#ghostchallenge

You're awoken by a loud noise. At first, you think you dreamt it. Exploding head syndrome, maybe. You strain your hearing but it's quiet, save for the occasional creak of the house settling, its old bones creaking in the dead of night. Rain gently patters against the windows, blurring the world outside.

A flash of sudden light illuminates the bedroom, casting elongated shadows across the floor, followed by a loud crack that rattles the glass. Thunder. You should've guessed.

The frantic beating of your heart slows to a gentle roll, and your eyes leaden with sleep. The soft pillows beckon, the warm blankets cradle you as you sink back onto the mattress.

Only for you to be snapped back into reality, drowsiness dissipating like a morning mist.

Someone's knocking on your door.

Your heart is in your throat as you quickly peel off the blankets, the chill of the floorboards underneath your bare feet seeping into your bones.

In the bookshelf sits the gun Simon had given you before he had moved out, the rumble of his voice a ghost in your ear. "For protection," he'd murmured, placing the cold metal onto your open palms. "Jus' in case."

Your trembling fingers fumble as you search for it in the dark, flinching as a couple of books spill from the shelf onto the floor, pages rustling in your urgency.

The knocking persists.

The metal of the grip is unyielding in your clammy hands. You've never tested it before, never had the displeasure. As you hold it close to your chest with a quivering breath, you hope tonight won't change that.

Simon's instructions echo in your mind as you approach the front door. "Thumb the safety. Hold the grip with both hands. Do not, under any circumstance, put your finger on the trigger unless you're plannin' on sendin' hate. Clear?"

Your throat tightens, a phantom snake coiling around the narrow passage, and panic grips your heart as you reach for the blinds, slowly hooking two fingers and carefully pulling down to look at who is—

Simon.

Simon?

Sweat-slick fingers flip the light switch before quickly undoing the locks, the hinges groaning in protest as the door opens.

"What the hell?"

It's Simon, disheveled— maskless— swaying on his feet. His eyes are half-closed and unfocused. Johnny's holding him up by the arm, struggling to keep him upright.

"S'ry, bonnie. We wen' out fer a few 'nd clearly, he's out 'is face. Quite crabbit, too. He said ye'd let 'em sleep 'ere," he slurs.

Simon's not the only one who's pissed. With a resigned sigh, you gesture at the couch with your free hand. "There, I guess."

That he thought of you even in his drunken haze tugs at your fragile heartstrings.

Johnny guides him to the catch, a quiet C'mon LT to spur him forward. Heavy boots thud against the floor as they stumble toward the living room while you carefully place the gun on the kitchen countertop before reaching for a water bottle in the pantry. Johnny snickers under his breath as Simon collapses onto the sofa, the springs protesting his weight.

Two bottles, then.

You watch Simon's head loll as you hand Johnny the water. "Tell me you aren't the one driving, Johnny," you grumble.

He takes it with a quiet thanks. "Naw. Cap'n's stone cold sober."

Small mercies.

Johnny gives Simon a rough slap to the side of his leg as he bids him goodbye, pulling you in for an embrace tight enough that your spine pops before walking out the door.

You let out another sigh as the lock clicked back into place. The tangy, sour scent of stale alcohol mixed with stings at your nose, as does the invasive smell of smoke.

His boots are mud-caked, and you'll be damned if he stains your nice furniture with his mess. "Shoes off." He groans but complies. The laces come undone quickly, and you tug his shoes off with a grunt. "Simon."

His glassy eyes meet yours. "Drink your water." The burning need to chuck it at his head is one you have to vehemently smother into embers. Moron. Only Simon would have the gall to show up unannounced months after the separation. And drunk.

You push the bottle into his chest roughly and make to go back to bed when he encircles his hand around your wrist and the world spins on its axis, suddenly finding yourself beneath him with his face nestled in the crook of your neck.

Simon's breath is hot against your skin, the weight of his body pinning you down so achingly familiar. It stirs up past memories that would have you pressing your thighs together if he wasn't right there, using his broad waist to spread them apart.

"Missed ya, love." A confession. "S'much."

The breath you draw is jagged, his slow-spoken words hanging in the air. You want to push him away, scream at him for stumbling in and disrupting your night, your rest, your carefully crafted peace. But there's a part of you that can't help but soften at the tenderness in his tone.

"Simon," you whisper. "You're drunk. You don't know what you're saying—" his lips find your fluttering pulse. You find purchase in his shirt, shaky fingers grasping at the hem.

"'M drunk, no' no liar." Your resolve wavers. No, he never had been. Honesty hadn't been the reason for the split. It wasn't the truth he'd spoken but the truths he'd kept to himself. A fortress around his heart, the bridge to its gates raised. Unwilling to share a burden, share a life.

His warm tongue licks a hot stripe up your neck reaching the lobe of your ear where his blunt teeth sink into it. A choked gasp spills from your mouth, spine arching in reflex— your treacherous body remembering his touch, yearning for it.

"Simon—" your words get caught in your throat; snag like fishhooks when he undulates his hips, arousal creeping along your veins like ivy.

"Don't ya miss me, pet?" You've asked him to not call you that because it never fails to stoke the fire in your belly, to sodden your knickers. Before you can chide him on his choice of words, he shifts. One arm, an inked column under the soft light of the living room, holds him up just enough to bring his rugged face into focus. His eyes, like a stormy night's sky, swirl with untamed desire.

You know it's dangerous to play with fire. Touch it and burn, ache, blister. But the passion of this old flame beckons like a siren with sharp teeth. Each drag of his prominent erection against your core only succeeds in pulling you away from the shore of clarity. It's disorienting, insistent.

Relentless.

"My pretty little love," he mumbles. Simon's gaze drags from your glassy eyes to the delicate contours of your collarbone. His fingers trace lines of intimacy onto the swell of your breasts before using the pad of his thumb to swirl the stiffened peak of your nipple. "Say the word 'nd it all stops."

The scent of alcohol clings to him, a bitter reminder of the loss of inhibitions it brings as it warms one's chest. Blurred lines he might not mind, but you do. Lost boundaries. Rejection sits on the tip of your tongue, on the edge of your teeth when he says something that frays the last threads of your resolve.

It comes undone.

"Please. Jus' tonigh'. All I need." His words sound like footsteps in winter mire, slushed, syllables blending together.

You'll just have to kick him out on his arse in the morning.

"Okay," you breathe. Just one night, you tell yourself. He's always been good to you in the bedroom. One last hurrah wouldn't hurt. Maybe it'll allow you to finally close this painful chapter in your life and start anew, with pristine white pages and fresh ink.

Your hands, trembling with nerves and anticipation, cradle his face. The roughness of his stubble in contrast with the softness of your palms is grounding, keeping you from being pulled under your own swirling emotions.

" 'M righ' 'ere, love. You're safe with me, always." He whispers the last words reverently, a vow. Simon's breath mingles with yours as he leans in for a kiss.

The world around you fades, your senses tunneled on the feel of his lips, the taste of him— mildly sweet with a hint of peppermint. He slants his head to deepen the kiss, and the bruising ache in your heart is replaced by another, one that burns brightly and threatens to sweep you away.

The lulling sound of the pouring rain outside is drowned out by the beating of your racing heart.

The bed creaks when Simon perches you on the edge of it, quietly ordering you to take your top off.

"What about my bottoms?" You bite down on the gummy inside of your cheek when he pins you in place with a look— a predator eyeing its prey.

"Those are mine." Resounding. Final. A gavel in a courtroom.

You fling your shirt off, tossing it into some forgotten corner in the room, and cheekily watch Simon undress. It's not methodical like it used to be. No longer a means to an end. Experienced fingers undo the buckle of his belt before he takes it off, the leather material snapping in the air, slicing through the silence.

A quip tumbles out of your mouth faster than you can stop it. "Gonna spank me with that?"

The air around you thickens— or thins, you can't be sure— when his eyes flash to you. He kicks off his jeans, one foot after the other, wobbling as he does. "Tha' wha' you want?" The words he didn't say ring out loud and clear.

Don't rattle the cage, sweetheart. This dog isn't muzzled.

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to keep from saying anything else, something that he might take you up on, instead focusing on the way his heavy cock hangs in between legs (dangling with each step forward—)

"M'eyes are up 'ere." Your nose scrunches at his joke. Cute.

He lowers himself onto his knees, your legs cradling his face as it hovers over your sex, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath on your heated skin.

The sleeping shorts you're wearing are ratty and worn. They're thin too, practically translucent from constant use. Which means that he can see that you're not wearing any undergarments underneath.

"Hope you know I can—" Heat licks up the sides of your jaw, pooling in your cheeks as you cut him off with a snappy remark.

"Yes. I know."

The tip of his pointed tongue drags along the seam of your shorts, right along your slit. Your breath hitches, and you clench your jaw to keep from making a sound. Your back bows involuntarily, the feeling startling, intense.

"Can see tha' clear as day, as if lookin' through a windowpane, pet," he taunts. The words that are forming, almost ready to spill out, freeze in place when his mouth comes in direct contact with your slippery cunt. He licks once, twice, through your folds, slightly dipping into your slick entrance, only pulling away to nuzzle your pearl with his misaligned nose.

"Sweet as a peach, jus' like I remember," he purrs, the timbre of his voice buzzing against your puffy lips. "Missed this." A mewl slithers past your grit teeth when he gently sinks one thick finger into you, curling and twisting. Arousal drips onto his knuckle, tracing a hot path down to his wrist. He coos at you when he adds another digit, hissing at the sharp but brief pinprick of the stretch.

"Bloody fuckin' tight." Simon rises off the floor, the quiet sound of his knees popping swallowed up by your harsh pants. "Gotta let me in, love. Relax."

He keeps the thrusts shallow, his fingers dragging deliciously along your nerve endings. The sting soon fades, giving way to a gentle warmth that unfurls inside of you, letting Simon reach deeper until—

Your muscles stiffen, tight like a spring when he brushes over the rough patch of skin that has bursts of light appearing across your eyelids.

"Look at ya. Droolin' like a mutt with my fingers stuffed up your pretty cunt."

There's a pressure in your lower belly that's steadily building with each sloppy thrust of his hand, pulling squelching noises from your sodden pussy. He finally, finally, latches onto your neglected clit, lightly sucking on it in tandem with his fingers.

Your chin drops to your chest as everything nears a breaking point. The pressure inside you has your body wound tight. The fibers of your muscles contract, almost painfully, preparing for the release of what's to come, what can't be ignored.

The swirling of his golden tongue pushes against the boundaries of your endurance, pushes you to the precipice, where you finally hit the point of no return. You can feel something about to give, ecstasy trickling through the cracks in your foundation, uncontrollable, raw. Your fingers thread through Simon's hair, curling tightly, pulling it taut when you feel something about to give—oh fuck—

Snap.

The structure that holds everything in place collapses.

A sudden release of pent-up energy and emotion erupts like a dam bursting, a cleansing flood that washes away the grime of old wounds, of bitterness, leaving the edges softened so they can heal; knit closed and scar over. Closure. It touches every part of you, filling you with a sense of liberation.

Your heart beats freely, it throbs with life as a wave of relief washes over you, soothing, a balm over scraped flesh, a rush of cool air into starved lungs.

A lightness that comes after being weighed down with burdens for so long.

Simon's hands encircle your arms firmly— fingers digging into the meat of your biceps— and effortlessly maneuvers you toward the center of the bed as if your lethargic form were a feather caught in a breeze; weightless, insignificant.

Gentle but unyielding.

There's a ringing in your ears that muffles his voice, blurring the edges of his words, an unintelligible hum, as if you were underwater. The sensation leaves you feeling adrift in a tranquil sea, cradled in its silken embrace. The only anchor you have to the muzzy reality is his warm touch.

"'M sorry, sweetheart. I can't," he apologizes, hooking your right leg over his shoulder. You let out a sibilant hiss as he leans forward, pushing your knee to your chest, the corded muscle of your hamstring pulling to its limit. "Can't wait anymore, 'm sorry."

Simon gives you a sloppy kiss as his heaving length prods at your swollen entrance, the tip breaching your pussy with a warm burn that starts from under your navel and only flares, radiating from your core outward. It's searing, the initial bite of the stretch disrupts the haze in your muddled mind, bringing the world around you into cutting clarity.

A guttural noise claws up his throat as Simon sheathes himself halfway, his growled words not the salve he was hoping for. It only grates at already raw nerves, abrasive.

"Jus' a little more, you can take it." He winds a hand downward to draw messy circles on your slippery clit, to stifle the roaring fire in your stomach, your chest. "You already have."

His jerky touch does its job, transforming the sharp burn of him wrenching your walls apart fiber by fiber into a quiet glow; smoldering heat now simmering. You soften, mellow and pliant, accept him into your body as he sinks to the hilt with a quiet groan.

"There's my girl. Takin' all of it like you were made f'me." Simon's words of praise tangle around your spine, electric, prickling. Your heart gallops like a herd of horses, wild and free. "Liked tha' did you? Jus' about strangled my cock with your tight cunt."

He rolls his hips once, twice, searching for signs of discomfort, but when only warm pleasure laps at your heels, when the barest of moans spill from your open lips, Simon begins to put his weight behind his thrusts.

Through half-lidded eyes, you see a raw, primal hunger reflected in his eyes— his soul, the one he'd claimed to have lost long ago, back with his reason, his sanity.

Yet he looks down at you as if you were his only salvation. A lifeline he grabs onto with an unyielding grip, his only tether to hope, purpose. A lighthouse shining in a raging storm, a beacon calling him home.

Simon presses a large hand onto your lower stomach, his work-worn palm pushing until you wince, brows furrowing at the fleeting whisper of pain.

"Can feel myself right here," he sluggishly mumbles, drunk of the feel of your cunt, the taste of your skin on his tongue— sweet like ripened figs. The sensory overload has him sinking his fingers into your flesh until it dimples.

He murmurs something under his taxed breath, something akin to mine, only mine as his lips leave a slick trail of saliva on the dip of your collarbone, the gentle curve of your shoulder, the thin, soft skin of your bicep up to your inner wrist, where he laps at your pulse.

As if savoring the present. The precious gift he's unwrapped, here and now. The last taste of you, which he hopes with a reverence that borders on prayer, lingers on his tongue long after the fruit— the sweet evidence of this one last intimacy— falls from the bough.

Simon comes with his teeth in the crook of your neck, biting down with a crushing pressure that has an acute pain digging its spurs into your consciousness, cutting the blazing euphoria of your own release short.

His cock is still twitching as he fills you with his spend when he takes his thumb and collects some of your slick to take you over the edge one last time.

"F'me. You can take it, yeah? I'll go slow, I promise."

Simon presses a kiss on your sweaty temple, his large hand cupping your jaw as he lazily watches you succumb to sleep, your breath evening out.

He reaches for your arm again, feeling for the birth control implant you'd had there when the both of you were still together.

Gone.

Sweet girl. You'd let him in without a fight. (He makes a mental note to wash the beer off of his clothes tomorrow.)

He knows your cycle better than the lines that are etched onto his palm. Better than the voice of the captain who rumbles in his earpiece, ordering him to go for the throat.

From the moment you'd stepped into his life with eternity in your eyes and the warmth of the sun on your lips, you were his. And he'll do anything to remain in your orbit.

“Simon?” The sound of your hoarse voice has Simon’s spine straightening, instantly on high alert. 

“What’s happened.” The sharp words come out more like a statement than a question. Simon’s heartbeat quickens. 

“I’m okay,” you start, but your wobbly voice betrays you. "But there was an accident—" Simon is in motion. Dinner is forgotten on the counter as he heads for the door, stepping into his boots on the way. 

“Where are you?” There’s a commotion in the background, some kind of beeping that Simon can’t make out. He catches your hesitation as you wait to reply. 

“Love. Where. Are. You.” His words are clipped, and for a split second he fears the phone might actually splinter in his hands given how hard he’s clenching the device. 

“I’m in A&E. I—the ambulance just brought me here.” 

Simon’s world tilts before him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, breathing in deep. One single stabilizing breath is all he allows himself before opening his eyes, resolute determination clear on his face as a decade of training takes over. 

“I’m on my way.” The phone clicks off as he grabs the keys off the hook by the door and rushes to the car.

The drive is a blur; he doesn’t pay attention to how fast he’s going, or what color the stoplights may be. Traffic laws are relative—he’s a man on a mission. His sole focus is getting to you. His heart pounds in his chest as he navigates the final turn, the hospital finally coming into view. 

The car barely comes to a full and complete stop at the entryway before Simon’s door flies open. 

“Sir, you can’t park here!” A disgruntled attendant calls out to him as he exits the vehicle, but Simon doesn’t even slow down, stepping around the irritated employee before barreling through the hospital entrance. 

Only to be brought to a halt at the open lobby before him. 

Shit. He hadn’t even thought to ask what room you were in. The frustration intertwines with the panic, and Simon has to force it down. 

He’s here. He’ll find you. 

And so Simon finds himself at the mercy of the kind, elderly receptionist, who seems to be taking her sweet time locating your information. 

Simon tries not to crack the counter beneath his grip, foot tapping against the ground in irritation. You could be in surgery, you could be bleeding out, any number of things could be happening right this moment, and there is nothing he can do. Simon silences these thoughts, keeping the panic at bay. “Keep it together, lieutenant,” he reminds himself silently. 

The receptionist, Shelley, her name tag reads, is unfazed by his erratic state, eyes squinting as she adjusts her glasses and leans back from the screen. Simon runs a hand down his face, using every ounce of self control he has to keep up a semblance of propriety. 

“Ahh,” Shelley announces triumphantly. “Here they are! I found them.” She turns her gaze to the hulking man in front of her, taking in his large form and tentatively eyeing the tattoos along his forearm. “Sorry, what was your relation to the patient again?” She asks, a note of uncertainty laces her tone. 

“I’m—” he hesitates. No words come to the tip of his tongue. He’s not a boyfriend for christ’s sake. Not your husband, though he wished more than ever he could use that word right now. 

