#ghost fic

Tears were slipping down your cheeks as you locked the bakery door behind you. The closing shift always did that to you, the quiet, careful way you placed the remaining pastries into small takeaway boxes. Your boss believed it was better for the baked goods to go home with her bakers than to end up in the trash.

But those treats weren’t for you. Not anymore. They hadn’t been for a long time. Not since him. 

On the way home, you passed the nearby fire station, gladly handing over the day’s leftover pastries. The firefighters always accepted them with wide grins. They knew the routine—whenever they saw you approaching with boxes in hand, they’d rush over, eager to get their share of the sweet, flaky treasures you brought.

Had you not been so self-conscious, you might have noticed a few of them were actually flirting with you.

Once you got home, you walked straight to the bathroom, undressing in silence, your eyes darting everywhere but the mirror, and never at your body. His words still echoed in your mind, making it impossible not to notice the way your stomach folded when you bent over, the way your thighs and butt creased with cellulite, or how big your arms looked in your shirt today. It was a sight you couldn’t bear.

As hot water trickled down your skin, more tears followed. There was no stopping them now.

He left. He actually left, just like he’d threatened so many times before.

An eight-month relationship ended with a single text that morning. Words you wouldn’t be able to forget : Since you don’t want to understand that I need you to stop neglecting yourself, it’s over.

Neglect. That’s what he always said, claiming you were neglecting yourself because you were a few kilos over what he thought a woman should be. He called himself a "gym bro," though he wasn’t exactly sculpted or strong, he couldn’t even lift you if he tried. But he had defined muscles, and he worshipped them. Killed himself at the gym every day, the only one town, next to the tattoo shop. He was cocky about it, constantly giving you unsolicited advice on how to lose belly fat, what meals to eat to slim down, which exercises would stop your arms from "flopping around" when you moved.

You endured all of it, all the veiled insults and body shaming, because you loved him. He was one of the only men in your life who’d ever given you any attention. He was your second boyfriend, and you’d been so deeply insecure that you fell for the first fucker who batted his eyes at you.

All you had ever wanted was to feel love, to feel seen.

The worst part was, you hadn’t gained weight during the relationship. You had already been overweight when he met you. And he had chosen to be with you. Or at least, that’s what you thought.

A few days after the breakup, you found out the truth, from people you once believed were your friends. He had made a bet with his buddies: that he could sleep with the fat girl from the bar and get her in shape within a year. And when he realized he was going to lose the bet, because no matter what, you weren't turning into the woman he wanted, he broke up with you.

He had never loved you. Never even cared. You had been a joke. A fucking bet.

And that shattered something deeper than you thought was possible.

Fidgeting with your hands, you stared at the plate in front of you. It wasn’t anything special—just some pasta with a bit of ham. A small portion, far less than what you used to eat. Your appetite had shrunk since he dragged you down that dark road, and it had only gotten worse after he left.

Some nights, you didn’t eat at all. Just showered, slipped into bed, and forced your body to lie still. Even when your stomach growled, you ignored it. You’d gotten used to skipping lunch, too.

But it never led to anything. Not a single kilo lost. Because during the day, you had manic episodes, eating everything in sight like you were trying to fill a void you couldn't name. Sometimes you threw it all up within hours. Sometimes it just sat in your stomach, but always made you sick in your head.

The numbers on the scale never dropped.

And the truth was, the real you didn’t even want them to. You’d been okay with how you looked before him. It wasn’t a runway model’s body, but it was yours. It had been healthy. It had been enough.

Now, it was neither slim… nor healthy. 

Like always, you took the plate and emptied it into the trash, untouched. Not a single bite.

The plate clattered into the sink, nearly cracking as your trembling fingers let it go. Your hands shook from the sobs wrecking your chest, but also from how weak your limbs had become in the three weeks since the breakup.

You were barely holding yourself together.

And you knew it, you had let yourself spiral down a very dark path. One that was slowly, quietly, killing you.

It was a strange feeling. You’d always thought you’d leave the moment a boyfriend insulted or degraded you. You believed you were stronger than that, stronger than what you turned out to be.

But the truth was different.

You had lacked attention from boys growing up. No one really looked at you. You were always the fat friend, the funny friend, the friend. Never pretty. Never sexy. Never interesting enough.

It took a toll on you, especially as high school ended and you remained the only virgin in your group. While your friends went off to college, experimenting with sex, parties, and boys, you took a job at the bakery. The same one you still worked at, six years later.

So in a way, it was predictable. When the cute boy from the bar approached you, showed interest, made you believe he was in it for more than just sex, you fell. Hard. You wanted to believe it was something real.

Truthfully, your first “boyfriend” hadn’t been any better. He never pretended to care. Once you gave him your first time, he vanished. His reason? I always wanted to fuck a fat girl.

Fat.

That word felt branded on your forehead.

Your mother always told you that you weren’t fat, just chubby. She said it in a way that made it sound cute, harmless, even lovable. And maybe it was. You weren’t anywhere near obese. But in your mind, it felt like you were.

Fat wasn’t just a word—it was a weight, a sentence, a quiet shame that followed you into fitting rooms, into photos, into silence when boys looked past you.

No matter what anyone said, you carried it like a scar only you could see.

Letting out a heavy sigh, you sank back into the chair, eyes closed, trying to will the tears to stop. You still had twenty minutes left on your break.

Gulping down a full glass of water to quiet the gnawing in your stomach, you stepped outside into the small backyard behind the bakery.

Technically, it was your boss’s backyard—she lived in the flat upstairs—but she let the staff use it. It was a welcome escape from the cramped, fluorescent-lit break room. Out here, at least, the rare English sun could warm your face, even if everything else felt cold.

You sat in silence, head tilted up, wishing the sunlight could burn the tears away the moment they surfaced. But it never did. 

They always fell.

The rest of your shift was hard, but no harder than the other days. They all blurred together now, each one just as heavy as the last. You weren’t really living anymore—just surviving. And the worst part was, you weren’t even sure why.

The walk home was pleasant enough. The sun was still out, lingering a little longer, casting gold across the pavement. You lifted your face to it, letting the warmth settle against your skin.

On impulse, you decided to take the long way home.

You hadn’t dared to for weeks, not since the breakup. That route passed by the gym where your ex worked out. The same one he had begged you to join. Pushed you to subscribe to. Promised it would “change everything.”

You had been grateful you never joined.

So lost in your thoughts, you almost missed it. Almost.

You stopped abruptly, something catching at the edge of your vision. You turned around.

They were beautiful, the most beautiful flowers you’d ever seen.

And yet, it was just a simple drawing. If you could even call it that. A quick scribble of sunflowers on a sheet of paper, taped messily to the front window of the tattoo parlour. Still, despite its roughness, it stopped you cold.

Just a couple of sunflowers, side by side. The details were rushed, uneven, like it had been sketched in a hurry. Probably tossed up there to draw in a certain kind of customer. You wouldn’t be surprised if it had been stuck there for years, long forgotten and sun-faded.

But to you, it was beautiful.

This wasn’t a new tattoo shop, it had been around for years and carried a certain reputation. People in town whispered about the artist known only as Ghost, an ex-military famed for his harsh, intricate designs: skulls, weapons, bombs—anything steeped in military grit. But what truly set him apart was his skill with scars. He was known for working over them with precision and care, turning what was once pain into something powerful, something claimed.

Veterans traveled from across the country just to get inked by him. Yet no one in town ever really saw him. Ghost, they called him, and the name fit.

He had settled here years ago, but beyond his clients, no one could say what he looked like. The rumours were consistent: a body covered in scars and tattoos, a nose broken more times than anyone could count, and a bluntness that sent most people running. That was all the town really knew about Ghost.

And yet, somehow, he had drawn the sunflowers, the small skull scrawled at the bottom of the sheet was his signature, his mark.

A flicker of movement in your peripheral vision pulled you out of your admiration.

There it was, the neon green wifebeater. That horrible, fluorescent shirt your ex always wore to the gym. You knew it all too well. Too painfully well. You hated it with a quiet fury. Not wanting to face him, you spun around abruptly, your head snapping as you caught the movement. Without a word, you turned and hurried away, taking yet another detour.

You ducked behind the block, your pace quickening. You kept glancing over your shoulder every few seconds, as if he might actually be following you. But you knew better.

He wanted nothing to do with you. He never had.

You were hyperventilating, your heartbeat pounding so loudly it rang in your ears. It was racing far too fast. Panic was settling deep into your bones, tightening its grip with every breath.

More tears gathered in your eyes, blurring your vision. So when you turned your head forward, you didn’t see the man you were about to stumble into. Your panicked mind was confused, convincing you it was your ex, that he was following you, coming to hurt you even more. More insults. More laughter at your naivety.

Your ears were ringing, and you couldn’t make out the words the stranger was saying. You couldn’t even see his face clearly. But you felt something burn the side of your arm—a cigarette, most likely. Which was strange, because your ex didn’t smoke. It didn’t fit his lifestyle. But your panicked mind was too tangled to make sense of anything.

Rushing past the man, you almost fell on the floor from missing the sidewalk, and mostly because of how, in a panic, your legs had become too heavy, ready to let go of your body. 

You didn’t remember how you made it home, just muscle memory taking over.

Hours later, you woke up to find yourself lying on the floor in the middle of your entryway. The sun had long since set. You’d passed out the moment you crossed the threshold, your home’s safety stealing away the panic and stress that your tired body could no longer bear.

Your head throbbed, from the fall and the tears. Your body ached, drained and pleading for any kind of energy after being pushed to its limits.

That night, you ate.

It was automatic. You couldn’t do anything else. Eat. Shower. Sleep.

It had been weeks since that day.

It almost felt like a dream now, a blur of memories and trauma, if not for the small, round scar on your arm. 

The stranger’s cigarette had left its mark. You knew it hadn’t been intentional, just a moment of bad timing in a chaotic panic. But still, it remained.

It mocked you. A quiet reminder of how twisted your mind had become. Proof of how deeply the fear had settled into your bones. You still couldn’t walk past the gym, not without your chest tightening, your legs wanting to flee. That moment had felt like the end of the world. It had drained you out, body and soul, until you’d had to call in sick the next morning. You stayed in your flat for three days after, unable to move, barely able to breathe.

Now, sitting behind the counter during a slow closing shift, you stared absently at the scar on your forearm, waiting for a client who was already ten minutes late.

And somehow, your thoughts drifted back to the sunflowers. Those pretty, messy sunflowers hanging in the tattoo shop window.

A single idea crossed your mind. Wild. Irrational. Something you would never actually do.

You couldn’t.

It was another thing your ex had wanted to change about you, your routine, your refusal to step outside the familiar. You never strayed far from what you knew. Never looked for a better job, never tried to find a nicer flat. You never chased the things you always said you wanted, like traveling to Scotland, opening your own coffee shop with a bakery, or adopting a dog. They were just dreams, floating around in your mind, never acted upon because they didn’t fit neatly into your routine. 

And he hated that. Said you were boring. Bland.

You wouldn’t let him win. You couldn’t keep letting him dictate your life, not after he’d walked away like none of it had ever meant anything. Because to him, it hadn’t.

So when you stood in front of the tattoo shop the next day, you had to remind yourself, this was for you. Not for anyone else. This was your choice, your body, and this would be your mark. A beautiful piece to adorn your hips, because he hated them. And you were tired of hating them too.

Tired of letting him win. 

Taking a deep breath, you pushed open the front door of the shop.

It looked exactly how you’d imagined. The walls were dark, lined with harsh, aggressive designs—skulls in every shape and size, weapons, tanks, grenades, and bold, blocky lettering. Classic tattoo motifs were scattered among them too: lions, clocks, roses, eagles. But nothing remotely close to the delicate, forgotten sunflowers in the window.

The bell above the door rang sharply, announcing your arrival.

A single sign greeted you, taped to the wall behind the counter. Thick black marker on plain paper, the writing was a little fancy, almost elegant, like someone trying to show off a bit of flair. The message, however, was blunt. 

Don't talk. I heard the door. Sit down and wait.

You obeyed the sign without hesitation, too nervous to do anything else. The waiting area was small, just a battered leather couch and a scratched-up coffee table covered in tattoo magazines and crumpled receipts. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and old smoke, like the place had absorbed years of ink and silence.

You sat down, trying to steady your breathing, your hands clasped tightly in your lap. The hum of a tattoo machine buzzed faintly in the distance, like a swarm of bees behind the walls. It was the only sound besides the occasional creak of the building settling.

It was all a stupid idea.

You shouldn’t even be here. It was ridiculous. He had been right, you were boring and bland, and maybe that was fine. Safe. Predictable. There was no need to change just to meet someone else’s idea of who you should be. So what were you doing here?

Sure, the flowers were pretty… but this was a tattoo. Permanent. Big. Bold. Everything you weren’t. And what if you couldn’t even afford it? This Ghost was popular, people traveled for him. He couldn’t be cheap.

The panic crawled up your throat again, wrapping around your breath like a vice. Your fingers fidgeted in your lap, nails digging into your palms. You stared down, letting your thoughts twist and spiral until your chest felt too tight and your legs itched to leave.

You didn’t even hear the tattoo gun stop. Didn’t hear the two voices, low and rough, approaching from the back room.

Another thing your ex hated. How easily you slipped away in your head. How you dissociated, zoned out, became unreachable when the world got too loud. Said it made you “weak.” Said it made you “a burden.” You clenched your jaw, blinking hard. You didn’t notice the footsteps until they were right there in the room.

And then, silence.

Looking up, you were met with three men, but one stood out immediately, like a sore thumb. 

He was taller, broader, commanding in a way the others weren’t. His arms were covered in tattoos that trailed down to his hands and fingers, dark ink etched into thick skin. His blond hair was cut short, close to his scalp, like a grown-out buzzcut that hadn’t seen a comb in days. His eyes landed on you, curious, confused, and sharp. There was something harsh in them too, like your presence disrupted something, and he didn’t like that. It wasn’t outright anger, but it simmered just beneath the surface. 

Still, he was striking. Easily one of the most handsome men you’d ever seen, in a rugged, untouchable way. And judging by his presence alone, there was no doubt—this was Ghost.

The man next to him had kinder eyes, warm brown and alert, framed by thick lashes and a subtle crease at the corners that hinted at easy smiles. He was shorter, leaner, with a trimmed beard and a calm steadiness in the way he held himself. His dark skin was smooth, his features sharp but approachable. There was something disarming about him, like he was used to diffusing tension before it sparked.

And then there was the last one. His eyes met yours like the others’, but there was a gentle smirk playing at the corners of his lips, amused. He didn’t bother hiding it, the moment his gaze landed, he openly checked you out from head to toe, unapologetic and bold. He had that rugged, battle-hardened look, dark hair kept in a weird shape, a faint beard tracing his jaw. His face held the kind of confidence that came from surviving countless fights, both outside and within. A fresh tattoo peeked out from beneath a second-skin plaster on his forearm, barely visible but telling of a story still unfolding.

“Well, LT,” the last one said, his deep Scottish accent rolling around the words, “Looks like ye’ve been hidin’ things, wee bugger.”

The dark-skinned man laughed at the remark while the taller one snapped a deadly glare at the Scot. If looks could kill, Mactavish would have been six feet under by now.

“Fuck off, Mactavish,” Ghost said, pushing the door open for his visitors.

Not even bothering to respond to the rudeness, the two men stepped out of the tattoo shop, whispering and giggling like schoolboys as they glanced back over their shoulders at you one last time.

You admitted to yourself that you must have looked out of place, sitting there in a space so obviously far outside your comfort zone. You wore a simple blue dress, dotted with tiny flowers and birds. Nothing fancy, but enough to hide your stomach, hips, and thighs. Much easier than trousers, at least. It was the kind of dress he’d called “ten years too old”, words that still echoed in your mind.

Before him, it used to be your favourite one. 

“What d’you want?” His blunt words cut through the silence, doing nothing to ease your anxiety. His sharp eyes pinned you in place, unblinking and intense.

You hesitated, struggling to find the right words. “Um… I was walking by the other day, and, uh, I saw the sunflowers outside. The pretty ones.”

Your voice was rushed, barely more than a whisper. At the mention of the flowers, his brow furrowed in confusion, his eyebrows shooting up as if you’d just said something absurd.

He turned away, glancing back toward the window, his eyes scanning quickly for the drawing you’d mentioned. It was clear on his face, he didn’t recall ever drawing sunflowers.

You fidgeted with your fingers, your leg bouncing nervously as anxiety gnawed at you.

Maybe he hadn’t drawn it. Maybe it was another artist. But you’d lived in this town for years, and you’d never heard of anyone else. Ghost was the only tattoo artist around.

“Fuck,” he let out with a sigh, walking  over to the sunflowers and tearing them off the window. “Listen, darlin’, I don’t do that sort of stuff no more. Look ‘round, find something you like, I’ll do it, but sunflowers? Nah, that ain’t me work.”

Oh no.

This was your worst-case scenario: rejection. Your heart was pounding wildly, feeling like it would burst right out of your chest. You should have known, it was a terrible idea. All the signs had been there.

The place was way out of your comfort zone. So was getting a tattoo. You’d even run into your ex while staring at the flowers. It was like the universe was sending you signs not to do this. But you’d already taken the first step, and now it was turning into a disaster.

You’d been silent far too long, not to mention awkward. Social skills had never been your strong suit, it’d always been a struggle.

“Uh, it’s okay, mister,” you stammered, pushing yourself up from the worn-out sofa, ready to bolt. “I don’t want anything else, really. Just the sunflowers,” you added quickly, your fingers nervously twisting the ring on your middle finger—a stress habit.

His eyes softened a little, noticing the clear discomfort and anxiety etched across your face.

Closing his eyes, he sighed again, not in anger, but in resignation. It didn’t take much, but something about you stirred a strange protective instinct inside him, the same feeling he’d only experienced when his teammates were in danger.

“Alright then,” he groaned, settling behind the desk by the door. He gestured toward the chair on the other side, inviting you to sit. “Tell me where you want it, the size and all that. I’ll have to redraw it. Looks like shit,” he added bluntly, not bothering to hide that the sunflowers were a poor sketch, especially given his skill.

With shy, hesitant words, you explained that you wanted the sunflowers on your left hip. As for the size, you weren’t quite sure, maybe four or five flowers, enough to stretch across the width of your hip.

At the mention of “width,” the way you said it, Ghost twitched ever so slightly. Hatred had filled your voice a little. So that was what this was all about, a tattoo to cover up insecurities. He was no stranger to this. Soldiers came to him all the time for the same reasons—covering scars, quieting traumas, memorializing lost comrades. He was used to pain and healing inked into skin.

But seeing you, a soft, sweet flower like yourself, hating on your body broke his heart. From what he could see, even with the way you tried to hide yourself under that dress, you were exactly his type: all curves and softness, just right to fit into his big, calloused hands.

After gathering all the details you wanted, which weren’t many, he gave you a knowing look and asked, “Got any other tattoos?”

A deep blush spread across your cheeks. It was too easy to read you. You shook your head, unable to hold his gaze for too long. It made you uncomfortable, but in a strangely pleasant way, something new, something you’d never felt before, not even with him.

“Come ’round in a couple days, aye?” he said, glancing down at the sunflower drawing as he thought. Then, looking back up at you, he added, “I’ll have a sketch ready, and if you like it, we can set a date.”

“Yeah,” you sighed, biting your lip nervously. “Okay.”

“’Need time to do something nice for you,” he said with a small smirk. “Wouldn’t wanna fuck it up.”

Your body stayed locked in the chair, and with a nod toward the door, he made it clear you wouldn’t be getting any work done today, not exactly chasing you out, but closing the session gently.

Frowning, you glanced from the door back to him, then at the door again.

“You don’t want a deposit?” you asked, confused. 

Glaring past him, your eyes caught the big sign in bold letters: NO DEPOSIT, NO PROJECT.

Knowing exactly what you were staring at, Ghost let out a short laugh. When you looked back at him, you were surprised to find that familiar knowing look shining in his brown eyes.

“Somethin’ tells me you ain’t gonna make me waste my time, flower,” he said, a rare intensity flickering behind his gaze. “Don’t you worry your little head ‘bout that, just come back in a few days.”

And with that, he sent you on your way.

As you stepped outside, your stomach churned, not with anxiety, but with a fluttering swarm of butterflies. A strange, giddy feeling settled over you, sparked by the memory of the man you had just met.

