you?"

That spark of annoyance appears in your eyes again and his dick starts hardening. He had gone semi soft when you started interrogating him, mostly because he was panicking on the inside, but now that you're looking at him like you want to strangle him, or kiss the grin off his face, all blood starts rushing down, fast.

Your eyes dip then snap back up to his. "Is my annoyance turning you on?"

"Yes."

"You won't even try to deny it?"

"There's no point, you can see the evidence yourself."

"Don't you have a lady friend?"

"Why do you call her that?" He asks, amused. "You sound eighty."

"What would you like me to call her then?"

"My laptop."

You stare at him.

"I watch...stuff. No lady friend."

"On full volume?"

The last thing Simon wants to do is discuss the ins and outs of his alone time with you, no pun intended. He'd much rather you'd join in and he'd show you, but he won't suggest that, not when you got alcohol in your system.

He approaches the bed and lifts the covers, pulling them over your thighs. "Go to sleep."

You study his face with curious eyes. "Why?"

"Because it's night."

You huff but don't argue, which is a small mercy Simon is endlessly thankful for. If you were to argue with him, he wouldn't be able to say no to you, not when you're looking like this: hair slightly a mess, the flush from the alcohol finding a home on your cheeks, lips glistening from the water.

You blink up at him. "Sleep next to me?"

Fuck.

---------------

I dunno how I feel about this one. I don't like it much but here it is. Might delete it later or rework it. Let's call it a warm up

part 1.

No teeth, no tongue. At least, not in the beginning.

He kisses you like you're something made of paper. If he presses too hard, too fast, you'll crumble in his hands. It's not at all what you expected from someone like him. But you don't crumble, you melt against his lips. His mouth is warm, tastes like an oddly delicious mix of mints and beer. You don't know if the addiction hatching in your stomach is from the alcohol on his lips, or the way his hands rest on your hips: soft, barely there, with the pressure of a feather.

In the back of your head, Ginny is smirking, saying that's how they get you. Specifically you. Because you're naive, so nice one would mistake you for a doormat. You think there's kindness there when it's really a bear trap.

But Simon kisses you like he wants it so bad. His hand tangles in your hair, angles your head so he can deepen the kiss. Oh, he's good. Too good. Better than your ex, and that can only mean he's worse. Not just a heartbreak, but a remake of the heart entirely.

He moves and you follow, like a magnet.

The bathroom door creaks open against his back, and he leads you inside, lifts you up to sit on the sink, his hands under your ass, fingers gripping the soft flesh. He keeps kissing you through all this.

"Your hands," you whisper. "Don't hurt-"

"Don't worry," he murmurs back, lips brushing against yours with every word.

"It's going to hurt," you say. His hands are literally pressed between the edge of the sink and your ass.

"Nothing hurts," he says, and you don't know what exactly he means by that. Maybe he's too drunk. On alcohol. On your lips. He kisses you like you're pouring an aphrodisiac straight into his mouth.

You wrap your legs around his waist. Your skit hikes up your thighs, and you don't care enough to attempt to pull it. You're too busy pulling him to you, and that's when you feel it. His cock, hard, throbbing, grinding against your clothed pussy. You moan at the feel, the rigidness of it, the split second image of it going inside you.

Simon shudders and pulls back, breathing hard, pupils dilated; eyes dreamy, hazy. You open your mouth to say something, but he just goes in for another round, his tongue sliding into your mouth. You really can't deny it anymore. He tastes so good, feels so good, kisses you so good, like he wants it so bad, but there's something different. Something wrong. There's a tremor in his hands, you can feel it even though they're trapped under you. It makes you wonder if he put them there for your comfort, or because he doesn't know what to do with them.

He keeps pulling back to breathe, cheeks flushed. His lungs are not used to the burn that comes with the lack of oxygen. Unpracticed, or not trained to. He takes another pause and you study him. The front of his pants are wet already, just from a bit of kissing and tongues touching, and you've never really seen a man blush. Men like him don't blush.

But you brush all of this aside. Manipulation tactics. You won't ever be fooled again. An itch to scratch, you remind yourself and grip the front of his shirt, pulling him back in for another kiss. This time, you shove your tongue in his mouth, your other hand going under his shirt, touching the rigid muscles of his stomach.

When he moans in your mouth like the pathetic man he is, you know you won, and you keep kissing him until he starts breathing hard, panting against your aggressive mouth.

"Please," he whispers.

The bathroom door squeaks open. Simon wretches himself away from you.

Mohawk guy stands at the doorway, blinking.

Simon moves in front of you, shielding you from view. "Your skirt, luv," he murmurs, glancing at you over his shoulder.

Warmth bubbles up to your cheeks. You hop down the sink and tug your skirt down, hiding behind Simon's massive frame. His friend says something, but you're too busy worrying about the state of your hair in the mirror to catch it.

"I'm busy," Simon says, his voice adopting that deep timber again.

"I can see that," his friend says. You can hear the grin in his voice, and that makes you feel even more embarrassed. The only thing worse than boosting these assholes' ego is to have their friends witness them pulling women. In a dingy bar, of all places. He'd surely brag about how you approached him, desperate. Insisted he'd kiss you just because.

His friend says something else, but you're too deep in your internal turmoil to hear a word.

Simon probably thinks you're depraved and a lunatic for yelling at him. The only upside to the situation is what Ginny said; you'll never see these people again. In fact, you'll make sure of it and never step foot in a pub.

"Get out," Simon says, peeved.

Mowhak leaves without a word, the door swinging shut behind him. Silence settles like thick fog.

"Sorry about that," Simon says, turning around to look at you.

You don't exactly know what he's apologising for. Perhaps his friend said something out of line, but you didn't really hear a word he said. All the better. You doubt he said anything flattering.

"It's okay. I gotta go anyway."