“Spouse? Partner?” Shelley raises an eyebrow, trying to help fill in the blanks here.

Simon swallowed hard. “Yeah, partner. Just, can you tell me where they are? Please.”  

He’s not sure what comes over him as he tacks on that final plea. The desperation is clear in his words, but he couldn’t care less. Fuck it, he is desperate. Desperate to see you. Desperate to know you are okay—see it with his own eyes, feel your hands in his. 

Shelley’s pointed gaze turns to one of sympathy. “Room 315, dear. The lift is to the right.” 

The words are barely out of her mouth before Simon’s in motion once more. No time for the lift, he thinks to himself as he heads to the stairwell, taking the stairs two at a time up to your floor. Brown eyes frantically scan every room number as he searches for yours before finally finding the correct digits outside the room furthest down the hall. The metal of the door handle is cool beneath his touch as he pushes open the door, charging into the room.

He comes to a stop at the foot of the bed, eyes frantically scanning your body, taking stock of each and every visible injury. He can hardly control the wave of emotions that threaten to pull him down as he takes in your bruised and bandaged appearance. 

They’ve already set your arm in a sling, and there’s a large bulk encompassing your entire right leg, the bulk of it obvious even under the thin hospital blanket. An array of cuts and scrapes mar your perfect face, and the sudden onset of pure, unadulterated rage threatens to swallow him whole. 

‘I’m going to kill them,’ the words echo in his mind–a dozen violent deaths planned out for whoever did this to you. 

“Simon,” your hoarse voice calls out to him, but he can’t hear you over the sound of the roaring in his head. 

‘I’m going to hunt them down. And I’m going to fucking kill them for this.’

“Simon,” you say his name louder, firmer, and attempt to sit yourself up. Pain radiates through your body, piercing through the haze of pain meds, and you can’t help the cry of pain that escapes your lips. 

That is what pulls Simon out. On instinct, his feet move towards your bed, hand reaching out to clasp around your free hand. 

Your lower lip trembles. “Simon.” The word is pitiful on your lips–a plea, a prayer, a cry for help. 

It’s enough to pull Simon from the depths of this rage–revenge can wait. 

“I’m here.” Simon’s voice wraps around you like a warm blanket, and the dam breaks, tears flowing fast and freely. “It was awful,” you gasp out between sobs. Simon makes soothing shushing sounds as he holds your hand tight in his own, his other hand reaching up to gently brush the tears away, taking care to avoid the scrapes that litter your skin as you recount what details you can remember of the accident. 

“Shh, love, it’s okay,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. “‘M sorry I wasn’t there, babe.” Bile threatens to rise in the back of his throat as the guilt settles in.

“Should’ve been there, should’ve never left your fucking side.” He stares at the layers of gauze wrapped around your leg, hidden beneath the thin blanket. 

“Simon. Look at me,” you insist, waiting for those brown eyes to turn back to you. “Don’t go down that road, Si. There was nothing you could have done to stop this.” 

“You don’t know that,” he bites back. Simon immediately regrets the harshness of his note. “You don’t know that,” he tries again, softer this time. “Should’ve been there.” He runs a hand over his face, the adrenaline is fading, causing the events of the past hour to finally catch up to him. He exhales sharply and looks back up at you, eyes determined. 

“But ‘m here now. It’s over. I’m here.” He gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “And I’m not going anywhere, love.”

True to his word, Simon stays by your bedside the entire three day stay in the hospital. He denies your pleas to go home and sleep in his own bed, insisting on sleeping in the rough, uncomfortable hospital recliner. Not only was the furniture laughably small for a man of his stature, but after the first night, Simon is convinced it was designed as some kind of long-term-torture device. Not once does he complain though, dismissing your worries with a casual wave of his hand. “Slept in worse conditions in the field, love. This beats a forest floor.” Though by night two, Simon isn’t so sure. 

He’s always struggled with nightmares, but those nights in the hospital, his dreams turn to something worse: losing you in a car accident. The scene replays over and over in his mind’s eye until he’s woken up with a start, covered in sweat, and gasping for air. His eyes instantly lock on to the vital signs monitor above you, watching the thin green line of your heartbeat bounce up and down in a steady rhythm. He slows his own breathing down to match pace with yours, staring down at you as you sleep soundly. He watches the subtle rise and fall of your chest, further confirmation that you’re alive. 

When he finally gets to bring you home, he acts as though you’re made of fine china, driving ten under the speed limit. He carefully guides you into the house, hands ready to catch you as you struggle with the metal crutches. 

“Fuck,” you spit in frustration. “They made it look so easy in the hospital.” 

After the second time you almost trip over them, Simon’s exasperation gets the best of him. 

“Easy, swee’heart,” he implores, a note of desperation in his voice. “Just got you back, yeah? Can’t have you goin’ right back to A&E.” 

He wishes more than anything he could just scoop you up into his arms and carry you straight to the bedroom, but with your leg in its current state, he has to settle for just hovering, perpetually at the ready to catch and support you. He swears the walk from the car to getting you settled in bed takes an entire year off his life. 

It takes a second. Simon shoots a look at Soap to silently convey incredulity, but he might as well take a blade to the neck. The seat across from him is empty. Before memory strikes, he’s on his feet, bursting through the van’s doors and parting the reception committee. He doesn’t register faces or sounds, shutting out all distractions to carve an efficient path to his target.

God help anyone bold enough to try and stop him. Ten minutes is a courtesy, not for him, but for whatever unlucky officers tasked with the cleanup.

The walk eats three minutes.

Beneath a percentile of pressure, the rake pushes in place and the lock yields. He catches the door before it slams, and the moment it clicks shut, his nose twitches. The room reeks of damp earth and pine, a hearth in a lonely, snowed-in cabin. It gathers the force of an avalanche, pummeling into him and stealing his breath. It settles an invisible weight on his chest and limbs. Buried to his neck in memory, he forces himself to move. He’s dug himself out of the ground before. He’ll do it again.

There is no time for reverence. The proper personnel will arrive shortly. Price can only distract them for so long. Simon empties the contents of the bedside cabinet onto the neatly made bed and takes what he’s looking for—the spare dog tags, a sketchbook, and any traces of them. A photograph flutters out, dated two years earlier. Johnny and a slightly younger woman with the same grin in front of a Christmas tree. He hears his sergeant’s lilt as he pockets the picture and other goods.

“Come to mine for the holidays. I don’t want you to be alone.”

Simon doesn’t think of himself when he slips into his quarters. He thinks about the sister, and his own family. 

The days pass, surreal yet sharp and excruciating, as if he’s a surgical patient and the anesthesia didn’t take. Attends the debrief. Doesn’t hear it. Shrugs off the offers and orders for assistance and counseling. They’re given a week to sleep and heal, time Simon spends studying Soap’s sketchbooks and scouring public and private records to learn more about the younger MacTavish. It strikes him on the drive to the cliffs, Johnny’s ashes in his bag, that he’ll never see him again. That the sister will never see him again.

He goes for a drink alone, walking across town to avoid Price and Gaz, and plants himself at the end of the bar. A few beers in, and a vaguely woodsy smell turns his head. The ghost of Johnny at the edge of his vision dissipates, leaving some scruffy man in his sights. He finishes his drink, eyes locked with the stranger. His designation doesn’t matter. He’ll do.

Until he doesn’t. 

Simon barely touches the man on the walk to the park. Doesn’t bother committing his name to memory or looking at his face. One thing leads to another, and eventually, the man’s on his back in the grass. He paws at Simon’s chest and whines, baring his neck pathetically. It turns Simon’s stomach, and before anything really happens, he retches into the bushes. The stranger sputters and stumbles into the dark.

He sits beside his mess until dew forms. 

The following day, he beats Price to his office. The old man doesn’t insult him by walking on eggshells, he listens. Asks if Simon is sure.

“That isn’t what we heard in his will.”

“No, but it’s what he would’ve wanted.”

Price stares long and hard, then acquiesces. “I suppose you’d know.” He raps his knuckles on the desk with a heavy sigh. “I’ll start the paperwork.”

In hindsight, it is a mistake to believe your teacher when he says the forms are anonymous. How feeling nervous or scared is okay and that the answers will guide discussion in the coming weeks. You faithfully believe him and answer honestly. When he turns up for a home visit, you’re shocked, and your parents are mortified.

The three of them quickly align. They emphasize how normal this is, that they all took the test when they turned sixteen, and that you still have a few years to learn more about it and to come to terms. Pamphlets are shoved into your hands before you’re excused to your room so the adults can speak privately.

Whatever he tells your parents lands you in a stale, uncomfortable counselor’s office. This time, you know better when she tells you the sessions are confidential. It takes three months of careful lying to mollify your parents adequately.

At a family gathering, your aunt proudly announces that an older cousin finally completed presentation, a whole three years after her test. A year later, that same cousin shyly admits she dropped out of university, a hand on her round belly and a baby on her hip. It’s only then you start truly seeing your omega relatives. How they stick to the sidelines, huddle in the kitchen, and fuss over everyone else’s comfort. Docile and pliant.

For years, you pray to God to turn out differently. To be nothing. And if not nothing, please, make you a beta like your father or an alpha like your mother or brother. Amen.

You cry for hours after your results. Your parents do their best to convince you it’s a blessing, but you see the results for what they are—a countdown. 

School automatically splits your class into new health electives, fracturing years of relationships in one fell swoop. New social hierarchies form over the course of an afternoon, and you find yourself on the outside of old circles. It gnaws and bites like flies to see former friends turn their noses up at you. Cracks and shifts your insides, uncovering anger as old and boiling as a deep-sea vent. You let your grades slip to the bare minimum because what’s the point? Won’t some alpha take care of you anyway? Barf.

Your parents weather the fallout. They invite that cousin for tea with all four whelps in tow. It’s hard to hear her proclaim the wonders of life as an omega through shrill cries and fussing. That night, your mother’s patience snaps after you declare your life over. The fight goes nuclear, ending with your banishment to your room when she asks if your cousin’s life is over, and you say ‘yes’. While you may be sorry, you don’t regret it.

The next morning, you find Johnny at breakfast. Just like the test, you see his sudden, surprise visit for what it is—an olive branch. You wonder when your parents called and begged him to request a short leave. Parents know their children’s weaknesses. You’re thick as thieves. Before your results, the last time you cried was when he left for basic.

Johnny drags you around town to tackle a list of your favorites, dismantling the defensive wall you're hellbent on building. Anger festers under your skin, begging him to say the wrong thing.

Yet, if anything, your hissing and snapping amuse him. He ruffles your hair and dodges your fists, and you find chances to throw an elbow into his ribs. However, you're both far from the even playing fields of childhood, and punching him is punching stone.

"What's eatin' you? Somethin' happen?" He jeers, goading you on the walk home.

"You know what happened."

"Yeah," he admits with the sharp edge of a laugh. "You turned into a thin-skinned cretin just 'cause of a test."

You see red, and Johnny humors you. Takes a few desperate kicks and slaps before grabbing you by the forehead and stiff-arming. Stocky, but a reach longer than yours. You’re hissing and spitting when tears spring to your eyes, and a frustrated sound heralds a break in your voice.

It all comes out. How it’s like your future is a foregone conclusion. That you don’t want to undergo presentation, bonding, or, most of all, have an alpha dictate the rest of your life.

For perhaps the first time, your loudmouth brother shuts his trap. Doesn’t say a word. No snarky comments or unserious answers. He just lets you wail. In retrospect, it’s clear that he swapped a cudgel for a knife. Dissected your rage with a mind trained to defuse explosives.

That Sunday after mass, he hugs you and makes a promise before he leaves. Years later, half-listening to an officer who asks if there’s anyone they can call for you, you wish you remembered what it was.

In the hours following the officer’s departure, you go through the motions—numb and shell-shocked. The tide’s out, and you stand on shore, waiting for the crushing grief.

Aunt Marion sits on the sofa, going through the address book to inform people, one by one, of Johnny’s passing.

You’re in the kitchen fixing her supper and creating a mental to-do list when you overhear her tell someone, “I’m filing for change in guardianship in the morning. John never did have the time to find that girl a proper mate. You still have that matchmaker’s number, right?”

There’s no time to process the first loss with a second snapping at its heels.

Your brother’s headstone is not standing for more than an afternoon when a suitor shows interest. He circles like a vulture, the disgusting creature. You wish you could say you weren’t expecting it.

The portrait of your best friend bears witness from atop the mantle. In uniform with a buzzed head and a serious expression, it’s him, yet nothing like him. The Johnny you know—knew—would be grinning ear-to-ear, greeting folks, lightening the mood, and scolding your relatives for not footing the bill for a proper venue. He’d be angry they’d put it on your shoulders or invite this many people.

You hadn’t wanted any of this, either. You knew him best, but nobody listens to you. As Johnny followed your parents into death, you’re left alone, subject to the whims and mercies of an aunt who sees only your designation. 

The court swiftly transfers power to your aunt. Omegas cannot roam about without anyone to account for them, after all. Johnny was declared your ‘guardian’ following the crash that took your parents. Didn’t matter if you were an adult, a whole twenty years old. The title always amused you with its inherent pompousness.

Guardian. You don’t find the archaic term funny anymore, not when a neighbor cuts through the room, intentions clear. Your nostrils flare at his vinegariness, the feeler he sends to test the waters. It sets your teeth on edge, encouraging the oncoming migraine. Why the foulest-smelling alphas think they can go without scent blockers, you don’t know.

God grant you the audacity.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Johnny was a good man.”

“John,” You swiftly correct. ‘Johnny’ is reserved for family. “John was a good man. Who are you?”

The man smiles, and his pupils unnervingly dilate. “Alan. I live three down.” His gaze briefly flits to your neck.

You bristle. This is why you opted for a turtleneck that morning. The awful gut feeling some boorish idiot would seek you out now that you changed hands. To act so bold at a funeral reception. “Well, Alan, from three down, you can–”

“You can find refreshments through there.” Aunt Marion interjects, the older woman floating into view, reeking of powdery florals. She does not need to posture. A slight tilt of her head and intrusion into your personal bubble banishes the man into the next room, with her eyes fixed on him until he disappears.

"Good riddance," she mutters. “Alan Findlay. The gall. Like I’d let that cur have you or this house.” She sniffs, grimacing. “Go take another blocker. Now. You’re distracting the guests.” 

You knew your aunt’s intervention was not for your well-being, but you still wilt. This is how things are and always have been. Johnny simply shielded you from it. Unbonded omegas are bargaining chips. Hares set loose in front of sighthounds. How foolish, thinking you could outrun centuries of tradition and deny nature. Aunt Marion is entitled to the house, your future, and the money that comes with both.

You trudge upstairs, and on the landing, you swallow a hard lump in your throat. Steady now. You start toward the bathroom but freeze at the sight of Johnny's door. There's a sliver of light beneath it.

No one should be in there. No one has been in there since he last deployed. Your heart lurches against your ribcage, anger curling your fingers into fists as you reroute automatically, marching to catch the trespasser. Another greedy relative with sticky fingers, no doubt. You turn the knob and push, and the curse on the tip of your tongue promptly fizzles.

A colossus stands in front of Johnny’s wardrobe, clutching one of his shirts. You do not so much as enter your brother’s room as you run face-first into the wall of the man’s scent. It bludgeons the olfactory with leather polish and tobacco, cedar and amber. Familiar, somehow, and powerful.

“You’re the sister.” His free hand hovers beside a cloth mask tucked beneath his chin. He’s clad in black like a mourner, though you don’t recall him. The deep voice prickles, snagging on something sharp in your chest. Pink and pale scars etch over his chin and mouth. You briefly study them before your eyes dart to the shirt and then his face.

“Yeah,” The hairs on your neck rise at how his scent and facial muscles relax in tandem. 

“Were you smelling John’s shirt?”

“Yes.” He says without hesitation or a shred of shame.

And it’s the lack of shame, the nerve to enter a dead man’s room, that does you in. The last straw. You flatten against the open door and gesture into the hallway. “Right, okay. Get the fuck out. Now.”

To his credit, he complies. The shirt remains clenched in a fist. 

“Leave it,” You snap, but he closes in. Citrus wrinkles your nose, beckoning you to relax. What have you accomplished by antagonizing a man this size? An alpha? This is not your brother, not someone likely to entertain your irritation. Your neck cranes, head hitting the door with a quiet thunk, and you stare into eyes the color of pitch, ringed by dark circles. Instincts like cicadas, buried to avoid that which would exploit them, dig their way out of the ground. “Stop–”

“Your aunt. She’s in charge of the house and you, yeah?”

Your mouth dries. You don’t answer.

His nostrils flare, and a chill runs down your spine. Apparently, he finds whatever trace of your pheromones agreeable enough to hum. Then he hooks a finger in the mask and drags it into place over his nose and mouth. 

“You don’t smell like him at all. Blockers or no.” He tosses the shirt onto Johnny’s desk as he lumbers past.

You’re left adrift, clutching the door for dear life. The earthy smell lingers. How long had the stranger been in here that he’d gone and stunk up the room? Your hands shake hanging up the shirt, and you avoid looking at anything else as you slink out, proverbial tail tucked.

In the bathroom, you knock back a second blocker and a pain reliever, drinking sink water cupped in your hands. You glance at the prescriptions on the shelf. Blockers and suppressants. They look different, equally distressing, and comforting now that you’re alone. You close the medicine cabinet, and something slips into the sink. A frown forms instantly at the sight of the stupid, ugly Kevlar bite guard. Johnny brought it home one leave, swearing up and down it was safer than commercial. An extra layer of protection to be worn during the weeks bookending your seasonal heats. Humiliation accessorized. Downstairs you go.

Aunt Marion waits in the living room, flitting about, excitedly chittering to her husband. The moment she sees you, she brightens further, aglow with a sense of accomplishment. Dread calcifies your stomach.

“What have you done?” 

Undeterred, your aunt smiles and pats your hand. “Only what John would’ve wanted.”