There was something about his quiet dominance, the effortless way he commanded the room. Nothing like anyone you’d ever known before.

And you found yourself longing for more. 

Anxiety had been eating away at you in the days following your meeting with Ghost.

In some strange way, you were excited, nervous, yes, but genuinely thrilled about this new thing. It still felt surreal that you were actually going through with it. And then there were his words, echoing in your mind like a quiet challenge: you ain't gonna make me lose my time, flower.

It made you want to prove him right. To please him.

His calm confidence, the way he filled a room without needing to say much, lingered in your thoughts longer than you cared to admit. That deep, gravelly voice of his had sent a shiver down your spine, and every time you remembered it, it happened all over again.

After that encounter, your days had started to feel a little lighter. The dark clouds that usually hovered in your mind seemed to part for longer stretches of time, letting in slivers of calm before the heaviness crept back in—usually around meals. Still, you were more present during your shifts, less likely to break down during your breaks, less caught in the spiral of exhaustion and tears.

But it all felt ridiculous to you. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you could still hear his voice, mocking, condescending. Whispering that it was just the same old story again. That a man had given you a shred of attention, and now you were overthinking like some pathetic daydreamer. 

“Little dumb naive girl,” he had once spat, voice thick with hatred and spite.

And despite everything, that voice still echoed.

You heard his voice again the moment you stood in front of the tattoo shop. Your eyes had wandered, unintentionally, toward the gym just next door. That place made your skin crawl. You hated it. Hated the way it made you feel small and enormous at the same time. Hated the way the women walked out—slim, glowing, confident—carrying something you had always been told you lacked. 

He used to say he could replace you with any one of them if you didn’t start losing weight. Said they were better than you. Slimmer. Prettier. More dedicated. Then would come the sweet words, how you could be just like them if only. Always the same routine. Break you down, then pretend to build you back up, exactly the way he liked. Like he was doing you a favor.

"Gonna stay out there all day, or you coming in?" The deep voice startled you, cutting through the haze of your thoughts like a blade.

You turned to find Ghost holding the door open, his broad frame filling the entrance. You hadn't realized you’d let a tear fall until the cool air hit your cheek. Quickly, you wiped it away, sniffing once. If he noticed, he didn’t mention it, just watched you with unreadable eyes.

You managed a shy smile, voice barely above a whisper. "Sorry." And with that, you stepped inside, the warmth of the shop swallowing you whole.

The shop was empty. Silent.

It felt almost sacred, like you’d stepped across the threshold of some hidden temple where quiet was a rule, not a choice.

A low groan broke the stillness, followed by a huff as Ghost sat down behind the desk. He sounded like an old man, despite barely looking over forty. You figured the military took its toll, grinding away at a person until even sitting down hurt. That theory was confirmed when his knee popped audibly as he stretched out his legs. Another groan slipped out.

You giggled, just a little. A quiet, surprised sound that escaped before you could catch it.

Ghost looked up at you with one brow raised, catching you mid-mockery. There was no anger in his face, no sharp edge to his gaze, just something unreadable and calm, a small smirk playing on his lips. Still, your chest tightened at the expression. 

It mirrored one you'd seen too many times before, except back then it had always come with a bite. With anger. With disgust.

You looked away quickly and sank down onto the old chair without a word.

He said nothing either. Just pulled open a drawer and pushed three pieces of paper toward you. Sketches. Sunflowers.

Each design more intricate and beautiful than the rough draft you’d first seen weeks ago. Sunlight captured in ink. Petals curled with care. You blinked, your throat suddenly tight.

He hadn’t just redrawn the flowers. He’d turned them into something tender. Something yours.

They were all beautiful, but one sketch drew you in more than the others.

It was a single sunflower, its petals open wide in full bloom, surrounded by gently arching leaves and smaller buds just on the verge of flowering. The lines were soft, almost tender, yet precise—each stroke intentional, like every vein on a petal had been studied before being drawn.

What captivated you most, though, was the smallest detail: a single bee, hovering mid-flight near the flower’s heart. Its wings were barely open, caught in that frozen moment of approach, as if deciding to land. It wasn’t just decorative, it was alive with motion, with intent.

It made your chest ache in the best way.

The sunflower stood proud and open, the bee drawn to it naturally—unafraid, unashamed. You saw yourself in that flower. Or at least, who you wanted to be.

It was a very singular design, nothing like the harsh, brutal lines that filled the walls around you. No skulls, no weapons, no eagles with razor-edged wings. Just a bloom, soft and open, alive with quiet strength. It almost didn’t make sense. That a man like him, this towering, intimidating presence wrapped in scars and ink, had drawn something so delicate, so intimate. So… you.

There had been something about you that stirred something different in him, something that made him want to create something truly special, just for you. It was unlike the bold, aggressive lines and masculine designs he was known for. He could do delicate—he’d always had the skill—but he usually chose not to. Until now. And as you sat in the chair across from him, eyes glassy and wide like a startled fawn, he knew he’d made the right call. He’d been right not to turn you away.

The look in your eyes was quietly devastating.

Ghost had spent nearly two decades learning to read people, it had been his job, his survival. And everything about you screamed damage dealt in silence. The way you sat, small and unsure, like you didn’t want to take up space. The constant fidgeting of your fingers in your lap, tugging at your clothes like they might shield you from being seen. The way your voice barely rose above a whisper, like you weren’t sure you deserved to be heard.

He recognized the signs. He’d seen them in soldiers, in strangers, in too many faces over the years. The fallout of cruel words and twisted truths. Of someone telling you you weren’t enough, or worse, that you were too much. 

But it was always the same origin, someone, somewhere, had tried to make you small.

A mother, maybe. Or more likely, he thought grimly, a man.

And sitting across from you now, he felt something cold and quiet settle in his chest. Not judgment. Not pity. Just the sharp, familiar awareness that some people carry battles you can’t always see, and you were fighting yours with nothing but a soft voice and trembling hands.

And that, Ghost thought, deserved something beautiful.

“Picked one, flower?” he asked, tone softer now, careful. Not wanting to scare you off. Not wanting to break what little peace you had mustered to sit in that chair.

"Yes, this one," you said, almost too quietly, your finger hovering over the design with the bee. Even though it looked small on paper, you hoped he could make it bigger—big enough to cover the part of your hip you were so desperate to hide.

Ghost glanced at the drawing, then at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "My personal favourite," he said, voice low and smooth, before rising from the desk and walking toward the back of the shop. With a practiced motion, he pushed aside the curtain and held it open, looking over his shoulder with an expectant glance, clearly waiting for you to follow.

You hadn’t expected it to happen today. You weren’t ready, not mentally, not emotionally, but your feet moved before your mind could catch up. Hesitating at first, you followed him into the back, unsure of what else to do, heart pounding with a mix of fear and anticipation.

There was no turning back now.

Noticing the way your body language had shifted in an instant, your shoulders tense, your steps uncertain, Ghost let out a low chuckle, trying to ease the tension.

“Relax. Not gonna tattoo you today,” he said, voice calmer than you'd expected. “Just testing out the size, yeah?”

“Oh,” you breathed out, almost like a sigh of relief. “Yeah… yeah, that’s okay,” you added, biting your lower lip, a nervous habit you couldn’t seem to shake.

After he gestured to the tattoo bed, Ghost moved behind the computer, likely resizing the design to fit your hip. The room settled into silence. It wasn’t awkward, at least not on his end, but the quiet gave your thoughts too much room to spiral.

What if he thought you were fat? What if he looked at your body with disgust, just like he had? You reminded yourself this was his job, he’d probably seen hundreds of bodies, maybe thousands. All kinds. Worse than yours, surely. But the thought still clawed at your chest like something sharp and cruel: what if you were the worst of them all?

Especially when the man preparing to see your hips, thighs, and stomach was, without exaggeration, one of the most handsome men you'd ever laid eyes on.

With a few stencils prepared, Ghost stood and approached, ready to test out various sizes.

Not wanting to be in the way, you immediately got up as well, stepping in front of the full-length mirror while he settled onto the stool beside it.

You’d worn another dress today, plain yellow, modest, simple. It reached your knees and clung just a little too snugly around your stomach. It used to fit better. Had you gained more weight again? You hoped not. Maybe it had just shrunk in the wash. That had to be it.

“The left one, yeah?” he asked, not looking up as he carefully trimmed the edges of the stencil.

You gave a soft hum of agreement, your voice caught somewhere between nervous and uncertain. Ghost didn't pause, just wheeled himself around behind you with ease, still focused on cutting. His strong thighs pushed him forward effortlessly in the chair, and for some reason, watching the quiet confidence of that movement sent a subtle thrill down your spine.

"Alright," he said once he’d finished trimming all three stencil sizes. "Pull this up for me, yeah?" He motioned toward your dress, voice casual, efficient—like this was just another task in his day.

And why wouldn’t it be? He didn’t care about your insecurities. He didn’t even know you. You were just another client. You’d come to him for a service, and he was simply doing his job.

Still, your throat tightened as you nodded, swallowing hard. With a deep breath, you slowly pulled your dress up.

"A little more, flower," he said, glancing up quickly while preparing the stencil products, his tone still calm, focused, professional.

Your chest constricted at the request. Your hands trembled slightly, and for a moment you thought you might be sick. But by some miracle of will, you managed to lift your dress a bit higher, high enough that your plain cotton underwear was fully visible.

You felt exposed, hyperaware of every flaw. The natural light from the window beside the table streamed in, illuminating everything.

Panic fluttered in your chest until your eyes darted to the glass, and you realized with a wash of relief that it was treated with a one-way mirror film. You could see the street, but no one could see in.

You flinched slightly when you felt his warm hand settle on your hip, the unexpected contact sending a jolt up your spine. Looking down, you caught a glimpse of how close his face was, far too close for your nerves to handle.

He looked somewhat ridiculous in that moment, crouched down low, the stool adjusted to its minimum height. And still, somehow, he was a giant. He had to curve his broad back just to meet the right angle, shoulders hunched, every movement careful and measured.

"Alright?" he asked, his voice quiet but firm, catching the way your body tensed and the goosebumps rising along your skin.

There was a flicker in his eyes, something more than concern. Ghost had always been a man whose emotions burned low and slow, but now something stirred. A spark of frustration, not directed at you, but at whoever had made you like this. Whoever had taken someone so soft, so lovely, and left them flinching from simple touch.

To him, you were stunning. Like those old Greek goddesses carved in marble, soft, full, timeless. The kind of beauty meant to be admired, not torn apart. It filled him with something uncomfortably close to protectiveness, a simmering anger on your behalf.

And yet, you couldn’t see it. Couldn't see what he saw. And that, more than anything, pissed him off.

"Yeah, sorry," you said quickly, not entirely sure what you were apologizing for. "Keep going." You added the words with a small, tight smile tugging at your lips.

He understood his mistake, he hadn't told you what he was doing. Just like with the vet with PTSD, he needed to explain everything, to avoid catching you off guard.

"This is just so the stencil’s ink sticks to your skin. It’s just a gel, but it’s gonna be cold," he explained, showing you the dab he’d applied to his finger. When you nodded, he began to gently spread it across your skin.

Without realizing, his thumb brushed higher on your hip, nudging your panties up slightly. It was unconscious, just a way to keep the gel from touching the fabric, but it sent your mind spiraling. His fingers felt so good against your skin: soft, careful, like he was handling something fragile he didn’t want to break.

No one had ever touched you like that before. It felt strange, but in the best way, and you found yourself wanting more.

As soon as he peeled the stencil off your skin, your eyes dropped to your hip, and you cringed.

It looked so small against the stretch of skin. He’d used the medium size, but it was still far from what you’d imagined. Barely bigger than your hand, it looked... wrong. Out of place. Like it needed room to breathe, to grow into something more.

“Bigger?” he asked, watching your reaction closely.

You nodded quickly, and he stood without another word, heading back to his desk.

The largest version he’d printed wasn’t much bigger than the one you’d just seen. He’d have to resize it again. As he sat in front of his laptop, he glanced up, just in time to see you frowning at your skin, letting the dress fall back over the spot the second he was no longer beside you. Like you couldn’t bear to look at it alone.

Ghost clicked his tongue and shook his head, disbelief darkening his features.

Whoever made you feel that way, he hoped they were ashamed.

After a few more tries and several rounds of resizing, you finally found yourself staring at the stencil with something like admiration, no longer disgust. He’d added more details with each version—more leaves, more petals—to better match the vision you’d had in your head. 

And now, it was perfect. It began just above your hip and flowed down almost to the middle of your thigh. It fit your body like it had always belonged there.

It felt right.

A quiet moment passed, the room still, until the chime of the front doorbell jolted you from your thoughts.

“It’s perfect,” you said at last, your voice soft but certain.

Ghost raised his eyebrows, then offered a genuine smile. “Yeah?” He asked, as if he had been ready to size it up again. 

You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Great,” he said, glancing toward the trash bin overflowing with discarded stencils. “Only took, what… seven tries?” he added with a teasing lilt.

“Sorry,” you murmured, guilt creeping in. You felt like you’d wasted his time, been too picky.

“Don’t be,” he said easily, already making a note on the final stencil so he could refine it later. “Tell you what, keep it on for a couple of days. If you still like it, give me a call and we’ll set a date.”

“Okay,” you agreed, letting the hem of your dress fall back down, covering the design once again.

“Perfect, then,” Ghost said, standing with a grunt as he stretched his back. He handed you a small card with his name and number. “It’ll wash off eventually, don’t worry.”

And with that, you were sent on your way—a flower now adorning your hip, waiting to be etched into your skin forever.

A pretty flower for the prettiest, Ghost thought, as he turned to greet his next client.

Sadness settled over you when the sunflower finally faded from your hip.

It had taken about three days. Three days where you couldn't stop looking at it, admiring it in every mirror you passed at home. It had made you feel pretty, maybe for the first time in months. For once, you had felt good in your own skin. And the moment you realised that, you called the tattoo shop, your voice trembling with quiet determination.

You told Ghost you were ready.

He had sounded genuinely pleased, even told you so himself. You set a date—two weeks from now, the only opening he had. He explained it would likely take two, maybe three sessions to complete, each spaced about a month apart.

He also began talking about pricing, but you barely listened. You were so far gone in the process, so invested in this strange little dream, that numbers didn’t scare you anymore. He could’ve asked for two thousand pounds and you still would’ve paid it, no hesitation. Yet he stayed evasive about the exact number. 

While he went over the rules, you mostly listened to the sound of his voice. Deep and soothing, it made your stomach twist in a way that had nothing to do with nerves.

“Wear comfortable clothes,” he’d said. “Bring books, music if you want. Drink water. Eat before, and bring snacks too.”

That last part snapped you out of your dreamy fog.

Snacks. You hadn’t had a snack in months. You barely had a regular eating routine at all anymore.

Your anxiety spiked immediately. You fumbled a quiet, “What do you mean?”

He explained gently that tattoos were draining on the body, and he didn’t want you passing out in his shop. That it was important.

You nodded, but deep down you knew you wouldn’t follow that rule. Eating beforehand would be a battle. Snacks were… complicated.

Unknown to you, Ghost quietly made a note to bring some of his own snacks. Something told him you wouldn’t show up with anything. And he wasn’t about to let you faint on his table.

He also wasn’t about to let you slip through his fingers.

He told himself to be patient, to tread carefully, but something in him had already shifted. He was ready to catch you. To keep you close. Warm. Safe. 

He had tried to restrain his thoughts during the short time he’d known you. Told himself he was too old, too rough for someone like you. But hearing your soft, fragile voice on the phone, nervous over something as small as snacks, it undid something in him. Broke open a place he hadn’t touched in years.

You needed someone to take care of you. And whether you knew it yet or not, he was already planning to be that someone.

The day of your first session came. By 10 a.m., you'd already thrown up your breakfast—nerves twisting your stomach into knots.

But you needed to eat. He’d told you to eat. And something inside you, quiet but insistent, wanted to make him proud. Wanted to follow his instructions, not out of fear, but out of something softer. Something that felt dangerously close to trust.

So when noon came, you sat down and ate a light lunch. Slowly. Carefully. You even finished it with a small pastry you'd saved from your closing shift the night before. You had another one waiting in the fridge, meant for him.

You’d eaten more than your body had grown used to these past few months. It left you with a dull ache in your stomach and a familiar, rotten urge clawing at your throat, to get rid of it. Purge it all.

But you didn’t.

This morning had been different, your body rejecting food out of sheer stress. But now? If you threw up now, it would be by your own hand. And somehow, you felt like Ghost would know.

Somehow, he’d see it in your eyes. And you couldn’t bear the thought of disappointing him.

You’d chosen another plain dress that morning, simple, soft, something that wouldn’t draw attention. You made sure your panties were in place, covering everything they needed to. Modest. Safe.

Still, the thought of being half-naked in front of a near-stranger made your skin crawl just a little. Not because of him, not really. But because of you, because of how exposed it all made you feel. But you needed this. You needed that sunflower on your hip, something beautiful, something permanent, something just for you.

You could handle a few hours of discomfort. You’d endured far worse for far less. This time, at least, there would be something to show for it. Something that might make you feel like yourself again.

When you crossed the threshold, you didn’t feel nearly as nervous as the first day. There was still tension humming beneath your skin, but it felt quieter now, softer. Familiar, even.

You were supposed to be there by 2 p.m., but you showed up at 1:30. Anxiety had been gnawing at you in your flat, pacing circles in your mind. Better to wait here than there. Your grandma’s voice echoed in your head: “Show up on time and you’re already late.”

It had stuck with you, like most of the things she said.

The sharp buzz of the tattoo machine stopped abruptly. A second later, Ghost appeared, only his face visible behind the half-drawn curtain. His eyes scanned the shop, then landed on you, clearly surprised.

Glancing at his watch, he let out a quiet laugh. “A bit early, flower, aye?” he said, the mockery in his voice softened by fondness. He tilted his head toward the waiting area. “Get comfy, I’m almost done.”

Then he vanished again behind the curtain, and the machine started buzzing once more.

You were left alone with your takeaway box, a simple things that somehow made you feel even more exposed. But you were here. That counted for something.

Twenty minutes later, the buzzing stopped.

You glanced up just in time to see Ghost walking his client out, peeling off his gloves with practiced ease. His expression was serious, sharp eyes fixed on the bulky man who thanked him before heading for the door. “Semper fi,” the man added as he left.

Ghost gave a small nod in response, shutting the register drawer with a decisive click.

“Fucking Marines,” he muttered under his breath, not loud enough to offend, just loud enough for you to hear. 

Then his eyes found yours again, and something in him visibly softened. Like a soldier slipping out of uniform. “Come on then,” he said, motioning toward the back room as he held the curtain open for you. His tone was quieter now, gentler. Meant just for you.

You stood, your heart knocking a little too hard against your ribs, and stepped past him into the familiar quiet of the studio.

You spotted the familiar stencil waiting on the small stool next to the mirror, just like last time. Before Ghost could sit down, your nerves got the better of you, and you blurted out, “Brought this for you.”

You handed him the small box, your fingers trembling just enough for you to notice. It was nothing special, just a simple éclair. You’d chosen it because it was safe. Everyone liked éclairs... right?

Well, he didn't like it.

“Thanks, didn’t have to,” he said casually, taking the box from your hands. 

He didn’t hesitate to open it, eyes widening as he caught sight of the pastry inside. Before you could brace yourself for rejection, he’d already picked it up, shoved the whole thing into his mouth, and let out a low, guttural moan of appreciation.

“It’s good, flower,” he said through a mouthful, lips curled into a grin. “Made it yourself?”

All you could do was nod, stunned.

It was almost... pornographic, the way he’d eaten it. Like he didn’t care about appearances or manners or calories, just enjoyment. Ghost, with his thick muscles and calloused hands, clearly someone who probably hit the gym daily, had devoured your cake like it was the best thing he’d eaten in weeks. Moaned for it, even.

Your ex had always asked for the ingredients when you baked, always calculating the calories, dissecting the fat content before he’d even touch it.

This? This was something new. This was acceptance. This was appreciation. And it was almost too much.

After washing his hands, Ghost clapped them together once before settling onto the stool beside you, just like last time.

“Shall we get going?” he asked, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you, watchful, calm.

Once you gave him a small nod, he got to work. 