But you really don't want to. You want to stay here and kiss him some more, feel his hesitant tongue against your lips and shaky hands stutter at your hips. Maybe you did all of this wrong, because the itch is far from scratched.

Simon nods, stuffs his hands in his pockets. He may be socially awkward. Or pretending to be, to seem more charming, less of a threat. But he has no problem with eye contact. He holds it until you look away first.

"I gotta go," you say again, glancing at your phone. No missed calls. Not even a text to check if Simon turned out to be a psychopath. "My friends are wondering where I am."

Simon nods again. Good god, the social inaptness might not be an act. You walk past him, shoulder brushing against his bicep.

"You taste really good."

You pause, heart slamming against your chest like you hit the breaks a bit too hard. When you look back at him, he's facing you, fingers touching his lips. God, he's so handsome, so dreamy, you nearly forget Ginny's warnings, how men like him are good at this on purpose. It's a bit cruel that your heart melts just at the sight of him, all muscles and razor sharp jaw, but gentle hands and, supposedly, a gentler heart.

"One more kiss," he says.

You nod, but really, he started moving towards you before, like he knew you'd give in. His hand slots in your hair when he reaches you, angling your head up towards him, and his lips find yours, body pressing you up against the door. This time, his tongue is less hesitant, less shy. It parts your lips open and slides in, tasting you.

His cock swells against your stomach.

This kiss lasts longer, feels more desperate. His teeth catch your lower lip and roll it into his mouth to suck on, a pleased groan sounding from the back of his throat. The vibration travels from his body to yours, like a current. And that's when you feel it, the unmistakable dampness in your underwear, an arousal that used to take your ex hours to build easily brewing between your legs now. It's not so much so the aggressiveness of the kiss that does it for you, but rather the aggressive desperation in it.

Footsteps and laughter approaches the door you're currently pressed up against, and you pull away, chest heaving.

"Someone's coming," you say.

Simon swallows, his lips wet with your saliva. He looks so good like this, a massive man reduced into a stuttering, horny mess from kissing you alone. It would be a lie to say it doesn't boost your ego even a little bit. Perhaps this is what getting things out of your system feels like: unfinished, lacking. You surrendered to the fact that you'll want to kiss him for hours on end two kisses ago, so kissing him until you're satisfied is an unreasonable goal, a race with no finish line.

"I have to go," you add, smoothing down your clothes. "Um, nice to meet you, Simon."

He opens his mouth but you’re out before he could get a word in, head ducked down as you shoulder your way through a rowdy group of men all heading to the bathroom.

You don't look up until you're out of the bar. Outside, the air is crisp, cold. It nips at your bare legs and the tip of your nose, wind toying with the loose strands of your hair. Your friends are sitting at the curb, huddle up together to ward off the cold, their giggles filling the otherwise empty street.

"You guys ready to go home?"

They all turn to look at you.

"How did it go?" Ginny asks, smoke curling out of her lips, her grin like a cat.

You point towards the car, exhaustion catching up to you. "I'll tell you guys on the way."

"Boo, boring," Ginny shouts and the whole group collapses into a fit of giggles. Embarrassment burns through you, and you feel defensive, like your ego was stomped on, like you're the butt of the joke.

"It wasn't bad," you say, shifting from one leg to the other, arms crossed over your chest. If you squeeze hard enough, the words will come out easier. "He was so pathetic. Practically drooled all over me, begging me to kiss him more."

Ginny's grin widens, a twinkle of pride in her eyes. "Told you. An itch and it's scratched. Let's get you home, slut."

Her approval doesn't feel nearly as satisfying as you thought it would.

You force a smile and trail after the group to the car. They blast music and chat and giggle all the way, but all you can think about is Simon, the way he was gentle. It wasn't a trick, it was like he didn't know how to be anything but. Ginny can call you gullible all she wants, but you're sure the tremor in his hands and the raw hunger in his eyes wasn't something he practiced.

But Ginny might be right about one thing. Your ex is the last thing on your mind for the next couple of weeks. Even as the first day at your new job approaches, you find yourself thinking about Simon more, wondering what he's up to. You wonder if he's thinking about the kisses you shared in that bathroom, if he's thinking about you at all, or if you're just another girl in a long list of one night stands (sort of, since you didn't actually sleep with the guy).

On your first day at work, you arrive early at the military base and meet Laswell who you spoke with during the second round of the interview process. She shows you around, mostly the area where you'll be working and the mess hall. Then, through a long hallway, she guides you to what will become your room during 'deployment'. You knew the requirements of the job when they got in touch with you, but the idea of staying somewhere other than your own home twists your guts into tight, uncomfortable knots.

"Once you get settled, I'll introduce you to the team," Laswell says, but you're more focused on the two guys walking towards you from the opposite direction. Massive men, especially the one in the skull mask. The black compression shirt he's wearing chokes around his pecs and biceps, clean, precise lines of ink snaking down his thick forearms. They're too busy chatting. They don't notice you until you're close enough to make out some of the tattoos on his arms. Mors vincit omnia trails up his forearm in dark, cursive letters. Death conquers all.

"Ah, Ghost, Gaz," Laswell says, coming to a stop in front of them. You stand a few steps behind her. "Let me introduce you to my subordinate. She's going to be in your ear soon."

They glance at you, and their reactions are polar opposites. One of them smiles in a warm, friendly manner, while the other, the masked one, narrows his eyes, thick eyebrows peeking out from under his mask as his frown deepens.

"This is Gaz," Laswell says, pointing to the friendlier of the two. "But you can call him Kyle. We only really use code names during missions."

"Nice to meet you," Kyle says, extending a hand.

"Nice to meet you, too." You take his hand, give it a firm shake, your smile twitching under the other guy's heated gaze.

Laswell turns to him. "And this is Ghost, but you can call-"

"Ghost is fine," he interrupts her, voice deep, devoid of any friendliness Kyle greeted you with. If anything, it sounds almost hostile.