Cedar and myrrh, stone and soil—a burst potent enough to cow the eldest member of your family, forcing her to retreat a step. You feel a presence at your back and slowly turn to face a wall of muscle wrapped in black. This close, your nose finds the word it was looking for. Sepulchral.

“This is Mr. Simon Riley. He served with John,” Aunt Marion nervously chirps. “He’s made a generous offer for both the house and your bonding price, pending the validation of his bloodline and such.”

It’s a knife to the gut.

As far as you know, the various blood work and lineage reports come back satisfactory. However, their contents are a mystery, as you’re not allowed to request copies without his permission, and you’re not about to ask. You don’t even know how to reach him. He said a dozen words to you at the house, then vanished after speaking to your aunt.

The following week, you nearly wear a track on the floor with your pacing. No announcement regarding an impending bonding appears in the paper. It isn’t required, but it isn’t out of fashion. You suppose more modern rituals are exclusive to immediate family nowadays, without the need for public acknowledgment. You shudder at the thought. If you’re to be humiliated, you’d rather have as few witnesses as possible.

Another week passes. You receive letters and packages in his name, ‘S. Riley’. Hard proof that despite his absence, this is his home, not yours. Then, a deposit appears in the house account Johnny opened. You don’t touch it. You won’t legitimize a thing if you can help it.

You return to work. Everyone expresses their sympathies, and you call the omega representative in human resources to apprise them of your status. Their smile is tight on the screen when you dodge their questions and ask to simply update the paperwork from ‘J. MacTavish’ to ‘S. Riley’. Every day, you listen for his return and wonder if you’ll find him sitting in Johnny’s chair. It sets your teeth on edge.

A month turns over in limbo. You briefly wonder if you’re the sibling who died, now cursed to languish where you only glimpse your brother in the periphery, with a monster stalking the fenceline.

Christmas is a date that happens. You refuse an obligatory invitation to your aunt’s home and donate the gifts you already purchased. New Year passes the same way; miserable and isolated like any other. And then, thirty-three days after he buys your life from underneath you, Simon reappears on the second day of the year.

“Gonna let me in?” Simon grunts, toting two bags and car keys.

“Not gonna command it?” You sneer, confused over the delay, certain of his tricks. He’s going to try and bond you, sooner or later.

Simon stares. There’s no malice, only exhaustion. Sweat and musk batter your nose, acrid and disgusting, masking his usual spoor. It’s strange. Perhaps you’re noseblind to him already. You step aside.

Simon removes his shoes and jacket, rolling his shoulders with audible albeit muffled pops. He grunts at the packages, turning one over in a single broad hand before evidently deciding to deal with them later. He starts upstairs.

“First on the right”

He pauses halfway.

“My old room. It’s for guests now, but you can have it. Just. Don’t go into John’s room.”

He grunts again, but he listens.

Simon cloisters for two days. His scent returns to normal, slowly rolling over the house like a thick fog. It doesn’t seem to be an early rut, as he’s made no noise or sudden moves. Nothing to suggest a return to a bestial nature. You force yourself to continue your routine.

One morning, you find dishes in the drying rack and the paper on the table. Outside the back door, a half-smoked cigarette. It’s him, obviously, apparently skulking about in the small hours. As if the house needs another ghost. 

His presence, no matter how spectral, frays your poor nerves. You forget a quarter of the shopping list one day, cursing through the door with arms full of bags. 

“You didn’t use the money.”

You whip around to find Simon with a book tucked under an arm. He moves practically undetected between his light feet and pervasive scent.

The deposit. Right. Simon is joint owner of your accounts now.

You return to the groceries, jaw working at the irritating flatness of his tone. “I don’t need it. I earn my own wages, and I intend to continue working.”

“Didn’t tell you to quit. I said you didn’t use the money.”

“I don’t want it.”

The floor creaks under his foot, but he stops the second you tense. “It’s for you. For bills and expenses.”

“I don’t. Want it.”

“Johnny said you’d be difficult.”

“And he never fuckin’ mentioned you.” Regret immediately rises in your throat, demanding that you apologize, but you choke it down. You do not know this man. Law or not, he is a trespasser.

You do not hear him leave, but he gives you a wide berth. The next day, he’s gone again, but he leaves a note with his number.

Back to work. Use the money. - S

A couple of weeks later, after running out to collect your holds at the library, you return to Simon’s car in the parking space, a pair of mud-caked boots inside the door and a hastily half-unpacked bag on the table. The previously weak musk of Simon’s is refreshed and intense, drifting through the house. Begrudgingly, you put your stack aside and tidy a little. You pluck a knit hat beside the bag and squeak at the smell of rust and iron. The garment plops into the bag, unfolding into a skull-print balaclava, the bulk of which carries a red stain. Dry, thank the Lord.

You heave his bag to the floor with a huff and find another note.

Went out. Back late. - S

‘Late’ is generous. Hours pass. You fix dinner, stow the leftovers, finish your laundry (in case he needs the machines), reorder suppressants, and cozy up to crack the spine of the latest installment of a horror series. The patter of rain against the windows and the mountain of blankets ensconces you into a state of languor.

The key turning the lock startles you from sleep. Bleary-eyed, the back of your hand wipes drool from your lip, and the other leverages you off the sofa. Your vision gradually clears to reveal Simon’s hulking shape, filling the front door. Dripping and soaking wet, a puddle of rainwater pools at his feet. Without a word or acknowledgment of your presence, he peels off the paper mask adhered to his nose and chin and drops it alongside his flooded shoes. His socks and anorak go next, and before he discards any more articles of clothing, you make yourself useful.

You march past, movements automatic, into the kitchen to put the kettle on. 

A minute later, he shuffles in, dressed in sweats and a dry shirt. You deduce he swapped clothes with whatever’s in his bag. An aborted ‘welcome home’ sits on your tongue, but your nose catches something metallic. Blood.

Simon leans over the sink and promptly shoves a hand under the running water. From what you can see, his knuckles look bad, but he doesn’t appear injured elsewhere. You grab a bag of frozen peas.

“Pat it dry and give it here,” you grumble, dropping a towel by his arm and wrapping the peas in another.

His hand is a mess—knuckles raw and bloody, skin torn in places where he clearly punched something or someone. It’s ice-cold but not actively bleeding. You hold the makeshift cold compress in place and apply pressure. Another stilted silence passes, and you catch a whiff of citrus.

“Were you drinking? Are you drunk?” It sounds more accusatory than you intend.

“Yeah.”

“So this isn’t from work?”

“No.”

“Is it from–” 

“Scrap.” 

“Oh.” You squint. “So you got in from a work trip. Went for a pint. Made a new friend.“

Simon’s eyes snap to you. “She’s cracked the case,” his hand creeps toward yours, giving you time to let go before he steals the compress and pulls away. “Needed to blow off steam.”

“That’s idiotic,” You snap, traipsing behind him to the living room.

In response, he chuffs once like a warning shot. You keep your distance as he sinks into Johnny’s chair, groaning, and throws a heel onto the ottoman to drag it closer. Head rolling against the high back, his eyes flutter close as he relaxes into the cushion. He grinds his molars as he appears to forcibly unclench his muscles. You fetch the first aid kit. 

The slight curl of his lip makes you almost regret being nice. You set the tea and the kit on the side table, perking at the sound of him mumbling something suspiciously close to ‘thanks’.

Part of you considers retreating to give him space and go to bed. Johnny always spent the first several hours of leave decompressing alone. Yet you return to the blankets and book. This is still your house, even if your name will never appear on the deed.

Simon breaks the not-quite-companionable silence by dropping the wrapped peas on the table and exchanging them for the kit. Over your book, you grimace at how he uses his teeth to tear open an antiseptic wipe, then silently gag at the sharp bite of isopropyl in the air.

“You didn’t use the money. Again.” Simon finally says, smearing antibiotics into his split skin. 

“I told you–”

“It’s not my charity, if that’s what’s keepin’ you. It’s the survivor’s grant.”

The tension in your jaw could crack a tooth. Labdanum and firewood billow from the armchair. Scowling, you slap the book shut. “Stop.”

His face is expressionless, voice goading. “What? Not doin’ it for you? That not a nest for me?”

You straighten, shoulders rising to your ears and lip pulling into a sneer. He’s saying it to get under your skin, and it fucking works. 

“No, it’s not a fucking nest and no, I don’t find your stench comforting, thanks.”

Simon tosses the ointment and leans forward to drape his thick forearms over his thighs. The purpling bruises on his knuckles glisten in the lamplight. His studying agitates, his pupils like needles on your face. Then he asks the question that makes you hit the ceiling.

“You broken?”

At nineteen, you go to bed on Beltane and wake to a bombardment: sharp, needling botanicals of lemongrass and mint tempered by frankincense and lavender. Eye-watering and suffocating. You slip out to the nearest clinic, and the sickly-sweet smelling nurse beckons you to sit so she may deliver a killing blow.

“Hyperosmia is uncommon during early presentation, but it should mellow.”

Her words run together, drowned out by an internal doomsday clock striking midnight. Milennia’s worth of inherited horror and fear knitted into marrow catch up all at once. She holds your hair while you vomit and updates your chart as you wash up. She tells you to return if it doesn’t resolve in a month or two.

It doesn’t. It never does.

Hours of appointments, dozens of scans and tests, and enough paperwork to rival the holy book. You know the ENT by name, but she never provides a conclusive answer beyond ‘genetic lottery’. Certainly doesn’t feel like a win.

It’s a cruel twist to be repulsed twice over.

“What’s wrong? Are you broken or somethin’?” A greasy-haired man sneers, chest puffed out with a hand planted above your head. Of course, a nitwit corners you the one time you leave the house. All the scent blockers in the world cannot deter the repugnant or unscrupulous. His proximity pushes a pungent, sulfuric acid reminiscent of a leaking battery on you, flaring in offense when you visibly recoil. He repeats himself, teeth bared and foul.

The bastard assumes you’ll fawn. Assumes you’re alone.

It’s difficult to keep a straight face as Johnny scruffs the stranger, bringing him to heel. Your brother compels the miscreant to apologize and then sets him loose, satisfied he’s neutered the man. He scolds you all the way home and curses himself for letting his sister out of sight.

On his next leave, he brings a bite guard. You cringe at the ugly device, but Johnny insists. Spouts some nonsense about not always being around to save your hide, reminding you that you can’t arm yourself. His near-mythic anger leaks into every word. He forgets you’re a mirror.

“I’m not wearing this. This is fucking medieval.”

“Just when, y’know, ‘round those times. ‘Til you find someone–”

“I won’t find someone. I don’t want to find someone. I don’t want anyone.” The admission slips out so quietly you don’t think he hears it.

“–I can try to smuggle some of the blockers they give us, but ‘til then, when it’s, y’know–” “Christ, Johnny, save it, I’m not gonna listen to my brother–”

“Then fuckin’ listen to your guardian, because I’m only gonna say this once.”

It stops you like a slap to the face. He’s never lorded his appointment over you. Never.

“So you don’t want a mate. That’s fine. I’ll support you, like I always fuckin’ have. I’ll sing it out in the streets if you’d like. Hang a sign on the gate. But has it ever occurred to you that I might want someone? That maybe this isn’t just about your life? That being saddled with you isn’t easy?”

The two of you putter on the corner in silence. He rakes his nails over the stubble on his cheek. He murmurs a c’mon and herds you home, cutting his leave short by absconding the next morning.

“You broken?”

Two words to dredge up the ugliest parts of your life, your twin irregularities. You suppose you could distill it simply as you’ve had to counselors and doctors throughout the years. Yes, actually. My nose makes it difficult to leave the house without a migraine, and nobody’s ever stirred my loins. Aren’t you lucky? A terrible two-for-one special you handsomely overpaid for.

“Coulda just said that.”

Embarrassment shrivels your tongue. Of course, you spoke aloud. The impulse to apologize and flee attempts to puppet you, limbs twitching involuntarily at the idea of running for hills and leaving civilization altogether.

Simon rises before you formulate a response and takes the makeshift compress to the kitchen. On his way back, he fishes something out of his bag. The floor creaks when he stops to loom over you, offering a closed fist.

Your palm opens, and he rewards your compliance with a flash of steel. A single dog tag threaded with a thin ball chain. Your brother’s name reflects the light, and you grind the heel of your hand into an eye socket.

“They told me there was nothing left.”

“There isn’t. Found that lyin’ around.”

Your throat constricts, and a weak ‘thank you’ sputters out. The shadow of a massive hand lifts your head, and you press into the cushions, away from Simon’s reach. 

“I just told you I’m not into that.” You hiss, brow furrowing.

He pauses. The smirk on his face doesn’t match the ​​doleful look in his eyes. “You’re not my type.”

“Been thinkin’, Lt, what if after this, we take leave together?”

Simon rolls off the mattress and grabs his shirt off the floor. Should’ve known it’d come up again. Soap’s a glutton for punishment. The drama. The angry, desperate make-up sex. No other reason he’d keep stirring the pot. The man’s piss-poor pillow-talk and refusal to keep things simple detract some, but not enough to make Simon move on. Knows the other alpha too well for that, got him living in his head and bedroom most nights.

“Could go to mine, meet my sister. Told you she’s a bit like you, remember? Surly, introverted, a menace.” Soap sprawls into the forfeited space. “She’s an omega, but—”

Simon pokes through the shirt, face blank and mouth shut. The way ‘omega’ comes out of Soap’s mouth, a letter at a time—the reluctance, the glint in his blue eyes—he’s sharing something special. He’s talked about this sister before, but this is different. Despite all the times he’s had Soap on his back, it’s rare for the mutt to willingly show his underbelly. It’s too intimate, incongruent with his nature. Simon course corrects.

“Yeah? Tryin’ to set me up with your sister? Dirty dog.”

The effect is instant. Soap pushes upright to sit at the edge of his bed, posture shifting to broaden his shoulders, chin tucking a fraction. His lips pull back as he barks something like ‘not a fuckin’ joke’ and that Simon is a ‘disgusting bastard’. Touchy subject, this sister.

He goes to leave, swiping his balaclava from the desk.

Soap staggers after him with one leg in a pair of shorts and grabs him. He’s got tenacity, but Simon’s all mass. In seconds, he removes his sergeant.

Simon listens to Soap’s ragged breathing, studying the flicker of genuine anger in his eyes. Storm clouds over the ocean, barely restrained. He shouldn’t rile Soap like this, not with everything else going on.

He doesn’t apologize.

“Gonna tell me she’s special?”  

“No, she’s not—she’s normal. Different, but normal. Sensitive, is all.”

Simon releases him, unimpressed. “If she’s half as sensitive as you, she must be a crybaby.“

“Not like that.” Soap taps his nose. “Chronic pheromonal olfactory acuity. Rare genetic thing. Could pick you out of a crowd.”

“Shame. Laswell could’ve recruited her.” Conditions like that have their uses, but with her designation, it must be hell on earth. He says as much.

“Aye. It is. I’m careful about who I introduce.”

There it is, Soap skirting the issue again. Thinking if he meets the rest of the MacTavishes, it’ll legitimize their screwing. Convince him to throw their careers into the shredder. The brass looks the other way when alphas relieve stress; it prevents incidents, but they care if it becomes something else.

“Think about it?”

He does.

Soap’s chewing on something. Rather, something’s chewing Soap. Could be anything. Mexico. Graves. Hassan. Well and out of danger, his good knee bounces incessantly, the tap of his boot louder than the radio.

“Soap.”

“Lt?”

“Out with it.”

Soap opens. It doesn’t take much these days. The stress of the last couple weeks is still burning off, especially with Shepherd in the wind. Their world’s constricted, pressurized, a few bad days from implosion. People like his sergeant need talking space to alleviate it, among other things. 

“I put in for leave,” He starts. “Goin’ home in a week.”

Simon glances at the men playing cards on the other side of the room, then jerks his head to the door. Soap falls into step, tea abandoned, and waits until they’re outside Simon’s quarters to continue. 

“Said you’d think about it.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Inside.”

He’s got him trained. In Soap goes, shirt halfway off before the door’s locked. 

“Ghost–”

“Not Ghost right now,” Simon tosses the balaclava across the room and reaches for Johnny. He cuffs him by the nape of his neck and reels him in. Soap shudders into the kiss, holding Simon’s hand in place with his own, almost giving in, but—

“Simon,” He pulls away. “Don’t do that.”

“Not doin’ it for you?”

“No, you’re shutting me out. Goin’ away.”

“‘I’m right here.”

Soap frowns tiredly. “Why don’t you want to come? Meet my sister?”

“Couldn't possibly intrude.”

He slowly shakes his head. “I’m askin’. I want you to meet her. She’s all I got left. Besides you.”

Simon’s nose twitches. Could make this easier on himself and enforce the pecking order like old times. But he doesn’t. What he does is worse. Meaner.

“And what am I?” Simon closes in, crowding him to the wall. He roughly reclaims Soap’s throat, chest rumbling at how perfectly it slots into his grip. He knew Johnny was his the first time he took him apart. Saw how the other alpha leaned into it. Offered his neck. Renounced nature itself in the heat of the most natural act.

“You know what you are.”

Simon tuts. “I know what you want me to be, and I told you my answer before, didn't I?” He adjusts to cup Soap’s face and drags his nose over the other cheek. “Say it. Tell me what I told you.”

“We aren’t–”

“Go on.”

Soap slackens in his hold. “We aren’t mates. Can’t be.” 

“Can’t be,” Simon repeats, grazing his teeth over the thrum of his sergeant’s carotid. A pulse like gunfire. “That’s right.” 

“I want to be.” It’s not a whine; it’s hardly a complaint. It’s a statement of fact delivered with resignation.

So do I, he admits privately, before pressing his lips to Soap’s neck, then sinking to his knees.

Soap tries again after the dam, persistent as a dog after a bone. Simon lets him crawl into bed, thinking they’ll celebrate Graves and Shepherd eating each other alive, getting one in while they can. Instead, he receives a tired earful.