“Gonna shave your skin first, alright?” he said, pulling out a fresh razor and a bottle of shaving gel.

He hadn’t told you to shave. You should’ve known, you should’ve looked it up beforehand. Your skin should’ve been smooth already, prepared. Now he had to do it for you, and it felt like you’d already messed everything up.

“Stop,” he said firmly, his eyes focused on your skin as he gently worked the razor over it. “Stop overthinkin’. That’s on me, I forgot to tell you. So just... breathe, yeah? I don’t care. I do this for guys ten times hairier than you, and they don’t lose sleep over it.”

Then stencil was placed with careful precision, exactly where you wanted it. When you approved with a quiet "That’s perfect," he let you lie back on the tattoo table. From there, everything moved with quiet, practiced rhythm.

Gloves. Ink. Needles.

Each item was either unwrapped from sterile packaging or pulled from sealed containers. And for every step, he explained what he was doing.

You listened closely, really listened, with those wide, soft doe eyes trained on him, absorbing each word like it mattered. He noticed that, too. Knew it gave you a bit of comfort. Knew that being informed made the fear quieter. You even stopped fidgeting with your fingers for a few seconds.

“I’m not much of a talker, yeah?” he said while slotting a needle into the tattoo machine. “But you can do whatever. Read, listen to music, nap. I won’t get distracted, don’t worry.”

It was time now. Everything was ready. His voice softened again.

“It might hurt a little at first. Like a few electric shocks. But you’ll get used to it. If you need a break, you tell me, alright? Got the whole afternoon just for you, flower.” He motioned toward a small table you hadn’t noticed before, tucked just beside a door marked PRIVATE. On top sat a neatly arranged water bottle, some juice, a protein bar and bananas.

“Snacks and water’s over there too. No excuses,” he added with a faint smirk, like he already knew you were planning on ignoring that part.

Your heart swelled in your chest. You hadn’t said a word, and still, he’d thought ahead. He’d prepared for you.

You weren’t used to that. Not the consideration, not the gentle forethought. Not someone thinking of what you might need without being told. It caught you off guard in the softest way.

It made something flutter deep inside, something that had been dormant for too long. A warmth that started in your belly and crept up to your chest, into your cheeks. That familiar tingling sensation. You were starting to associate it with him. With the low rumble of his voice, with the way he looked at you, sharp, but never unkind.

It was becoming too common, that feeling. Too easy.

The first few minutes were uncomfortable, your body needed time to adjust to the needle. To the harsh overhead light that seemed to highlight every imperfection. And then there was the smaller lamp strapped to his forehead, casting a focused beam directly onto your hip. His face was so close to your skin, you could feel the warmth of his breath.

His left forearm rested gently on your thigh, solid and warm, steadying himself as he wiped away excess ink with practiced ease, while his right hand moved with careful precision.

He’d started with the sunflower at the center of it all. It wasn’t pleasant, but the pain was manageable. At first, you were too tense to even breathe properly, afraid the slightest movement would throw him off. But after a few minutes, you relaxed enough to pull out your phone and headphones, letting a podcast fill your ears.

The first hour passed like that, calm, almost meditative. A serial killer podcast buzzed in your ears while Ghost worked in steady silence. Sometimes, you’d glance down, watching as the sunflower slowly bloomed on your skin.

But the calm cracked when he asked you to change position, to lie on your side, your back turned to him.

After a few minutes in that position, you couldn’t help it, your hand moved on its own, trying to tug your dress down over your stomach. Ghost gently pushed it back up without thinking, completely unaware of how exposed and uncomfortable it made you feel.

Lying like this felt unbearable. All you could focus on was the cellulite on your thighs, the way your stomach bulged more on your side, how visible everything was under the harsh light. Your mind spiraled. Your body tensed. Without realizing it, you began fidgeting, squirming just enough to make his job harder with each passing second.

And then the voices came back. Your ex’s voice.

Fat. Ugly. Big.

"Okay, let’s stop," Ghost grunted suddenly, pulling away as he set his machine down. "Can’t do anything if you keep moving like that."

Dread hit you like a wave. 

You’d ruined it. You’d let him down. He was angry, disappointed, you could see it in his eyes. Your chest tightened as your vision blurred. Tears gathered, hot and humiliating, pooling in your lashes.

Your thoughts scattered, running a mile a minute, grasping for an escape plan. Maybe you could say you were sick. Maybe pretend you were fainting. Anything to get out of this room, this moment, this shame.

You’d never come back. You couldn’t. You’d find another artist to finish the piece, who cared if it wasn’t perfect anymore? You didn’t deserve perfect anyway.

When he got up, pulling off his gloves and tossing them in the trash, it felt like the floor dropped from under you.

Your heart pounded against your ribcage, loud and panicked. Your breathing quickened, shallow and erratic, your palms slick with sweat. You couldn’t even bring yourself to look at him at first. He was mad. He had to be.

Glancing down, you saw how little had been done—the center of the sunflower, a few petals trailing toward your hip, the ones closest to your butt. That was why the position had been necessary. That was why you’d ruined it.

A lump formed in your throat. It hurt.

You were about to sit up and start apologizing, maybe even crying, when he returned, quiet steps, calm energy. He placed a water bottle beside you, then crouched slightly, bringing his gaze level with yours.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he said, voice gentle, like he was trying not to spook you. “Breathe for me, yeah? Just breathe. I'm not mad." You forced your eyes to meet his. He wasn’t lying. His eyes weren’t hard or annoyed, they were soft. Understanding.

"I'm not mad," he repeated, slower this time. “Not at you, anyway."

He opened the water bottle for you without a word, gently guiding it into your hands. “Drink,” he said quietly, his tone firm but not unkind.

You obeyed, taking a few gulps while your trembling fingers gripped the plastic too tightly. He stepped back just enough to give you space, crossing his arms over his broad chest. Normally, a sight like that—his tattoos, his frame, the quiet command of his posture—would’ve made your stomach flutter. But your mind wouldn’t let you feel anything but shame right now. Not when you were half-naked, having a full-blown panic attack in front of him.

Before you could fumble out an apology or excuse, his voice cut through the buzzing in your head.

"I'm taking you out tonight," he said. Not a question. An order. His tone had shifted, gruff, decisive. The same voice, you imagined, that barked commands on the battlefield.

You blinked at him, stunned.

"Nice little restaurant,” he went on. “You’re gonna sit down across from me, and you're gonna tell me about the fucker who put those ugly thoughts in your head. The ones I see behind your eyes every time you look down at yourself, 'right?."

You stared at him, wide-eyed, the words settling like a warm blanket and a shock of cold water all at once. It was too much and somehow exactly what you needed.

He had phrased it like a question at the end, but you knew better. There was no room for doubt in his voice. Not with the way he looked at you, not with the quiet command laced through every word. He had your address anyway. You’d filled it in on the paperwork before he started the tattoo.

“Alright,” he said, final and firm. No room for argument.

The rest passed in silence. Ghost moved with careful efficiency, preparing the second skin while glancing at you with eyes that silently urged, Drink more. So you did.

He let out a soft hum—something like approval—then turned his attention back to cutting the perfect size for the blister shield. Once it was applied over the small section of tattoo he'd completed, sealing the delicate lines and color beneath, he reached forward and gently tugged your dress back down himself.

Once you were both out of the back room, you found the courage to speak. “How much do I owe you?” Your voice sounded pitiful, hoarse from the panic attack, weighted with unshed tears.

“Don’t worry about that,” he answered quickly, without even glancing back. “Be ready at seven, yeah?”

You didn’t get the chance to respond. His warm hand settled between your shoulder blades, guiding you gently toward the exit. Under different circumstances, you might’ve taken it as a dismissal. But after his blunt, unexpected invitation, it didn’t feel like rejection.

“In the meantime, get some rest,” he added softly, pausing before the door. “Take a nap. Eat something. Can you do that for me?”

There was something different in him now. A shift in the air between you. The way he carried himself around you had changed. Less detached, more... possessive. Protective.

You didn’t mind. But the suddenness of it left you reeling, like emotional whiplash.

Still, you hummed softly in response, nodding along like you agreed, like you would do what he asked. 

But deep down, you knew you wouldn’t. 

Not today. Not after what had just happened. Your body wouldn’t keep anything down anyway, not with the weight of shame and panic still lodged in your chest.

That’s how you found yourself in a cute but upscale Italian restaurant, sitting across from a ghost. No, across from Simon. He had told you his name when you got into his car. The drive had been quiet. He wore the same thing he always did when you saw him: all black.

Except this was a fancy all black—not the comfortable, worn-in black he wore at his tattoo shop.

When you had arrived at the restaurant, you immediately felt underdressed. It was far more elegant than you had imagined. The other women wore cocktail dresses, while you had on your “old woman” dress. One of your favourites, sure, but it felt completely out of place. Like you had just stepped out of a quiet little cottage and accidentally walked into high society.

The first few minutes had been awkward. You didn’t really know what to say, and Simon was watching you with an intense look in his eyes, like he was expecting something.

The smells of the restaurant blended together into something mouthwatering. Your stomach growled loudly in response.

“You didn’t listen, did you?” he asked. His tone wasn’t patronizing, but he had clearly heard your stomach over the ambient noise of the restaurant. When you gave him a confused look, he sighed and spoke again. “You didn’t eat.”

This time, it wasn’t a question. It was a statement, firm and undeniable, leaving you no room to lie.

No one had ever cared whether you ate or not. The fact that he did made something twist inside you. It felt… strange. Unfamiliar. And it sent your anxiety into overdrive. The disappointment in his eyes, the quiet sigh before he spoke—they felt like signs. Signs that you had let him down. Just like you always let people down.

He had been right. You were incapable of taking care of yourself, let alone making someone else happy. In nearly nine months of being together, you hadn’t made him happy. Not once.

“Care to tell me why?” Simon’s voice broke the silence. It was still firm, but there was a gentleness woven into it.

“Took a nap… didn’t have time to—before I had to get ready,” you whispered, almost pathetically. You felt like a child being scolded, like you’d done something wrong.

And in a way, you weren’t lying. You had taken a nap after getting home, right after staring at your new tattoo for a good half hour. When you finally got up, the anxiety hit. Hard. It made eating feel impossible and pushed you to start getting ready far earlier than necessary. Once ready, you just paced around your apartment, running through every way the night could go wrong.

Simon being upset because you hadn’t eaten wasn’t one of them.

That was the moment the waiter chose to arrive at your table, ready to take your order. You had been staring at the menu for a good ten minutes before Simon spoke, yet everything on it felt like too much. That realization hit hard. You used to love Italian food, loved eating out, dressing up, sitting around a table with friends, laughing over shared plates.

Now, you just felt… empty. Like all of that joy had been drained out of you.

Simon ordered first. He asked for three antipasti, one of the biggest pizzas on the menu, and a side of fresh mozzarella, like it was nothing. Meanwhile, you barely managed to mumble a request for a Margherita. The fewer ingredients, the better.

Everything he ordered made your mouth water, but the idea of actually eating made you swallow hard, your throat suddenly too tight.

Just before the waiter walked away, Simon added, “We’ll take your best red wine as well. Bring the bottle.”

Then his eyes were back on you—steady, unreadable, and unwavering.

Once the wine had been poured, it became easier to speak, mostly because its warmth spread through you faster than usual, thanks to the fact that you hadn’t eaten much all day. Conversation flowed effortlessly, like you’d known each other forever.

At first, you didn’t say much. He talked about his old world, because you had asked him why he called himself Ghost. Then he began asking questions in return. Nothing intrusive. Just gentle curiosity: your job, your studies, a bit about your family, the places you dreamed of visiting. Easy conversation. And he listened, really listened. It felt like he actually cared about the answers.

When his antipasti arrived, you kept talking, pausing only when he lifted a fork toward you, offering a bite of caprese salad like he’d done it a thousand times before. You were so surprised, all you could do was open your mouth in response, letting him feed you.

And then he did it again. Casually. Like it was nothing. Sharing everything he’d ordered without comment or ceremony. It was intimate, unexpectedly so, but he said nothing, just kept asking questions, humming thoughtfully at your answers, occasionally offering his own stories in return.

Maybe it was the wine. Or maybe it wasn’t. But you felt the urge to press your thighs together under the table, seeking the smallest bit of pressure. There was something about the quiet confidence of his actions—the way he simply took charge without making a show of it—that made heat bloom across your skin. Your cheeks, your ears, your neck flushed with it.

And he noticed. You knew he did, from the small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. But he didn’t say a word.

He just kept feeding you. 

With the antipasti finished, his questions shifted, deeper now. The kind you usually avoided. The kind you never talked about. But there was something about Simon… something that made you feel safe. Protected, even. You knew he wouldn’t mock you. He wouldn’t laugh at you for not leaving sooner. He wouldn’t pity you for still struggling now.

So, you told him. Not everything. You left out the sharpest edges—the outright insults, the way he punched the walls, the time he almost hit you. The way he’d keep pushing for sex even after you said no… until you’d finally say yes, just to make it stop. Those parts still lived in a locked room inside you, sealed tight. You weren’t ready to open that door. Not yet.

But you told him everything else.

And as the words spilled out, you didn’t even notice when your pizza arrived. Didn’t realize you’d eaten more than half of it until your story trailed off and you looked down, surprised. Half gone. In your stomach.

No overthinking. No guilt. No sick knot twisting in your gut.

Just food. Just nourishment. And, for once, peace.

And when Simon offered you a forkful of his pizza, you let him.

He didn’t say much in response to your confession. Just listened, thoughtfully. His fists had tightened under the table when you spoke about the things that bastard used to say about your body. The way he tore you down with words sharper than knives. Simon had suspected your ex had left a mark, especially when he noticed your strained relationship with food, with your body. He’d even gently suggested once that an ex might’ve been the cause.

But he hadn’t imagined this. Not the depth of it. Not how cruel someone could be, how calculated. He had seen things during his time in the military, seen how dark people could get in a warzone. But he never thought he'd come across that same cruelty in civilian life, in someone you once trusted. It made his blood run cold.

So he made himself a quiet promise: to help you find your way back.

No pressure. No rushing.

Just gentle hands and steady praise. A protective presence at your side. Patient and solid. Until, one day, eating a meal didn’t feel like a shameful act. Until your body wasn’t something to battle, but something you could simply exist in, without guilt. Without fear.

Until you no longer felt like trash for giving your body what it needed.

When dessert time came around, you still felt uncertain. Full, yes—but you’d been watching the tiramisu pass by your table all night, carried by waiters like little temptations on porcelain plates. You wanted to try it. Badly.

But it felt wrong. 

The thoughts crept in, sharp and familiar. You’ve already eaten too much. You’re already too fat. You don’t need the extra sugar.

Simon’s finished eating anyway, he probably doesn’t even like sweets.

As you spiraled, again—for what felt like the millionth time today—Simon watched you quietly. He’d noticed you eyeing the tiramisu throughout dinner. But now, with the menu back in your hands, your eyes were filled with guilt. Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, a silent giveaway that your thoughts were turning cruel.

He hadn’t known you long. But you were easy to read. Too easy, even.

So without a word, without needing your permission, Simon stopped the waiter as he passed. “One tiramisu,” he said, slowly taking the menu out of your hands. “Two spoons.”

Another silence settled between you.

“You know you’re gorgeous.”His voice cut through it, steady and sure—taking you completely by surprise. That firm tone was back. “Easily one of the finest bodies I’ve ever tattooed.”

Simon wasn’t poetic. His words weren’t flowery, but they weren’t crude either. Just raw truth, spoken without hesitation. He wasn’t the type to lie to protect feelings. If he thought something, he said it, simple as that.

And right now, he thought you were beautiful.

You let out an embarrassed laugh, your eyes darting to the table, the walls, anywhere but him. He had shown you he was blunt, sure, but this felt unexpected. Too kind. Too generous.

“You don’t have to say that,” you murmured. “Just because you feel bad for me…”

He simply raised an eyebrow, the expression cool and challenging—like he was daring you to keep going.

“Stop thinking you’re in my head, flower,” he said, voice low and steady. “I'm no liar like he was. Not here to play with you. I’d get no pleasure out of that.”

There was no softness in his words, but there was something better, certainty. The kind that didn’t ask for belief, just offered it freely. A quiet anchor in a sea of doubt. And for the first time in a long while, part of you wanted to believe someone.

“I’m past playing little boys’ games,” he added, his gaze steady.

The implication was clear, he was nothing like the others you’d known. More mature. More grounded. 

“Okay,” was all you could manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

Too shy to admit you still didn’t quite believe him. Too scared to ask if he really meant it. Too pathetically grateful to even offer a compliment in return.

You’d never been more relieved to see a waiter in your life. He placed the tiramisu gently at the center of the table, setting down two spoons—one by each of your sides.

Looking up from the plate, you watched Simon with wide, expectant eyes. You didn’t even know what you were waiting for, approval, maybe. A signal. Something. And when he gave you a small nod, you finally dug in.

His blood rushed south the moment he realized it, you had waited for his permission to take the first bite. 

He'd been right. Spot on.

You didn’t need someone to fix you. You just needed someone steady. Someone to quiet the noise in your head, to give you permission to breathe, to be, until you were strong enough to claim that space yourself.

Simon was more than ready to be that person for you. 

And he had no intention of going anywhere.

Steady, firm hands on your hips. That was all you could feel.

You were trying to unlock your front door, but your hands wouldn’t cooperate, shaking too much, fumbling the key. You missed the lock again and again, until a larger, warmer hand gently stilled yours. Simon’s. He took the keys from you without a word, his touch calm, certain.

You weren’t even sure how you’d found the courage to invite him up.

After the shared dessert, he’d paid for everything, brushing off your protests when you tried to cover your half, or at least the part you’d eaten. He’d only laughed, that deep, low sound that seemed to settle right into your chest.

Then he offered to drive you home. You’d accepted.

And once he parked outside your building, your voice had moved ahead of your thoughts, quietly asking if he wanted to come up.

He didn’t hesitate. He just said yes.

The front door finally gave way, and that same steady, gentle hand guided you inside.

Simon didn’t speak. He just closed the door behind him with a soft click, turned the lock, and stepped in. He took off his shoes, shrugged off his coat, all slow, unhurried movements. And then he looked at you.

Not at your apartment, not at the space he’d just entered for the first time.

You. With eyes heavy with desire. Quiet, smoldering intensity.

It wasn’t fleeting or coy. It wasn’t something he was trying to hide behind polite restraint. No, he let it burn, open and unashamed. He wanted you. Fully. Honestly.

And that was new. No one had ever looked at you like that before—not even the two men you’d once shared a bed with. Not like this. To be the object of desire, not obligation or performance, was strange. Disarming. A little overwhelming.

Simon didn’t move. Didn’t rush you. He just stood there, waiting. Letting you decide what happened next.

A few seconds passed. Neither of you said a word.

Anxiety gnawed at your insides, making it impossible to process anything like a normal person. Your fingers fidgeted restlessly, twisting together in a nervous rhythm. You kept glancing up at Simon, then down at his shoes—then yours—then back again.

His eyes never left you. Not once.

You didn’t know how to do this. How to act on your own desire. You’d never felt lust this strong. Never felt safe enough to let it bloom.

“I don’t know how…” you began, voice cracking under the weight of vulnerability. “I’ve never really… hum—”

The words tangled in your throat, burning with shame. Tears prickled at your waterline—tears of embarrassment, of frustration. This was where it ended. He’d leave. You were sure of it.

But then, across the space between you, he growled: “Fuck it.”

And suddenly his lips were on yours—hot, certain, unshaking. His hands cradled your face like you were something precious. Like touching you wasn’t just about want, it was about care. About something deeper.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t devour. He anchored you.

And for the first time in a long, long while, you let yourself lean into that.

His lips felt good, not demanding, not forceful. They weren’t taking. They were offering. Giving only what you were ready to receive.

One of his hands slid from your cheek, fingers brushing down to the nape of your neck. He eased you closer, guiding, never pushing. His other hand found its place again on your hip, grounding you, drawing you gently into his space.

The kiss remained unhurried. Measured. As if time didn’t matter. As if this moment—you—deserved to be savored.

Then his tongue traced the seam of your lips, soft, slow. A quiet question. Not a demand, not a test. Your lips parted before you even realized it, instinct moving faster than thought.