A tense silence follows his words. Kyle glances at Ghost, seeming confused by his hostility, which tells you it's not something he sees often from him.

"Nice to meet you," you say, forcing a smile.

He doesn't even look at you. "I got some reports to finish," he says and walks away.

You swallow, throat tight. You don't remember the last time someone has been this cold towards you. For no reason, no less. He just decided, after three seconds of meeting you, that he doesn't like you and he has no problem showing it.

"Sorry," Kyle says, smile apologetic. "He's not usually like this."

"You don't have to apologise on his behalf,” you say.

"Ghost is antisocial but never aggressive," Laswell explains. It kind of pisses you off how they're jumping to defend him when he was outright rude to you, but maybe they're right, maybe he's having a rough day. It doesn't excuse his behaviour, but at least it explains it. At least it's not personal.

The tour ends at your room. You suppose you can start calling it yours, since you'll be spending most of your time here. Laswell leaves you to settle, and you spend about half an hour unpacking. You didn't bring much, just a couple of hoodies and pants, and some other necessary items, but looking at the barren room, you wish you brought some things to make it more cozy, more like home.

But decorating is the least of your concerns right now. Laswell already went ahead and assigned you your first task of the week: make the 141 trust you. Easier said than done, since there is one person whose trust matters the most and guarantees the trust of the rest of the team.

____________________________________

a/n: you can read chapters 3, 4, 5 and 6 here! (you can also find my knight!Simon Riley story there!)

The only way to get over an asshole is to fuck another one. Or so your friends say.

Friday night you find yourself in a dimly lit pub, the kind that smells wet even in summer. Pubs aren't really at the top of your hangout spots list, but you don’t find the kind of man to make you forget your name in holy places. You find them here, where demons come out to play. 

 Your friends say that's the problem with you, the reason why your douche of an ex manipulated you like a marionette and then dumped you when he got too bored. Harsh words, but true. Maybe. You're not really an expert in dating.

Your friends are though. Or so they claim. That's why you let them pick the next douche-bag you'll kiss. A horrible, horrible decision, because they're under the impression that he needs to be meaner, a downright prick. The kind you wouldn't even consider opening the door for during a snow storm.

"They're the best kissers," your friend says. "It'll reset your brain."

The group agrees. You try not to appear too nervous as you pull on your too short skirt, but seeing the table your friends are eyeing has you chewing on your lower lip.

"They look like trouble," you whisper.

Ginny grins. "Firefighters. A good fuck. That's what you need."

"I'm not fucking anyone."

She rolls her eyes. "We know. That's why we're compromising. Just kiss the living shit outta him, yeah?"

You look back at the table. Full of big men, each one at least three drinks in. The alcohol makes them a tad less intimidating, but the muscles and tattoos make up for that. "Who?"

"Him." Your friend has no shame. She outright points to the guy she wants you to make out with. Thank God he's too focused on what his friend with the Mohawk is blabbering about. You would have much preferred the friend, because the chosen one looks downright scary, like a hunting dog. Or a hell hound. Dressed in all black, he looks far too comfortable in this dingy place. He's leaning back in his chair, thick thighs spread out like the chair isn't big enough. You know men like him. Jerks with big biceps, big shoulders, big egos and bigger dicks.

His head turns in your direction, like he felt your gaze on him, like he could hear your thoughts. Your eyes lock with his from across the room. You want to look away, you want to run, but he pins you in place. You don't even exhale. His gaze, dark, lazy but sharp, calculating, stays on your for three seconds before he moves on, bored already.

You turn to your friends, heart fluttering like a bird trapped in your rib cage. "I can't. Pick someone else."

"Nah," Ginny says, smirking. "I saw that. He wants you, girl."

You stare at her, terrified of the way her brain works. "That's what you gathered from that?"

She sighs. "This is why your ex played you."

Ouch.

"Look, the guy is just pretending he's not interested," she adds, reaching for her purse. "God, I need a smoke."

You start fiddling with your fingers, staring hard at the drink in front of you. You don't even know what the concoction is. Some blue mix Ginny ordered for you, called it liquid courage. A tiny shot, the liquid barely filling a quarter of the cup, so you know it'll burn like hell on the way down.

Ginny suddenly grips your arm. "He's going to the bathroom. Go after him."

You look at her. "Are you crazy?"

"Knock back that drink and go. I mean it. What's the worst that can happen? He turns you down. Big deal. It's not like you'll ever see him again. Go."

Ginny can be really authoritative when she wants to be. A bit scary, too, so you do as she says. The drink burns way more than your thought; You cough, wincing, a cold shudder wrecking down your spine.

She laughs, a cigarette in her mouth. "Now go. We'll be outside smoking. Join us when you're done."

The guy disappears in the direction of the bathrooms. Your friends gather their purses and head for the door, leaving you sitting there alone. You look around, then glance at his table. His friends are ordering another round of drinks. Panic seizes you, wrapping around your spine. He won't be in there forever, waiting for you, so it's either you go after him before he comes back, or be a coward and go find your friends, grit your teeth through the lecture you will inevitably hear from Ginny.

You go to the bathroom.

Now what?

You stand in front of the door, shifting from one leg to the other, pulling down on this damn, fucking skirt. Should've ignored Ginny's instructions (orders) and wore your jeans. She already got her way with this top that shows too much cleavage for your liking, and the too red lipstick, and the fake lashes.

The bathroom door opens. He steps out, staring ahead. He's so tall, you're not even in his line of sight, but he still attempts to sidestep you, like he's aware of your existence but doesn't care enough to acknowledge it.

You step in front of him.

"Excuse me, luv," he murmurs. Wow, hello, deep voice, the kind that goes straight to your guts. You're certain it's not just his voice that can reach your guts.

He sidesteps you again.

You step in front of him again.