“It’s fucked, sir.”

He toys with the brown hair flopped over his shoulder and breathes deeply and slowly. Relishing the subtle undertones of the man on his chest, he grunts. “Gonna need to be more specific.”

“Could’ve wasted the bastard years ago. Now we’re stuck chasing him.”

“It’s the job.”

Soap’s stubbly cheek presses to Simon’s pec, eyes closed. “Haven’t been home in months.”

“This about the runt MacTavish?”

“Don’t call ‘er that.” He slaps Simon’s stomach. “She’d bite your head off.”

He snorts. “Sounds like a ray of sunshine.” His gaze slips to the door. They’ll need to dress soon. Laswell works fast. “Miss her?”

“Missed her birthday. Way things are going, I’ll miss Christmas, too.”

Simon shifts beneath Soap’s weight. Here it is, the shit pillow-talk. Another blatant attempt to manipulate the impossible. He huffs dismissively. “Put in for leave anyway. Makarov’ll be down for a dirt nap within the week.”

“You’re confident, Lt.”

“Gloves off, Johnny. Old man won’t stop you this time.”

That seems to do the trick. For a few easy minutes, his sergeant remains silent. Simon admires the droop of Soap’s dark eyelashes on his skin and even breathing. Closest thing to heaven he’ll ever see, he thinks. 

Soap’s arm tightens its hold as he slightly flares his scent, a plume of woodfire as inviting as his words. “Come to mine for the holidays. I don’t want you to be alone.” His eyes open as he drags his chin to rest it on Simon’s pec. Soap can’t pin him on the sparring mat, but he can with a look. “Doesn’t have to mean anything.”

To you. Doesn’t have to mean anything to you.

“Think about it?” 

A faint waft of tobacco and musk leaks into the room, and Simon nudges Soap off as Price pounds on the door.

“Kate’s got something. Briefing room, three minutes.”

By the time Soap pries himself off the bed, Simon’s half-dressed. He avoids the mirror. Knows what he’ll see. Disappointment.

“You’re not my type.”

It’s maddening, the Escher staircases his admission builds in your head, each step a question that may go nowhere. He’s been anything but forthcoming. Didn’t introduce himself at Johnny’s funeral, didn’t explain a thing.

Before you can interrogate him, he disappears. It’s past midnight when you lumber to your bedroom, and out of habit, you glance at Simon’s door. It’s shut, not a flicker of light beyond, but Johnny’s is open a crack. You hesitate. It’s different this time. Simon is no longer a trespasser. He’s not doing anything illegal. Just wrong.

You tiptoe and peer inside. It’s difficult to see in the dark, but you smell him. Leather and tobacco. Cedar and amber. Myrrh, tilled soil, and poppies. How on the nose for a soldier to smell like death itself. But poking through the thick, funereal brume is juniper and pine. The hours preceding heavy snowfall. It’s an odd combination, grounding and sharp, petrous and serene. A graveyard in the dead of winter.

His breathing is too controlled for him to be asleep. It’s a standoff, and you’re not keen to see it through, so you turn around and go to bed. Between four and five in the morning, realization strikes. You knew Simon long before you met him.

“Has it ever occurred to you that I might want someone?”

The wool is hooked from your eyes. For years, your brother marched home reeking of blood, iron, and something else. Someone else. From what little he shared, you knew his task force was small and covert, close quarters a given. You assumed the military dispensed provisions for their alpha-dominant population. It didn’t occur to you that their solution was in-house.

You grimace in revulsion, but the feeling drops away into guilt.

“Maybe this isn’t just about your life? That being saddled with you isn’t easy?”

A near decade under your brother’s custodianship, and you thought you made it easy by becoming a near-recluse. You weren’t so naive to think it’d last forever. You were adults, for Christ’s sake. Eventually, Johnny would’ve co-signed a lease, and you’d start the quasi-independent life you dreamed of. He’d have the space to start his own family. All planned out. You didn’t want to be a lifelong burden, but with his early death, that’s all you ended up being.

Now you’re somebody else's problem, assumed out of pity.

Your gaze wanders to Simon in the living room. There is no delicate way to ask. He probably wouldn’t appreciate beating about the bush.

“So you and Johnny, you were, uh, an item?”

Simon’s focus breaks from the book in his lap, peering over a pair of wireframe glasses. His cheek bulges, seemingly chewing his response before spitting it out. “Yes and no.”

Insufferable man. Patience isn’t something you’ve historically possessed in spades, and with him, less so. “I’m assuming ‘no’, considering your neck.”

He snorts and slaps the book shut. “Like I’d let that mutt bite me.”

“Jesus wept,” you drop the baking tin onto the counter, head shaking. “You’re incapable of holding a serious conversation.”

You fiddle with the baking paper, face heating in frustration. All you want is honesty. To get to the bottom of your situation, to his situation with Johnny. You stew in exasperation and pour the lemon filling. You don’t notice Simon until he’s at the edge of the kitchen.

“Johnny said you were all he had left.”

The bowl nearly slips from your hands.

“And Johnny was all I had left.”

“So you—”

“So I did what needed doing. You need looking after,” he says, working his scarred lip and continuing, his voice a hair thicker. “And Johnny’s gone. It’s that simple. Nothing more.”

You need looking after. You noisily set the emptied bowl on the counter and disregard the instinct to make nice. Comfort him. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Simon coughs. “Law says you do. I reckon I’m the best suited for the job.”

The confidence startles an incredulous laugh out of you. “I must’ve missed that in his will, the one where it states my aunt ought to be the one ‘looking after me’.”

His eyes narrow. “Want me to return you? You’d prefer her to match you with the nearest alpha with half a brain? Bonded, wed, and bred by Spring?” 

You angrily sweep the dirty dishes into the sink, a blistering anger coursing through your veins. “You’re disgusting.”

The mirth bleeds from his eyes. “No, I’m realistic. Something funny in the MacTavish line. Fucking dreamers, the two of you. Wanting things you can’t have.”

The remark causes your invisible, primordial hackles to rise. “What is that supposed to mean–”

Simon cuts you off with a single step into the kitchen. “Fuckin’ hell, do I need to spell it out?” He closes in, pointing a finger. “You aren’t interested in nobody, and I’m not interested in nobody but Johnny.” 

He towers, chest expanding, using every bit of his mass to intimidate and keep you listening. To pacify you. “You can’t do a whit without a guardian’s or alpha’s say so, and I happen to be in the business of not giving a shit.”

You lock into a brief staring contest, and the beep of the oven breaks it. He wordlessly moves so you can slide the lemon bars into the heat. You inhale deeply, drinking in the tart citrus as a palate cleanser, and shut the door.

“So, what, I’m your cover story?” You ask carefully.

“Whatever gets it through that thick skull of yours.” 

It’s not enough to stop the alarm bells ringing in your ears, but it quiets them. “And you’re not going to—You don’t want—”

“Already had a mate, not interested in another.”

There it is. “So you and Johnny were mates.”

Simon swallows, his thick neck contracting. He rubs his neck, hand skimming the slight protuberance on his neck. “Need a smoke. C’mon.” He turns, apparently certain you’ll follow.

You do.

A tiny ember lights his crooked features, and bluish-gray smoke curls into the air. He settles against a bare patch of stone some paces away downwind. It tests your self-control to not spout a line of questions. His silence obliges you to settle beside the frame, arms crossed in thinly-veiled agitation. 

The paper’s half-charred, a neat cluster of ash in the tray when he finally speaks. He clears his throat, dipping his chin to gaze into the garden. Each word pushed out grudgingly as if evicted from some deep part of himself. “Johnny and me…We didn’t bite or bond. Surefire way to get discharged.”

You do him a mercy and stare into the cloud-heavy sky. “So when you said me and him wanted things we can’t have, that mean he wanted it? To be official?”

“She’s cracked the case.”

It’s stupid, his selective sentimentality. Still. It crowbars a smile out of you. Reminds you of Johnny. “He was always strong-willed.”

“That’s a generous way to put it.”

“How long were you together?”

“Off and on, four years.”

Thick as thieves, your foot. It eats you, your brother’s lack of faith. Your emotions must plume because Simon’s head swivels in your periphery. You need to increase your dosage, regardless of his claims.

“Can’t blame him for not tellin’ you. Probably thought it was for the best. You, however,” Simon stubs the cigarette with a dry cough. “Couldn’t shut up about you. Called you the ‘runt MacTavish’.”

“No he fuckin’ didn’t.” You wheel instantly, and his shoulders shake in a laugh. It looks almost wrong coming from him, yet you snicker. Your nose lifts in the air mid-giggle, and the breeze carries a clean scent. You relish it while you can.

It doesn’t escape Simon’s notice. 

“He told me about your condition.”

You frown. “You knew and made me say it anyway? Prick. What else did he tell you? I’d like to set the record straight.”

“Once told me when you were twelve, you stuffed the neighbor’s postbox with garlic because you thought he was a vampire.”

Through time and space, your mother’s bony hand pinches your ear. She had dragged you, sputtering and whimpering, over to Mr. Stewart’s doorstep to apologize all those years ago. 

You defend yourself, a smile tugging at your lips. “Because Johnny said he’d shave my head in the middle of the night if I didn’t!”

Simon chuckles. “I’m sure she had it coming. Don’t need to justify it to me.”

But you do. You explain how, to your childish mind, someone who only ventured out of their house at night and a severe widow’s peak was a bloodsucker. Johnny took the idea and ran with it, convinced you the garlic was a foolproof test. ‘Course he’d tricked you,

The cold evening air moves you indoors. The pair of you settle into your respective places, Simon in the armchair with a glass of bourbon and you nose-deep into a cup of chamomile. The night passes through swapped stories, mainly about Johnny but some about the rest of the MacTavishes and, reluctantly, yourself. With no alcohol in your cup, you can’t blame your unburdening on a drink.  

It’s not lost on you how Simon pointedly avoids the openings you leave for him to talk about his family. It leaves your brain to hatch all sorts of theories, yet for the first time since he arrived, you don’t feel inclined to grill him. 

On the landing, when you both wander to bed, you stop him. “You can move into Johnny’s, if you’d like. I imagine it’s, ah, comforting.”

He exhales. “You sure?”

“I was gonna sort out his things eventually, but that’s probably best left to his mate.” The words rush out in an embarrassed rush. Humiliatingly mushy. You don’t make it a footstep before a giant mitt ruffles your hair. The animal in you freezes, then jerkily flees. “Yeah, yeah, big oaf.” You mutter as you duck into your room, listening to him chuckle, then do the same.

“She gonna show or what?” Garrick asks, craning in his seat, subtly sniffing. “Came all the way here to pay our respects.”

“She’s just late.”

“Like Soap, then.” Price‘s posture is confident and easy. He’s handling this better than the sergeant.

“Better.”

“And you’re sure she’s alright with us paying a visit?”

“She trusts I’m careful about who I introduce.”

Price hums. “Trust’s good. Been nearly a year. It get easier?”

Easier’s a choice word. Things are smoother, Simon guesses. He and Runt got a good routine going, a decent dynamic. She’s no longer petrified whenever he’s within arms reach, doesn’t stare at him like she’s expecting the worst. She uses the money, cooks for two, and puts him to work on leave, keeping up the house. 

The night in the park, he thought about eating lead for breakfast. He trudged back to base with the intention to do it but clapped eyes on that stupid photograph. Heard Johnny’s voice again. I don’t want you to be alone.

Even in death, his sergeant’s a solid bridge. The foundation of a fucked up home. 

A familiar blend of heather and rain draws his attention to the entrance. In his chest, something settles.

“You good?”

Lieutenant Simon “Ghost” Riley was a big tough man, but in your care, with your touch he was the biggest baby. If he knew you would be the one attending to any injuries he might accumulate during missions, he would showcase each and every single wound or bruise he might have in his entire body, some imaginary ones to just to prolong his time with you. You knew as much and you enjoyed the fraction of time you get to spend time with him because of it.

“Just one thing left.” Simon finds himself answering, eyes peering along the now empty medical room. When the coast was clear, he had lifted his mask halfway off to showcase his lips. “You missed a spot, Love.” He smirked, full of himself at this point.

“You’re impossible, Riley.” You rolled your eyes making your way to the door and locking it just for safe measures before making your way towards him.

Arms rested on his shoulder before you pull him in for a kiss. Simon has had his fair share of kisses in his life, some memorable and some that he wished never to remember, but nothing could truly compare to your kiss, your lips were soft and tasted so much of the coffee that he was certain filled your veins. Overly sweet with a hint of cream—just like what you always want in your coffee. It was you and he would not have it any other way.

He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you onto his lap. Smirking into your lips as you left out a surprised yelp for him as he continued to consume you with his lips. He took everything from you in that moment, your voice, your breath, and your bloody sanity as you moaned further into his kiss.

The sound of the knock on the door and the voice of his Captain had you pulling away and fixing yourself up from his lap. You glared at Simon then even with shit eating grin on his lips as he finally pulled his mask back on as you opened the door to the sight of his Captain—and your older brother.

“What is it now, John?” You questioned your brother and to this day it still amazed him how easy you could return back to this little character of professionalism to anyone that might come your way—even after the make out session that just occurred between the two of you.

“Wanted to check if Ghost would be indispensable for the time being?” Price inquired turning his attention away from you and right back to Simon that was still seated on the chair, didn’t even bother with the pleasantries.

“All cleared, just double checking for any hidden wounds he might have under his sleeves.” You answered turning your attention towards Simon too. “Isn’t that right, Lieutenant?”

“Yes, Doc.” He nodded. A good thing he has his mask on with the smirk resting on his face.

“You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.” You spoke turning towards your own brother now. “Both of you.”

That was Simon’s cue to stand in his full height, he looked right down at you. A knowing was shared between the two of you before he followed his Captain out of the room.

“Bloody woman thinks she could boss the both of us around.” Price muttered under his breath as the both of them walked away from the medical area of the base.

“She does, you know.” Simon supplied.

“Whose fucking side are you on, Lieutenant?”

“Happy Doctor, happy soldier.” Simon shrugged knowing how true that statement truly was.

~                                                   

You tried your best to comb your hair after the mess that one Simon Riley had caused your current state and your entire life to be more specific. You were uncertain how and when this relationship with the Lieutenant had started but you had decided since then that it wasn’t something you’d want to deal with knowing anymore.

You were happy with this relationship with the man and that was more than enough and what was important.

“Will you be bringin’ that boyfriend of yours home for Mum’s birthday?”

You practically jumped at the voice of your brother. You turned, glaring at the man and slapping him on the arm for surprising you. This was what you hated about him, even with how different your lives has turned out him being a man that took lives if the circumstance was needed and you being the person that save lives whatever means necessary—he felt no separation between the two of you because of it. It only your sibling relationship with him grow stronger. You trusted him as much as he trusted you with his own life. It’s just too bad that you had your own secrets you weren’t so ready to admit to him just yet—or if ever.

“Who said I had a boyfriend?” You quipped subtly trying to fix the shirt you had on.

“I think the hickeys and the whispers around base is indicator enough you are seeing someone on base.” He spoke calmly, but you know him enough to understand that he was anything but calm.

He was being an overprotective older brother.

“John.”

“I want to know the name before you even think about letting the family know about him.”

You raised a brow at him, unfazed by the underlying threat in his words. You weren’t scare of his threats and you were more certainly sure that neither would Simon be. You were both consenting adults and were more than certain that whatever relationship you might have would never affect your work.

“No.” You answered.

“No?”

“What is it with men and not understanding the word no?”

“Give me a name.” He repeated.

“Really John?” You looked at him in disbelief. “Will this be the hill you die on, Jonathan?” You questioned him.

“You are my sister and you are the sister of the Captain of the Taskforce. What goes in this base is my problem.”

“I will cut you off for less, John. Do not make me do so.” You warned him, walking away from him without giving him even a single about the identity of the man.

But you knew your brother, you know him well enough to understand that he would not heed into your warning, instead finding himself getting his most trusted men involved. Little did he know that one of his most trusted man was the very person they were looking for.

“You really sure you’re not set on letting your brother know?” Simon had inquired the moment he had arrived in your apartment—shared apartment now that you both decided he could move in here on a more permanent basis.

“And give him the satisfaction of me agreeing with him? No.” You answered already handing him his tea. “And I love see him suffer from time to time.” You grinned knowing that Simon was getting bolder with the hickeys and making your brother more agitated.

“One of this days, a bullet would be placed on my head because of you.” He granted pulling off his mask and pulling you in for a kiss, a welcome home kiss. “Hi, Love.”

“Hi, Handsome.” You smiled, rubbing his chest before pulling away and plopping down onto the sofa with your boyfriend following besides you, his free arm wrapped around your waist. “Any new gossip I need to hear about?” You inquired.

“Your brother is zoning in on some poor private and I am washing my hands from whatever shit he has planned for the bastard.” Simon muttered taking a sip of his tea.

“You really have the actual balls to join him on this witch hunt?” You snorted knowing the man wasn’t innocent in all of this.

Your brother trusted every single one of the main members of his taskforce—Simon most especially, but to have him be the very man he was haunting down was just ironic for so many reason.

“Until you tell me otherwise.” He admits. “And I think it’s good to have me cleaning my tracks when I can along the way.” He pointed out.

You nodded, diabolic this man was when he wants to be.

“I wanted to ask…” You trailed off remembering the conversation you just had with your mother before he got home. “My Mum is inviting me and my secret boyfriend for her birthday and I wanted to know if you’d want to join or not?”

You looked at him more intently now. It was a subject you didn’t truly want to have with him especially when you had both decided to begin your relationship. But at the same time, it’s just been a long time coming. You loved your family, but you wanted to set a new boundary when it comes to your boyfriend and how he would be comfortable with interacting with your family going forward—especially when it comes to his past.

“If you’d have me, then I’d love to go.”

You smiled kissing him on the cheeks.

“Are you sure? I don’t want to force you into anything you are not comfortable with.”