The moment you granted him entry, Simon’s tongue slid against yours with the same care he’d shown in every small gesture tonight. It wasn’t frantic, it was exploratory, reverent. Like he was learning the shape of you through the kiss alone. Like this wasn’t just about pleasure, but presence. 

Being here. With you.

His hand at the back of your neck shifted slightly, his fingers threading into your hair, cradling your head with firm tenderness. The other remained firm on your hip, his thumb drawing slow, grounding circles against the fabric of your dress. It sent sparks up your spine, the contrast of restraint and intention making your knees wobble.

You made a soft sound in the back of your throat—part surprise, part want—and he responded with a low hum, deep and approving, vibrating against your lips like a secret shared only with you.

There was no pressure in it, no rush to pull you further than you were ready to go.

Just Simon, steady and real, kissing you like he could piece back together everything someone else had broken.

Simon’s back was starting to ache from leaning over, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, both of his hands slid lower, settling just beneath the curve of your ass. He gave you a light tap. Silent instruction : jump.

He should’ve known that kind of command would short-circuit your brain. And it did.

But before your thoughts could spiral, before shame or self-consciousness could take the wheel, he moved. Reflexes faster than your fear.

One moment, your feet were on the ground, the next, you were lifted easily into his arms, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“Simon, no… Please,” you rushed out, voice high with panic, your hands pressing against his shoulders in a weak attempt to get him to let go.

“Please what, lovely?” he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing along your cheek, your jaw. Soft kisses. A grounding rhythm. Each one whispered reassurance: You’re safe. I’ve got you.

“You’ll hurt yourself,” you whined, the words thick with guilt, not logic. You wriggled again, but he only held you tighter, firm, but never harsh.

“I’ve carried more than you in full gear, uphill, under fire,” he muttered, voice a low rumble against your throat. “Trust me, flower—you’re the lightest thing I’ve ever held.”

You stilled. Breath catching.

Because it wasn’t just what he said. It was how he said it—like it was fact. No room for doubt. No softness in the truth, only strength. He was slowly coaxing you exactly where he wanted you, you let him. You wanted to let him.

"Naive", the word hit like a slap. Not Simon's, but his voice echoed in your head. 

Simon must’ve felt the shift in your body instantly. His mouth paused against your skin, his breath stilling where it ghosted across your collarbone.

“Breathe,” he instructed softly. “Feel this. Me. Here.”

He knew, you didn't need to explain, not after all you had told him. He knew your brain was playing tricks with you, trying to get you out of this moment. He wouldn't let it happen. 

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as Simon turned, carrying you effortlessly through the apartment. He didn’t ask where your bedroom was, just moved like he already knew, confident and unhurried, every step measured, deliberate.

The soft creak of your bedroom door opening sounded loud in the quiet, and then he was lowering you onto the bed with a care that made your chest ache. Like you were something breakable. Like he wanted to make sure you didn’t break again.

His hands didn’t leave you once your back hit the mattress. One stayed at your waist, the other brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. His eyes searched yours, reading you like only someone truly paying attention could.

“It’s just me, love,” he whispered, careful not to startle you. He took one of your hands in his and gently placed it over his pounding heart. It was racing, not as fast as yours, but definitely quicker than normal.

He wanted you. Just as much as you wanted him.

You nodded softly, taking a deep breath before releasing it. Ready to move forward, but needing him to lead, and he did exactly that.

Kissing you again, Simon eased your legs open with his knee, settling himself comfortably between them. The simple movement drew a soft, whined moan from your lips. A low chuckle escaped Simon’s mouth at the sound, but then he kissed you once more, with renewed fervour.

Once his kisses left your mouth, they trailed slowly down, lingering at your neck. He took his time there, planting sweet, deliberate kisses, mixing in the occasional nip that made your breath hitch. Reaching your cleavage, Simon continued his path, dotting kisses over the soft skin exposed by your dress.

When he reached your breasts, he kissed them gently through the fabric of your bra, soft little pecks that made your skin burn. Then came your nipples, stiff and sensitive under the thin fabric. He didn’t ignore them, his mouth found them with teasing precision, the heat of it sending a jolt straight through you.

The soft sounds he coaxed from you were divine. Too shy, too hesitant—but beautiful nonetheless. Still, he knew. He could unlearn that shyness from you. Teach you how to let go. How to let yourself be.

“Gonna take this off, alright?” he asked, voice low but steady. Just like when he worked on your tattoo, he explained each step. No surprises. No pressure. Just care.

Your eyes were shut tight, almost like you were trying to disappear. Simon sighed softly and rose up again, cupping your cheek as he looked down at you.

“Look at me,” he said—sharper than he intended, but it worked. Your eyes snapped open, wide and uncertain. “When I ask you something, I need words. Understand?”

You nodded reflexively.His head tilted slightly, eyes narrowing.

“Yes,” you added, voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes, who?”

“…Yes, Simon.”

That would do—for now.

You weren’t ready to give the answer he truly wanted—not yet—but he’d tried, just to see if it would come naturally to you. It hadn’t. Still, he didn’t hold it against you. He knew it was there, buried deep inside—the part of you that needed to give in, to trust, to let someone else lead.

But he wouldn’t push.You weren’t ready. And he understood exactly why.

He hadn’t earned it yet. Hadn’t proven he was worthy of that part of you, the most vulnerable one. But he would. He had every intention of showing you, again and again, that he could be trusted to hold you, protect you, guide you… without ever taking more than you were ready to give.

"Good girl," he murmured, voice low and deliberate, before his hands slid to your shoulders, pushing the dress down slowly. It pooled around your waist before you kicked it off with your legs, landing somewhere across your bedroom floor.

Now you were left in the fanciest panties and bra you owned, still just plain cotton. Comfortable, with a subtle push-up effect. Nothing seductive by conventional standards. Not lacy. Not sheer. You felt suddenly self-conscious, convinced you must look like a granny in Simon's eyes.

“Cute,” was all he said, with a soft grin, before kissing the doubt right off your lips.

His fingers trailed deliberately along your sides, over your stomach, until they found their way back to your breasts. He eased the cups of your bra down, exposing you fully, and cupped one in his large hand. It fit perfectly—so perfectly that he let out a low groan against your skin. The sound sent a shiver down your spine and a hot pulse between your thighs.

You could feel it now, just how soaked your panties had become. You’d never been this wet before, never felt this… eager. Sex had always felt like a duty, something to endure. But now?

Now, you were starting to understand why some people craved it, why they ached for connection, for touch like this. For someone like him.

The warmth of his hands, the way they moved so gently over your chest—fingertips tracing, teasing, coaxing soft whimpers from your lips—was nothing short of euphoric. Each delicate pinch of your sensitive nipples sent sparks across your body, grounding you and overwhelming you all at once.

"Can I?" he asked again, voice barely more than a breath. His hand hovered at the clasp of your bra, seeking permission rather than just taking.

"Yes, Simon," you whispered—no, whined—the need threading through your voice.

"Good girl," he rewarded you, and the phrase made something melt inside you. The words hit somewhere deeper than just your ears. They reverberated through your chest, made your thighs shift involuntarily. You didn’t even try to suppress the noise that left you this time.

There was just something about the way he said it, like he meant it. Like you were doing something right simply by being here, by letting him in. Like you didn’t have to perform, or prove anything. Your thoughts blurred, the inner voice that so often berated you now silenced by something quieter, kinder. Something like safety.

With your bra gone, Simon took his sweet time with you. His hands and fingers explored your chest before his mouth joined in. He pressed soft kisses to your skin, occasionally nipping and sucking gently, leaving behind traces of his presence. Little hickeys bloomed across your breasts—marking you so quickly, it made Simon's blood rush south even faster.

Then his tongue found one of your nipples. He licked it slowly, toying with the hardened peak in his mouth, gently sucking while his hand fondled the other breast, fingers moving in lazy, tender circles.

The sensations were surreal, too much and not enough all at once. Your body moved instinctively, hips shifting, trying to grind against Simon’s in vain. Until he shifted, sliding one of his thighs between your legs, pressing it against your clothed pussy.

The moan that escaped your lips then was nearly pornographic.

"Sorry…" you whispered, your breath shaky.

That stopped him cold. His movements stilled as he looked up at you. He took in your flushed cheeks, the rise and fall of your chest beneath his hands. Up until now, he’d thought you were enjoying this.

"What for, sweetheart?" he asked gently, worry threading his voice. A part of him feared you were hiding discomfort for the sake of his pleasure.

"The noises… I'm sorry," you said quickly, already breathless. "I'll be quiet now."

Simon’s gaze darkened, not with anger, but with something heavier, deeper. He leaned in, his lips brushing your ear as his voice dropped, low and steady.

“No,” he said firmly, leaving no room for argument. “Don’t apologize for that.”

His hand slid up your side, grounding you, reminding you of the way he touched you like you were something precious.

“I like those sounds,” he murmured, his tone commanding but tender. “They tell me what you like… what feels good. Don’t ever hide that from me.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his thumb brushing gently over your cheek. “I want to hear everything—every moan, every gasp. They're mine, sweetheart. Don’t you dare keep it from me.”

The way he reassured you—with that quiet, unshakable dominance, the kind of confidence that came so effortlessly to him, did something to you. It tugged at something deep, something vulnerable and aching, something that craved to be undone.

You felt it in the way your body responded, heat pooling low in your belly, your thighs tightening around his. That calm authority in his voice, the certainty in his touch, it made you feel safe. But it also made you feel desperate. Desperate to give in, to let him have every part of you.

Something inside was ready to snap. Ready to break wide open for him. Ready to surrender completely to whatever he wanted.

And he knew it. You could see it in his eyes.

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smile as he leaned in again, his breath warm against your neck.

“That’s it,” he whispered, voice like velvet and command all at once. One of his hands slid down between your thighs, pressing just enough to make your hips twitch in response. “I’ll take care of you,” he promised, kissing the corner of your mouth. “All you have to do is feel.”

When he kissed you again, his fingers were already moving, gently caressing you over your knickers. He had to feel how soaked they were, how your body betrayed just how much you wanted him. But there was no teasing in his eyes, no smugness in his touch. No mockery. Just more kisses, slow and tender, his lips claiming yours again and again while his fingers toyed with you, patient and precise.

Then his mouth returned to your breasts, as if he hadn’t quite satisfied his hunger for them. He began his worship all over again—kisses, licks, gentle bites—while his fingers never lost their rhythm.

And then they slipped past the edge of your panties.

A quiet gasp escaped you as his fingers moved with confident ease, parting the fabric and exploring your most intimate place. He passed over the little patch of hair you hadn’t bothered to shave, never imagining you’d end up here, under him like this. But he didn’t hesitate. In fact, his fingers slowed, twirling gently through it for a brief moment, appreciating the softness, the realness of you.

And then he moved lower, fingers finally finding where you needed him most. Where your body ached for him.

Feeling your wetness, Simon's teeth clamped down gently on the nipple still in his mouth, a careful, deliberate bite that made you arch into him with a soft gasp. He soothed it immediately with his tongue, warm and slow, like a silent apology laced with intention.

This was all he wanted: you comfortable, safe, utterly undone beneath his touch. Every movement he made, every kiss and stroke, was filled with purpose. He wasn’t just touching you—he was learning you. Mapping every reaction, every breathy sound, storing it all away like sacred knowledge.

You could feel it in how he handled you, like you were something precious and wild at the same time. And he was determined to take his time taming every inch of you.

When you let out a frustrated whine, Simon knew—it was time to move on.

He placed two tender kisses, one on each nipple, a soft farewell to the attention he’d been giving your chest. Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to trail kisses down your body. Each one slower than the last, deliberate and reverent, until his mouth reached the hem of your panties.

His fingers, once exploring your soaked core, now gripped your thighs, firm and commanding, holding you open for him.

With a wicked glint in his eyes, he caught the edge of your panties between his teeth, tugging them gently as he murmured, “Is this—”

“Yes, Simon, yes… please,” you breathed out, cutting him off, your voice trembling with desperation and need. There was no hiding it, no pretending. The ache in your voice was raw, real, and it hit him like a pulse of electricity straight to his cock, making it twitch painfully in his pants.

He chuckled low in his throat, voice thick with heat and pride. “Good girl,” he whispered. “That’s what I like to hear.” 

There was just something about the fact that he was still fully dressed and you were now completely naked. A weird sense of submission overflowed you, and for the first time when this feeling came to you, you embraced it. 

Simon made you feel safe, so protective. Something in you knew he would stop if you told him to, that he wouldn't force you to do anything you weren't ready or attracted to. Surely why you were now soaked from his actions. 

Insecurities still clung to you, gnawing at the edges of your mind as Simon's eyes swept over your naked body, slow, lingering, reverent. You felt exposed, completely bare before him, vulnerable in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. And yet, in his gaze, there was no judgment. Only hunger. Admiration. Like he was about to devour the finest meal of his life.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, one hand palming at the bulge in his pants. It was getting tight—painfully so—but he didn’t look away from you for a second. His arousal was obvious, but even that didn’t quiet the voice in the back of your head. That old, familiar one. 

The reflex hit before you could stop it.

“You want me to suck your dick?” you asked quietly, the words slipping out not from desire, but from conditioning. From a past where your worth felt tied to what you could give, not what you could feel.

Simon froze. His eyes met yours, and in an instant, something shifted. He saw it, not just the question, but where it came from. The old wound behind it.

“Hey,” he said gently, but his voice carried that same commanding edge. One hand reached out, cupping your cheek, grounding you. “Look at me.”

You did.

“You don’t owe me anything,” he said firmly. “Not your mouth, not your body, nothing. I want you, yeah. Badly. But I don’t want you because you think you have to do something to keep me interested.”

His thumb stroked your cheek, softening his tone. “If you ever get on your knees for me, it’s gonna be because you want it. Because you’re desperate to taste me, not because some asshole made you feel like it was expected. Okay, sweetheart?”

Something in you cracked at his words, not in a way that broke you, but in a way that made space. For breath. For feeling. For safety.

For the first time, you felt seen. Like he chose to want you, not for what you could give, not for how you performed, but simply for who you were.

Sitting back on his haunches, Simon remained patient. He could see the storm behind your eyes, the internal battle waging quietly inside your mind. One of his hands rested on your thigh, his fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns—a silent way of grounding you, anchoring you to the moment.

But when he saw your lips tremble, your eyes begin to fill with tears, he knew he couldn’t stay still.

He leaned in without a word, wrapping one strong arm around you and gently guiding you onto his lap. His warmth enveloped you, your bare skin brushing against his still-clothed body, a contrast that made you shiver.

Simon felt it, and without hesitation, he tugged his shirt off in one smooth motion. The heat of his skin met yours, bare chest to bare chest, and you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for hours.

Your arms wrapped around him before you even knew you were moving, burying your face into the curve of his shoulder. He smelled like warmth and safety, like skin and musk and something undeniably him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, the words instinctive.

“Don’t be,” he replied immediately, pulling back just enough to look at you, his eyes intense but soft. “Stop apologizing.”

His bare skin against yours sent another shiver through you, this one different. Not from nerves, but from the quiet, overwhelming intensity of being wanted and held at the same time. You could feel his desire beneath you, pressing up where he had you seated on his lap. It was raw. Primal. Undeniable.

But Simon didn’t rush.

He simply held you, one hand tracing slow, absentminded circles along your lower back, the other cradling the back of your head, like you were something fragile, but never weak.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, wrapped in warmth and quiet understanding. But eventually, stillness wasn’t enough.

Your lips began to move, seeking, remembering. You started at his jaw, pressing soft kisses there, then down to his neck, his collarbone. You kissed every small scar, every freckle, every beauty mark. As if your mouth was memorizing him. As if your lips were begging to remember his skin.

Sensing your need, your craving for more than just touch, for connection, Simon pulled you in closer, pressing your body against his like he wanted to mold you to him. Like even skin-to-skin still wasn’t enough.

He dipped his head, his voice low and careful. “Got any protection, sweet girl?”

He didn’t want to break the moment, didn’t want to pull you out of the space you were both sinking into.

But your lips never stopped their slow, tender assault on his skin, your mouth mapping his shoulder, your breath warm against his neck. You didn’t lift your head to respond. Just a faint shake, a soft, muffled “No…” against his throat.

He felt the word more than he heard it. And still, he didn’t pull away.

With a low groan, Simon stood, holding you tightly against him as he moved toward the entryway. Your legs wrapped around his waist, clinging to him, squeezing just enough to pull a breathy moan from his throat. He’d half-expected some kind of protest about him lifting you, some insecure remark—but you said nothing.

You were deeper in your headspace than he’d realized.

You just kept pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along his neck and collarbone, little whines slipping from your lips like they couldn’t stay caged. You were pliant in his arms, needy, trusting, and it lit something fierce in him.

Reaching the coat rack, he shifted you just enough to dig into his coat pocket, fingers searching until they closed around his wallet. He flipped it open, fishing out the small stash he kept tucked inside. Three condoms.

Just in case.

He had never been more grateful for his own foresight than now. He grabbed all three, not knowing if they’d need them all, but hoping they might. Better safe than sorry.

Whatever you wanted, he'd give it to you. However you needed him, he’d be there. No hesitation.

Once you were back in the bedroom, Simon gently laid you down on the bed, breaking the contact between you, just long enough to strip off the rest of his clothes. He had wanted to take his time with you, to worship you with his mouth and fingers, to ease you into it with care and patience.

But he could feel that wasn’t what you needed right now. And that was okay. That could wait.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

For a moment, he just looked at you, laid out on the bed, bathed in soft light, looking almost ethereal. It hit him then, how surreal it was. That you were here with him. A sweet, young thing like you tangled up with a man like him—older, scarred, and worn at the edges.

It almost felt twisted. But it wasn’t.

Because he could see it, you needed this. Needed him. His steadiness. His patience. His hands that knew how to hold without hurting. His body that knew how to move with purpose, not just urgency. You needed someone who could see past the surface and let you unravel safely.

And maybe, just maybe, he needed it too. Maybe he was a little selfish in that way.

Crawling back over you, Simon kissed you again, slow, deep, like he had all the time in the world for you. The second you felt his warmth again, your legs locked around his hips, arms winding around his neck like instinct. Like some part of you couldn’t stand the idea of being apart from him for even a second.

There was something in your brain, an ache, a need, that clung to him with a desperation you didn’t fully understand. The part of you your ex always mocked. Called naive. Called needy. The part he tried to shame out of you.

But with Simon, that part felt… right.

It felt like maybe this was how it was supposed to be. Like Simon had been meant to walk into your life now, of all times, when you needed someone steady, someone who saw you, not just used you.

So when you watched him roll the condom on with glazed eyes, you thought this is it. He’s finally going to fill you, press into you, anchor you. But instead… he shifted.

He laid back, tugging you with him until you were straddling his soft stomach, your thighs spread over his warmth.

Confusion flickered across your face as your hands settled on his chest, fingers curling slightly to squeeze the soft skin of his pecs. You looked down at him, unsure.

And then his voice—rough, low, but gentle. “Want you like this, yeah?” His hands rested on your hips, not guiding, just holding. Grounding. “So you can control it. Take whatever you want.”

That took your breath away.

The fact that he, a man who radiated dominance and control with every breath, was giving you the reins… it made your thighs instinctively tighten against his sides. It felt overwhelming in the best and scariest way.

You had never had the upper hand in sex before. Never been given the space to explore, to move at your own pace. To feel. It had always been about someone else’s pleasure, someone else’s needs. And just like that, this man you barely knew was handing over the power you’d never been allowed to hold.

“I’ve never… I don’t know how to do this,” you murmured, voice barely more than a whisper, shame creeping in uninvited. “I’ll mess it up,” you added, beginning to shift, to pull away from him.

But Simon didn’t let you.

His hands tightened at your sides, not rough, not demanding, just steady. Grounding. “You won’t,” he said, voice low but firm. “It’s not that hard, yeah? Just do what feels good.” Then, softer, he added. “Bounce. Rub. Sit still. I don’t fucking care. Whatever you want, ’m yours to use.”

With those words, Simon reached between you, wrapping his hand around his cock and gently encouraged you upward onto your haunches. Just enough for him to line himself up with your entrance.

As you lifted off his stomach, he felt the heat and slickness you’d left behind, and the sight alone made his cock twitch in his grip. He hadn’t been this hard—this desperate—in a long time.