You don't know what else to do, how to get his attention. Your idea of flirting is to outright ignore the person until they notice you.

He pauses, finally glancing down at you. Fuck. Something about his eyes just makes every muscle in your body go taut and freeze. Perhaps it's the apparent annoyance in them, like this is the worst thing that could ever happen to him.

"Need something?"

Oh god, you want the ground under your feet to split open and swallow you whole. You could always just run, but you're already here. He's looking at you, even if it's with a bit (a lot) of irritation. And he's talking to you, so you suspect you're on the right path.

You swallow, open your mouth- "How big are you?"

He blinks. "Beg your pardon?"

"No!" you yell and then wince. Oh god. You're yelling at him. He must think you're some lunatic. "I mean how tall are you? You seem really big."

Ginny told you men liked it when you made them feel big. You still don't know if she was talking about height or dick size, but you're not about to compliment him on the latter.

He tilts his head to the side, arms crossing over his chest. His t-shirt chokes on his massive biceps, nearly the size of your head. He could easily put you in a headlock and kill you, if he wants to. If you were annoying him, like you're doing right now.

"Are you drunk?" He asks.

"No."

He studies your face, eyes dark, sharp, too calculative to not be something he's trained to do. "Are you hitting on me?" His voice is wrapped in so many layers of disbelief, it makes you doubt yourself for a second. You haven't always been the smoothest talker (evidence presented five seconds ago), but for him to look so incredulous, it stings.

"Yes, I am. What about it?" Embarrassment burns through your veins, hotter than anger. "Am I not making you feel massive?"

He turns his head to the side and coughs into his fist, trying yet failing to hide his smile. You shouldn't fall for it. You really shouldn't. But the smile instantly casts him in a different light: charming, boyish. Sometimes it's easy to forget under the layers of selfishness, conceit, and tattoos, this kind of men are people, too, and not just boy toys. Not just men for a one night stand, for brain resets, taxis towards your next successful relationship. Not just an itch to scratch. That's the problem with you, according to Ginny. You tend to see the good side in everything and everyone.

"You know what," you sigh, the sadness you thought you scrubbed clean off your hands creeping back in. The cracks caused by the heartbreak yawn wide open, spitting black matter into your heart, dampening your mood.

You turn away from him. "Forget about it."

His fingers wrap around your wrist. You glance back at him, eyebrows bunching together.

"You did, uh, make me feel massive."

Is he trying to make you feel better? You shouldn't fall for it. You really shouldn't. Not just because he's just something to get out of your system (Ginny's words), but because your heart is still tender, easy to bruise. It latches onto any sign of humanity and cloaks it in gentleness, in love, desperate for a quick fix. You know better.

"Thanks, I guess," you murmur, looking down at his massive fingers, the way they easily encircle your wrist.

He drops your hand. "Listen, luv, I-"

Oh, he's about to reject you.

"I just want to kiss," you blurt out.

He pauses for a moment, pushing his tongue into his cheek, gaze going up and down your body, slow, purposeful. You pull down on your skirt. The gesture just makes him smirk. Oh, there it is. Sign of trouble.

"I can't figure you out."

You exhale, because you just stopped breathing when he was openly checking you out. "What do you mean?"

"You're self conscious, yet you came up to me."

You cross your arms, offended. His eyes drop quickly to your chest. Wearing this top was truly a big mistake. "It's rude to tell a woman she's self conscious. And to stare at her tits."

"Nice tits," he says with a shrug.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Your friends put you up to this." It's not even a question. He's that confident in his deduction skills.

"Yes, but I really do want to kiss you."

"Give me a good reason."

"Are you serious?"

He just stares at you, waiting. Great. You can't remember the last time you had to put in this much effort just to kiss someone. Actually, you can, and the answer is never. But with how much Ginny insisted this is the magical cure for your heartbreak and terrible taste in men, you're determined to see it through. Whatever it takes, as long as your values and self worth stay intact. You wrack your brain for something that won't make him think you see him just as a piece of meat, though you think he already knows that considering you just want his mouth on yours.

You got nothing.

"Is this your way of turning me down?" You ask, staring up at him. Damn, you really have to tilt your head back a good amount just to look him in the eye.

"No," he says. "Because I'd love to kiss you."

"Well, I- what?" Did you hear him right?

"I saw you looking over at me earlier."

Right. The little look of boredom he threw your way. Now that he can see the shape of your tits, he's interested.

"And? I'm sure you're no stranger to women ogling you."

"I'm not, but this is the first time one of them hits on me."

Oh, you must be doing numbers to his ego. "Look, uh-"

"Simon."

"Simon," you say, twisting your hands together. "I want to kiss you because..." Because my taste in men sucks. I always seem to attract assholes. You know, men who look exactly like you. Tattoos, big muscles, haunted eyes. And my friends are convinced it's because I manifest them. I'm attracted to them and, in turn, they're attracted to me. And the only way to break this curse-

He steps closer to you. Your train of thoughts screeches into an abrupt halt. His hands cup your cheeks and draw your face up, closer to him, and he meets you down halfway, head tilted to the side, lips pressing against yours.

------------------------------------------

a/n: i miss yearning!simon so i'm writing him.

Sleep never comes easy to Simon, and his insomnia is always especially hungry after a match. The leftover adrenaline keeps his brain awake, running around in circles over what he could've done different, what he could've done better. It doesn't matter that he-- they-- won. It never does. Perfectionism dissects and probes at his contentment, asks is this truly enough? Are you enough?

He throws the bed sheets off of him and drags his tired but unwilling to rest body to the kitchen to brew another cup of tea. The kettle rumbles softly in the background, the room basking in the glow of the faint sunrise still climbing slowly over the horizon. Outside the large window, the sky is pink and the lake reflects it like a mirror.