“As long as you can promise me that your brother wouldn’t place a bullet in my head, then I don’t think we’d have much of a problem.”

“Can’t promise that, I’m sorry.” You giggled but knowing the worry was all the more lingering in you at the possibility. “You think if I bring Johnny and Gaz along, it wouldn’t be as awkward?”

“I’d actually like that.”

~

Simon Riley did not fear anything in his life—well, he had a few that were more irrational than anything. But something that he truly feared in this moment was the fact that he would be meeting his girlfriend’s family—who one-third of the member wasn’t so much of a stranger to him. His superior, more specifically.

“You alright?” In the car ride from your shared apartment to your childhood home, the question was almost like a broken record in your lips. Always ensuring his comfort and safety when you could.

“I’m fine.” Simon tried to reassure, hand tighten around your own. Both of you stood in front of your childhood home, a home he was certain held so much good memory of yours—something he never truly had in his own.

“Fucking hell you two, you beat us here!”

He pulled his hand away from your own as the sound of an all too familiar Scot’s arrival. Soap and Gaz had arrived as late as the two of you had. He wondered if to this day the two have yet to know about him and you being in a relationship even with the few unintentional slip ups.

“I drove that’s why.” You had quipped immediately wrapping an arm around Gaz’s waist with a smile. “What took you two so long?” You inquired.

The duo lifted a gift wrapped box on each of their hands. A playful smile resting on their faces.

“Can’t join a birthday party without a gift for the Mum.” Soap explained all too proudly.

Simon looked back at you, a playful eye roll escaping before you had pulled away from Gaz to finally open the door to your childhood home. The smell of food consuming him and making it all the more evident that he hasn’t even had breakfast because of his nerves for being here.

“Darling!” A older version of you stepped out of the kitchen. She was shorter but was a spitting image of you that scared him for a moment. “And you brought friends too!”

He watched you wrap your mother into a tight hug before ushering everyone into the living room to the sight of your father that was a spitting image of the Captain and the Captain himself surprised by the sight of not only him, but as well as Soap and Gaz.

“What are you Muppets doing here?” John questioned, it spoken to be amused by his tone, but the look on his eyes was showing something else instead. He was hiding his annoyance from the looks of it.

“I invited them, John.” You were quick to answer hand holding onto Simon’s own.

“I’m surprised you didn’t invite that plaything of your instead.”

That certainly hit a nerve out of you but you were quick to wear a smirk on your face.

“I brought three of them.” You quipped right back in the same breath that your parents began scolding your brother for his words.

“Why don’t you introduce your friends?” The Head of the Price household had interrupted what he was certain would be a cat and mouse fight between siblings.

You did just that, introducing Soap and Gaz fairly easily before your attention solely turned to him and what would now be the very reason why this small celebration for your mother’s birthday would turn to the worse.

“And this is Simon Riley—my boyfriend.”

“WHAT?” All three heads turned to you in question even in the delight and humor that laced in both of your parents’ face. This was the first time that you had introduced a boyfriend to them from how they talked.

“Let’s eat. It’s a good thing I made food for an army—pun intended for this.” Your mother insisted, dragging both you and Simon along as an excuse to help her with setting the table for everyone else.

“I’m so happy to meet you, Simon.” Your mother explicitly states handing him the plates to set up the table. “And I’m happy to see my daughter happy again.”

Those words shot straight to his heart. He did his best on most days, if you weren’t patching up his injuries, you were the comfort he had in the nightmares of his past. He never thought that you would be happy with someone like him—sometimes he even wonders why you would be with someone like him.

“She makes me happy too.” Simon admits, the blush was all too present in both of your faces at his little admission.

“When can I begin expecting grandbabies then?”

“Mother!” You were quick to protest, the blush on your face grew deeper.

You’ve just moved in together, began a routine for yourselves, a child might not be in the picture just yet.

“Maybe marriage first, Ma’am.” He placates instead.

“Call me Mum, Darling. You are now part of our family.” Your Mum spoke and the way his heart tighten almost had him in tears.

It’s been years since he had his Mum in his life and how easy it was for her to give him such a privilege. He will put a ring on your finger one day. He already knew when or how, it was just the opportunity to deal with everything else that he needed to fix beforehand.

“Thank you—Mum.” He whispered his eyes glazed turning away and focusing with setting the plates on the table, hiding away the tears that were fighting to fall as you began arguing with your mother about such things so early on in your relationship.

“Your brother and that girlfriend of his are taking it too slow and if I can’t have him give me grandbabies, you might have hope before me and your father are long gone?”

“Girlfriend?” Simon smirked at that. Your brother, his Captain had been so deadset in the secret relationship you had but somehow he had his own secret that was unintentionally spilled.

The pot calling the kettle black.

“I don’t understand it with you kids this days. You’re both already showing a few grey hairs, but no kids. You two will be the death of me.” Your mother continued to rant playfully as one mother does and you were left to just deal with it.

He wasn’t much help, the revelation of the Captain hiding his own girlfriend was still had him reeling in at the moment it was something he will be making good use of if the need arises—which would be today now that the cat was out of the bag.

Your mother announced it was time for lunch and immediately the rest of the men was barreling into the dining room. He could feel the intensity in the eyes of his Captain but you were quick to pulling him besides you, as far away from the man and his peripheral.

“So how long have you known each other?” It was your father that finally broken the ice of the little secret Simon was keeping with his daughter.

“When he first stumbled onto the infirmary with an open bullet wound to the shoulder.” You answered without a hitch.

“Where are your table manners?” Price immediately retorts.

“Oh shut up, we fucking talked about worst.” You quipped right back not taking your brother’s shit.

“Children.” Your father’s voice was quick to stop the banter that was about to come between the siblings. “Behave, we have guests.”

That was quick to halt the two siblings from their argument.

“Now, once this meal is over, I would like to talk to you.”

“Yes, Sir.” Simon was quick to answer realizing it wasn’t his Captain that he needed to actually worry about, it was your father that would do so much worse.

Lunch would be any longer as Simon now finds himself in the garden with you trying and failing to convince your own father not to go through with his talk with Simon and your own brother giddy and wanting to join in on the mess.

“Inside. Now.” Your father’s voice boomed had both you and the Captain running with your tails between your legs back inside the house. Who would have ever thought that at your ages, you both still feared your father?

“Now, where were we?” The man smiled, a sheer contrast of him in front of his own children only moments ago. “I’ve learned so much about you from my son, how much he cares for you after your own past.”

Simon was left wordless wondering why his Captain would even think it was a good idea to ever tell anyone else about his life. He had no right whatsoever, as a captain, a friend, nor the brother of his girlfriend.

“My son, he might not show it as much as he cares for you lot and he treats you like his own sons without even realizing it.” He chuckled and it irked him why he would continue this conversation.

“And I know for a fact that my son would not place you on his team and his circle if you weren’t good at your job and a genuinely good person.” The man’s smile slowly fell as he got more serious with his words. “But I want you to also know that if you even think about hurting my daughter in any shape, way, or form, you do not need to worry about what my son or my daughter might do to you when I find you.”

Now Simon understood where his Captain got his personality and aura from.

“I promise I won’t hurt your daughter, Sir.” Simon finally had the strength to answer. “I love her too much to even think of hurt her. I want to marry her someday and I’m doing my best to ensure that when I ask her to marry me, she would never have any doubts about me and my love and devotion to her.”

He still didn’t have the ring, nor did he think it was the right time or place to say such words especially to your own father, but it was what he felt needed to be said. He loved you, more than he would have ever loved someone in his life and after all the shit he has experience in his life, all he would have ever wanted was to have his own peace and his peace was with you.

“Well, you have my blessing, son.” The man’s face lit up now at his words. “I don’t need to tell you how much my little girl means to me and I still think no one would ever deserve her, but you’re close as it could possibly get.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Please, call me Dad.”

Again, his chest ached. The connotation of a father only brought so much bad memories for him and his childhood, but in this very moment it was a new memory and a new family he never thought he would ever need in his life.

“Thank you…Dad.” Simon spoke hesitation still lingering in his words.

The shared smile between the two men were finally interrupted by you and your insistence that you wanted some private time with your boyfriend before throwing him to the fish (the rest of the taskforce). This time, your father had happily accepted heading back inside leaving him all alone with you—finally.

“You good?” You asked, immediately cupping his cheeks and looking for any visible signs of injury on him. The pros and cons of dating a doctor.

“Took it like a champ.” He tried to downplay everything including the threat that was somehow all too common for fathers to make when it comes to their daughter.

“Tell me if its too much and we can leave, alright?”

He nodded arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer to him.

“Simon…” You warned.

“I’m okay.” He reassured holding onto one of your hands still on his cheeks. He placed a kiss on the inside of your wrist, he was still uncertain if this was an appropriate place to pull you in for a proper and much needed kiss. “I promise.” He continued to reassure you.

“I’m sorry we have to spring our relationship out of the blue but I honestly just wanted you to meet my Mum and Dad.”

“It’s fine.” Simon smiled down at you, swaying you slightly in his hold. “At least now I don’t need to deal with your brother at the base with everything out in the open.”

Simon knew he would deal with something worse now but he dealt with worse and he has you, if it comes to him getting beat up by your brother he has you to tend to the wounds and bruises like you’ve always promised.

“You’re gonna tell me if he ever does anything to you.”

“He won’t.”

“I think you and I know how petty that bastard could be.”

Simon rolled his eyes being reminded of such a moment in their earlier times on missions together.

“I can handle it, I promise.” He continued finally pulling you in for a kiss taking your breath away in the process.

Simon’s heart skipped at beat at your kiss. There was always something special about you and your lips against his own, and without hesitation he gently lifted your chin and pressed his lips deeper into your own. His arms wrapping around your tightly.

“I owe you tonight.” You gasped for breath as he finally pulls away. “For keeping up with me and my entire family’s shit.”

“You keep up with my shit and more and your head is to die for.” He quipped wanting to end all the seriousness.

Unfortunately the moment was ruined at the sight of you looking over his shoulder with widen eyes.

“They’re right behind me, aren’t they?” Simon resigned knowing what was bound to happen now that he can hear the Captain’s array of profanities all directed at him.

“You good?” You asked ready to defend his honor.

"I'm answerin' m'phone love. No, I'm not up yet." He looked back at the ground, furrowing his brow and digging the toe of his boot back into the cigarette smudge, lifting the last of the thing to his lips.

"You'll make it home earlier tonight, won't you?" You were currently curled up on the couch, waiting on some dumb re-runs that you weren't terribly interested in. Food cooked away in the slow cooker on the counter, the aroma filling your small apartment with warmth.

"Yeah, yeah I'll be home." He looked up as one of the crew workers came over to him and motioned his finger in a circle.

"Gotta go love, they're putting me up."

"Simon, a little longer."

"Love, I'll be home in an hour or two, just wait up for me, all right?"

You shifted in the blanket and slumped your head back against the couch. You sighed a little and finally relented. "Ok, but I'm not saving you dinner if you aren't home by the time I get to it."

Simon exhaled the last drag of his cigarette and smirked. "Deal." He stamped out the last of the smoke and ended the call. Shouting ensued across the grounds as Simon got his helmet and his mask.

The crew around him did laps of his jet and unhooked the wheels. Simon climbed in and set the windshield down over him. "Here we go, pretty girl." He rubbed the interior over, admiring the blinking lights and the gauges coming to life with light.

He looked down across the crew as the jet was rolled out of the hangar and positioned on the runway. He flicked the necessary switches and looked down at the others around him. Control tower coming in through his head gear.

"Takin' the missus to the mile high club, Riley?"

Simon chuckled, a twinkle sparking in his eye. "Already have."

He started up the engine with the all clear and eased the throttle. The wheels rolled and he strapped on his breathing mask. Before long he was catching speed and pulling the jet up into the air.

"There we go." He smiled, keeping his gaze focused on the sky in front of him until he had the jet leveled out. The air against his wings shredded in splitting white streaks as he set off.

Once he was relaxed he looked around and out at the vast world below. He chuckled deeply and eased on the speed just a tad more.

You sat there, sipping your water as you watched the only thing that was on this late, those dumb soap operas. At the least it was somewhat entertaining.

The street was filled with the golden light of Christmas as the two main characters found themselves outside of a large Christmas tree. "It's beautiful!" She exclaimed, joy written on her face and the breathless wonder of her first Christmas.

You watched intently as the man looked at her with love, before kneeling down and opening a small box. Your silence continues as you rubbed his bare ring finger with concentration.

"Julia.. my dear, sweet love," He gently took her hand. "Will you marry me??"

Her eyes widened, and in a panic she-

The commercial break blasted through the room and your stupor was broken to quickly grab the remote and turn it down.

"Fuck." You grumbled and rubbed your forehead. You pushed the blanket aside and headed to the kitchen to check the slow cooker. You sighed softly and stared through the steamy lid, and then the timer over the dial. Your gaze lingered into your hands, flexing your fingers slightly and examining your nails, then your knuckles.

Your hands came to your chest and you rubbed the finger quietly. You wished he would propose already, it had been years, and you couldn't understand the hold up.

You reached back and fiddled with the chain on your neck, pulling out his dog tags. He had served before, part of him had wanted to start out in the Marines but after a flight crash left him with head trauma, that wasn't as acceptable anymore.

The clock ticked by slowly while you waited. The commercial break finished and the woman in the soap opera embraced her boyfriend-now-fiance, giggling and smiling brightly.

By the time Simon got home it was late. Once again. You were half asleep on the couch in front of your half eaten plate of rice and chicken.

Simon slowly opened the door and closed it behind him. He took off his bike helmet and set it down on the shelf. Unzipping his boots and sliding out of them.

Your eyelids fluttered down briefly. You lifted your head and looked over to the door as Simon came in. "Simon..?"

He tilted his head as he stepped into the darkness of the living room. "Hey sweetheart." He leaned down and kissed your cheek before walking down the hallway. You sat up and checked your phone, seeing how late it was.

You frowned and pushed aside your food. You leaned against the door frame in the bedroom and watched him undress. He slid off his jacket and tugged his sweat soaked shirt off his body.

He flexed and grabbed out his sweatpants from the closet.

"You're home late." You said.

Simon shifted and looked back at you through the mirror. "I know love, I'm sorry. I tried to call."

You slid your phone from your pocket, checking the call history. "You're lying, Simon."

You walked into the room as Simon pulled off his belt, flicking the loop with one hand and flicking it, tugging the belt out from around his waist.

"M'not lying."

You felt yourself start to deflate. Mentally you were done with him. "When are you going to get your head out of the clouds?"

Simon sighed as he slipped into his sweatpants and scratched his stomach. "I'm on the ground, aren't I?"

"That isn't what I meant."

Simon passed you and headed to the kitchen. "Simon, would you look at me!"

"What." He paused and looked at you. "I'm looking at you. What do you want?"

"I want you to stop lying to me."

"I'm not lying, I just forgot ok??"

"You always fucking forget! You forget to come home, you forget to talk to me, you won't even marry me so maybe we can set some things straight!"

Simon was quiet for a moment. He sighed and leaned against the sink, staring at the wall.

"Y'know it's going to be the same answer every time.." He muttered.

"I know, but I don't like that answer. I want to be able to help you, I want to get you medication and take care of you until we're old, but you won't fucking marry me!"

"Maybe because I'm not ready-"

"Then when will you be!?"

"I don't know!" He snapped.

Silence befell both of you. You stepped back and rubbed your hands as Simon went for a glass of water and his medication.

After he took the pills he took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, ok? I'm just... I feel better when I'm up there."

You looked back up at him, your hands still nervously fidgeting. "So, you don't feel good, with me?"

"No, I'm not saying that. I'm not saying that at all. I love... You, I love hanging out with you. But I'm not in a good spot." He whispered a little.

"Then let me help you."

He swallowed thickly. "I can't..."

You shuffled over to him slowly. Simon watched you, his hand tightened on the edge of the sink. He leaned in closer, his other arm touching your hip. "M'gonna marry you.."

"You promise?"

He nodded, leaning down so his forehead touched yours. "I promise.. I'm gonna marry you." He rubbed his thumb against your hip.

You relaxed slightly and tilted your head up to capture his lips. Simon inhaled sharply and leaned toward you. Your hands wrapped around his neck and pulled him toward you.

"Make it up to me for coming home late."

He kissed you back and groaned softly into your mouth. He inhaled and slipped his tongue into your mouth, his hands roaming slowly to the hem of your shirt.

"I can do that..." He muttered through kisses. He back you up until you hit the counter. Your hands roamed across his neck, squeezing his pecs and groaning into the kisses.

Your tongues sloppily pressed together and tangled. He breathed in your scent and lifted your shirt up and tugged it up over your shoulders, breaking a trail of saliva to get it off.

You panted and kissed him again, your bodies colliding together and his hands moved back to unlatch your bra.

You groaned excitedly and leaned back to look into his eyes. "You know I love you?" He nodded breathlessly and ran his hand through your hair, tugging your head back gently and began to kiss your neck.

"Mmn, I love you too."

He grunted and tugged at your bottoms, yanking them down and leaving you in just your underwear.

"You're gorgeous.." He growled and leaned down, his tongue flicking out and licking over your collar bone.

You gasped and gripped his arms. You arched your back and ground into him, your hands roaming and grabbing at the muscles on his body.

He moaned softly and lifted you up onto the counter, spreading your legs apart and slipping his hands to the band of your underwear, slowly peeling them aside. You looked down, his forehead pressing against yours and his thumb pressed against your clit. You breathed out through your mouth and tangled your fingers in his hair. He hummed deeply and rubbing his thumb in firm circles over your clit while listening to your little gasps.

"Fuck…" He kissed your collar again and with his free hand he brought one of your breasts to his mouth. He swirled his tongue around the bud of your nipple and gave it a little tug. Fire sparked in your chest, the air in your lungs seemingly snatched from you before you could think.