Still hesitant, you hovered there, uncertain. That was when he casually rolled the tip of his length up from your entrance to your clit, slow, like it wasn’t intentional. But you knew better. You saw it in his eyes: that flicker of reassurance hidden beneath heavy, lust-filled lids. A silent, steady You’ve got this.

You inhaled sharply, gathering yourself, and slowly—carefully—began to lower onto him. He was bigger than what you were used to. Girthier. More there. But as he stretched you open, bit by bit, something surprised you.

It didn’t hurt.

It felt uncomfortable a little, full, yes—but there was no sharpness, no sting. Just pressure. Just him. When you finally settled fully onto his pelvis, your walls fluttering around him as your body adjusted, you looked down at him with wide, amazed eyes.

“Doesn’t hurt,” you whispered, a hint of wonder in your voice, as if you couldn’t quite believe it.

Simon swallowed hard, his hands now splayed at your hips, holding you in place like you were something precious. His voice was low. 

“Shouldn’t hurt, baby,” he said, voice rough with restraint as your heat pulsed around him. “Never.” 

You nodded softly, almost to yourself, as his words settled deep inside you. Shouldn’t hurt. Maybe it was the first time someone had ever said that to you. Meant it.

Your palms pressed gently against his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under your fingers. You took a deep breath, and then moved. Just a small shift of your hips at first. A slow grind, barely more than a sway. You weren’t even lifting off him yet, just adjusting, testing. Simon’s breath hitched beneath you, his hands tightening slightly on your waist, encouraging but never forcing.

“That’s it, good girl,” he murmured, voice filled with lust. “Just like that. You’re doing so good for me.”

That praise, so simple and steady, made something bloom in your chest. Your body responded on instinct, hips lifting slightly, then pressing back down, gently, carefully. The sensation dragged a quiet breathy moan from your lips.

He filled you completely, the stretch no longer strange but grounding. Your movements grew braver, more curious—lifting a bit higher now, then dropping back onto him with a gasp. He grunted below you, the sound of his pleasure feeding your own.

“Fuck, sweetheart… just like that,” he growled, voice rough with want but still wrapped in something tender. “Take your time. This is all yours.”

You believed him. Just by the way he was looking at you, you knew he wasn't lying. 

It felt so good, you just kept moving, bouncing slowly on him, taking your time, savoring every deep, delicious drag of his cock inside you.

Simon’s hands were everywhere now. One cupped your breast, fondling it in his broad, calloused palm. He pinched and rolled your nipple between his fingers, gentle but firm—drawing out soft gasps from your lips. The other hand had settled low on your stomach, pressing down slightly, as if trying to feel himself through the soft give of your belly.

That should’ve sent you spiraling. His hand, there, touching all the places you’d been taught to hide, to apologize for. The softness. The rolls. The parts you always kept covered.

But nothing happened. No shame. No recoil.

Because you were too far gone, in the best way. Lost in the headspace he had so carefully coaxed you into. A place shaped by Simon’s hands, his voice, his praises. His quiet, steady worship. And when he realized it didn’t make you flinch, didn’t make you pull away, he smirked. Just a little.

That was when he knew he had you exactly where he wanted you: safe, open, adored.

Slowly, the hand on your stomach began to travel lower, fingers dragging over overheated skin until his thumb found your clit. One gentle stroke, and your thighs clamped tighter around him. Your eyes flew open with a gasp.

And the sight that greeted you? It stole your breath.

Simon, his chest slick with sweat despite barely moving, stared up at you with eyes full of silent declarations: hunger, admiration, awe, lust. His jaw was tight with restraint, his body trembling slightly beneath yours.

It was a miracle he was still letting you lead, still lying there, letting you use him.

Another brush of his thumb over your clit, slower this time, and your arms gave out. You collapsed onto him with a broken moan, your chest pressing into his, your sweat mixing with his. And then that sound—deep, low, sinful—a chuckle rumbling from his chest.

The hottest thing you’d ever heard.

A sweet kiss pressed gently to your cheek, followed by the filthiest words whispered into your ear.

"Want daddy to take over now, sweet girl?" he growled, voice low and rough against your ear. 

The most pathetic whine slipped from your lips, your thighs and pussy clenching harder than ever around him. Your nails dug deeper into his shoulder, scratching through his skin, even breaking it slightly.

Yes, he knew it was in you. He had seen it, that desperate need to be pampered, to be taken care of. To turn off your mind and simply feel. The fact that you trusted him so quickly was worrisome, but in this moment, Simon didn’t care.

“Yes, yes, please,” you whimpered again, breath heavy against his neck.

“Yes who, baby?” he taunted, ready to give you everything—you just needed to say it.

"Yes, daddy." You finally let out. 

"Good girl." 

Then his hips began moving, faster than the steady pace you had settled into before. He held you close, whispering praises into your ear: how good you felt, how well you were doing, how beautiful and soft you were. His words kept you suspended in that hazy headspace, even more so when he hit that spot nestled deep inside you, the very spot that sent thrilling waves up your spine.

His hand, the one not tracing soothing patterns on your back, returned to your clit, fingers expertly working until your pleasure started to overwhelm you. Your brain struggled to keep up with what was happening. It was all too much: the warmth of his skin against yours, the relentless thrust of his hips, his gentle caresses on your back, the low groans and grunts he breathed right into your ear.

As if he could feel it—and you were sure he could—he groaned.

“Just let go, yeah?” His voice was deep, steady, and it triggered something deep within you. “I’ve got you.”

That was all it took. The mix of his voice, his thrust and his thumb on your clit. 

Something in your lower belly snapped, a heat bursting through you as your body trembled uncontrollably. The moan that tore from your throat was filthy, unrestrained, your mouth falling open as drool slipped onto Simon’s chest.

“That’s it. Good fucking girl,” he growled, his own movements turning rough and erratic.

By the time your senses returned, he was still inside you, moving with a slow, languid rhythm—like he couldn't bear to let you go just yet.

And then something else cracked open inside you. Sobs began to wrack your body, sudden and uncontrollable. You didn’t even know why you were crying. It just came, natural, raw. A release. All the pressure you’d buried for months, the cruel voices still echoing in your mind, the quiet loathing you’d carried for so long.

Your body, your mind, your soul, they were healing. And it was overwhelming.

Still, he didn’t stop. The slow thrusts continued, as did the gentle caresses across your skin. He pulled you even closer, grounding you, holding you through it. Letting you feel. Letting you find yourself again.

“That’s it,” he whispered, lips brushing against your temple. “Just let it all go, sweetheart.”

“I don’t know what’s happening,” you choked out between sobs, the tears impossible to stop.

Simon didn’t say a word at first. He just held you tighter, cooing softly, shushing your worries with gentle sounds. He let you have your moment, no pressure, no questions, just grounding you with the steady comfort of his presence.

It was his way of telling you he was here.

That he wasn’t going anywhere.

That you were okay. That you were enough.

Lying there felt almost therapeutic.

The soft buzzing of the tattoo machine was familiar now, comforting, even, as you closed your eyes and let yourself breathe. You’d been here for hours, finally ready to see the tattoo in its full form.

Months had passed since that first night with Simon. Months filled with quiet dates, focused attention, and earth-shattering sex. But more than that, he made you feel like you again. The dark thoughts still came and went, shadows that never fully left, but Simon was always there—steady, patient—silencing them with his presence.

So now, nearly bare in Simon’s tattoo shop, his arm awkwardly bent across your stomach as he worked on your skin, you felt nothing but warmth and want. Your fingers trailed unconsciously along his forearm, soft touches that spoke louder than words. Your thighs pressed together, the ache beneath your skin growing.

Simon let out a breathy chuckle at the movement, but said nothing. He’d been the one to coax you into rediscovering your body and your wants—he wasn’t about to make you feel ashamed of them now.

The bell above the shop door chimed, drawing your gaze to the curtain. It was almost closing time. You silently hoped Simon hadn’t booked another client, you had other plans for the night. Judging by the slight frown on his face as he glanced toward the sound, you guessed he hadn’t expected anyone else, either.

Still, he turned back to your sunflower.

When he was finally done, he leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the healed part of the tattoo, his hand warm as it patted your stomach.

“All done, baby. Go take a look,” he said, peeling off his gloves and turning around to prep the second skin.

It felt like déjà vu—but this time, there was no shame in your chest, no tears waiting to fall. Just you. Whole, and wanting.

The sight took your breath away.

It was beautiful. Perfect, even more so when tattooed arms snaked around your waist, and the big man attached to them pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder.

“So,” he murmured near your ear, voice low and smug, “what’re you thinking? ’Cause if you ask me, I’d say that’s my fucking masterpiece, aye?” A smirk tugged at his lips.

“It’s so beautiful, Si,” you whispered, turning to pepper his face with kisses—anywhere your lips could reach. “Even better than I imagined.”

“Alright, alright, little minx,” he chuckled, gently guiding you back. “Stay still a little longer, yeah?”

He dropped onto the stool again, rolling back toward the second skin before returning to you. Your eyes followed the flex of his thighs as he moved, which didn’t go unnoticed, another soft laugh rumbled from his chest.

Once the bandage was secured, he pressed one more kiss to your skin, then looked up at you through the mirror. He saw the look in your eyes. Lust. Hunger. He’d expected it.

And honestly? He was no better.

“Just let me check who’s at the door,” he said, straightening. Then his fingers caught your cheeks, gently squeezing them into a playful pout. “And then…” he leaned in, voice thick, lips brushing yours, “I’ll take care of you.”

Simon left you with a soft kiss, disappearing through the curtain.

You turned back to the mirror, eyes tracing the delicate lines of your tattoo—his masterpiece. The warmth in your chest lingered, until it shattered. Because then you heard it.

That voice.

The one that had haunted your nights, crept into your thoughts, poisoned your sense of peace. His voice.

No. No, it couldn’t be.

He hated tattoos. Always had. Called his body a temple. Said only the weak marked themselves to feel something. He couldn’t be here. He wasn’t supposed to be here.

But the voice, familiar, sharp, real, broke through every ounce of logic you tried to summon.

Panic rooted itself deep in your bones. Your fingers trembled as you pulled your dress back down, your eyes glued to the curtain like it might come alive. Wide. Fearful. Breath catching in your throat. Each inhale felt like a struggle, your heart thudding violently against your ribs.

You’d thought it was over.

You’d thought Simon had helped you heal. But healing doesn’t mean forgetting. And the past doesn’t always stay buried.

An unknown force pulled you toward the curtain. You had to be sure. You had to know.

You pushed your head through the fabric, heart pounding so hard it made your vision pulse. First, you saw Simon’s broad back, the solid comfort of his presence—but then your gaze locked onto him.

Your ex.

He was really there. Actually there.

The movement of the curtain caught his attention. His eyes landed on you.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he snapped instinctively, like his words were a reflex. Said with so much venom. 

That was all it took.

Simon’s entire body went still, rigid with tension. He turned his head just enough to see your face, and that was it. The fear in your eyes. The way your hand clutched the curtain so tightly your knuckles were white. The tears threatening to fall.

He knew. He didn't need you to say a word.

Because the thing about Simon was, he was a soldier. Had been for most of his life. And when he registered danger, his instinct wasn’t to talk. It was to eliminate it.

And while he wasn't in danger, you were. At least emotionally. And that was enough.

Before you could blink, your ex was on the ground, clutching his face, blood seeping through his fingers. The sharp crack of cartilage echoed like a gunshot, Simon had broken his nose cleanly, without hesitation. No wasted movement. No remorse.

He stood over him, expression unreadable, calm in a way that was somehow more terrifying than rage.

“Get. The fuck. Out.” Simon growled, each word edged in steel. There was something in his voice you’d never heard before, something dangerous, something primal, something begging to be unleashed.

And for once, the man who used to haunt your dreams scrambled without a word.

Simon locked the door behind him without a word, his movements steady, deliberate. Then he turned to you.

He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. He simply crossed the space between you and wrapped you in his arms, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs found their place around his waist, and he carried you to the old, worn couch in the back of the shop.

He sat with you cradled in his lap, as if it was the only place you belonged.

He knew what was coming.

So when your body began to tremble, when the sobs finally broke loose from your chest, he just sighed softly, not with frustration, but with quiet grief for what you’d endured. Maybe this could’ve been avoided. Maybe you should’ve stayed behind that curtain.

But none of that mattered now. He didn’t blame you. Would never blame you. Instead, he just held you tighter.

Soft, reassuring words spilled into your ear, barely more than whispers. His hands traced gentle, grounding circles across your back, keeping you tethered, safe. Present.

You had come so far since the day Simon met you. He’d seen you break, seen you rebuild. He’d offered his strength, his patience, his warmth, everything you needed to find yourself again. To bloom.

And sometimes, the past still reached out with cold, clawed hands. But that was okay.

Because Simon would always be there to chase the darkness away. No questions. No hesitation. Just you, safe in his arms.

His sweet blooming flower.

Her tone was professional, the kind of calm that came after chaos.

“You did what you could,” she said, scanning each of them in turn. “The situation was unpredictable. But now, we plan again. You’ll have a few days to rest while intelligence recalibrates. Until then, we are moving into full security lockdown.”

Soap, sitting forward in his chair, frowned.

“Lockdown? We’ve only just got back. Can’t exactly rest if we’re trapped in here.”

Hale gave him a look that shut him up instantly.

“This isn’t optional, Sergeant. Until we confirm that the operation isn’t compromised, no one comes or goes. Every soldier, every family member, every civilian connected to this team will be accounted for.”

That pulled the room to a halt. Even Price’s brows drew together.

Gaz was the first to speak.

“Every family member?”

“Yes,” Hale said. “We’ll be retrieving all immediate family or loved ones and bringing them here to the secure compound. Names will remain confidential. You’ll each submit one list, privately, by the end of the day.”

Soap gave a low whistle.

“That’s a lot of paperwork for one bloody mess.”

“Paperwork keeps people alive,” Hale replied shortly.

The meeting went on, outlining security measures and temporary restrictions. Ghost barely listened.

He stood motionless, staring at the single sheet of paper placed in front of him.

Name of family member or significant other for extraction.

He could almost hear Price’s pen scratching quietly beside him. Soap mutters something under his breath. Gaz sighed as he folded his arms.

But Ghost’s hand didn’t move. Not yet.

No one in this room knew about you. Not one.

For four years, he had kept you tucked safely behind a wall of silence. It was easier that way.

Better for you, better for him. His life was fire and gunpowder. Yours was peace.

He had built that distance carefully, one secret at a time.

“Ghost.”

Price’s voice pulled him back. Everyone else was already getting up, chairs scraping against the floor.

“You good, son?” Price asked.

Ghost nodded once.

“Fine.”

Price studied him for a moment but didn’t push.

“Right. Don’t take too long filling that in. Hale’ll have our heads if we miss the deadline.”

Ghost didn’t answer.

He waited until the others had left, until the room was empty, quiet but for the soft hum of the ceiling lights. Then he reached for the pen.

He hesitated, the nib hovering above the page. His heart beat slow and heavy, a rhythm he had long learned to ignore.

He wrote your name. Carefully. Each letter is neat.

It felt strange, seeing it there, printed in ink on a military form.

Simon Riley had never written your name in any official capacity. Not in reports, not in files, not even on his own records. You existed in a place separate from this world, the one place that was still his to protect.

He signed the form and folded it once.

When he dropped it off at Hale’s office, she barely looked up.

“Thank you, Lieutenant. You’ll be notified when extraction is confirmed.”

He nodded, left the room, and walked straight to the mess.

Soap and Gaz were already there, trading jokes over half-empty plates. Price sat at the far end, a cup of tea steaming in his hands.

Soap looked up as Ghost walked in.

“Took your time, big man. What, couldn’t decide who to put down? Your pet goldfish?”

Gaz laughed, shaking his head.

“Leave him be, Johnny. Maybe he’s got no one.”

Soap smirked.

“That true, Ghost? No one special?”

Ghost didn’t look at them.

“Something like that.”

Price raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

They ate in relative silence after that. Soap and Gaz’s chatter faded to a murmur as Ghost’s thoughts drifted far from the base, far from the mission, far from this damp grey building.

He saw you instead.

The way you smiled when you cooked breakfast, the way you hummed to the radio when you thought he wasn’t listening, the way you always made him promise to come home.

You had no idea what was coming.

And if everything went right, you never would.

But now, with your name written down in black ink and sitting on Hale’s desk, there was no taking it back.

You were part of this, whether he liked it or not.

---

The knock came just after midnight.

You were half asleep on the sofa, an old film playing on TV, you barely paid attention to.

The sound startled you.

You blinked, sat up, and frowned. No one ever knocked at this hour.

When it came again, louder this time, you felt a chill settle in your stomach.

You got up slowly, crossing the small living room, your hand hovering over the handle.

“Who is it?” you called, your voice uncertain.

There was a pause, then a man’s voice, firm but not aggressive.

“Ma’am, Sergeant Taylor, British Armed Forces. Please open the door.”

You froze. British Armed Forces. The words hit like a stone.

Simon’s world, not yours.

You unlocked the door but only cracked it open. The man on the other side was tall, dressed in black fatigues, another soldier behind him holding a folder and a torch. Rain streaked down their helmets.

“Mrs Riley?” the first one asked.

Your heart stuttered. You hadn’t heard that name spoken aloud in months, not since Simon’s last call.

“Yes,” you said carefully.

“I’m afraid we have orders to relocate you to a secure facility for your safety. You’ll need to come with us immediately.”

“Relocate me?” You shook your head, gripping the edge of the door. “What are you talking about? Is Simon alright?”

The second soldier lowered his gaze slightly.

“We’re not at liberty to discuss operational details, ma’am. All we can say is that this is precautionary. Your husband requested it personally.”

The words made your breath catch.

“Simon did?”

“Yes, ma’am. You’ll need to pack a bag. Essentials only. We’ll handle the rest.”

You hesitated, fear and confusion twisting together in your chest.

Still, you nodded and moved to grab a rucksack, stuffing in clothes, a photo from the mantle, and the ring Simon had left you when he deployed.

The soldiers waited silently by the door.

When you stepped outside, the cold rain hit your face.

A vehicle was waiting at the kerb, engine running, lights dimmed. You climbed in, heart hammering, your mind a whirl of questions.

The drive was long and quiet. You tried to ask where you were going, but they didn’t answer.

By the time you arrived, dawn was a faint grey line on the horizon.

The facility looked nothing like what you imagined.

Not some bunker or base, but a sprawling compound of reinforced concrete and steel fences. Armed guards stood at every gate.

They led you inside, down long white corridors that smelled faintly of antiseptic. You passed other civilians, mostly women and a few men, all looking as lost as you felt.

A woman in uniform met you halfway.

Her badge read Dr Lane, Civilian Relations Officer.

She smiled politely, but her tone was rehearsed.

“Mrs Riley, welcome. You’ve been brought here for your safety. Please follow me, and we’ll get you settled.”

You followed her through the maze of corridors.

“What is this place?” you asked quietly.

“Secure civilian housing,” she said. “All loved ones of Taskforce personnel are being gathered here until the operation concludes.”

Your throat tightened.

“Taskforce… you mean 141?”

Dr Lane looked at you sharply but didn’t answer. That was enough of an answer on its own.

You were brought to a small room, clean but bare. A bed, a desk, a bathroom through a narrow door.

“Meals are delivered three times a day,” she said. “You’ll be free to walk the designated civilian areas once orientation is complete. You may not discuss your personal connections with anyone, and under no circumstances may you approach Taskforce personnel if you see them. This is for everyone’s safety.”

“I can’t even speak to my husband?”

Her smile faltered slightly.

“Not until clearance is given. I’m sorry.”

You nodded. You knew this was serious.

When she left, you sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall. The quiet was unbearable.

You had spent years learning to live with Simon’s absences, the waiting, the silence. But this was different.

Now, you were close enough to feel his presence in the air, yet not allowed to see him.

Hours passed before you decided to walk. The corridors stretched endlessly, each turn identical to the last. Eventually, you came to a junction and realised you had no idea where you were.

You were retracing your steps when you turned a corner and collided with someone solid.

“Bloody hell,” a voice exclaimed.

Strong Scottish accent.

You stumbled back, muttering an apology, but before you could slip away, you looked up and saw him, Soap, you remembered hearing that name once, in a hushed story Simon had told you long ago.

He blinked in surprise, then grinned.