Simon leans against the kitchen counter and unlocks his phone, blinking a couple of times to adjust to the sudden brightness. His notifications panel is empty, a ghost town; no one to reach out to and no one to reach back. Especially not at five in the morning. But, he knows, underneath the faux quiet of his device, an influx of private messages simmers just below the surface, kept at bay by the notification system that allows him not to see any of it.

The fans, much like his insomnia, are especially hungry after a match.

He could feel it at the ice rink, chillier than the ice itself. And he can feel it now. It follows him home like a ghost on his shoulders, claws digging into the space between his shoulder blades, asking for more, begging for any piece of himself he has to offer. It doesn't matter if it's willingly or not.

And so, he knows better than to feed the monster. His coach taught him to know better, but he still opens his social media. The DMs icon has a 99+ in bold and red on top of it. He clicks it anyways. The last message is a couple of hours old. The fans have exhausted themselves into a sleep he could only dream of.

All except for one.

Mrs.Riley: i read somewhere that you struggle with sleep.

Simon's grip on the counter turns bone white, a chill snaking down his spine. He knows he isn't, but he feels watched anyways. It's a cold, foreboding sensation that's hard to shake off when your face is plastered on every billboard and bus.

Mrs.Riley: i think you said it in an interview. something about tense muscles after a match.

Someone reaching, but he knows better than to reach back.

Mrs.Riley: i hope you're sleeping, and that your phone is on DND. It would help.

The electric kettle starts bubbling and then clicks off. Simon doesn't budge.

Mrs.Riley: i couldn't sleep either. though i suppose you're still celebrating with your teammates. fucking someone? god, i wish it was me.

Simon's breath stutters in his throat. He blinks down at the screen, reads the message, once, twice.

Mrs.Riley: is it weird if fans fantasise about you? suppose not. you're probably used to it. i fantasise about you fucking me into the bed, all my frustrations melting away with every-

Simon locks his phone and exhales sharply through his nose, heart thudding, thudding, thudding against his rib cage like a fist. It's a wondrous thing his heart is still capable of racing when all the blood rushed downwards. His cock swells against the soft fabric of his sweatpants, throbbing in desperation, in hunger.

This hunger, much like his fans, is insatiable. But Simon still tries anyways. This kind of hunger is one he can't sleep with, can't coexist with. The tea be damned, he needs a wank.

Under the sheets of his bed, Simon, naked and already panting, reaches for his hard cock and wraps his fist around it. The phone illuminates his sharp features, thick eyebrows like caterpillars reaching for each other as he frowns deeply.

His muscles contracts and flexes with each stroke.

Mrs.Riley: --i fantasise about you fucking me into the bed, all my frustrations melting away with every thrust. fuck, i can only imagine what you'd feel like Mrs.Riley: the stretch would be heavenly, painful in the best way possible. would you fit? it doesn't matter. my body will accommodate yours. ugh, i'm so turned on now. great.

Simon can feel the frustration in every word, the raw desire that licks a warm stripe up your spine, the hunger he knows all too well. His eyes flutter shut, lips parting at the image of your delicate spine resting against his broad chest as he fucks you from behind, a faceless silhouette whispering sweet, dirty words into his ear. Your body will accommodate his and take him all in, desperate, starving for that feeling of fullness.

He'd let you swallow him whole.

Fuck.

His grip tightens and a needy whimper is chocked out of his throat as he cums all over his stomach. The sheets cling to the hard ridges of his muscles, a second skin drinking up his sweat and cum.

All at once, his senses rushes back to his body. He waits for a post nut clarity that never comes. Simon never really feels guilty about indulging one of his basic needs, and he's not about to start to now. It does feel odd to rub one out to a fan. He's sure he's breaking one of the many rules his coach has enforced on him and is delusional enough to think Simon would follow. But, much to the dismay of his coach, Simon is past the point of giving a fuck about anything but winning. Well, winning and finding out more about you.

Now that his arousal is dealt with, he can think with his head instead. He lays there for a long moment, scrolling up, up, up the one sided conversation you've managed to keep alive for the last five years.

The sun inches its way up a cloudless sky.

------------------------------------------------

Simon scrolled well past the early hours of the morning, pausing twice to fuck his fist at the filthy things the safety of anonymity encouraged you to type and send to him. But, besides that, there was nothing in the messages that could clue him on your identity.

Your profile was even less helpful; a graveyard of the most obscene edits of him with background music that would make a stripper blush.

It did, however, lull him into three hours of uninterrupted sleep. Must be all the jacking off. He woke up to an edit of him still playing on the screen of his phone. The worst thing a man can wake up to.

Now he's scarfing down breakfast with a concerning amount of Earl Grey tea. The sports channel drones on and on about last night's game, bragging to the whole wide world about their sick obsession with violence as they replay, again and again and again, a shot of Simon shouldering and elbowing his way through two defenders.

Simon is still experiencing the ghost feeling of number 14's sharp elbow digging into his ribs.

"--from Sports Time. Big fan, by the way."

Simon grits his teeth. That fucking voice. Fucking hell. He could pinpoint it in a crowd. He lifts his eyes to the screen over the rim of his mug and there you are, grin too smug.

Big fan, my ass.

You hate him, and he knows that. And he knows you know that, because you always open up with that fucking line, like it's an inside joke between you and him.

"--that shot looked rough."

On the screen, Simon pushes his tongue into his cheek, eyes clouding with annoyance. "It went in, didn' it?"

"Right, but--"

"We won, that's what matters."

You smile. "Of course, Mr. Riley. Just thought a pass there would've looked better."

Simon remembers exactly what he wanted to say in that moment, though he bit his tongue because his coach would've had a fit in the locker room.

"Maybe," he said, when, in reality, he wanted to tell you to go fuck yourself.

------------------------------------------------

____________________________________ part 1.

Simon Riley craves death the way mortals crave immortality. He has travelled these same roads for hundreds of years, in search for the dagger, or poison or mercenary, that will take his soul, only to be told it will happen at the hands of his true love: a princess.