Your hands squeezed his hair, and your hips jerked against his hand. He moaned and kissed the valley between your breasts. "Mm, good girl.." He murmured, and pulled his hand away to push down his sweatpants. His cock sprang free and he wrapped his arms around your thighs to pull you closer to the edge, and the tip of his cock brushed against your labia.

You panted softly and reached down, grasping the base of his cock and pushing him into your heat. "Oh- fuck." He groaned and his brows furrowed. "Wastin' no time…" He breathed out heavily and slid into your warm cunt. The thick warm walls contracted around his cock, welcoming him deeper. He stretched you out, his hand returning to your clit to continue pressure on it.

You gasped and rocked your hips, your legs wrapping around his waist. He panted and pressed his forehead against yours, starting a fast pace. His balls smacked against your ass, his tip bumped into your spongey core and your eyes rolled back into your head.

You cried out, the pleasure washing over you and gripping him closer. You never wanted to let him go. His smell washed over you and took you under like a massive wave you couldn't bring yourself to fight. It was like slowly drowning, losing everything so long as he had his arms around you.

"God.. oh god-" You moaned, his lips meeting yours for another kiss. "Simon.." You breathed, and he grunted, his hips thrust faster, his free hand reached up and wrapped around your throat. Your head tilted back and you gasped for air as his thumb and forefinger pressed into the columns under your jaw, making it harder to get oxygen. Your cunt started to drip soaking wet with each thrust. His cock sliding deep pelvis against pelvis, and the pull out. It barely gave your walls a moment before he was sliding back in at a forceful speed.

He watched the fluttering expression on your face and it made his stomach twist in the best way possible. His gaze zoned on your soft lips before gazing down at your cunt taking him so well.

"Simon-!" You choked. His hand shifted down your neck and wrapped the chain of his old dog tags around his knuckles to tug you closer.

"Mine." He groaned, and his thrusts got harder. The sound of wet squelches and skin against skin echoing in the apartment. Your legs tightened around his waist and you gasped as he hit your g-spot over and over. Your walls contracted around him and you let out a cry. Your back arched and you clenched up tightly, a rush of warmth flowing down from your belly.

"Fuck, fuck-!" You gasped and dug your nails into his back. Simon grimaced and tugged you closer. He pulled you off the counter and held you tightly in his arms, locking his arms around you.

You moaned loudly as you came. Feeling his body against you and his ragged breath against your face made your heart pound. He loved you. You shuddered and came hard on his cock, whining when he tugged you closer.

He fucked you through your orgasm, whispering sweet nothings against your ear. Your eyelids fluttered closed, and he kissed you roughly. Your tongue met his halfway. You panted against his lips, and his tongue licked yours, sucking on it.

His own orgasm was building, his balls tightening and his tip dripping precum. He held onto you, slowly shifting you along his cock until his grip relaxed, focused on kissing you. You desperately kissed him, inhaling his smell and chasing the butterflies that filled your stomach every time he gave your body attention. A feeling only his touch could reward you with.

Simon groaned against your mouth and slid his cock out of your cunt. You attempted to move away but Simon gently grabbed you again to keep you close. He caressed your hip and stroked his cock, cumming cross your abdomen.

You panted, looking up at him and then his hand working the last of his orgasm out. "Mm…" You leaned into his body, nuzzling his shoulder.

"Love you."

He panted softly and brushed some of your hair away to kiss your shoulder. "Love you too, sweetheart.."

He smiled tiredly, and looked around. "Let's go to bed."

He helped you and kissed the side of your face, walking to the bathroom to wash up. Using a warm wash cloth against your skin, and then following you to the bedroom. You both laid down and you curled up close to his chest. His arms wrapped around you and nuzzled the top of your head with a gentle kiss.

"I know I forget a lot now… But I promise that your needs and wants will not be."

Having grown up in a rugby family, you were given little choice but to attend all of your brother's games, both as a wee lad, a young man, and, now.

You were there, with your remaining sisters and your mam, for every single one of Johnny's games, back from when he was a wee one that couldn't even do a proper tackle and would fall in the mud, to now, picked to join the national team.

This means, however, that you've spent your entire childhood, teen years and now young adulthood, surrounded by the lads from your brother's many teams, but, especially, the ones he met as a teen and made a lasting friendship with: John "Cap" Price, Kyle "Gaz" Garrick, and Simon "Ghost" Riley, the bane of your existence.

Johnny's had them over for birthdays, holidays, sleepovers... Not to mention the times you've gone to pick him up from training and were allowed into the locker room, only to get an eyeful of too much bare skin on all those men as they paraded around half-dressed; in towels; in underwear, or even in less than that.

It became a matter of time until you gained someone's attention. No wonder, pretty lass like you, with your sweet smiles and playful quips... coming to pick up your bulky winger brother, of course you'd catch someone's eye.

Kyle Garrick is the team's Hooker... but he's also known as a manwhore, the town bicycle, or whatever you wanna call him. The lads all know that if they go out drinking, Kyle is not going home alone, and, worse, they know that Kyle could and would seduce their cousins, sisters, mothers, and girlfriends, if not kept in check.

That's part of the reason why Johnny nearly had a fucking aneurysm when he caught Kyle outside the locker room three days ago, with a hand pressed against the wall beside your head, looking down at you with a smug little smirk on those perfect lips of his.

He knew what was happening, the way Kyle was looking down at you, the way you were looking up at Kyle, smiling all cutely, backed up against the wall, while his own teammate put the moves on you and talked about taking you out, his free hand gently playing with the strap of the dress you were wearing.

Johnny, however, missed the way Simon, who was standing right behind him, stiffened up and bristled at the sight of Garrick flirting with you. You didn't though. You caught it as soon as Johnny cleared his throat next to you with a "Should I pull up a chair and wait fer ye to be done?". Simon's eyes were glued to you, his brow set, his jaw clenched...

That's what he gets.

Simon, whom you've had a massive crush on for years now, who you pine for, whose attention you crave... and who only ever comes to you for a quick lay...

Simon, who rolls over after sex and tosses you a towel while he's putting on his clothes, telling you to 'hurry up' so he can take you home.

Simon, who always stares at you like he's going to eat you whole every time he lays eyes on you.

Simon, who chugs half of the ice cold water bottles he's given during breaks in practice, and uses the rest to douse himself in water to keep himself cool.

Simon, who knows how your eyes always get drawn to his legs and his bulge in his uniform, and rolls up his shorts before doing lifts, just for you.

Simon, who comes to pick you up whenever you call him, tipsy, from some bar or club when going out with friends.

Simon, who sends you 'u up?' texts at 2 in the morning when he's drunk.

Simon, who scoffs and chuckles whenever you breach the 'us' topic.

Frankly, you're not even actually trying to get with Kyle, especially not with his reputation (nothing against him, it's just not for you), but you needed to do something.

You're tired of waiting around for SImon to get his head out of his arse. You're not a toy, you're not going to stick around and be 'friends with benefits' with him, except barely friends, and with little benefits.

He's getting what he fucking deserves.

You didn't anticipate, however, how upset Johnny would be at the idea of Kyle taking you out. In fact, it was poor planning on your end because from the moment Johnny saw you with Kyle, he attempted, multiple times, to convince you not to go out with him... And if the DMs Kyle sent you are any indication, he also tried to talk Kyle out of it.

On the other hand, Simon didn't once try to intervene. Despite the look he shot you on Tuesday, he did not in fact reach out to talk to you, even now, as Friday comes along and you stride into the restaurant, hanging off Kyle's arm...

There's nothing from him. No texts, no DMs, no calls, nothing... So you guess that it's done, over. He got the memo, finally...

Your phone starts buzzing inside your bag while you and Kyle are halfway through sharing your appetizers. Looking down at your phone, you narrow your eyes when you find Simon's number ringing.

Really? Now? You don't think so.

So, you hang up.

Only for it to start ringing again immediately after. Simon. Again.

Grunting, you end up picking up. "What?"

"I'm outside. Let's get out of here."

You're hyper aware, suddenly, that the host has sat you and Kyle by the windows overlooking the car park... And you can see a car with its headlights on pointing right at you.

"I don't think so."

"Then don't think. Just do what I'm telling you."

Bossy, as always, that's how Simon is. Everything is on his terms, never on yours.

"I'm having dinner." You fight him, as always. This push and pull of yours has been going on for three years now... And Simon always wins. It makes him cocky.

"Not with him you're not. So you better get out here before I go in there and embarrass you."

With a sigh, you nod. "Fine, I'll be right there."

Turning off the call, you turn to Kyle, explaining you have to leave. His brows knit together and he looks at you with puppy eyes, asking why, and, short of a proper explanation, you do the same thing you've been doing to Johnny for the past three years: you lie.

"Johnny said he got a bizarre text from our mam and he tried calling her and she isn't replying."

"She's on these new sleeping pills, so she might have just knocked out while watching telly..."

"But he's worried, and he's on the other side of town, so he asked if I could go home and check on her..."

And Kyle, as much of a manwhore he is, he's also a gentleman, and is one of your brother's best friends. If your mam might be feeling sick, he's, of course, driving you home and helping! He was raised right.

As you leave the car park on the passenger seat of Kyle's BMW, you're hyper aware of the familiar Range Rover trailing you down the road, always a couple of cars behind, but always there... always lurking.

You reach your childhood home in record time, and start fumbling for the keys inside your clutch while Kyle trails up behind you to the front door. "I think I've got this from here, Kyle."

"No way, I love your mum like she's my auntie, if she's not doing well, I'm here to help,"

"No, really, it's okay, I'm sure she's fine..."

"Love, really, I'm not leaving you like this, not before I make sure that she's alright-"

Suddenly, a large, pale hand comes to grip Kyle's shoulder from behind, Simon's eyes shining in the darkness of the night, barely illuminated by the light by the front door, before his full face reveals itself.

Like a Ghost. That's his nickname. Fast, stealthy, there when you least expect it. Both in the rugby pitch and out of it.

"Don't worry, mate, I've got this." Simon announces, causing Kyle (and you) to freeze.

"You're here too?" Kyle asks, seemingly surprised, just as the taller fullback player removes his hand from his shoulder.

"Johnny called me too. Was worried about her being alone if mam wasn't doing well," Simon says naturally, as if he isn't also lying through his teeth, though his eyes never leave yours, catching and not planning on letting it go.

"Okay... well..." Kyle says and looks back and forth between you and Simon, seemingly catching the weird vibe between you, before he nods. "I'll go home then. Text me?" He asks you. "We can have a rain check."

Gulping thickly, your gaze slowly moves back toward Kyle, and you nod with a soft smile. "Yeah, yeah. Of course." You say softly and move over to kiss his cheek, before watching Kyle go back to his car and pull off.

You're turning, keys now in hand, to unlock the door when one of Simon's large hands grabs yours, stopping you. "What are you doing?" He asks you.

"Going home?" You retort as you look up at him, feeling the warmth of his fingers wrapped around yours, clutching lightly. "Ye can go now. Congratulations, you ruined my date. Yer work is done."

Simon chuckles and takes a step closer to you, tilting his head at an angle and regarding you with those dark, deep brown eyes of his, the same ones that always make you feel like he's trying to burn you with his gaze.

"That's cute that there, sweetheart." The Mancunian tells you before he lets go of your hand and pushes you along with a hand on the small of your back, away from your front door. "Get in the fuckin' car." He orders and uses his eyebrows to point at his jeep, his voice carrying the same strong tone that he reserves only for bossing his teammates around during practice.

You know better than to defy him. So you tuck your metaphorical tail between your legs and you nod, moving over to his Rover. He opens the door for you and helps you up by gripping a hand around your forearm, the other bumps you up by the back of the legs.

"How'd ye know where we were?" You end up asking once Simon has driven away from your street, your eyes locked on his as he drives, finally daring to take a proper look at him under the orange light of the street lamps you pass by.

Black hoodie, grey sweatpants, and some kind of running shoes. Those stupid bloody sweatpants... The same ones he usually wears when he shows up at your door, or you at his, or when he goes to get you from work or nights out...

You know he did it on purpose... To pick the most slutty outfit he has as he comes to break up your date with Kyle. The annoying grey sweats that hang off his lip, that hug his thick, muscular thighs, the ones that he never wears boxers under, to make sure you can catch the dick print in the fabric...

And his stupid blonde hair all spiked up with hair gel... It used to be brown, matching his eyes, but he bleaches it now, the idiot... You want to be mad at him, you really do... But when he glances over at you while he's driving, you can't really.

"Garrick's predictable," Simon says, his tongue spitting vitriol as he utters his teammate's name. You'd think he hates the bloke... and right now he might as well do. "Takes birds to the same 5 or 6 places every time. Your brother and I split up to cover half of them each." He explains.

Scoffing, you cross your arms over your chest. "The two of ye have no right." You tell him, scolding him over interrupting your date. "I'm a grown woman."

"Right. That's what you told Johnny. Don't try to use that shite excuse on me." Simon tells you as he turns on the blinker and pulls over.

You haven't driven long. Less than 2 minutes. You could climb out of the jeep if you wanted to and walk home.

"It's not an excuse." You retort as you glare at him, keeping your arms tightly crossed over your chest.

"Right, because you want me to believe you really want to go out with Kyle? Or, let me guess, you 'can change him'?" Simon asks sardonically and laughs as he pulls off his seatbelt.

"I didn't say that." You retort. "I simply said that I can do whatever I want because I'm a grown woman.'

"No..." The blond says in a sarcastic tone. "You... did it because you wanted my attention... And you got it, sweetheart." He replies as he reaches over and unbuckles your seatbelt for you, his hands wrapping around your hip and back, tugging you over the gearshift onto his lap.

"I weren't trying to-" You reply, pushing back against his chest, but only half-heartedly, allowing yourself to be dragged onto him.

"Sure you were. But Gaz, really? Is that the best you can do when it comes to making me jealous?" Simon quips as he makes you straddle his left thigh, bringing you down to sit on it, the gusset of your panties pressed against the warm material of his sweatpants.

His stupid, muscular, hard thigh, the same one you can't help but drool over when you watch him in his tiny rugby shorts during practice and in the proper pitch...

You can feel the taut muscle, even through the fabric, the wait his leg flexes as you straddle it, the way he presses the weight of it against your core, and his fingers dig into your hip before dragging you back and forth.

You bite your lip hard to contain a moan, though he notices the way you're trembling, enjoying the look in your eyes, the way your body warms up, the way your back arches up. It puts a sick smile on his lips, one you wanna wipe off.

"It worked, didn't it?" You reply, trying your best to suppress the pleasure from showing on your face, and instead trying to seem smug. "You're here, right? Came to break up my date for a reason..." You say, clinging onto your little 'gotcha' moment...

Only for Simon to ruin it. "Oh that weren't jealousy, darling." He replies, his smirk beginning to grow into a proud, mocking grin, his dark brows rising and his cheeks puffing up with his smile. "I have no reason to be jealous."

Simon begins rocking you faster and harder against his hard thigh, causing you to whine and mewl, the pleasure building from the friction between your cunt and his thigh.

Your clit is slowly and steadily catching on the fabric, making you tremble and twitch atop him, feeling the coil in your stomach beginning to tighten as it always does whenever Simon starts playing with your clit like this.

"No, actually... Don't have a reason to be jealous about anyone." Simon replies as he leans toward you, pressing his nose against yours so he can properly look you in the eye. "Not Garrick... not Price... not any of those coworkers you're always talking about... nor your old uni mates..." He trails off.

"Simon..." You grumble, bucking your hips against him, wanting to chase your orgasm. How does he do this to you every time? Make you so horny, make you throw away all rationality, make you give in to him?

"I know, sweetheart, I know... Feels good, don't it?" The large man coos at you as he helps you rock against his thigh faster and faster, your hips stuttering and your legs beginning to tremble on either side of him as you steadily grow closer and closer to coming.

"You know what else I know?" Simon teases as he leans over and uses his teeth to nip at your neck and earlobe. "I know that I'll never have a bloody fucking reason to get jealous over you... because You're Mine." He tells you, his tone surprisingly authoritative.

There's something in that claim... the way he finally says the things you've wanted so badly to hear him say... Your climax crashes into you and you go limp against him, your head falling onto his chest and your jaw going slack as you moan incoherently.

"That's it..." Simon coos at you and gives you a couple of pats on your thigh, sliding his hand up over your ass, covered in a new dress you bought on purpose for your date with Kyle. Your cunt is throbbing inside your panties, your walls clenching around nothing and you know you've left a bit of a wet spot on Simon's sweatpants.

"You got off on that, huh?" He teases you in a mocking tone. "Been wanting to hear that for a while now, have you?" You can hear the smirk on his lips as you try to catch your breath and calm your racing heart. He's so fucking mean...

"Piss off, Simon." You retort and pull off him, pushing against his shoulders with both hands and moving pack to the passenger's seat. "Take me home." You say in a huff.

"Of course, sweetheart." Simon replies, his voice still smug and a large shit-eating grin on his lips as he bites his tongue, turning back onto the street.

After Simon pulls over in front of your house again, you hop out, fixing your dress and stomping back toward the house, displeased with his behavior. With him using your feelings for him against him. With him.

His phone rings, echoing through the speakers in the Rover. The small screen on the dash displays Johnny's contact name as Simon is watching you frustratedly fumble for the keys inside your clutch again.

"Been to all three spots. Did you find her?" The Scot's voice comes through the bluetooth speakers as the Mancunian watches you, running his fingers over his thigh where you left a wet stain on his sweats.

"Yeah, mate. Been keeping an eye on them. Kyle didn't try anything and he just dropped her off at home." He replies, watching you for a moment longer.

"Thanks for lookin' out, mate. 'm going for a pint right now..." Soap announces.

"Cheers," Ghost says in a nonchalant date, watching you finally find the keys and open the door, heading inside and turning on the hall light. "You owe me one, had a date planned but spent my evening going after your sister."

"Yeah... yeah... I owe ye." Soap retorts. "Come out me with me, then, 'm sure ye can find a bird at the pub." He offers.