“No harm done, lass. You alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” you said quickly, ducking your head. “Sorry, I didn’t see you.”

Gaz appeared beside him, amused. “You lost?”

“I was just trying to find my room,” you said softly.

Before either could answer, another figure stepped into view. Tall, broad, masked.

Ghost.

Your breath caught, heart lurching painfully.

You looked at him only for a moment before lowering your gaze and brushing past, remembering what you’d been told.

No contact.

Soap frowned as you left.

“Friendly bunch they’ve got here, eh?”

“Poor thing looks terrified.” Gaz shrugged.

Ghost said nothing. But his eyes followed you until you turned the corner and disappeared.

Later, in the dim light of the barracks, Price approached him quietly.

“You alright, son? You looked like you’d seen a ghost earlier.”

Ghost glanced up slowly.

“Something like that.”

---

The next morning came too soon.

You had barely slept, turning restlessly beneath the thin blanket. Every sound from the corridor kept you on edge, every thought circling back to him.

You could almost feel his presence somewhere within these walls, that strange quiet weight that always followed Simon Riley.

A soft knock came at the door just after eight.

“Mrs Riley?” It was Dr Lane’s voice again.

You rose and opened the door, trying to look composed.

“Good morning,” she said. “The Chief would like to see you. It is nothing to worry about, but you are to attend a meeting in Room Twelve. Someone will escort you there.”

You nodded, slipping on a jumper.

“Of course.”

The escort was another soldier, polite but silent.

He led you through the halls until you reached a wide room filled with a long table and several chairs. You recognised Captain Price at once, broad, calm, and commanding. Beside him stood Gaz, then Soap, both straight-backed and attentive.

And at the far end, Ghost.

Your breath hitched the moment your eyes found him. That familiar black mask, the sheer size of him, the stillness that seemed to draw every breath in the room towards him. He didn’t move, but you felt his eyes lock onto you as you entered.

The Chief, a tall woman with a sharp presence, gestured for you to sit opposite her.

“Thank you for coming, Mrs Riley. We’re discussing some final security arrangements before Taskforce 141 returns to the field. I appreciate your cooperation.”

You nodded, though your mind barely registered her words. Your entire focus was on the figure standing a few paces behind her.

Simon hadn’t moved once. Not even when your eyes met.

He stood rigid, hands clasped behind his back, like he was trying to restrain himself.

You forced yourself to keep your composure, to remember what you had been told.

Do not interact. Do not speak.

The Chief continued to outline evacuation procedures, convoy routes, safe zones, and lockdown protocols. You tried to listen, you really did, but the room seemed to blur around you.

When the meeting drew to a close, you stood automatically, preparing to be escorted out. The Chief turned to the soldiers.

“Gentlemen, we’ll continue in my office shortly.” Then she gave you a small, almost knowing smile. “Thank you again, Mrs Riley.”

You were about to leave when you felt it, a touch.

A hand, firm and familiar, resting lightly at the small of your back.

You froze. The Chief glanced over her shoulder, saw who it was, and said nothing.

Instead, she gave the faintest nod before slipping out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Silence followed.

You turned slowly, your heart pounding.

Ghost stood there, mask and all, close enough for you to feel the warmth of him. His gloved hand stayed at your back for a heartbeat longer before he spoke, voice rough, low, and unsteady.

“Couldn’t stay away.”

Your throat tightened.

“Simon,” you breathed.

The sound of his name seemed to break whatever restraint he had been holding onto.

In a single motion, he pulled you into him, his arms closing around you so tightly that you could barely breathe.

You pressed your face against his chest, the thick fabric of his gear cold against your cheek, but his body burning under it.

He buried his face in your hair.

“God, I missed you.”

You reached up, trembling fingers brushing over the mask.

“Let me see you,” you whispered.

He hesitated, then nodded. Slowly, you lifted the skull-patterned fabric over his head. The moment it came free, he exhaled sharply, as if he could finally breathe again.

There he was. The man you had waited months for. The one no one else knew you belonged to. His eyes softened the moment they met yours.

“You look tired,” you said, your voice cracking.

“So do you,” he murmured. His hand came up to your face, thumb tracing the edge of your jaw. “They didn’t tell you anything, did they?”

You shook your head.

“Only that you asked for me to be brought here.”

“I had to,” he said. “Everything’s gone to hell out there. We couldn’t risk anyone being left unprotected. I couldn’t risk you.”

You smiled faintly.

“You and your secrets.”

“Had to keep you safe,” he said, his tone softer than you had ever heard it. “They don’t know about you, and I wanted it to stay that way. But when the command said they were pulling families in, I put your name down without a thought. Didn’t care who found out.”

Your eyes filled before you could stop them.

“You could’ve told me.”

“I know.” He cupped your face in both hands, brushing your tears away with his thumbs. “I’ll make it up to you.”

Before you could reply, he leaned down and kissed you.

It was desperate and aching, like months of silence poured into one single moment.

The world outside the room faded away, the mission, the danger, everything. Just the two of you, standing there, clinging to what little time you had before it was taken again.

When you finally broke apart, you realised the others were still standing nearby, frozen in stunned silence.

Soap was the first to speak, his mouth half open.

“Wait. You’re married? To her?”

Simon let out a quiet sigh, slipping the mask back on, but the corner of his mouth twitched.

“Aye. Nearly four years.”

Gaz blinked, then grinned.

“Bloody hell, Ghost, didn’t think you had it in you.”

Price gave a low chuckle, shaking his head.

“So that’s what you’ve been hiding all this time.”

"Nice to meet you all." you said with a soft voice.

You could feel the heat rise in your face, but Simon just pulled you slightly behind him, protective even with his own team.

“That’s enough, lads.”

Soap smirked.

“Fair play, mate. She’s lovely.”

Simon gave him a glare that shut him up immediately.

Price clapped him on the shoulder.

“You’ve got yourself a good one, Riley. Keep her close when this is all over.”

Simon looked down at you, eyes softening again.

“That’s the plan.”

---

The building fell quiet after sundown.

The corridors that had been filled with chatter and the echo of boots were now dim and still.

Outside your window, the lights of the compound glowed faintly against the dark, their hum the only sound keeping you company.

You sat on the edge of the bed, hair still damp from a shower, wearing one of the plain T-shirts they had given you.

Sleep would not come.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw him. The way he had looked at you in the meeting room, the way his hands had trembled slightly when he held your face. The world had narrowed to those few stolen minutes, and now that they were gone, you felt hollow.

You were still lost in thought when a soft knock came at the door.

You froze, heart quickening.

“Who is it?” you asked quietly.

The voice came through, low and unmistakable.

“It’s me.”

You crossed the room and opened the door.

Simon stood there in full gear, the mask back on, but his posture was different now, less soldier, more man.

He looked tired. You stepped aside to let him in, closing the door behind him.

For a few seconds, neither of you spoke. He stood near the wall, head bowed slightly, as though unsure of where to start.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you said softly. “They’ll notice.”

“I don’t care,” he replied, voice low. “Couldn’t leave without seeing you again.”

You took a few steps closer. “When do you go?”

“Tomorrow morning. First light.”

“So soon.”

“They’ve got a new lead. If it works, this might finally end it.”

You tried to smile but couldn’t quite manage it.

“You always say that.”

He gave a quiet huff that might have been a laugh.

“Yeah. And somehow I always come back.”

That made you smile, faint but real. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the cold fabric of his sleeve.

“You always do.”

He looked down at your hand, then reached up to remove his gloves. When his bare fingers touched yours, it was like warmth returning to something frozen. You laced your fingers together, the silence between you filled with everything you wanted to say but couldn’t.

“Did you get in trouble today?” he asked after a moment, voice gentle.

“For what?”

“For nearly giving me away in front of everyone.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head.

“You’re the one who touched me first.”

“Couldn’t help it.” His tone softened further. “Didn’t like seeing you there, pretending not to know me.”

“I didn’t like it either. But they told me not to speak to anyone. Said it was safer that way.”

He sighed, rubbing his thumb over your hand.

“I know. You did the right thing.”

You looked up at him.

“Simon, what if something happens tomorrow?”

He lifted his head, meeting your gaze.

“Don’t start that.”

“I’m serious. You’ve said yourself this operation is bigger than any before. I need to know you’ll come back.”

He stepped closer until you could feel the warmth of his body through the thin fabric of your shirt. His hands came to rest on your shoulders, steady and grounding.

“I will,” he said quietly. “You hear me? I’ll come back. Always do.”

You searched his eyes, looking for any trace of doubt.

There was none.

Only that fierce, unyielding determination that had drawn you to him in the first place.

You reached up and cupped his cheek.

“You promise?”

“I swear it.”

You hesitated for a moment, then whispered.

“Take it off.”

He tilted his head slightly.

“What?”

“The mask. Please. I want to see you before you go.”

For a moment he didn’t move, but then his hands rose to the sides of his head. He pulled the mask off slowly, revealing his face, his eyes soft and unguarded in the low light. You traced your thumb across his jaw, over the faint scar near his mouth.

“There you are,” you whispered.

He smiled, small but real.

“You say that every time.”

“Because every time, it feels like finding you again.”

He leaned down and kissed you, slow and steady this time, no rush, no fear. Just a quiet promise between two people who had learned how to say everything without words.

His hand slid into your hair, holding you close until the world outside seemed to fade away.

When you finally pulled apart, you pressed your forehead against his. “Come back to me.”

“I will,” he murmured. “And when I do, we’ll go somewhere quiet. No missions, no secrets. Just us.”

You smiled.

“You always say that too.”

He gave a soft laugh.

“Maybe this time I’ll mean it.”

You walked him to the door, neither of you wanting to be the one to say goodbye. He looked back once before leaving, eyes lingering on you as if to memorise the sight. Then he was gone, the sound of his boots fading down the corridor until there was nothing left but silence.

You stood there for a long time, staring at the empty doorway, whispering a quiet prayer into the dark.

“Come back to me, Simon.”

The facility was different without them.

For days, the air felt heavy, charged with a quiet dread that no one dared to speak aloud.

Soldiers came and went, messages were exchanged behind closed doors, and every passing hour without word made the silence worse.

You tried to keep busy. You helped in the infirmary, offered quiet conversation to the other families who had been brought in, even sat by the window to read. But your thoughts always found their way back to him.

Simon.

Every time you closed your eyes, you saw the way he looked at you before he left, that calm, unbreakable confidence that had always been your anchor.

You repeated his words to yourself over and over, as if they could keep him safe.

I’ll come back. I always do.

But now, on the sixth day, the waiting had become unbearable.

You sat in the dining hall long after everyone else had gone, untouched food in front of you, listening to the rain that had begun to fall outside.

A few soldiers spoke quietly near the door, but you caught only fragments of their words, returning tonight, heavy casualties, mission complete.

You rose from your seat, hands shaking slightly, and walked quickly down the corridor.

The sound of boots and voices grew louder as you neared the main entrance. Through the glass, you saw movement, trucks rolling in under the floodlights, figures climbing out, weary and worn.

You searched every face.

And then, you saw him.

Simon stepped down from one of the trucks, still in his gear, mask in place, moving with the slow, deliberate pace of someone who had seen too much but survived it anyway.

Soap clapped him on the shoulder, Gaz said something that made him huff out a laugh, but his eyes were scanning the crowd.

He was looking for you.

Before you knew it, your feet were moving.

You pushed through the crowd, ignoring the looks and greetings, until you were in front of him. He froze when he saw you, as if unsure whether you were real.

“Simon,” you breathed.

He didn’t speak, just reached for you. His gloved hand caught your arm, pulling you against his chest, the weight of him grounding you in an instant. You pressed your face against his shoulder, the smell of rain and smoke clinging to him.

“You came back,” you whispered, voice shaking.

“Told you I would,” he murmured against your hair.

You pulled back enough to look at him.

“You’re hurt?”

“Nothing serious. Just tired.”

He removed his gloves and reached up to touch your face, his thumb brushing away the tears you hadn’t realised were falling. Around you, the others were still reuniting, but for a moment, there was only him.

Price passed by with a quiet smile, nodding at you both.

“Good to have you back, Ghost,” he said before moving on.

Simon’s gaze softened.

“Told him about you.”

You blinked.

“You did?”

He nodded.

“Figured it was time.”

You smiled faintly.

He stepped closer, one hand still on your cheek, the other sliding around your waist.

“You did well, staying here. Keeping quiet. I know it wasn’t easy.”

“I just wanted you,” you whispered.

“And here I am.”

He lifted his mask slightly, just enough to kiss you, soft, slow, and grounding. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

You closed your eyes, breathing in the moment. “I love you too.”

The world outside went on but it no longer mattered. He was back.

Later that night, you sat together in your room, the lights dim.

Simon had removed his gear, sitting beside you on the edge of the bed, head bowed slightly as you cleaned a small cut on his arm.

He watched you in silence, eyes warm, almost soft.

“You’ve done that before,” he said quietly.

“Had to learn after the last time,” you replied, dabbing carefully at his skin.

“Always look after me.”

“Someone has to.”

He caught your wrist gently, guiding your hand to his chest.

“I think I’m the one supposed to look after you.”

You smiled at that, shaking your head.

“We’ll call it even.”

He chuckled under his breath.

“Fair enough.”

When you finished, you set the cloth aside. Simon reached up, cupping your jaw with one hand.

“You’re safe now,” he said quietly. “And as long as I’m breathing, you always will be.”

You leaned into his touch.

“Then I’m not afraid of anything.”

He pulled you close until you were against him, your head resting over his heart, the steady rhythm of it the most comforting sound in the world. You stayed like that for a long time, saying nothing, just breathing in the quiet.

Outside, the rain fell softly against the windows, washing the night clean.

A week later, the operation was declared a success.

The enemy network dismantled, hundreds saved.

The Taskforce prepared to leave the facility and return to their base.

When the helicopter lifted off, Simon stood near the window, watching the horizon fade into morning light. You stood beside him, hand in his.

“What now?” you asked.

He looked down at you, eyes soft behind the mask.

“Now, we go home.”

You smiled.

The word felt new again.

Whole.

And for the first time in a long time, so did you.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

He was waiting for the medical staff to finish their briefing, they were starting him on physical therapy for the foreseeable future. It turns out that all the ligaments and tissue surrounding the carpometacarpal and metacarpophalangeal joints were more complex to heal than one might think. If only he'd known that before using his hand as a shield against a machete.

At least he could take comfort in remembering said weapon buried in the skull of the big Austrian fucker that thought it was a good idea to wear a dirty rag for a mask and come at him with a blade in close quarters, the imbecile.

“Lieutenant. They’re ready for you.” Finally, He stands up and silently follows the nurse who’d accompanied him since they removed the stitches a couple of hours before. She was an older woman, with a stern face and of few words, who hadn’t tried to chat him up while you worked on him, and at first, he thought it was because of his mask, but after a while he noticed she was short with everyone else.

The facility itself had no natural light, only a bright fluorescent-lighted ceiling with sad white and beige painted walls, it was dull and depressing. As they approached the rehab unit, he noticed you, all warm and soft in contrast with the environment. 

A fat birdie in baby blue scrubs that accentuate all your attractive curves, with a beautiful welcoming smile adorning your round, pretty face. Like a sucker punch, It made his stomach clench, and other parts of him stir in interest. 

Like the nurse, you didn't seem to be phased by his typically intimidating looks; it wasn't that he was actively trying to scare you either, it was just how he came across, plus the black balaclava made him look like a double-edged sword, he was aware of it.

“This is your assigned Physio for the time being, she’ll be in charge of your care from now on… I'll leave you to it.” And with that, the nurse was gone.

You seemed too fucking sweet to be in this place (he’d been in military hospitals that were as hospitable as a Man U pub in East London), and that thought is confirmed the second you open your mouth. 

You welcome him like he’d just landed in a beachside resort, he'd never been to one, nor was he opposed to visiting. But now that he thought about it, he could perfectly picture you in a skimpy bikini, lying under the sun, with those tempting lips sipping on a straw from a coconut, that's suddenly turning into a phallic shape-

“Lieutenant, could you please follow me this way?” Your voice -strangely familiar- cuts off his naughty thoughts. Something itches in the back of his mind, like he knows you, maybe from another base, but surely he would remember. He could never forget a face like yours.

“Just Ghost.” He remarks and follows you. Oh boy, does he follow you, like a Malinois taking orders. The moment he gets a good look at your behind, he's sold; that ass and those thighs moving in front of him are his personal version of being hypnotized. Luring him, drawing him in. 

Perhaps being here won’t be so bad after all.

He’d done PT before, for his leg and lower back. Yet he’d grown accustomed to the constant ache. The shot of electricity that sometimes ran down his legs, the fatigue that bullied his lumbar spine after an adventurous mission with the 141. He certainly didn’t expect that a few sessions hooked to the TENS machine would magically heal all the shit he’d put his body through during his years in active duty. 

Yeah, he’d done PT before…

But it was nothing compared to this, never like this. 

Starting with the pretty thing massaging, rubbing, and pampering him. Talking his ears off about everything that had to do with his injury, what the treatment would consist of, what the next couple of weeks were going to be like, what stage of cicatrization he was on, etc. 

It felt like heaven, having a pretty lass all over him. Until you flexed his wrist and sharp pain shot like fire from his fingers to his elbow. 

You apologize, even though it's not your fault, and try to make light conversation in an attempt to distract him. His answers are short and not as friendly as yours, not because he doesn’t want to be, but because he’s concentrating on blocking out the pain, like he’d been trained to do, like he was used to.

Your breast constantly squeezing against the table the two of you were seating on certainly helped. 

The softness of your hands on his scarred one was fuel for his filthy imagination. Your sweet words of encouragement soothed him every time he grew frustrated, and the delicious scent of your perfume made his mouth water, tickling something nostalgic in his subconscious.

And then he started to forget about the pain.

Two weeks go by faster than Simon expected. He was getting better, it was less painful to close his fist, but his strength and fine motor skills were still fucked. He was no longer bored, though, he was using his free time as an excuse to become ambidextrous. 

The image of your soft, delicate hands holding him. The contrast of his scarred, calloused skin against yours, how you studied every uncovered inch with such attentiveness, it fed the thing inside him that wanted to sink its teeth on your neck and lock the fuck in.

Wanking off twice a day to thoughts of his PT was turning out to be quite the exercise. His brain had also decided it was a good time to let his breeding kink resurface -It hadn’t gone anywhere to begin with- because his muse had the perfect body for it. When he allowed his thoughts to wander down that path, he would come so fast it left him dizzy.

And you were so witty, and smart, and so goddamn sweet it satiated his sweet tooth, so attentive it filled his chest with a feeling he couldn’t name. Yet, you were a feisty little thing, a kitty with its claws sheathed. You would banter with him about football, throw bad jokes in reply to his, and scowl at him when he tried to cheat during his exercises. 

Yeah, he was feeling better than ever.

But then came Soap, giving him shit left and right about wanting to visit Simon at one of his sessions. 

Johnny had shown up -uninvited and unauthorized- just in time to see the plump birdie remove the hardened layers of paraffin wax from his hand and start stretching his strained tendons. The tender touch of your cool hands on his hot one and the sudden presence of the Sergeant in his peripheral view made him flinch slightly. It was a small movement, but enough for Johnny to take notice, the bastard smirked, amused, before locking eyes on you, then he lit up like a dog with a bone. 

The thing was, Johnny was also into bigger women. Johnny was into anything with a hole. They’d shared porn links of BBW getting pounded once or twice before (BBW getting pounded and bred to be more specific), so Simon knew exactly the kind of nasty shit lurking on the Scots mind. Chances were Simon had already thought of it.

The second Soap arrived, Simon knew he had to lay down limits. No looking, no touching. Easily communicated with a grunt and a subtle shake of his head. Turns out Johnny boy read that as an invitation, and not as the warning that it was.

Soap had then proceeded to grab a chair, and sat backward on it while facing them in the small table that had become yours since day one. And then the mutt-with-a-death-wish introduced himself and started to flirt with you. Right in front of Simon.

You were oblivious, laughed at Soap's usual shenanigans and threw cheeky comebacks here and there, keeping the conversation light and as professional as you possibly could while dealing with Johnny. 

“Poor Bonnie, ye probably exhausted after dealing with mean ol’ Lieutenant.”