It is not lost on Simon that softness can be violent, too. And so, so beautiful. That's the first thing that springs to his mind when he looks into your eyes, though they regard him with mistrust and malice.

"Who sent you?" You demand, pressing the dagger deeper into the thin skin of his throat.

Simon blinks, hands limp by his sides, though there's a slight tremor to his fingers. "The king."

You study him, eyes narrowing. "Under what authority?"

"As your knight."

"Knight," you repeat. "My knight. I don't need-"

"He assigned me-"

"Who?"

"The king." A pause. "Your father."

You exhale. Simon suppresses a shudder with all his might, blunt finger nails carving into the palm of his hand. Some would say you, small and frail compared to him, through sheer willpower alone, managed to knock him off his feet and pin him to the ground. Simon would argue letting someone manhandle him is a sure way to gain their trust. And manhandle him you did; knee to the chest, dagger to the throat, glare sharper than the dagger itself.

"How do I know you're not lying to me?"

Simon stares back, unflinching. "If I wanted to hurt you, I would've done so by now."

"I suppose." Your lips press into a thin line in contemplation, then you ease the pressure of your knee and promptly get off of him. Simon finally takes a proper breathe in. "Why did you let me pin you down?"

He sits up, watches the dagger disappear in-between the folds of your robes. "Easier to talk that way. Convincing disguise, by the way, princess."

You look down at your ratty, maid dress and cloak. The apron tied around your waist has some stains on it. A nice touch, Simon thinks. Not enough to change who you really are, if one was looking closely enough. If one was looking to find you.

"The fabric on your back may be cheap," he says, standing up and hovering near you like a cloaked mountain. "But you speak and behave like a princess. Smell like one, too."

Your nose wrinkles. "You sniffed me? What are you? A dog?"

"What is a knight if not a chained dog?"

You snort, an unbecoming sound from a princess. "You're well trained."

"You can train me differently, if you prefer a more dignified knight."

"You can shut up now."

You stare up at him. He stays silent.

"Why are you here?"

Simon unties his cloak and drapes it over your shoulders. You blink, taken aback by the gesture.

"Oh, I'm less noticeable now," you say with cutting sarcasm.

"No," he murmurs, casting a long glance at the end of the alleyway. "It's a cold night."

"Oh."

When he looks back at you, you're fiddling with the fabric. It's too rough for your delicate fingers, but Simon is familiar with these nights, how the cold feels like a black curse, like a writhing, breathing thing slithering in to burrow deep into bones. Beggars can't be choosers.

"What are you doing out by yourself?"

"Looking for my true love."

Simon stiffens.

You look at him from the corner of your eyes. "Go on, say what you want to say."

"You thought you'd find him here? Among scumbags?"

You both glance at the man crumbled near the grimy, slick with rain wall. Simon had punched him square in the jaw and promptly knocked him out cold just seconds before he let you pin him down, and the man hadn't moved an inch since. The only sign of life was the deep, rhythmic pattern of his breathing. Simon would've killed him with bare hands if you weren't there. Just thinking about what happened, how this filth dragged you not because you're a princess but because you're a woman, makes the blood growl in Simon's ears. He's a firm believer in fighting people his own size, and there's something cruel and pathetic in a man fighting anything less.

With a sigh, you say, "I'm sure he's not a prince."

Simon eyes the dirt under the man's nails and his sunken cheeks. "Good observation."

"I'm not talking about him." You gesture towards the man like he's a sack of potatoes. "I'm talking about my true love."

Simon's heart does a weird thing in his chest. Something like a stuttering, or like the skipping of a stone over a still lake. "You're sure, huh?"

You cross your arms under the heavy cloak. It envelopes you the way darkness does. A swallowing. "I don't know why I'm bothering myself discussing this matter with you. I suppose it can't be helped that you're my knight, but I do have a say in what I need to explain to you and what I don't."

Simon can't argue with that. He possesses no authority to force you to explain anything to him, much less this little adventure you're on. Though he is curious, and what a wretched, wretched thing to be. He could cut your chase short and tell you he's the man you're looking for, but you're much more likely to behead him than to believe him.

"If you insist on finding your true love," Simon says, leading you out the alleyway. "I'm forced to come along. As your knight."

"You'll scare him away."

"Do have faith in your true love, princess," Simon says with a soft grin. "I'm sure he's a brave man."

"Now you're just mocking me."

"I don't dare do such a thing."

You both emerge into a lit, cobblestone street. The moon hangs low but bright in a starless sky, and the wind blowing from the north is gentle but frigid, like death's hand. Simon has felt that same hand on his cheek, in his ribs, on his throat, but never on his heart. He would hope it'll be just as gentle when you kiss him and end his misery.

"I know you're judging me, knight-"

"Simon."

"Knight Simon, but your opinions will not demotivate me."

"I only hold opinions on the kind of places you hope to find your true love in."

"Like I said-" you pause in front of his horse, a black, mountain of a creature. It cost Simon a fortune, but it's the only animal that proved to be capable of carrying him for long without tiring. "Is the large horse compensation for something?"

The implications of your words doesn't affect Simon at all. Only a man who has something to be insecure about would be. "Be nice."

Your sharp gaze cuts to him. "Don't order me around."

"Don't give me a reason to."

"What happened to you being a dog?"

"This dog bares its teeth if what he loves is mistreated."

But you're not threatened. Simon didn't intend to threaten you anyways, but he would have liked to know he had some effect on you. He would've liked to know if he told you to stop sneaking out the castle at night, you would listen. It seems he'll have to find some other way of convincing you. It's a surprise that drunk, greasy scumbag didn't instill the fear in you. Princesses don't come across those type of men often, and, usually, it's enough to deter a delicate thing away forever. Perhaps you're not the delicate thing he thought you'd be.