"Nah, mate, 'm knackered. Going to get a good night's sleep." He says and watches you turn to glance at him (or more so his car) through the open door before you turn away again and visibly huff, closing the door behind yourself.

Simon shakes his head, snickering under his breath and saying goodbye to Soap before hanging up the call and grabbing his phone to shoot you a quick text.

"Ur brother is @ pub. Let me in."

Then, he stashes his phone back in his pocket, not even waiting for a reply.

His eyes return to the door and wait patiently, just a couple of seconds go by before you're opening the front door again. Simon smiles seeing that, turning off his car and hopping out.

His girl is so obedient.

[ Ghost Challenge Masterlist ] || [ My Masterlist ]

You’d begged your brother to come to your final performance. You needed him there, needed to feel him in the crowd, even if you couldn’t see him out there. Kyle promised he would be there, and as you went through your pre-show routine, you hoped he would be true to his word. 

You knew it was difficult for him to get away from work. You’d left him with four tickets, asking him to invite his mates, if that would make it easier. You remember seeing his soft smile as he fanned out the bright gold tickets, inwardly laughing at you for not understanding the contrast between your world and his as he commented,

“These blokes aren’t really keen on ballets, Duck.”

He’d always called you by that stupid nickname. Well, the longer version had been his favorite as a teenage boy: the Ugly Duckling. But, it was fine. You’d called him Vile instead of Kyle most of his life, so you felt like it was an even score. 

“It’s important to me,” you’d insisted. 

“I know,” he nodded, conceding, “I’ll try.”

So, as the lights were warming up and you were applying your third layer of powder, praying for a smooth night, your heart stretched itself out, begging not to be broken, the whining strings of the cellos and violins in the pit below your feet made the sounds that your heartstrings were feeling — too quiet, too off-key. 

“Hey, babe,” one of your fellow dancers hissed at you from behind the backstage door, “Why didn’t you tell us you had a hot brother with a bunch of hot friends?”

“What?” You asked, confused, shaken out of your mental focus.

Then, over her shoulder, you saw Kyle’s face. He beamed at you, giving you a little wave. You leapt up from the floor where you were stretching, not yet in full costume, wrapping yourself in a warm wool sweater, rushing to greet him.

“You came!” You smiled up at him, wrapping him in a big hug. He hugged you back, full of his immense strength. You stood back to get a better look at him. He was all dressed up, and you couldn’t believe it. Someone behind him cleared their throat, getting your attention. 

“Oh, right. Duck, these are my mates,” he pointed them out one by one, “Johnny MacTavish, John Price, and Simon Riley.”

When he pointed to the last one, you felt your breath catch in your throat. It felt as if he was the one who caught it. He was a tower of a man, and his broad, muscular shoulders dwarfed his big friends, making the dancers who were rushing by him back and forth to the stage seem so small. Unlike the other two, his face didn’t light up in a warm smile. His bright eyes simply took you in, drinking you like a long draught, swallowing every piece of you. He studied your makeup, your neck and your shoulders, all the way down your legs, scanning you like he would be given an exam. 

“Nice to meet you. Thank you so much for coming, seriously. I’ve been trying to get Kyle to show up for months.”

The stocky man with the beard smiled back at you warmly, 

“We love a good ballet, don’t we, lads?”

You didn’t miss the way his elbow jutted out to stab Simon in the ribs, prompting him to speak. 

When he did, his voice was quiet, and although he had a thick Manc accent, his tone was controlled, measured, even, 

“Aye. Big fans.”

“Oh, well,” you couldn’t stop staring at Simon, so you pinned your eyes to the floor instead, “I hope you enjoy it.”

“Drinks after, yeah?” Kyle said, rubbing your arm supportively.

You nodded, watching them head back to the main auditorium. 

A few friends, dancers and stagehands alike, rushed up to you as they left, gushing about how attractive they all were. 

“Who was that bloody blond giant? Dressed in all black. He was lookin’ at you like he was hungry.”

“I want the Scot with the mohawk. I’m not takin’ no for an answer, girlie. Oh, my God. Did you see his kilt?”

“Your brother is so damn fit! What the fuck, babes?”

“I liked the scruffy one the best. Bet that beard feels good between —”

“Okay! It’s almost showtime. Let’s circle up,” you escaped from the prop room, scurrying back onto the main stage, trying to get your head back in the game. 

You went through your warmups with your dancers, and you let your costumers fit you into your opening dress. You needed to think about your work, but you couldn’t get Simon’s sharp gaze out of your mind. He did, in fact, look hungry, and the way his eyes raked over you made you feel every bit like a hot meal. 

As the music began, your mind went blank, blissfully quiet and clear. Your muscle memory took over, and you powered through the motions, enjoying the feeling of your blood rushing through your veins. You trusted yourself to get you through the first act, hitting all of your marks and expecting nothing less than perfection. 

It wasn’t until you put on the black mask for Odile’s dance with the prince that you began to lose your concentration. There was a wildness that took over you when you played the black swan, a ferocity that your studio director gushed about to the press and to anyone else who cared to listen. 

“She’s like an animal! It’s to die for. You must come and see her on stage. It will change this ballet forever!” 

You weren’t sure you appreciated being referred to as an animal, but you had to admit that there was something beastial about your transformation. The mask made you feel like you were a new person. It gave you the ability to become someone else, something else. You were sexual and aggressive, dominant and fearsome. It was just what Odile needed, and you delivered. 

Except, when you put the mask on tonight, you caught a glimpse of him from backstage. He was sitting in the box that you had bought for your brother, and one of the spotlights’ films had lit his cheek. It was a soft light, but it was enough. As you took your first steps on stage, you couldn’t help but look up towards him, and the flash of hunger in his eyes was still there. So, you decided to give him your animalistic side. 

You’d never danced the way you danced that night. The crowd was roaring, and your costar whispered to you,

“Go off, queen. What’s gotten into you?”

“I don’t know,” you whispered back, lying through your teeth. 

By the time you left the stage, daring to look back over your shoulder, Simon hadn’t taken his eyes off of you for one moment, and his nostrils flared, breathing deeply, trying to calm himself from your display. 

Before you knew it, the curtains closed, and you were bowing, dodging thrown roses and teddy bears, elegantly taking your leave. Your body was dripping sweat, and you rushed over to your bag, scarfing down some power gels and cracking open a nutrition bar, hurrying to bring your body back to normal after its ordeal. You’d be expected to pose for some VIP photos in just a few minutes, so you touched up your makeup, but there was only so much you could do. 

“My star!” Your director burst through the back door, “Beautiful! You were incredible tonight. Bring your masks. I have some people who want to meet you.”

You nodded, scooping up your masks and giving your bag to one of the other dancers to take back to the barre room. 

You schmoozed for a bit, but something itched at the back of your mind. You felt like you were being watched. Then, just while you were taking a photo with someone’s eager six-year-old, you spotted him. Simon stood behind Kyle, staring at you without shame while the other men laughed and joked with a gaggle of dancers. They had swarmed them, fluttering about, insisting to be invited for drinks, and Kyle was eating it up. You didn’t care, though. There was only one thing you wanted — aside from a hot bath and your comfy bed — and that was to enjoy those things with Simon Riley, if he agreed. 

“Excuse me, Madame Savoie. I’m exhausted, and my brother is in town. May I take my leave for the night?”

“Of course!” Your director beamed at you, “After that performance, you can take whatever you want.”

She laughed. Her rich friends laughed. You didn’t, but you managed a smile. 

You made your way through the crowd over to Kyle and broke the news, 

“Kyle, I’m not going to make it to the pub. I’m beat. I think I’ll just walk home.”

“You can’t walk home by yourself, Duckie. You live in bloody Soho.”

“I’ll be alright. I’ll just —”

“I’ll take her,” that Manc accent oozed its way through the din, and almost everyone turned to look at Simon as he offered his services. 

Kyle made a face at you, his arms wrapped around two dancers, one on each side, and he shrugged, 

“Alright, Duck. Tomorrow for breakfast, though. No excuses.” 

You watched as your brother untangled his right arm from one of your swans, and stuck out his hand for Simon to shake. You saw Simon pause, making clear eye contact with your brother, and extending his wide, pale hand. 

You weren’t exactly sure what weird sort of ritual you were witnessing, but it seemed like the two men had an entire conversation in just that short span. Then, Simon’s attention was turned fully back to you. 

“C’mon, then. I just need to get my bag.”

He didn’t say anything, but he did hold the door for you, and his huge stature did help part the crowd like some sort of biblical sea, making sure you had easy access to the exits. 

The barre room was a bright, white open space, and the wooden floors popped and creaked as you walked across them. 

Your impromptu bodyguard followed close behind, but he paused near the door when he was presented with the huge room.

“I’d hate to meet that ballerina,” he chuckled. 

You turned around, confused by his comment, 

“Which one?”

“The one who hit her head on the ceiling to make them build it this bloody high.”

You looked up to where he was pointing, laughing at his odd joke,

“It’s for the piano,” you explained. 

“That’s even scarier,” he grimaced, staring up at the high ceiling as if pianos would start falling from it. 

You laughed harder, then, imagining a flying baby grand. 

“No! No,” you caught your breath, “The sound. It helps us hear the music.”

“Ahh,” he nodded knowingly, conceding to you, “I see. That makes me feel safer.”

You knelt down and started to pack your back, changing your shoes and slipping out of your outer costume, laying the pieces out like you had been trained to do.

“So, which one do you like better?”

“Hm?” You looked up at him, and he bent his knees to squat down in front of you, plucking your white swan mask out of your bag and touching the fine silk bow with his thumb. 

“Which swan?” He asked, his eyes staring at you carefully. You got the sense that your answer really mattered to him.

“Well,” you said carefully, “Every girl wants to be Odette. She’s the star. It’s her story. And she gets to fall in love with a prince. But… once you play Odile, I think you realize that there’s… well, there’s something to be said for falling in love with yourself, too.”

You smiled, grabbing your black mask by the nose and holding it up to your eyes, glaring at him to make your point. 

“Same person on the inside, though,” he commented, looking down at the white mask in his hand. 

You stood up, and you grabbed his hand to help him up, 

“C’mere. I’ll show you.”

“You’re not going to find a tutu that fits me, love.”

“No tutus for you, I promise. Just… stand here. Like that. Put your hand out like this. Good.”

Once he was in position, you grabbed the white mask from him and tied it around your face, willing your sore body back into position. 

“This is Odette,” you said, making your hands and feet flutter to life. You spun into his hand, letting him feel the weightlessness of your body as you moved against him, the soft silken rustle of your leotard against his huge, callused hand. Eventually, you came to rest facing away from him, your thigh brushing his hip in a long, extended arabesque. His hand never moved from your waist, and you leaned into it, letting him balance you, his palm warm against your belly through the thin fabric. 

“And this…” you replaced the white mask with the black one, changing yourself for him, metamorphosing right before his eyes, “...is Odile.”

This time, you challenged him, making him feel your muscles and bones with each spin, pushing against him like a threat. You could feel his uncertainty, but he naturally steeled himself, grabbing you with more power, trying to harness your energy. But, you knew he couldn’t. He didn’t know what do to. All he could do was stand there and feel you as you moved against him, aggressive and virulent. 

As Odile, your final arabesque pressed into him lustfully, translating that fiery rage, your thigh slammed flush with his body, your hips forcing his hand to grip you to keep you from pushing him backwards. 

Then, you stepped away, removing the mask and doing a little bow for effect. 

“I see,” he murmured, seemingly unphased. But, even though he tried to hide it, his slight adjustment in his black dress pants did not slip by you. He stalked closer to you, closing the space that you had opened. His thumb came up to rub your cheek, right at the edge of the black mask, “Does the mask help?”

You dropped your volume to match his, still catching your breath a bit from the turns, 

“Yeah, it reminds me that I can be someone I’m not.”

“Or maybe you can finally be someone you are,” his thumb traced your smooth skin down to your mouth where your lipstick stains and cracked powder were surely a right mess. But, he didn’t care. He pressed the pad of his finger to your bottom lip anyway, moving so carefully and deliberately you felt like you were under his spell. 

“Maybe.” 

“Hm,” he said noncommittally, backing away from you, releasing you from his invisible hold. 

You finished packing, and you made your way into the dark night with him, walking quickly to get out of the spitting rain. He kept his arm around you, wrapping you in his warmth, shielding you from passersby. 

Your mind was racing. You had taken this stranger home with you, no questions asked. It was a risk that you just didn’t take. When was the last time you even had a bloke in your flat, much less one that you desperately wanted to snog? At least you had cleaned yesterday. It was too small of a place not to pick up at least a little bit each day. There was no room for you to be messy. 

“This is me,” you jingled your keys and pointed up to the tall, modern apartment building, gleaming in glass and steel amidst the historical Soho houses and businesses. 

Every floor was the same. It was all modern and white, almost sterile. You felt like you lived in a museum. 

“Mm, posh,” he commented, a little disgruntled. 

“Free,” you rolled your eyes, “The ballet company houses all of us here.”

“Why can’t my free accommodations ever look this good?”

You cracked open the door to your flat and let him inside. Your cat, Mustard, immediately began her figure-eight dance between his legs, her favorite hello to every person who dared enter her domain. 

“What do your accommodations usually look like, then?” You asked, pouring out some kibble for the cat and hanging your bag on its hook.

“Usually a tent, sometimes a cave. They even gave us a house once, no windows in it, but hey. You win some, you lose some.”

“I worry about Kyle, you know. You lads don’t have an easy job.”

“He’ll be alright. He’s a good one.”

“I know,” you smiled softly, staring up into Simon’s eyes, then you remembered your manners, “Can I get you a drink?”

“No, I’m alright,” he smiled back, turning his head to look around your flat. 

You gave him the short tour,

“Bathroom’s in there, and here’s my bedroom slash office slash den… Only enough room for the bed, really. I’m not here very much.”

“And…” He spoke slowly, carefully, no joviality in his tone this time, “Is it alright that I’m here, love?”

He eyed you cautiously, moving toward you, towering over your small frame, his hulking shoulders curling in on you, casting dark shadows across your vision, keeping you from the light. 

You peered up at him, ignoring his question,

“Do you want to shower with me? I’d fucking murder someone for a hot shower.”

“Yeah,” he said softly, bending forward so that he could press his soft lips to your mouth, kissing you as gently as you’d ever been kissed. But, you could tell, just by the way he moved his jaw, letting his tongue lazily trace your bottom lip, there was so much more fervor under his skin, waiting to be unleashed. Right now, he was Odette, on his best behavior. 

But, you wanted to see his Black Swan. Where was the beast that you knew must lurk within?

He pulled away from you, smiling a bit, and you giggled softly, dragging him along by his wrist, ducking into your spacious bathroom. It was the one thing you loved about this place. There was no living room to speak of, but damn if the bathroom wasn’t perfect. The huge glass shower was enough for a party of four, and the dual shower heads made you feel like some sort of royalty. You couldn’t wait to let your muscles soak under the cascade. Maybe tall, blond and handsome could put those strong hands of his to work and rub you down. 

You stood in the mirror together, looking at each other, and you started to undress. He twisted a finger under the collar of your sweater until he could feel your skin. Then, he slipped it off of your shoulder. You dropped your arm, letting it slide to the floor. Then, as slowly as he could, you watched as he writhed his finger under your leotard’s strap, pulling it down your arm. When it got to be too taut, you helped him, removing your arms and rolling the soft nylon down your aching body. 

Your wig was still on, but you weren’t about to wear it to bed, so you took it off in front of him, running your fingers through your short curls, letting your close-cut fingernails scratch your scalp.

Now, as you stood in the low light of your bathroom mirror, you were naked in front of him, standing with your back to him, covering your breasts in the mirror. Simon bent his head down so he could kiss your neck, and you felt him wrap a big hand around the nape of your neck, holding you in place. His kisses felt hot, and they were deeper than before, more hungry, pressing into you with more power. 

You sighed, enjoying his mouth as it worked on you, but well-aware of just how caked on the sweat and the makeup were after a show, making excuses for yourself,

“I’m sweaty,” you whispered.

“I know,” he smiled, sticking out his fat, pink tongue and licking his way up to your ear, just to make his point. 

He wrapped his arms around you, retreating for a moment, looking at you in the mirror. Then, when he saw you covering yourself, he gently pushed your arms away, making you reveal your bare breasts to him. 

“So fuckin’ pretty,” he praised you, kissing your scalp chastely. 

You turned your back to the looking glass to face him, and you tangled your fingers between the buttons of his dress shirt. You weren’t in any hurry to peel him apart, but as you did, you saw more and more evidence of his hard life. His enormous muscles were inked with old tattoos, war scenes etched into his creamy flesh in black and gray. But, carved across his skin were tens of deep, jagged scars, standing as proof of the cruelty he’d endured. 

You let your mouth fall to his chest, kissing him indiscriminately, licking when you wanted to, nibbling when you wanted to, giving in to your hedonism fully. 

He untucked his shirt for you, peeling it off of his shoulders, and you watched as his muscles rippled and bent around his bones, stretching under his will. You worked on his belt, and he watched you take him apart, both of your heads craned down, staring at your hands as you freed him from his trousers. The zipper fell smoothly, and all that was left were his boxer briefs, underneath which hung a very girthy cock. 

You touched him through the fabric, and he let out a shuddering sigh of relief. 

“You’re a big man, Mr. Riley,” you teased, playing with his head through the thin fabric, meeting his gaze and finding him fully unraveled. His eyes were hooded and lustful, and it made you wonder how he liked to be touched so you could keep him like this, under your spell.

He tucked his thumbs in his pants and pulled them down, bare with you, and he held your body flush to his in a warm hug. You could feel his cock trapped between you, wet and warm on your belly, and his big hands came down to grab two handfuls of your ass, prying you apart so that the cold air of the room would hit your pussy and tell you how wet you were, enjoying the feel of your meat between his fingers. 

“Good thing you’ve got a bloody big shower, love. Might actually be able to stand under the tap, me. Can’t believe it.”