“You’re wrong there, Sergeant. Ghost is one of the best patients I’ve ever had… You’d be surprised at how rude patients can be sometimes.” That last part was said quietly, and by the expression on your face, you immediately regretted saying it. Simon wanted to delve more into that, but Soap kept talking and changed the subject.

“Bet ya wish it was me in yer care, we’d have a fun time every time…”

When it was over, after the nurse kicked Soap out of the rehab unit for his boisterous behavior, Simon grabbed him by the scruff (with his good hand, he wasn’t going to fuck up your progress) and shoved him into a wall, he made it clear to Soap that he was not to do that again. “A’ight, no messin’ with yer doc, got it, now let off Lt.” He giggled in between forced breaths. Only then did Simon lift his forearm from his throat.

The next day, he decided to go in earlier to apologize for his squad mate's behavior. What he stumbled upon, was an example of your accidental confession. 

“I’ve said it a hundred times already, I can’t fucking do it! What’s the fucking point? I’m just wasting my time.” He heard the pitchy shouts before he saw them. A rookie soldier in crutches, towering over you, face red and nostrils flaring. While you were holding onto the handrail of the parallel bars like a lifeline. 

“Let's just give it a try, this is the last exercise for the day, alright?” Even dealing with the man's tantrum, you kept your polite demeanor. 

“I don’t fucking want to, I’m done.” The soldier started to maneuver his way around the bars, and you followed him, still unaware of Simon's presence. The nurse was arranging some papers on the other side of the room, watching everything unfold silently.

“Sir, we’re not done. I’m here to help you recover, there’s no need to be uncivil.” This time your words were stern, your face frowning in determination. Simon thought it was cute.

“There is no need to be a pain in the ass either, fat bitch!”

And that was enough of that, with a few long steps Simon was in the young man's space, looking down at him and sizing him up, ”Quiet.” One word was enough, the thin veil of anger that disguised the soldiers' fears vanished from his face. “Stop your whingin’. Apologise and sod off.”

“Apologies, ma’am.” the soldier said over his shoulder grudgingly. You acknowledged it with a single nod. 

“Not good enough, look at her and say it like you mean it, boy.” Simon ground his molars and clenched his fist to stop himself from doing the violent things he wanted to.

The soldier turned clumsily on his crutches and muttered another apology, slightly more sincere than the first. Simon took a step aside to let him go, he didn’t give a fuck about pulling rank over the lad, he just wanted him gone and away from you. He would deal with it more thoroughly later. He was sure Johnny would enjoy giving him a hand.

Once the shell shock case walked out, Simon approached you. Even though you didn't seem upset from the confrontation, he noticed that your chest was heaving as you took deep breaths to calm down. You were staring at the floor, eyes a little hazy, with a hand resting on your soft belly, working on controlling your breathing. 

“Y’alright?”  

“No, yeah-” You paused and tilted your head up at him. “Yes, yes. I’m fine.” Your cheeks seemed flushed. Simon assumed it was anger, yet he found you deliriously hot. 

Raising the hand he was jealous of from your navel, you comically looked at your naked wrist, “Well, look at the time, right on the dot,” He was not, it was still early. “I’ll just… grab a cup of tea, and then we’ll begin our session. I’ll be back in a moment.” You dashed away, leaving him with the nurse, who now looked at him with her arms folded, one brown raised and lips pursed, clearly not amused by the situation.

After that day, things were… different. Since you were usually the one to start most of the conversations, your frequent chats became strained. In fact, you hardly spoke to him anymore (well, not really, he just got used to your constant yapping), only to give him instructions. 

He found that he missed it, your sweet attention talks, what he normally detested in others, he found charming in you. Not having that made him feel uneasy. Not only that, but he desperately wanted to return the gesture. He knew that his usual nonchalant and sarcastic tone wasn’t gonna cut it this time.

You made every effort to avoid meeting his gaze, as it would only become more intense as it sought to meet yours constantly. Because if he couldn’t have your voice, he’d settle for your pretty eyes. He was aware that he was behaving a little insane -like a hunter stalking its prey- but he was unable and unwilling to control himself.

One day, you caught him by surprise and set a gun on the table. A Clock 17, unloaded and  with an empty mag, a cleaning kit laying beside it. You told him to get into it and put those fingers to work, then you pulled a .19 from the pocket of your thigh, sat beside him instead of your usual spot on the other side of the table, and started to disassemble it with an efficiency that rivaled Kyle’s. He wanted to fuck you right then and there.

He grunted while appreciating you with a warm smile hidden by his mask, but still evident in his eyes. You turned at the sound, finally meeting his gaze, you gifted him a bright smile that blinded him and made him feel a little hazy.

He blinked slowly, pulled himself together and started to go through the motions of a deep cleaning for a Clock. He could do it in his sleep, blindfolded, and hog tied. Only to find he was a sloppy mess that somehow could not even pull the slide from the frame without struggling with the catch levers.

“You got it, Lt. Slowly but surely.” You encourage him. He carried on, watching your soft hands handle the weapon felt like you somehow were touching an extension of him. Another thought to not share with his therapist.

As he got lost in his thoughts, Simon still had that nagging feeling in the back of his mind. You felt so familiar, there was just something nostalgic about the way he felt about you. Like he was longing for something he couldn’t quite remember, a word on the tip of his tongue. Or maybe he was getting too attached, too fast.

A few weeks after the incident with the rookie, he graduated from the rehab unit and was back at the gym (still with some limitations) and other duties, but still you insisted on going down to the shooting range with him. You wanted to monitor his improvement during work activities, which in his case meant shooting big guns, reloading them, and throwing sharp knives. He’d not been given the all-clear on hand-to-hand combat yet.

It was a mistake. Simon knew it the second you left the comfort of the indoors behind. You were out of your usual scrubs and instead were dressed up in a pair of cargo pants, tan army boots and a black compression shirt that stretched to sinful limits around your shape. It was torture. All the men watching you parade through the base made his hands itch to pull eyes out of sockets.

And then you were pampering him again, carefully massaging and moving his hand before he started shooting at a target. Standing close to him to better assess his hold on the guns, you called him out when he misplaced a shaky finger to avoid discomfort, reminding him that it was important to practice without any compensatory movements, so he didn’t develop bad habits.

You were all over him again, all your attention was on him, on the way he stood, on how he unloaded and reloaded, on how he shot round after round. Not even Price and Gaz introducing themselves diverted your focus. It was elating, he felt intoxicated.

By the time you were done for the day, Simon escorted you back to the barracks sporting a semi. Then he practically jogged to his room and proceeded to jerk off like a madman with the smell of gunpowder and your scent still on his nose. Fantasizing about coming inside you, filling you so full of him, claiming your little holes and-

He was hanging on to his self-control by the skin of his teeth, one little nudge away from losing it.

It should've been no surprise to him that in the end, it was knives that did it.

Oh, the irony.

You were alone, standing in the small warehouse next to the shooting range. It was poorly lit, equipped with big wooden circles with targets painted on them, a marksman table bolted to the floor and a utility wall full of all sorts of sharp paraphernalia. 

You were closer than the day before, again in your new uniform, looking hot and smelling as tempting as ever. Meanwhile, he was fucking up all his throws. 

You’d been at it for half an hour now, and he was getting more frustrated by the second.

“You are holding them too tightly, you have your full strength back now. The goal is to practice micro-dosing it when it requires gentle movements. Let me show you.” You said while studying his form.

You stand on your tiptoes to reach his injured hand that's been holding the KaBar knife over his shoulder in a throwing stance. Your soft front brushes against his side. Your fingertips lightly touch his tense fingers gripping the handle, and then your voice is right by his shoulder, whispering dirty-sounding words of encouragement.

“Relax a little bit, yes. Just like that.” Your breath caresses his skin, and he suppresses a shudder, “Yes, yes, perfect! Now, do it!” He throws the knife. 

Neither one of you sees it land with a thud in the center of the target. 

He’s on you before he can stop himself. 

With his hands wrapped around your throat, he pulls you impossibly closer to him, you gasp and instinctively grabs his wrists. His thumbs on your soft jaw tilt your head to make you look into his eyes. You moan, an involuntary noise that escapes your throat. The sound travels like high voltage through his blood to his groin. 

“Lieutenant…” you whisper, voice cracking with fear and a hesitated question.

Simon growls, slightly tilting his hips against your belly, wanting you to feel his hard cock, his need.

"Always on top of me, touching me, tempting me."  He turns slowly, keeping you in his grasp, and you move with him. "You have no idea how long I’ve been stopping myself from putting my hands on you," two steps forward, and he traps you against the old marksman table. Left speechless, your hands fall to his hard chest. Not punching him away, he notes.

His hands travel from your throat down to your hip, gentle but heavy petting your curves, He leans close and nudges your cheek with his clothed one. Your breathing becomes more labored by the second. "So sweet, yet so oblivious to the effect you have on me." He whispers next to your ear as he tightens his grip on you, his fingers digging on your softness, "But I can show you."

Simon picks you up, you shriek and throw your arms around his neck as he sits you on the table. He swipes one hand behind you, clearing the table of the clutter that falls loudly to the floor, purposely missing a small knife, he grabs it and brings it up to point at you with the sharp tip, “You’re gonna owe me a mask after this.” 

He lifts the bottom of his balaclava and cuts a piece off to reveal his mouth. Pink and plump lips split by a long scar all the way from his nose, down his cupid's bow, to just above his dimpled chin. 

He doesn’t give you time to appreciate the new exposed piece of him, because Simon leans down to claim your mouth in a passionate, claiming kiss. His eyes flutter close as you share the warmth of his body, and the truth of his confession. Your hands slid to his arms, gripping his biceps as you pulled him closer, your tongue tentatively meeting his in an unspoken invitation for more.

The kiss grows more urgent, his tongue diving into your mouth as he tasted the sweetness of your submission. His hands roaming your body, familiarizing themselves with every curve, fingers tracing circles underneath your breast and on the softness of your waist. Your own hands started to explore him, your nails digging into the skin of his exposed arms as you traced his muscles like you’re memorizing him.

Pulling away from your mouth, he nuzzled his masked nose against the apple of your chubby cheek, "If you don’t want this, now is the time to say so, before I lose myself." He was giving you a way out of his possessive grasp before it was too late, before he sunk his sharp teeth into your juicy peach and decided he was not going to let go.

“I want you!” Your voice was a desperate whimper at the mere notion of stopping. You want it, all he would give you, you’ll take it. Your hands grabbed his shirt and tugged, trying to take it off, you managed to untuck it from his pants before he grunted and grabbed both your wrists in each of his hands to stop you.

He kissed you once more and bit your lower lip, making you gasp, He took the opportunity and licked inside your mouth. “Tongue.” he barked, you obeyed and shyly stuck your tongue out. Simon licked, sucked, and bit again. It was utterly erotic. 

He pulled away from you and made quick work of undressing, took off his shirt, and then undid the button and zipper of his cargo pants. He was so big, all over. Packed with muscles and a layer of fat that made it seem like he was naturally bulletproof, even when you knew that wasn’t the case. The scars he wore were a crude and raw testament of the truth.

He moved close again, reached for your knees, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive flesh behind them, causing your legs to fall apart slightly. You watched, transfixed, as his hands moved closer and closer to the apex of your thighs. The teasing was agonizing, but you didn't want it any other way. Instead, you took a deep breath, your chest rising and falling with each stroke of his hand.

With a predatory grace, Simon leaned over you, his eyes never leaving yours as his hand traveled up your leg over the thick fabric that separated you from his touch. You felt the anticipation coil tighter in your stomach, a knot of excitement and fear that made your breath hitch. He paused just before he reached your center, his fingers tracing your sensitive inner thigh. You could feel the heat of his body, his scent mingling with sweat and arousal.

"You know," he said, his voice a low growl, "I’ve been dying to know what you taste like." His thumb hovered just above the fabric over your pussy, the pressure of it making you tremble. "Do you want to help me with that, baby?"

Your eyes widened, and you felt a rush of warmth spread through your body. You had never felt so exposed, so vulnerable while still being clothed. But there was something about the way he talked to you, the way he looked at you, that made it feel so sexy. "Yes, Ghost," you murmured, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "I want that."

The Lieutenant's smile grew, his teeth a dangerous sight in contrast with the dark fabric of his mask. "Good," he said, his thumb finally sliding over the seam at your center.

With swift motions, he kneeled down to unbutton and yank your camo pants and panties off, making your hips rise and fall involuntarily, revealing your fuzzy, glistening wet pussy. The coolness of the air made you gasp, and you felt a thrill as his gaze locked on your most sensitive parts. Simon leaned in closer, his nose just inches from your sex. He took a deep breath, his nostrils flaring as he inhaled your scent, his eyes closing in pleasure.

The sound of his deep inhale made your stomach flip. You felt a strange sense of power, knowing you could elicit such a reaction from him. His eyes snapped open, and you saw the hunger in them, the raw need that was no longer hidden behind the veil of indifference he usually donned. "Mm," he murmured, his voice thick with lust. "You smell so good, baby."

Without another word, Simon leaned in and placed a gentle kiss on your fat mons, his stubbled cheek brushing against the naked skin of your inner thigh. Your hips jerked upward at the contact, a gasp escaping your lips, the intimacy of the moment almost too much to handle. He kissed you again, this time a bit closer to your clit, the stubble grazing your skin again, sending sparks of pleasure through your core.

"Your pussy is so perfect," he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. "So soft and plump. Just like a ripe little peach." He placed a hand on your hip, holding you in place as he continued to shower you with wet kisses, each one closer to the center of your desire. It was so bewildering, the way he was rough and gentle with you at the same time.

Your breathing grew ragged, your body trembling with each tender touch. Then, without warning, you felt wetness on your clit as Simon leaned in and let a bead of saliva fall from his mouth onto your sensitive flesh. You gasped at the sensation, the coolness of his spit mixing with the warmth of your slick. His tongue followed the droplet, tracing a wet line up the center of your pussy, and you felt a bolt of electricity shoot through your core.

"Ghost," you whimpered, your hands clutching the edges of the table.

"Shh," Simon soothed, his eyes never leaving yours. "Just relax, sweetheart. I got you." He slid his middle finger along your slit, the tip of it teasing your swollen clit before delving into your wetness. Your back arched as he pushed the digit into you, his knuckles grazing your sensitive skin. "So tight," he murmured, his voice filled with fascination. "So perfect."

He began to pump his finger in and out, the motion sending waves of pleasure crashing over you. You felt so full, so overwhelmed, still you craved more. You could feel your body responding in ways you didn't know were possible, so out of control, it was like an outer body experience. He had barely touched you.

“This was all I could think about every time you were holding my hand,” Simon said as he watched, transfixed, at the way his finger moved. “Making me all better just so I could repay you like this.” Your pussy clenched around his finger, begging for more, and you couldn't help but rock your hips in time with his movements.

"Tell me how it feels," he murmured, his voice a firm command that made your body quiver. "Does this pussy like when I play with her?"

Your cheeks flushed, but you couldn't lie. "It feels… amazing," you admitted, your voice shaking. "I've never felt like this before." You leaned back on your elbows and let your head drop back.

Simon's eyes lit up with excitement. "Good," he said, his voice a low rumble. "I want you to feel good, baby. I want you to know just how much I appreciate you." His thumb began to circle your clit as he continued to fuck you with his finger, the dual sensation making you moan even louder. "But we're just getting started. There's so much I want to do to you, so much more I want to do with you."

He stood up and with his free hand grabbed you by the nape of your neck to pull you upright, “Show me your tits sweetheart, take that fucking shirt off.” You hesitated for two heart beats and he amped the pace of his thrusts, “Take. It. All. Off.” 

You swallowed the nervous knot that formed in your throat and started to strip off your shirt. Once you were covered in only your sports bra, you took a deep inhale and straightened your back, reassuring yourself that there was nothing to be self-conscious about.

“You gonna make me repeat myself?” His tone dropped lower, his words a playful threat. You shook your head and off went your bra. As soon as you were bare before him, Simon ceased to move, his fingers still inside you, you even thought he stopped breathing for a moment. A nasty, insecure thought scurried across your mind, but it got squashed by the way Simon was looking at you like he wanted to devour you.

Then he snapped.

He leaned closer to you, his breath hot against your neck. You felt his hand move from your neck down to your chest, his calloused thumb grazing your nipple before he took it into his mouth. It was overwhelming, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin as he began to suckle. The sensation of his mouth on you, combined with the new relentless rhythm of his finger inside your pussy, left you on the brink of a form of pleasure you had never experienced before.

With each second that passed, your breathing grew more erratic, your body moving in time with his. The sound of his mouth on your skin blended with your moans and the distant sound of the shooting range. The warm flush on your face was a stark contrast to the coolness of his saliva as it dripped down your chest. His free hand moved to your other breast, kneading and rolling the nipple between his thumb and forefinger. It was a symphony of sensations, each one building upon the last until you felt like a supernova.

"Do you like that, baby?" he murmured against your skin, his teeth scraping your nipple before capturing it between his teeth. "Do you like how I make you feel?"

Your breath hitched, and you nodded frantically. "Y-yes, Simon." you managed to gasp out, your voice tight with need.

Simon's smile grew wider when he finally heard you say his name, and he leaned closer, his face inches from your chest. He took your other nipple into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the tight peak as he began to thrust his finger faster, your pussy clenching around his digits with each vicious stroke. He swapped back and forth, his mouth moving from one breast to the other, never letting the sensation ease.

As he sucked, he let out a low groan, the vibration sending waves of pleasure through your body. His hand moved to your other breast, giving it a playful slap that made you jump. You felt so aroused, so desired, the thought of someone walking in any moment made you forget about any insecurity, and you couldn't deny the thrill of it. It felt like he owned you, and you were his to do with as he pleased.

With a sudden, almost feral growl, Simon pulled away from your breasts, his eyes locking onto yours. He leaned back slightly, taking in the sight of your finger fucked pussy, his hand still working your clit. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he leaned between your legs, his cheek brushing the tender skin of your inner thighs. You felt a strange mix of fear and excitement as you watched him, his massive frame casting a shadow over your most intimate parts.

"Fuck." he murmured, his breath hot against your skin. And then he lowered his mouth to your pussy again, his tongue sliding through your folds with the ease of a hot knife through butter. The sensation was overwhelming, the combined feeling of his rough stubble and the warmth of his mouth sending you spiraling into a whirlwind of pleasure. You felt the muscles in your stomach tighten, your legs trembling as you tried to hold herself still, and your throat tightened, trying to not let out a sound.

Surprising you with his strength, He lifted one of your legs and placed it over his broad shoulder, his hand wrapping around your thigh to keep you in place. The new angle made you feel even more exposed, your pussy open and vulnerable to his every whim. He took full advantage of the position, his tongue delving deeper, reaching places you didn't even know existed.

Your moans escaped you and grew louder, filling the closed space of the warehouse as the cool air caressed your heated skin. The fabric of his mask kissed your bare thighs as he moved between your legs, it tickled your sensitive flesh as he licked and sucked. You could feel his hot breath against your clit, the sensation making your hips buck involuntarily, nobody had eaten you out like this before, with such desperation.

The Lieutenant's tongue was playing your body like a fine instrument, he knew just how to touch you, just how to make you whimper and beg for more. Each flick of his tongue was a sweet torture, bringing you closer and closer to the edge, without pushing you over just yet. 

Your eyes squeezed shut, your teeth digging into your bottom lip as you tried to hold back the scream building in your chest. You could feel the tension coil tighter and tighter, your body hanging on the precipice of something you had only ever read about in your stash of romance novels.

"Simon," you gasped, voice a needy whisper. "I'm… I'm going to… "

Your words dissolved into a whimper as you felt the heat inside you build. Simon's tongue had become relentless, swirling and flicking against your clit with a skill that seemed to defy his brusque exterior. 

His teeth grazed your sensitive flesh, the slight edge of pain mixed with pleasure, sent you spiraling higher and higher. You could feel your pussy tightening around his finger, the muscles in your soft stomach seizing up, your body shaking with the strain.

Your obscene sounds grew louder, filling the air with the sweet symphony of your impending orgasm. Simon's eyes remained locked on you, the intensity in them unwavering as he felt your body tense beneath his touch. He knew you were close, and the thought of making you come sent a jolt of excitement through his own body. 

"That's it," he murmured in between licks, his voice thick with lust. "Let go for me."