"What's his name?" You're stroking the horse behind the ear, and the horse is leaning towards your hand more and more with every scratch.

"Ghost."

"Why would you name him that?"

Simon walks over and stands behind you. You tilt your head back back back until you meet his eyes.

"Can I name him something else?" You ask, smiling up at him.

Simon frowns. "No."

"He likes me. Look."

He doesn't need to look to see his horse nearly toppling over just to feel your fingers scratching at the sweet spot behind its ear. This immediate likeness is convenient. Ghost is a lot like Simon in that they share a particular dislike for people, especially ones touching them. It makes it easier for Simon to grab you by the waist and hoist you up on the horse. You flail and kick around, but thankfully, other than a surprised yelp, you don't make a scene.

"A warning would've been nice," you mutter, glaring down at Simon.

Simon is too distracted by how good you look on his horse to form a proper reply. He hooks his foot on the saddle and lifts himself up, settling behind you. Your back presses against his chest.

Your hands tighten on the reigns. "I'm going to fall."

"Not when I'm here."

"You're just saying that."

"I'm your knight now, your safety is my top priority."

That answer seems to satisfy you enough to shut up, but not for long. As Simon leads the horse out of the city and towards the castle, you start to visibly relax, and words find their way back to your mouth again.

"Where did my father find you?"

Simon guides the horse up the cobblestone bridge. The water is still under, a mirror reflecting the moon. "I found him," he says.

"And he just let you be responsible for my protection?"

"I'm no stranger. He knew my father, and his father knew my grandfather and so on..."

"How come I've never heard of you then?"

"I don't know."

"I'm sure my father would've mentioned you-"

"And yet, he didn't."

You groan, and the sound sinks its sharp teeth into Simon's chest. "I hate not knowing things."

Simon smiles, but you can't see him. It's because you can't see him that he smiles. "I can tell."

"So you'll tell me everything I need to know?"

Simon hesitate for a split second. "Yes, princess, I will."

You don't need to know he's your true love, and that you're his. The prophecy, though vague, only told of how Simon will die, and Simon supposed if a detail was important, it would've been mentioned next to the kiss of death and forever slumber.

"I'll trust that," you say. "I don't trust many so consider it a privilege. You're to accompany me as I attempt to find my true love."

____________________________________

The only way to get over an asshole is to fuck another one. Or so your friends say.

Friday night you find yourself in a dimly lit pub, the kind that smells wet even in summer. Pubs aren't really at the top of your hangout spots list, but you don’t find the kind of man to make you forget your name in holy places. You find them here, where demons come out to play. 

 Your friends say that's the problem with you, the reason why your douche of an ex manipulated you like a marionette and then dumped you when he got too bored. Harsh words, but true. Maybe. You're not really an expert in dating.

Your friends are though. Or so they claim. That's why you let them pick the next douche-bag you'll kiss. A horrible, horrible decision, because they're under the impression that he needs to be meaner, a downright prick. The kind you wouldn't even consider opening the door for during a snow storm.

"They're the best kissers," your friend says. "It'll reset your brain."

The group agrees. You try not to appear too nervous as you pull on your too short skirt, but seeing the table your friends are eyeing has you chewing on your lower lip.

"They look like trouble," you whisper.

Ginny grins. "Firefighters. A good fuck. That's what you need."

"I'm not fucking anyone."

She rolls her eyes. "We know. That's why we're compromising. Just kiss the living shit outta him, yeah?"

You look back at the table. Full of big men, each one at least three drinks in. The alcohol makes them a tad less intimidating, but the muscles and tattoos make up for that. "Who?"

"Him." Your friend has no shame. She outright points to the guy she wants you to make out with. Thank God he's too focused on what his friend with the Mohawk is blabbering about. You would have much preferred the friend, because the chosen one looks downright scary, like a hunting dog. Or a hell hound. Dressed in all black, he looks far too comfortable in this dingy place. He's leaning back in his chair, thick thighs spread out like the chair isn't big enough. You know men like him. Jerks with big biceps, big shoulders, big egos and bigger dicks.

His head turns in your direction, like he felt your gaze on him, like he could hear your thoughts. Your eyes lock with his from across the room. You want to look away, you want to run, but he pins you in place. You don't even exhale. His gaze, dark, lazy but sharp, calculating, stays on your for three seconds before he moves on, bored already.

You turn to your friends, heart fluttering like a bird trapped in your rib cage. "I can't. Pick someone else."

"Nah," Ginny says, smirking. "I saw that. He wants you, girl."

You stare at her, terrified of the way her brain works. "That's what you gathered from that?"

She sighs. "This is why your ex played you."

Ouch.

"Look, the guy is just pretending he's not interested," she adds, reaching for her purse. "God, I need a smoke."

You start fiddling with your fingers, staring hard at the drink in front of you. You don't even know what the concoction is. Some blue mix Ginny ordered for you, called it liquid courage. A tiny shot, the liquid barely filling a quarter of the cup, so you know it'll burn like hell on the way down.

Ginny suddenly grips your arm. "He's going to the bathroom. Go after him."

You look at her. "Are you crazy?"

"Knock back that drink and go. I mean it. What's the worst that can happen? He turns you down. Big deal. It's not like you'll ever see him again. Go."

Ginny can be really authoritative when she wants to be. A bit scary, too, so you do as she says. The drink burns way more than your thought; You cough, wincing, a cold shudder wrecking down your spine.

She laughs, a cigarette in her mouth. "Now go. We'll be outside smoking. Join us when you're done."

The guy disappears in the direction of the bathrooms. Your friends gather their purses and head for the door, leaving you sitting there alone. You look around, then glance at his table. His friends are ordering another round of drinks. Panic seizes you, wrapping around your spine. He won't be in there forever, waiting for you, so it's either you go after him before he comes back, or be a coward and go find your friends, grit your teeth through the lecture you will inevitably hear from Ginny.