You watched him step into the large glass box and turn on the stream, the heat making him sigh. You joined him, jealous of the feeling, and let your own shower head beat your muscles into submission. 

You hissed in pain and he heard it, snapping his attention to you like a dog with a bone.

“What is it?”

“Sore. End of the week is hard.”

He poured some of your soap into his hand, way too much, but you didn’t correct him, and he commented as he bathed you,

“I read about it before we came, you know. Read about the story. About what you have to do to be the star. Hard work, that.”

“There are harder things,” You said in a low voice, tracing a particularly suspicious-looking wound in the shape of a bullet on his right hip.  

“Not many. Turn around,” he commanded. You were pleasantly surprised how much you liked it when he took control. 

Here, in the warm nest of the shower, you gave him your weakness and let him take care of you. He massaged your shoulders and your back unprompted, rubbing slick suds all over your skin, and he washed your hair. You moisturized on your own, letting him smell all of your tonics and potions, washing your face as he fondled your ass again, enjoying you fully. 

You felt like time had stopped. 

You washed him, letting your hands roam, caring for him as he had cared for you, and when you were both clean, you couldn’t help but linger on each other a bit. He reached between your legs and explored you for a moment, swiping his huge finger through your curls. When he found your warmth, so different from the steam of the shower, and a different wetness, too, he sighed. 

“Is it alright if I stay the night?” He asked. 

It surprised you. You assumed that getting naked and showering in front of a man who would be immediately boxed up and shipped back to Khandor on the next flight out would have stayed without asking. He would have assumed that his presence was his invitation. 

You nodded, 

“Please stay, Simon.”

He touched your breast, plucking at your nipple softly, seeming like he was uncertain despite your answer. You pried,

“Are you worried about Kyle? Did he say something —”

“No,” Simon smiled, “He knows you’re a big girl. It’s just been awhile… for me.”

“If you want to go…” You let your hands spread wide across his chest, purposely avoiding his cock, not wanting to sway him in a covinous way. 

He shook his head,

“No. I just want you to be sure. I can’t… We leave again, and I can’t make promises.”

“No promises. I know what you do. I know who you are because I know who Kyle is. You aren’t misleading me here, Simon. But, if you don’t take me to bed, I might lose my bloody mind.”

The smile that spread across his face then was a true one. It couldn’t hide. It squeezed his cheeks up into his eyes and wrinkled their edges like a paper fan. His full lips pulled tight across those white teeth, his incisors long like fangs and just as sharp. And he blushed, that pale skin giving away his feelings to you. 

He kissed your forehead and turned off the taps, retrieving two towels and bundling you in one, on your way back to bed, you snatched your lotion and started to put it on in a half-assed way, hurrying for his benefit. 

“Hey, stealin’ my duties?”

Simon plucked the lotion out of your head and nodded to the bed. You lay down for him, waiting for what he had in store. He pumped the lotion into his hand, less this time, you noticed, and began at your thighs. His wide palms rubbed and massaged you until he had covered you, paying attention to your hands and feet, before commanding you again:

“Flip over, love.”

You gladly did, sighing and moaning shamelessly as he rubbed lotion all over your back and legs. When he got to your round, plump ass, he took more of his time. 

“Watchin’ you move up there on that stage, tryin’ to seduce the bloody prince, fuck… it made me feel like you were dancing for me. The way you move… your body… I’ve never seen anythin’ like it.”

“I was,” you confessed. 

“What?” He stopped massaging you, putting the lotion on your table and crawling into the bed with you. 

You waited until you were under the covers with your head firmly planted on his chest before admitting it to him, 

“I was dancing for you tonight. When I saw you with my brother… you were all I could think about. I could see you in the box, when I was Odile, and I wanted you to look at me.”

“I couldn’t stop looking at you.”

You weren’t sure who kissed who, but you were now trapped within each other, sucking at each others’ mouths, moaning and writhing in each others’ arms. Snogging like you were dying. 

His cock was already hard, but you felt its smooth, silky body pressing and throbbing against your belly as he held you close, hungry for your wet hole, eager to be the one to fill it. 

You let your hand fall between you, jerking him off, rubbing slick circles around his head until he had to break your kiss to cry out for you. You raised your leg over his hip and moved to put him inside you, but he shook his head and started chanting in short, breathless whispers,

“Wait, wait, wait…”

Then, he disappeared, leaving you at the top of the duvet alone, licking and sucking his way down your body until he reached your pussy. As he began to eat you, he also spread you apart. You’d never felt so exposed before, but he wanted to lick your petals, slurping them into his mouth like the lobes of a sweet orange, one by one devouring you in your sensitive state. 

Your hands scratched at his scalp, which he seemed to enjoy. You watched his eyes flutter with pleasure after a particularly vigorous passthrough. 

“Taste so fuckin’ good. Gimme that come, baby,” he growled, gently circling your entrance with two thick fingers before fitting them into you with a wet, slick sound. 

“Oh!” You called out, staring down at him as he planted his mouth over your clit, suckling at its swollen body, razing your nerves to ashes. 

It didn’t take long before he had you coming for him, and when he felt you tense up beneath his hands, that true smile was back. He sat up on his knees and helped you come back down, slowing his movements just enough to calm your breathing, but keeping you precariously balanced on the edge where he wanted you. 

“Turn over on your belly, love.”

For some reason, it made you feel incredibly vulnerable to have him behind you, and your body shivered from the tension. He noticed, and he lay himself over you, soothing you, whispering right into your ear,

“I’ve got you, love. You wanna stop, we’ll stop. No problem. That clear?”

You nodded your head, and he met your eyes, making damn sure. Then, satisfied, you heard him digging around in his discarded dress pants, the crinkle of the foil condom, and then the slick roll of the barrier slipping over his head. 

“Thank fuck for condoms,” he laughed, “Might give me a chance to last more than a few minutes in this pretty fuckin’ cunt.”

You laughed with him, shrugging,

“You come, we try again. I’m not bothered.”

“Mm,” he nuzzled your ear, laying his body over yours and letting you feel his weight. His cockhead was tickling your entrance, but he didn’t go any further, saying, “This must be my white swan I have beneath me. Sweet on me, huh?”

“Mmhm,” you nodded, reeling from the sensation of his tip rolling around your hole’s entrance, desperately grinding for more. 

“What would the black swan say to me, huh?”

You looked over your shoulder at him, meeting his eyes, and just like you had in the barre room, you showed him your other side. When he saw the flash in your eyes of your wildness, he knew he’d gotten his wish. You shoved your hips down, spearing yourself onto him before he was ready for you, making him gasp as your pussy slaked over the first few inches of his cock. 

“Give me your cock, Simon.”

He recovered, biting his lip and thrusting into you, stuffing himself inside of you deeper and deeper, 

“There she is. My girl…”

The power that he used to fuck you was beyond anything that any other man had dared give you. You didn’t know this was a possibility. Your whole body was trapped beneath him, being kissed and crushed and fucked into a wet, submissive mess. His arms were planted beside you, pinning you in, and honestly, you had never felt so safe. 

You could smell your coconut body wash on him, mixing with whatever it was that made him a man, musky and dark, a hint of his Camel Blues. You wanted to bathe in him, just as he had washed you with his hands. Instead of soap, you wanted it to be him, smearing himself all over you, caking you in his essence. 

“Fuck, you are so tight. Squeezin’ me. Fuck…”

He was off of you in a flash, and before you knew it, he’d flipped you over. He spread open your legs and played with you for a moment, trying to stop himself from coming. His cock was in his other hand like a vice, and you watched him struggle with no small sense of pride. 

You decided it was your turn to lead this dance, and you sat up, kissing him full on the mouth, letting your tongue loll against his, sensuous and warm. Then, you wrapped your knees around him and shoved him back toward the foot of the bed, riding him down. When you caught your balance, you reached behind you to feed him into your pussy again, pressing into him with your weight. 

“Wait! Oh, fuckin’ hell.”

Simon’s hands went to your hips and then immediately to cover his mouth, stopping himself from gasping from the sensation. You ignored him, bucking against his huge cock, discovering you could take him even deeper. As you began to grind against him, you let your hands play in your folds, vibrating your clit and driving yourself wild. Your other hand went to his balls, rolling them gently in your hands behind your back.

“Ungh… You are gonna make me come, love.”

As soon as you heard his confession, you released him from your hand and paused at the top of your thrust, hovering on his tip in midair, teasing him ruthlessly. 

“Oh… you —” Simon never finished his sentence because he grabbed you around your hips and dropped you back to the bed, prowling over you and huffing like a stuck bull. You were laughing in gasping breaths from the shock of his strength, and you almost missed the moment when he began to press his swollen rod back inside of you, spearing you mercilessly. 

You whimpered, wrapping your hands around his neck like a lifeline.

“Mmm,” he purred proudly, “She needs me, now. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nodded, letting him kiss you languidly with soft, pliant lips.

“Needs me like this, huh? Tell me.”

“I need you, Si—”

“Tell. Me.”

“I need you so bad! Please, please… fuck me like this. Fuck —”

He covered your mouth with his own and chased down your orgasm like a thief, watching as your eyes got wide, pulling away so he could hear you keen. 

“Yes, yes, yes…” He chanted in your face, not moving away for a second, unwilling to miss even one moment of it. 

“Simon…” You whined, feeling the shock of your release and the afterburn of your pleasure as it flooded through your core, messy and salacious. 

“Feel so good, baby,” he was barely speaking above a whisper, sounding like he was drunk, struggling to keep his rhythm.

“You gonna come in me?”

Hope and bliss flashed across his face, and he kissed you again, pressing his nose right beside your nose and muttering into your mouth, 

“Fuck yes, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

As he came, he held his breath, locked, frozen in time, his eyes wrenched shut and his mouth wide open in a silent scream. You held his head in your arms, keeping him close to you, keeping him safe like he had kept you.

When he finally took a breath, it was ragged and gravelly. He panted like a tired hound, sucking in air and leaning against you to recover. For a while, you just lay together, his big body draped over yours, healing in you, using your wet come as a salve. 

Then, he slipped away, leaving you bereft at the loss. 

He pulled you into his arms, making sure you were covered and warm in your bed, finding your eyes and kissing your cheek, wordlessly thanking you for what he had done to you.

“Do you want me to go?” He whispered, his eyes closed as if he couldn’t face the answer.

“Please, stay. Don’t leave me, Simon. Not yet.”

“C’mere,” he sighed, curling his body around yours, securing you in his arms, breathing with you until you both tumbled into a deep, dark sleep.

It’s been too long since last you felt a clear sense of purpose.

You’re not quite sure why you’re still here.  Waiting.

Previously, there was some natural directive woven into every thought, action, and cataclysm.  The same appeared to be true up and down your rank, while the will of the file disappears into the figurative mist of a crystalline system of power throughout the dominions.  Patrolling the Earth without further guidance, coaxing these unnatural creatures to draw out a terrifyingly regressive war upon themselves, to some unknown end, and perhaps one that may never come.

The directives felt more distant with time.  Faded.  Flat.  You don’t recall what it felt like—tasted like—to breathe the air of your home dominion.  Without a physical body you can’t even taste the air of this one. 

Time slowed to a fluidic crawl the day you encountered Simon Riley.

You recognized him immediately as a half-breed, an abomination that must have escaped the attention of local patrols for the decades he managed to exist thus far.

Abominations are to be destroyed on sight, burned from within with the same energy as the Rift, to erase them completely.

The creatures have recently secured the power of resurrection.  Though still in its infancy, it will be a matter of years before they create legions of new soldiers from the flesh of their dead, grown anew in sterile conditions, as though that would absolve them of their crimes.

He has a subtle glow to him in low light.  Not luminescent so much as everything else seems dull in comparison.

It’s been a long time since you’ve had any fun, so you decide to follow him rather than dispatch him properly.  You could always argue that you were unsure of his true nature, that you needed time to be certain.

The last patrol with which you crossed paths appeared shortly after the creatures discovered atomic energy.  You seemed mutually relieved that the end was near, that you could finally be freed of your obligations.  You parted ways with the other patrol, a cautious smile trembling on your lips and tears distorting your vision. You wonder if the other patrol is still alive, waiting patiently as you do.

You decide not to worry about what another patrol would think.  There’s no one left in charge of this dominion anyway.  Idly, you wonder if the war is over back home.

The people closest to him call him Ghost.  He wears a costume, it seems.  A walking memento mori.

He’s adept at using the various tools and technology of his time to take the lives of others.  It doesn’t take long for you to assume he doesn’t know what he is.

You wonder which of his parents was from among your ranks.  It is a crime, punishable by destruction, for siring abominations among the creatures.

This became less of a problem as the patrols thinned out and the ability to substantiate faded, becoming weaker with time.  Rumors circulated that High Command removed most of the beacons.  It would make sense if…

Nausea awakens you from thought as his large frame passes through you.  More specifically, Ghost walked through the space occupied by your unsubstantiated conscious focal point.

This is what it feels like when a half-breed’s matter moves through yours.  You’d forgotten.  The last time you experienced this was in combat, when the creatures still wore pieces of shaped metal to protect their soft areas.

The feeling of mild vertigo lingers in your head and belly as he turns around, looking from left to right, as though searching for the source of a sound he didn’t quite catch.

You hold your breath as his eyes settle on yours briefly.  He continues looking about, eyes searching.  You let go of the breath.  He didn’t see you.  It’s your paranoia.

Out of nostalgic self-preservation, you depart.  As interesting as he is, the half-breed they call Ghost is not worth the wrath of High Command.

As you melt into the churning bustle of the creatures of London, you turn just long enough to watch Ghost disappear into the crowd, but you could swear you still feel him.

Unfortunately, you know where he’s going.  You wish you didn’t.

The next few days pass with obsessive, deliberate care.  The overwhelming sense of obligation weighs on you like a lead shroud.

He’s out there, still drawing breath, occupying your thoughts, continuing to exist despite having been positively identified by a patrol.  By you.

You must destroy him.

In passing, you wonder how difficult this will be since the last time you opened the Rift was before you lost the ability to substantiate.  You’ve heard tales of patrols using the creatures’ own weapons against them—rather than using the Rift—then finding creative ways to eliminate their remains.

Nodding to yourself, you decide tomorrow’s the day.

You’ll open the Rift inside Ghost’s chest and let his corporeal matter incinerate as it’s pulled backward into the next dominion.

You close your eyes with the peace that such resolve always brings, only rivaled by the satisfaction of performing your duty.

You mull over what to do.  Where to do it.

In case you fail to open the Rift, the attempt should be made in a secured area, one from which he cannot escape.

As he slumbers in his flat, six levels above the street, you decide to stop complicating things.

This morning, you successfully substantiated for a short time, able to pick up objects and throw them, to tie knots in rope, until your matter phased abruptly, and the rope fell to the floor, straight through your hands, and coiled into a pathetic heap.

It’s the Rift or nothing.

As though remembering the chill of the evening air before going to war, you shiver.  The temperature has no physical effect on you, but time and distance have no bearing on the persistence of memory.

Taking the main staircase, you feel weightless in the high of your pursuit.

This is the most sense of purpose you’ve felt since before they harnessed the electron to light their homes in place of fire.

You pass through his front door with no problem, only enduring the annoying drag of subatomic friction of its metal components as they shear past the metallic matter woven into all living things, despite your ephemeral lack of physicality.

The half-breed is lying on his back, blanket and sheet pulled down in his unconscious state, likely with the unsettling humidity of the night air.

For an abomination, he’s beautiful.

Built like the Gods of old, the forgotten time before the dominions, when all that existed was the Rift and the Gods.

For one tortuous, destructive moment, you wonder what it would be like to not be alone anymore.  To have his rumbling, booming voice giving you purpose in the moment while his teeth and lips tease at your neck, his hands wandering elsewhere yet keeping you so unbearably close that your heart might burst.

Such foolish thoughts.

You climb up the long mass of his body, desperately ignoring the electricity of the contact in your limbs and inside surfaces of your thighs before sitting astride the thickest part of his chest.   As you place both palms just above his sternum, the static of the Rift prickles at the outer edges of your ears and down your back.

In a startled rush of physics, you suddenly find yourself on your back, the painful grip of Ghost’s hands around your upper arms, pinning you to the bed beneath him.

It’s been ages since you’ve substantiated beyond the ability to grasp and manipulate objects. You’d forgotten what it feels like to experience temperature, texture, and pain.  The smells of the room overwhelm you, but not in an unpleasant way.  His hands are sweaty and his eyes full of rage.  He’s hurting you.  You cry out as your eyelids close.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” His hands tighten all the more, shocking you into reopening your eyes.

Pain is jarring when you’ve been denied its simple clarity for centuries.

You’re unsure how he’s done this.  Your last full substantiation ended before High Command closed the primary Rift, leaving only the beacons behind.

Your mind scrambles for options.  You quickly settle on the truth.

“I’m here to…kill you,” you manage to rasp.  “Please.  The pain—”

“Kill me?  Without any clothes on?”

He loosens his grip, giving your upper arms a glance as he does so, sitting back on his heels, his massive weight still pinning you in place at the hips.  You gather that he didn’t realize the strength of his own grip in the feverish struggle for survival as he emerged from unconsciousness. His gaze strays downward toward your chest.

“I…normally have no use for garments.  Or protection of any kind,” you add grudgingly, rubbing the feeling back into your arms.  You attempt to move your lower half but give up when he doesn’t seem motivated to move.

His eyes travel over you in the dark, taking you in slowly.

“What are you?”

Time for truth is done.  Back to the script used when caught.

“A woman.”

“You know what I’m talkin’ about.  Don’t be daft.”

Giving the situation some thought, you hastily decide to strike a deal with the half-breed.

“If you’ll explain how you captured me, I’ll confirm what I am.”

“Only confirm?”

“I’m not volunteering information, if that’s what you mean.”

He shifts his weight, observing you wince as he does so.

“That’s alright, sweetheart.  We’ve got all night.”

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