He moved one of his hands to spread your pussy lips apart even farther, using his thumb and forefinger, he kept the speed of his tongue while doing it. You could feel the orgasm growing, a rush of bliss that stole the breath from your lungs. His mouth was a brand of fire on your sensitive flesh, and you couldn't hold back any longer. You let out a keening cry, your body arching off the table as you came, your pussy convulsing around his fingers. The waves of ecstasy crashed over you, leaving you trembling and gasping for breath.

Simon didn't stop. He continued to lick and suck, your juices coating his lips and chin as he drank in your sweetness, dampening the fabric of his balaclava. The feeling of his tongue on your clit was exquisite torture, each stroke sending another wave of pleasure through you. You could feel the muscles in your pelvis spasm, your legs quivering as you rode out your climax.

When the last tremor of your release faded, Simon pulled back, a smug smile on his face. His cheeks and lips were wet with your cum, a glistening trail of saliva connecting his mouth to your pussy. He licked his lips, savoring the taste. "Mmm," he murmured, his dark eyes never leaving yours. "You taste so delicious, baby."|

You felt a flush of embarrassment as you looked away, your pussy still spasming slightly with aftershocks of pleasure. Reality started to creep in on your lust-addled mind. But the way he talked to you, the way he looked at you, it distracted, you felt beautiful, desirable. He was overwhelming. "Si…" you whispered, unsure of what to say.

Simon chuckled, a satisfied sound that resonated in your very bones. "Look at me, baby," he said, his voice a gentle command that you couldn't ignore. You lowered your eyes, meeting his gaze. "You're so beautiful when you cum," he murmured, his thumb still rubbing lazy circles around your clit. "Your whole body just lights up."

He bent over you, the weight of his massive frame pressing you into the table. You could feel the heat of his chest, the dampness of his skin against your own. His breath tingled your skin as he leaned in, his breath hot on your face. "You liked that, didn't you?" he whispered, his eyes searching for approval in yours, his hand still playing with your pussy.

You nodded, unable to find the words to describe the wave of emotions that surged through you. You could feel your heart racing, your chest heaving with each ragged breath you took. He pinched your clit, the sensation sending aftershocks of pleasure through your body, overstimulating you.

"Good," Simon murmured, his eyes darkening with satisfaction. "Now, give me that sweet mouth."

He shifted his weight, his powerful muscles flexing as he moved to lie on top of you. His body was like a blanket of warmth and security, his weight pressing you into the table. You felt your heart race even faster, your eyes never leaving his as he lowered his face to yours. The edges of his mask and his scruff brushed against your cheek, the scent of him -musky and manly- surrounding you.

His lips found yours in a kiss that was consuming and possessive. You felt his tongue slip into your mouth, tasting, exploring, as if he couldn't get enough of you. Your body responded instinctively, your arms wrapping around his neck to pull him closer, your legs spreading to accommodate his thick thigh between them. The strokes of his tongue slowly became more forceful, and you could feel his hard cock pressing against your soft stomach.

The kiss grew sloppier, wetter, as you both succumbed to the overwhelming passion that had been building for a long time. His spit mingled with yours, the salty taste of flesh mixed with faint remnants of nicotine and the lingering sweetness of your juices. It was messy, raw, and utterly consuming. The stubble on his chin scraped against your skin, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.

With one hand on your jaw and the other still buried between your legs, a sudden primal need took over Simon, he pulled back and spit into your mouth without warning. It was an act of dominance, a claim that left no doubt of his intentions. The saliva slipped over your tongue, warm and slightly bitter. Your eyes went wide with shock, but you didn't pull away. Instead, you swallowed, the gesture feeling almost like a declaration of acceptance.

"Mm, such a good girl," he murmured, his hand sliding up your body, over your curves, to rest on your hip. His thumb stroked your skin, his eyes never leaving yours, feeding all the eye contact you had starved him off. "You're so soft, so precious. Yet I could crush you with my bare hands if I wanted to."

You felt said massive hand grab your waist, his fingers spread wide and sinking into your love-handles as flesh spilled out from between them. He was so much larger than you, his body a testament of his strength and power. You felt like a mere slip of a thing in comparison, it sent a thrill of euphoria through you. 

"Nearly became a lefty, and not because of your little exercises, love. I had to jerk off every time I left you." Your eyes went wide, and you felt your cheeks flush. The feeling of being so fervently desired by him was electrifying.

"Do you want to see my cock?" he tilted his head slightly, it was almost comical, but his deep and gravelly voice rumbled over you.

You had seen a few before, nothing bad but nothing memorable either. The thought of seeing Simon Riley's cock was dizzying. "Y-yes," you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.

With a predatory grace that defied his size, Simon stood up, his towering form casting a shadow over you. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his cargos and boxers, and pulled them both down with a swift move, revealing his thick, muscular thighs and the massive cock that jutted out from between them. 

It was huge, the size of which you had only ever read about in books and seen in the most exaggerated of porn, but still so pretty. The sight of it made you gulp, your eyes widening with anticipation and excitement. You could study it and write prose about it if given the time.

"Look at it," he said, his voice filled with pride as he took his cock in his scarred hand and stroked it slowly. The skin was velvety and pink, the veins standing out in stark contrast against his pale flesh. "This is me, baby. This is your man."

You couldn't help but stare, your eyes drawn to the thick, pulsing length of him. His pubic hair was a wild blonde thicket, a stark contrast to the rest of his body, which was mostly hairless. His balls were massive, heavy, and full, hanging low with desire. He cupped them in his other hand, rolling them gently, the motion causing his cock to bob and sway. "See how big they are?" he asked, his voice a low purr. "These are just for you."

Your eyes flicked up to meet his for a second as you nodded, only to drop back down to his movement, feeling too overwhelmed to find words. He was so imposing, so commanding, and you were at his mercy. "They're huge," you murmured, your voice barely a whisper.

With a wicked smile, Simon leaned back over you, his cock still in hand. "You make me feel things I thought I never would," he said, his voice a low growl. "Can you believe that?" He began to stroke himself more vigorously, the sound of his hand moving up and down his shaft a wet, slick sound that echoed through the air. "Lust, for one. Possessive, for another. Just for you."

Your eyes remained glued to his cock as he spoke, the size of it making you feel intimidated and incredibly turned on. You had never seen anything so brutally masculine. You swallowed hard, your mouth feeling dry as you imagined what it would feel like inside it.

"Tell me, baby," Simon rumbled, his hand moving faster along his shaft. "Do you want to know how it feels to have me inside you?" he asked like he could read your thoughts.

You nodded frantically, the words trapped in your throat. Your pupils were blown wide with desire as you watched him stroke the pre-cum beading at the tip of his cock. You were craving the feeling of being filled by him.

"Good girl," Simon praised, one hand moving to squeeze the base of his shaft and the other grabbing your thigh once more, his cock hovering just above your pussy. "Now, let's put those pretty feet of yours over my shoulder," he said, his tone a gentle command.

You complied, your legs shaking with a mix of excitement and nerves as he lifted your hips off the table and moved you closer to the edge. He positioned you so that your ankles rested on his broad shoulders, your pussy at his mercy, your soft belly and breast offered like a banquet to indulge his appetite. The buzz of anticipation of what was to come making you squirm beneath him, it was almost unbearable.

With a wicked grin, Simon began to drag the tip of his massive cock over your slit, teasing your clit with every pass. It was exquisite, the slickness of his pre-cum combining with your own wetness created a deliciously slippery path. You watched as he worked himself over you, his muscles tensing and releasing with each stroke, his hand moving with the determination of a man who knew exactly what he wanted.

Your breath caught in your throat as he guided the full length of his shaft over your core, the sheer size of him making you feel small and unbearably empty. It was so different from when he used his hands and mouth, so much more intimate, it had your entire body quivering. You could feel the head of his cock nudge against your opening, the bluntness of it hinting at the pleasure to come.

"Look at that," Simon murmured, his voice low and filled with fascination. "Look how eager you are for my cock." He leaned down, his mask brushing against your cheek as he whispered in your ear. "You're going to be so tight… So tight around me."

Your breath hitched, your eyes still glued to the sight before you. The tip of his cock was now perfectly aligned with your entrance, the head nudging gently against it. You could feel the warmth of him, the pulsing need that seemed to radiate from his very pores. "Simon," you breathed, your voice trembling.

He was going slow, almost agonizingly so. Simon watched the head of his cock finally breaching your slick folds, and he groaned. Your eyes went wide, your body stiffening as you felt the first inch enter you. It was glorious. He was so big, so thick, it felt as though you were being split in two, like there was a “you” before and after this.

"Look at that," he growled, his voice thick with satisfaction. "So tight, so wet for me." He began to move, inch by inch, filling you up with his massive girth. With every push, you felt yourself stretching, accommodating more of him, and you couldn't help the moans that slipped from your lips. "That's it," he encouraged, his eyes fixated on your pussy. "Take it all, baby. Take every last inch of your man's cock."

There was a faint pain despite being prepared to take him, it was laced with something pleasant. Each time he pushed forward, you felt yourself opening up to him, your body reshaping itself just for him, for his cock, every cell of your being responding to his steady thrusts. His breath tickled your neck, hot against your skin, as he whispered sweet taunts that sent shivers down your spine. "You're such a good little slut," he said, his voice a low growl. "Letting me fill you up like this."

Your cheeks flamed with both embarrassment and arousal. The words should have offended you, but instead, they made your pussy clench around his cock. You could feel yourself getting wetter, your arousal making it easier for him to slide deeper into you. His movements grew more deliberate, the slow, torturous pace driving you crazy with need.

"Look how much of me you can take," he said, his voice a sensual purr. "You're such a good little slut for me, aren't you?"

The words were like a brand, searing themselves into your soul and leaving a trail of fire in their wake. You liked it, the way his words made you feel both dirty and desired. With a final, agonizingly slow push, he bottomed out, fully buried inside you, his balls resting against your ass. The sensation was indescribable, a mix of pain and pleasure that had you panting and writhing beneath him.

"Atta girl," he murmured, his eyes gleaming with hunger and lust. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue pushing past your lips with the same demanding force as his cock had your pussy. The taste of him filled your mouth, mingling with your own sweetness.

As the kiss deepened, Simon began to move, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm that had your eyes rolling back in your head. He pushed in to the hilt, filling you completely, before pulling back almost all the way out. The sensation was maddening, the friction of his cock against your inner walls making your toes curl, and your nails dig into his skin.

With each thrust, he grew more aggressive, his grunts growing louder, filling the quiet warehouse with the sounds of your sexual consummation. Your moans grew in tandem, your breath hitching with every stroke. You felt like you were being claimed, owned, and the feeling was intoxicating. The pleasure built inside you, a heat that grew with each stroke of his cock.

Simon held your hip with a tight, possessive grip, his strong hands pinning you in place as he fucked you with a brutal efficiency that defied his gentle touch from before. The look in his eyes was like a storm, swirling with emotions that you couldn't quite decipher. Was it just desire? Lust? Or something else, something far more profound? You didn't know, and you didn't care. All you knew was that you needed more of him, you needed him deeper, harder.

Your eyes fluttered shut, unable to bare the weight of his stare, but he was relentless. Forcing you to meet his gaze, "Look at me," he growled, his voice thick with passion. "Look at me when I fuck you." your eyes snapped open, and you found yourself lost in his gaze once again, your breath coming in ragged gasps as he fucked you.

He went rougher, his balls slapping against your ass with every deep thrust, the sound echoing off the walls of the warehouse. It was a primal, carnally satisfying sound that seemed to resonate through your very core, driving you closer and closer to the edge. Each thrust sent a jolt of divine pleasure through you, mixing with the pain of his intrusion to create a cocktail of sensation that was more addictive than any drug.

He lowered his head to your neck and murmured, "I can feel your heartbeat around me. It's driving me fucking crazy, baby." His teeth nipping at your skin. "You make me feel strong when I'm inside you. Like I can conquer the word." More heat bloomed in your core, "You're going to swell up with my cum, love."

Your eyes widened, shock and arousal coursing through your veins, the thought sent a thrill through you. "You like that, don't you?" Simon asked, his voice a low rumble. "The thought of being filled with my cum, growing round and lush with my seed?" He leaned down to nip at your ear, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. "You're going to be the best little breeding slut, aren't you?"

Your cheeks flushed at his words, but you couldn't deny the way your pussy clenched around him, the way your hips began to lift to meet his thrusts. He noticed the change in you immediately, the way you moaned louder, the way you arched your back and pushed your breasts up towards him, like a heavenly offer. "Oh, you do," he said with a smug smile, his strokes becoming more forceful. "You want my cum, don't you?"

"Yes," you whimpered, the word torn from you as he hit a spot deep inside you that sent waves of pleasure through your body. "I want it."

"That's what I thought," Simon said, his grin wicked as he leaned back and began to fuck you with a viciousness that left you gasping. Each thrust was a declaration, a claim, a promise of what was to come. "You're going to be so full of me, baby. So full of my cum." His words were sweet, almost tender, laced with a brutal certainty that had your pussy spasming around his cock.

He placed his scarred palm over your opened mouth like he was trying to suffocate you, his fingers were spread apart and roughly grabbed your face. ”Kiss it,” He demanded, “Lick it, baby.” He gripped you by the waist with the other hand, your soft flesh giving in to his ruthless hold. 

You did as he commanded, making out with the flesh you knew so well, licked and kissed the scar you healed. You got lost in the feeling of worshiping the creased skin of his hand. Worshiping him.

With a roar, Simon plunged two of his fingers into your mouth, thrusted in you one last time and you felt his entire body tensing as he reached his climax. You felt the hot, thick spurts of his cum fill you as you sucked on his fingers that still tasted like you. It was exhilarating. His hips jerked against you, his cock pulsing as he emptied himself inside you. 

The feeling of his seed spilling into you was unlike anything Simon had ever experienced before, a primal rush that resonated through his very soul.

Your own orgasm followed quickly, your body shaking with the force of it. Your scream muffled by his digits, your nails digging into the skin of his thighs, you held on as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Simon never took his eyes off of you, watching you fall apart beneath him with a ferocious and possessive stare. 

The sound of your combined release filled the air, a symphony of moans and grunts that echoed off the walls surrounding you. His cock swelled even larger, his spurts of cum painting your inner walls and claiming you as his, you could feel his cock jerk with each one, filling you to the brim, stretching you impossibly wider.

"Ten," he panted, his body finally stilling above you. "Ten spurts of my love, baby." He leaned down, kissing you softly, his tongue slipping into your mouth, sharing the taste of the moment with you.

You felt boneless, the scale of your climax leaving you trembling and overwhelmed. You could feel his cum inside you, a warm, thick presence that filled you completely. The reality of what they'd just done settled over you, a mix of shock and euphoria.

Simon's cock twitched one last time before sliding out of you with a wet pop, leaving your pussy gaping open and exposed. He watched you with smug satisfaction, his chest heaving with exertion. The head of his cock was still coated in your combined juices, a white foamy ring around the base showed how good the sex had been.

You lay there, your chest heaving, your legs trembling as you tried to come to terms with what had just happened. You felt… changed, somehow. Different. The intimate nature of the encounter only served to amplify your afterglow, leaving you feeling both sated and yet insatiably hungry for more.

Simon’s cum was slowly trickling out of you, the sticky warmth of it reminded you of the unhinged way you’d acted. You couldn't believe you had begged for it, begged to be filled with his seed. But you had, and now you felt both ashamed and strangely proud of yourself. It was as if a switch had been flipped inside you, awakening something you didn’t know was there.

Simon stood up, his massive cock still semi-hard and wet with your slick. He looked down at your pussy, a proud smile playing on his lips as he gently removed your legs from his shoulders. "You did so well, sweetheart," he said, his voice still gruff with desire. "Can’t wait to get you on my bed."

You felt a swell of hope at his words, he wanted more too. Despite the anxiety and confusion that fought within you, you had never felt so alive, so desired. "Thank you," you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

Still standing over you, he offered you a hand up. As you took it, you felt the tremble in his fingers, the residue of his own climax. He helped you to your feet, his gaze lingering on your naked form, committing every detail to memory.

"I could just bend you over right now and fuck that sweet, tempting ass," he said, his voice a gruff purr. "But I've got to get you cleaned up. Somebody is bound to show up, so we’ll leave that for later." He playfully slapped one ass cheek, making you jump and shriek. It stung, leaving a warm imprint off his palm, a clear gesture of ownership. "You stay here while I look for something to clean us up," he ordered, his tone gentle.

You watched as he strutted away, his muscular frame flexing with every step, the wetness on his cock glistening under the dim light. You couldn't help but admire him, the way his cock bobbed slightly with each movement. It was an erotic sight, one you could get used to.

As he looked around, and the afterglow cleared from your foggy brain, you pondered how to tell him the story; about a young soldier you met in the ICU years ago, when you were just an intern. A handsome young man who had a tube down his throat and a wound on his lower back from ricochet shrapnel. How you had been the one assigned to move all his joints and stretch all his muscles, two times a day, every day, while he was unconscious. How you would talk to him about anything and everything, even if he didn’t answer. How you were the one who took care of the man until your rotation ended, and you were sent elsewhere, never knowing what became of him. Never seeing the soldier again. 

Until Simon “Ghost” Riley decided to use his hand as a shield against a machete.

You stood outside the large dark door of your neighbour you've never spoken to. Your chest was tight, you were often a little anxious of talking to new people but there was usually no reason to be; this time there is.

With measured bangs that were a little too steady, you knocked your fist against the door - announcing your presence, and probably your nervousness too.

You took a tiny step back, and when the door swept open you were greeted by the large, muscular soldier you expected to see.

His scrutinising gaze travelled over your body for a moment.

"what'd ya want?" he finally spoke, in a gruff, deep tone that felt a little disarming.

"I just wondered- well I came for..." as you pushed your words out of your mouth you noticed the head of your little kitty appear from behind the man's boots.

".. For her." you pointed towards you cat - Bonnie - causing the soldiers gaze to follow your line of vision until it landed on the cat beside him.

"She yours?" he murmered, his eyes a little calmer as they met yours.

You swallowed hard before replying, "yeah, her name is Bonnie."

A scoff passed his lips at the ridiculous name, before he reached down and picked up your cat. She curled around in his arms, looking absolutely tiny in comparison to his broad chest.

"Been wonderin' where she came from." he spoke, his large hands somehow gently caressing her like she was built out of glass.

The contrast was, in a way, striking. You hands were shaking before you knocked on his door, but the way this rugged, hardened man gave affection to your precious Bonnie, it was beautiful.

"Your mother got'a name?" his eyes reached yours again, but he wasn't anything close to intimidating anymore, not with a twisting white kitty in his arms.

You told him your name and he told you his. Telling him about how she probably got out and into his life, he listened intently, though a little wary.

Bonnie watched simon with wide dreamy eyes as she wrapped herself around his big muscular arms; it crossed your mind as to what it felt like, but nows not the time.

Simon spoke again, voice casual, yet low, "I been feedin' her left over chick'n."

You almost rolled your eyes, of course, this cat was a slut for chicken.

"she loves chicken so.. That's probably why she keeps returning." you reply with a small smile.

He was distant, edgy, as if he expected you to act out of line. You wondered what had hurt him.

"probably should return ya to your mother, Lil one." he says quietly, almost whispered, but you heard it.

In a slow movement he came forward, gently resting Bonnie in your arms. Your hands skimmed, you felt how cold his were, he felt how warm yours were.

Once she was safely settled in your arms he took a step back, rubbing his jaw in a slightly apprehensive manner.

You notice his black shirt was now covered in white cat fur, you tried to hide the smile that pulled at your lips. "You can use tape to get that off.." you say before he had to notice.

"Aye, I will do that, luv." he gruffly responded, using his hands to brush the worst of it off. You noticed the heat that spread over your face the mere though of what that would feel like - Your hands skimming down his chest, You can tell by the contours of his shirt the type of sight he was hiding under it.

"Look, you can come by whenever you want to see Bonnie," you offer, understanding better than most a connection to a cat.

You couldn't deprive him of that, after all, Bonnie clearly really likes him.

"Aye, might take ya up on that." you swore you saw a slight smile meet his eyes, that smile that cats get out of you.

When you made your way back and closed your door, all you could do was pray that he'd come knocking soon. And as you nuzzled your face into Bonnie's silky fur, you could smell the faint hint of his aftershave.

Maybe you're a little pussy whipped for your neighbour.