You go to the bathroom.

Now what?

You stand in front of the door, shifting from one leg to the other, pulling down on this damn, fucking skirt. Should've ignored Ginny's instructions (orders) and wore your jeans. She already got her way with this top that shows too much cleavage for your liking, and the too red lipstick, and the fake lashes.

The bathroom door opens. He steps out, staring ahead. He's so tall, you're not even in his line of sight, but he still attempts to sidestep you, like he's aware of your existence but doesn't care enough to acknowledge it.

You step in front of him.

"Excuse me, luv," he murmurs. Wow, hello, deep voice, the kind that goes straight to your guts. You're certain it's not just his voice that can reach your guts.

He sidesteps you again.

You step in front of him again.

You don't know what else to do, how to get his attention. Your idea of flirting is to outright ignore the person until they notice you.

He pauses, finally glancing down at you. Fuck. Something about his eyes just makes every muscle in your body go taut and freeze. Perhaps it's the apparent annoyance in them, like this is the worst thing that could ever happen to him.

"Need something?"

Oh god, you want the ground under your feet to split open and swallow you whole. You could always just run, but you're already here. He's looking at you, even if it's with a bit (a lot) of irritation. And he's talking to you, so you suspect you're on the right path.

You swallow, open your mouth- "How big are you?"

He blinks. "Beg your pardon?"

"No!" you yell and then wince. Oh god. You're yelling at him. He must think you're some lunatic. "I mean how tall are you? You seem really big."

Ginny told you men liked it when you made them feel big. You still don't know if she was talking about height or dick size, but you're not about to compliment him on the latter.

He tilts his head to the side, arms crossing over his chest. His t-shirt chokes on his massive biceps, nearly the size of your head. He could easily put you in a headlock and kill you, if he wants to. If you were annoying him, like you're doing right now.

"Are you drunk?" He asks.

"No."

He studies your face, eyes dark, sharp, too calculative to not be something he's trained to do. "Are you hitting on me?" His voice is wrapped in so many layers of disbelief, it makes you doubt yourself for a second. You haven't always been the smoothest talker (evidence presented five seconds ago), but for him to look so incredulous, it stings.

"Yes, I am. What about it?" Embarrassment burns through your veins, hotter than anger. "Am I not making you feel massive?"

He turns his head to the side and coughs into his fist, trying yet failing to hide his smile. You shouldn't fall for it. You really shouldn't. But the smile instantly casts him in a different light: charming, boyish. Sometimes it's easy to forget under the layers of selfishness, conceit, and tattoos, this kind of men are people, too, and not just boy toys. Not just men for a one night stand, for brain resets, taxis towards your next successful relationship. Not just an itch to scratch. That's the problem with you, according to Ginny. You tend to see the good side in everything and everyone.

"You know what," you sigh, the sadness you thought you scrubbed clean off your hands creeping back in. The cracks caused by the heartbreak yawn wide open, spitting black matter into your heart, dampening your mood.

You turn away from him. "Forget about it."

His fingers wrap around your wrist. You glance back at him, eyebrows bunching together.

"You did, uh, make me feel massive."

Is he trying to make you feel better? You shouldn't fall for it. You really shouldn't. Not just because he's just something to get out of your system (Ginny's words), but because your heart is still tender, easy to bruise. It latches onto any sign of humanity and cloaks it in gentleness, in love, desperate for a quick fix. You know better.

"Thanks, I guess," you murmur, looking down at his massive fingers, the way they easily encircle your wrist.

He drops your hand. "Listen, luv, I-"

Oh, he's about to reject you.

"I just want to kiss," you blurt out.

He pauses for a moment, pushing his tongue into his cheek, gaze going up and down your body, slow, purposeful. You pull down on your skirt. The gesture just makes him smirk. Oh, there it is. Sign of trouble.

"I can't figure you out."

You exhale, because you just stopped breathing when he was openly checking you out. "What do you mean?"

"You're self conscious, yet you came up to me."

You cross your arms, offended. His eyes drop quickly to your chest. Wearing this top was truly a big mistake. "It's rude to tell a woman she's self conscious. And to stare at her tits."

"Nice tits," he says with a shrug.

"Did you hear what I said?"

"Your friends put you up to this." It's not even a question. He's that confident in his deduction skills.

"Yes, but I really do want to kiss you."

"Give me a good reason."

"Are you serious?"

He just stares at you, waiting. Great. You can't remember the last time you had to put in this much effort just to kiss someone. Actually, you can, and the answer is never. But with how much Ginny insisted this is the magical cure for your heartbreak and terrible taste in men, you're determined to see it through. Whatever it takes, as long as your values and self worth stay intact. You wrack your brain for something that won't make him think you see him just as a piece of meat, though you think he already knows that considering you just want his mouth on yours.

You got nothing.

"Is this your way of turning me down?" You ask, staring up at him. Damn, you really have to tilt your head back a good amount just to look him in the eye.

"No," he says. "Because I'd love to kiss you."

"Well, I- what?" Did you hear him right?

"I saw you looking over at me earlier."

Right. The little look of boredom he threw your way. Now that he can see the shape of your tits, he's interested.

"And? I'm sure you're no stranger to women ogling you."

"I'm not, but this is the first time one of them hits on me."

Oh, you must be doing numbers to his ego. "Look, uh-"

"Simon."

"Simon," you say, twisting your hands together. "I want to kiss you because..." Because my taste in men sucks. I always seem to attract assholes. You know, men who look exactly like you. Tattoos, big muscles, haunted eyes. And my friends are convinced it's because I manifest them. I'm attracted to them and, in turn, they're attracted to me. And the only way to break this curse-

He steps closer to you. Your train of thoughts screeches into an abrupt halt. His hands cup your cheeks and draw your face up, closer to him, and he meets you down halfway, head tilted to the side, lips pressing against yours. ------------------------------------------